Tom shrugged. “I feel guilty about it, but I don’t know how to help. I never followed the real estate market. I just assumed the price of everything would keep going up. She’s probably not hurting on the land she bought, it’s just dealing with the builders and the contractors that is killing her. Everybody is behind schedule and everybody wants more money for every change.”
“That part sounds familiar.”
“Yeah, it’s no different than building airplanes in that respect, I guess, but she doesn’t know who to trust. With Boeing or Lockheed, there are always people we know who will level with us. She’s being led down the garden path by some outsiders, and she doesn’t know where to turn.”
“Can she just pull out, take the losses, and get back into something we are good at?”
“She can but she won’t. She’s changed so much since I married her, mainly because I was gone so much. My years as a POW were hard on her; she turned to work like—”
Harry finished the line for him. “Like Anna turned to booze. You can say it, it won’t hurt my feelings. God knows Anna has put us all through the mill so many times that there’s no harm in being frank.”
“Sorry, Harry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t. I’m inured to it now. But let me tell you something. Nancy’s success has been tough for Anna to take. She’s told me a thousand times how Nancy is a success, and she is a failure. I try to reassure her, but it doesn’t work.”
Tom nodded. “It has to be tough on her. It’s tough on me. I feel like half a man with her running things, and you and me working for her. I love her, just as I always did, and I respect her, but it drives me nuts to have her as my boss. Especially since I disagree with what she’s doing to the company.”
“Well, it’s a hell of a note that we’re standing here complaining about our wives, when our dad has just died.”
“Harry, Dad has just passed on to another better place. He’s never going to die in our memories, or in the memories of many people. I don’t know anyone in the industry that had more friends or fewer enemies.”
“I’ll drink to that. Oops, sorry, did it again.”
December 6, 1974
Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia
TWO WEEKS BEFORE there had been another family argument. Vance had always said he wanted a quiet funeral, and internment beside his first wife in the family plot. His second wife, Jill, had agreed, but somewhat reluctantly. She had never known his first wife, Margaret, but nonetheless felt somewhat hurt that Vance was electing to “spend eternity” next to her.
Then Steve O’Malley had popped in with news that shook them. He had made a personal call to the Air Force Chief of Staff, General David C. Jones, asking if the United States Air Force would provide a flyover for Vance’s burial.
Jones, a powerful figure of a man, with dark curly hair and a commanding stance, responded, “Vance Shannon? Absolutely. Just tell me when and where he’ll be buried and we’ll have a flight of four overhead at the exact moment. It will be at Arlington, of course—no place else is suitable for a hero like Vance Shannon.”
It took O’Malley another three days to convince the family that Vance deserved national honors rather than the quiet ceremony he had requested. Jill wanted to be more supportive, but was afraid that her motives would be too obvious. Tom, who had always been closer to his mother, resisted the idea, while Harry was neutral. He was so preoccupied with keeping his wife sober that he devoted himself only to the most essential elements of his work. After Tom had reluctantly agreed, it took O’Malley three more days to make the arrangements at Arlington. There had been a problem at first—the beautiful cemetery was already overscheduled, but another call to General Jones took care of that.
Now the family stood at graveside, no divisions among them, Jill quite beautiful in black, V. R. looking handsome in his Air Force uniform, and Rod, already five inches taller than his father, quietly standing with Mae, taking it all in.
The weather was wonderful for Washington in December, dry with the temperature edging toward fifty degrees.
Tom leaned over to Harry and whispered, “Have you ever seen so many well-known aviation people in one spot before?”
“No, not even at the Collier Trophy Dinner. There must be three thousand or more here.”
Both men watched the crowd closely, picking out friends from the service, from industry, and from the various company offices around the country.
“Not much work being done today at Vance Shannon, Incorporated. That would really frost Dad!”
“No, Tom, nor at a lot of other offices as well. Dad would really be touched. And surprised. He knew he was liked, but I don’t think he’d ever dreamed there would be a turnout like this.”
They lapsed into silence as a general hush came over the crowd. The body-bearers, all six-footers from the Air Force Academy, another O’Malley gesture, carried the simple walnut coffin and positioned it over the grave. They stepped back, carefully unfolded the flag, and held it outstretched, taut, over the coffin.
Father Jake Callahan stepped forward. He had conducted the Mass earlier in the day. Tom whispered to Harry, “Dad wasn’t much of a churchgoer. I wonder what he’s making of this?”
“He liked Jake—they used to have a cognac or two, playing chess. I’m sure Dad’s happy he’s here. And I think Dad believed in the church; he was just too damn wrapped up in flying to be a good parishioner.”
