Trophy for Eagles (55 page)

"Yeah, I knew him, but I'm here because Hafner couldn't come."

"Are Bruno and Howard old buddies?"

"Yeah, Bruno flew in
Hell's Angels
for him, and then Howard got
him some other roles in other films with other studios—
The Dawn
Patrol, Ace of Aces.
Anyway, Howard figured Bruno owed him, and
wanted him to come out. Hafner's involved in the bomber contracts
and sent me instead."

"You earning your dough?"

"No more than usual. How about you?"

"No more than usual."

Rhoades watched the older man turn back to work. His life was so
simple. He had been married to Clarice for probably thirty years, loved airplanes, and worked day and night. And that was it.

It was different for himself. First, always, there was the habit, the
goddam chains that bound him to Hafner. Bruno had introduced
him to cocaine back in Long Island, just as an embellishment to the booze-and-broad parties going on all the time. He had found heroin
for himself. Yet Hafner made everything so easy—a constant sup
ply, medical attention, lots of money. He could do what few addicts
did—live a relatively normal life, working at what he loved to do. In
return, all Hafner demanded was that he be a slave.

He'd started the business with Charlotte just as she had, light-heartedly, a romp, a finger in Bruno's eye. Then it changed. She'd developed a need for him. It was odd, but although he didn't need
her as a woman—there were always plenty of women available—he
needed her to need him. It somehow canceled out his dependence on Bruno.

It was amazing that they were able to enjoy each other so much,
knowing that Bruno was aware of what was going on. So far, he had
tolerated the situation, seemingly content that he could control them both, Charlotte through the flying and the freedom he gave her, Rhoades through the dope. Yet Bruno was not a tolerant or forgiving man. Someday, sometime, he would render his bill. That's why he was going to work with Charlotte on kicking the
habit. She'd promised to take care of him, to see him through all the
pains of withdrawal. It might work.

In the meantime, he had to go on with this rotten spying on Howard Hughes. He was sure that the only reason Bruno would want him to do it was to supply the information to Germany. Hafner was obviously enamored of the Nazis now; every time he came back from Germany he was more secretive.

Rhoades shrugged and banished Hafner from this thoughts,
thinking about his last bittersweet meeting with Charlotte. He knew that he no longer satisfied her sexually, for the dope had made him
almost impotent. She had matured and didn't seem to mind. They had drifted into a mothering relationship that served them both well.

He had lain with his arm around her, her breasts warm against his
chest, as she said, "Dusty, you've got to break out of this. I've got some money. Let me take you to the Mayo Clinic, where you can get some help. You're killing yourself."

He'd tried to fight off the suggestion. "And how about you?
You're insisting that you'll fly the new airplane. It's a lot riskier than
these damn needles."

She had nuzzled into him. She was heavier now, no longer youthful, but that suited him. He wanted her comfort, not her sex.
"I'm going to fly it. That goddam Amelia Earhart has never flown anything but those itty-bitty Vegas. When I fly a four-engine bomb
er, that will be something."

"What do you care? You have so much that she'll never have, a beautiful daughter, a business reputation. She's a creature of the press."

"You and Bruno don't understand, you can never understand."

She reached down and rubbed his arm. "Dusty, just as you have to keep cramming that stuff in your arm, I have to keep cramming some records in my system, to keep my sense of worth. When I
think about Earhart, I die inside. It's an obsession, I know, but that's
the way it is. With the big bomber, I can do it all—speed, altitude,
distance—in a year. After that, I won't have to think about Earhart,
and I'll let Patty do the flying."

He had given in. "If you promise to stop flying after you demon
strate the new bomber, I'll go to the clinic. Deal?"

"No. I want you to start as soon as you come back from Califor
nia. Deal?"

"Deal." They had slept long in each other's arms, two misfits fitting together perfectly.

Rhoades watched Roget again, envying his simple, happy life. God, he missed Long Island. There he was productive at the
factory, and Charlotte was nearby. Here he was simply and plainly a
spy, and there was no one.

*

Air Ministry, Berlin/September 30, 1934

The meeting place had been selected with special care. It was a
small conference room, furnished only with a highly polished oak
table, four chairs, and a wall of locked filing cabinets. There were
no decorations, not even a calendar, on the two-tone gray walls, except for the obligatory picture of a stern-faced Adolf Hitler.

Hermann Goering, Reichskommissar for Air, Minister-President of Prussia, Reich Chief Forester, head of dozens of commissions and committees, his tanned face surely the result of a sunlamp, put his ham-sized arms on the table. He spoke to the two men facing him with none of his usual bombast, for they were the trusted instruments of his policies.

"Gentlemen, the Fuehrer has informed me that we will an
nounce the Luftwaffe formally in March of next year. By then we
must have parity—or at least the appearance of parity—in airpower
with England."

It was a simple order made to the men who would have to carry it
out. Milch, the State Secretary for Aviation, waited. It was usually best to let Goering finish if you wanted to get his attention, particu
larly if you had to tell him anything he didn't want to hear. At Milch's side, sitting in the correct position of attention, shoulders back, hands placed on the legs, was Colonel Walther Wever, chief of the Air Command Office, his mind as sharp as his features.

An aide came in and whispered in Goering's ear.