Father Callahan was brief. “Vance Shannon was a good man, beloved by his family, his friends, and his clients. He never made a promise he didn’t keep; he never backed away from a challenge, and he always delivered more than he had agreed to. He was a great flyer, a fine, intuitive engineer, and a businessman almost by accident, for he never pursued the dollar; he only pursued the truth. He will be missed by all.”
Callahan paused for a moment and said, “I’ve composed a special prayer for Vance. It is short and a little unorthodox, but it is sincere.”
He bowed his head and went on. “Dear Heavenly Father, you have received the soul of a great aviator. May he enjoy his heavenly wings as much as he enjoyed his earthly wings. Amen.”
There was an appreciative chuckle from the crowd, then silence as the honor guard stepped forward with their rifles at the ready. Just as the command “Fire” rang out, the air was shattered with the sound of eight jet engines as four McDonnell F-4Es roared overhead. The rifle shots were lost in the noise of the Phantoms flying over, the number three man peeling up in the heart-stopping “missing man” salute. The F-4Es disappeared over the horizon as the haunting sound of “Taps” rang out. They watched the solemn folding of the flag in silence, too moved by the Air Force’s final aerial salute to a fallen comrade to talk. Finally, Harry whispered to Tom, “That must have been laid on by O’Malley. We owe him a lot for this.”
Tom nodded, still choked up.
The chaplain saluted the flag and then handed it to Jill.
It was over. The crowd began to move, a hundred conversations broke out, and Tom moved over to Steve O’Malley.
“I won’t forget this, Steve. Dad must be mighty pleased.”
“He was a modest man, Tom, but he deserves every honor. I’m glad I could help.”
Tom turned away. It was too bad that O’Malley was wrapped up in his project with Rodriquez—he’d be a good man to bring on board the Shannon family firm.
CHAPTER THREE
THE PASSING PARADE: Pol Pot begins genocide in Cambodia; U.S. Marines recapture S.S. Mayaguez from Cambodian communists; two assassination attempts on President Ford; federal government bails out New York City; legislation attempts to impose metric measurements on United States; 8,000 lifelike, life-sized terracotta soldiers found in China; Legionnaires’ disease appears; CB radio popular; One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest wins top four Oscars; Apple Computer launched.
December 13, 1974
Luke AFB, Arizona
Four sleek Northrop T-38 Talons flew through the thin, hig
h cirrus at thirty thousand feet, the flashing gray wisps of clouds imparting a temporary sense of speed. En route back from a tough training mission, 2nd Lieutenant Vance Robert Shannon felt the familiar incredulity that he was actually paid to fly this marvelous aircraft. He mumbled to himself, “It must be in the blood, in the genes.”
Neither his father nor his grandfather had ever encouraged him to fly—they both knew the dangers too well, and both had lost too many friends to the business. But they were obviously happy when he chose the Air Force, and even happier when he began doing so well in flying school. Now, only days away from graduation, he piloted the number four aircraft in the formation, enjoying the T-38’s responsiveness, watching Charlie St. John lead the flight with precision and anticipating an evening of dinner, dancing, and, he hoped, sex with his fiancée Ginny.
St. John had been his rival at the Academy, in flight school, and for the affections of Virginia “Ginny” Talbot. Charlie had graduated number one to his number two at the Academy and they were now neck and neck for first honors in flying school. It had been a close-run thing with Ginny, but she agreed to marry Shannon only two weeks before. Through it all, against the odds, Shannon and St. John had remained close friends, although the business with Ginny was going to make it rough. It was just as well they were graduating, going their separate ways.
As they began a left turn, Shannon noticed a puff of smoke, followed by a blue-colored flame, coming from St. John’s port engine.
“Lead, check your gauges. I see flames coming from your number one engine, Charlie.”
There was no reply. Instead the canopy blew off in a high arc, followed immediately by the ejection seat, with St. John hunched forward as the seat rotated, his helmet flying off. Shannon broke left, calling, “I’ll try to follow him down. Call Luke and give our position.”
He threw the T-38 into a tight turn thinking, Jesus, there must have been a fire in the cockpit to have him eject so fast. I hope he’s OK.
Shannon chopped his throttles, rolled inverted, and scanned the sky below him. Off to the right, almost out of sight, he saw a black dot, fast disappearing toward the rugged mountains below.
“I’ll see him when his chute opens. He better be quick about it, though.”