"Gentlemen, excuse me. The Fuehrer is calling. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Milch pulled a folder from his briefcase and began to thumb
through its pages. Walther Wever gazed out the small window that opened onto a brick courtyard, considering the options available to
him in shaping an air force.

They were spread so desperately thin, and the leadership was so eccentric. In the old Imperial Army, before the war, there had
always been a surplus of men and materials. The whole system had been designed for expansion when a war came—the old regiments
would go off to the front, leaving cadres to form replacement groups with the never-ending classes of young soldiers. Now they were
expanding even faster, without the necessary base, creating whole new units on paper with no one to man them. The expansion was going on so swiftly that there wasn't enough talent to go around,
especially with the capricious way the Party had infiltrated the army.

He looked at Milch. The man was a merchant. In the old army
he'd never gone past the rank of sergeant. Goering, at least, had
been an officer from the old school, but he was power-mad now,
demanding results without providing the resources. He expected Wever simply to conjure trained airmen from the ground, like the dragon's teeth, and airplanes were supposed to pour forth from factories that hadn't been planned, much less built. And there was so much catching up to do. The Versailles Treaty had brought aviation to a halt in Germany.

He cleared his throat, and Milch looked up. "Have you and Udet
made any progress with Hafner in the United States?"

"Yes, it's working better than we could have thought. Hafner has
sent the first sets of drawings for his aircraft. It looks like it might be
what you're looking for. I'm not sure we can afford to build it, but it
looks splendid on paper."

"Hafner's factory is like having a research facility without having
to pay for it."

"I'm not sure how long we can go on. We've had some in
dications that Hafner is under suspicion. We may have to bring him
back here."

"I knew him during the war. He would make a good
Geschwader
commander."

Milch snorted. "Hardly! We'll need him more as a technician, someone to run one of the new factories."

Goering returned, obviously pleased to have the summons from Hitler reinforce his importance. "My apologies, but the Fuehrer needed some information that only I could supply." He put his
gloves on the table, arranged his jacket carefully, and got down to
business.

"I know that you have both read the Knauss memorandum. It will
be the basis for the first expansion. But it is not enough."

Major Robert Knauss, one of the earnest staff toilers who generated the ideas that shaped the path of the army, had written a paper outlining the advantages of secretly building a fleet of four hundred
heavy bombers. When they were ready, they were to be unveiled as
a "risk fleet," as Knauss called it, an inexpensive weapon with which
to threaten other powers.

The army high command had dismissed Knauss's ideas out of
hand, but Milch had gotten them to Hitler, who saw at once the benefits. It would take years for Germany to build up an army as
large as France's, decades to even begin to match the English navy.
Four hundred bombers could be built at the cost of five infantry
divisions, or perhaps two battleships. Even more important, no one,
not even Russia, had a striking force of four hundred bombers. Used
as a shield, they could check the talk of a "preventive war" being heard in France and Russia, and give the Nazis time to rearm Germany adequately.

"Herr Reichskommissar."

"Yes, Colonel Wever, go ahead."

Wever's voice had a pedantic quality, a lecturing tone that made Milch wince. You didn't talk to "Der Dicke" like that.

It was a subterfuge. Wever could barely suppress the energy coursing through his frame, and had to be sure what he said was measured for impact.

"We are now standardizing on the combat aircraft for the Knauss
risk fleet." Wever paused for effect.

"You forget yourself. It is the Goering risk fleet." It was a gentle,
genial reproof. Hermann was in too good a mood to be angry.

Wever took the bait, converted it to flattery.

"All the more reason, then, to make sure we have not selected the
wrong aircraft to build. If this risk fleet is to have credibility, it must
have capability. The airplanes we are planning—single-engine and twin-engine bombers—are inadequate. We must have heavy, four-engine bombers that can carry two tons of bombs for a thousand miles, as far as the Ural Mountains, if we are to bluff—much less fight—the Soviet Union."

"Wever, I came here to tell you the good news about announcing the Luftwaffe. I didn't come to get bad news about our aircraft types."

Wever and Milch stiffened in their seats.

"However, your point is not without merit. But listen to me." He
became affable Hermann again, their confidant, their leader.

"This is just the first round. The Fuehrer assures me that there will not be a war until 1943 at the earliest. By then, we will have
introduced our second generation of aircraft, and, Colonel Wever, you can be sure that it will include your Ural bomber. We'll let our 'experimental station' in the United States develop the first round, and then we'll be prepared for the second."

He paused and nodded genially to Wever. "I'll pass your comments on to the Fuehrer." Goering went on with the other points on his memorandum, items concerning the new uniform with which he was almost inordinately concerned, cooperation with Italy, and
the possibility of using political prisoners in factories. He didn't ask
their opinion, he simply told them how it would be. When he'd finished, he stood up and the meeting was over.

Milch punched Wever lightly on the arm. "Good job. You salted
the idea for the four-engine bomber. He'll spring it on Hitler and take credit for it. That's the way we have to work it."

Wever's reply was stiff. "It's a pity when the general staff has to adopt the sycophantic tactics of an advertising firm. In the old days,
you were paid to say what you thought—or else!"

Milch laughed. "Thank God these aren't the old days, Wever. I'd be grooming some Hohenzollern's horse!"