Rolling level, Shannon checked his fuel and realized he had to get back to the field or they would be out looking for him as well. He rolled inverted again for one last scan, hoping to see the white shroud of St. John’s parachute opening. Instead he caught the sudden flash of flame and smoke as the stricken T-38 dove into the ground.
Four hours later, Shannon sat in the Officers Club with Ginny, both disconsolate, both crying.
“It’s impossible, Ginny, one minute he was there, flying lead; two minutes later he’s smashed into the ground, dead, his parachute unopened.”
Unable to speak, she squeezed his hand.
Shannon had talked to the Air Force rescue team that brought Charlie’s body back. They found St. John, still strapped into the ejection seat, next to a big hole in the ground. The seat had hit hard, making a two-foot depression, then bounced out to land a few feet away, St. John still strapped in.
“The medic from the chopper told me that it looked like Charlie was knocked unconscious when he ejected. And none of the automatic systems worked. They’ll probably ground all the T-38s until they find out why the seat malfunctioned.”
Ginny spoke, her voice welling with emotion. “I hope they do. Flying is too dangerous. I wish you would give it up and do something else.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “Give up flying? I come from a family of flyers. My dad is an ace, my grandfather was an ace and a legendary test pilot. My uncle Harry is famous for his flying and his engineering. How can I give it up? I won’t give it up, don’t even think that.”
Shannon’s tone disturbed Ginny. “Your best friend was just killed, and you get angry with me because I want you to stop flying? This is a new side of you, and I don’t like it.”
V. R. bounded up, ready to walk out, then abruptly sat down and put his arms around her.
“Ginny, angel, we’re upset. Charlie’s death has got us both confused. I’m sorry I was angry.”
“I wish I could believe you, honey, but I saw something in your eye just now that I’ve never seen before. I saw exactly where I stand when it comes to a choice between me or flying. It will be flying.”
V. R. hugged her, knowing she was right and knowing that there was probably not going to be any sex tonight.
July 18, 1975
Sunnyvale, California
BOB RODRIQUEZ GLANCED around his office at ActOn, the company Steve O’Malley and he had founded. The name came from a phrase O’Malley used constantly: “We’ve got to act on this now.” It didn’t make much sense, but it had a ring to it that they both liked.
But what in the hell had happened? Six months before, they had opened the new facility on one of the “scientific campuses” flourishing around Stanford. His office had been a thing of beauty, with cleanlined furniture, a big conference table, and comfortable chairs. Now it swam in files and folders, endless printouts from the company’s big IBM computer spilling off to the floor, every flat surface encumbered with plans, books, and odd bits of the hardware they were developing. Two huge chalkboards, both filled with numbers, one with sheets of paper draped over sensitive information, stood there, dripping chalk dust. The only neat spot was a table behind his desk where he had half a dozen photos of his ex-wife, Mae, and his son, Bob Jr. The photos brought him equal amounts of comfort in the memories and pain at his loss.
The antic disarray embarrassed him because O’Malley’s office, across the hall, still looked brand-new. Of course, O’Malley was gone most of the time. General Dynamics had won the lightweight fighter competition in January, and O’Malley was pounding the streets in Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Oslo, and Brussels, the first four foreign countries who would operate the aircraft.
It was just as they had predicted. The foreign governments liked the F-16—the Fighting Falcon as the Air Force had named it—but they needed more than an air superiority fighter. Every one of them expected the F-16 to do double or triple or quadruple duty. They wanted planes for reconnaissance, for attack, even for level bombing, not just for dogfighting. ActOn was trying to be the catalyst that transformed the F-16 to their needs with a whole series of weapons packages and radar options.
Relatively new procurement requirements facilitated ActOn’s efforts. Every country who bought the F-16 had it written into their contracts that they could build some or all of the aircraft in factories in their own country. There were lots of variations on the theme, ranging from building wings and tails to totally irrelevant transactions. In one case O’Malley had to arrange for a huge shipment of grain to be sent to Holland as part of the deal, and had spent two valuable weeks scouring the United States for the best way to achieve it. But for the most part, the companies were content to have their factories build components, especially those that met their specific national needs for alternate weapons systems.
It was a bonus they had hoped for, but had not counted on. When the foreign manufacturers introduced a new product—anything from a precision guided missile to a bomb rack to a transponder—ActOn was often able to see that it was snapped up by the USAF for installation on later model F-16s. O’Malley called it the “inverted cornucopia,” saying you poured a little effort in the small end and huge contracts came spewing out the other.
Rodriquez knew that it was more than just luck. He had created the line of products over the last five years, and patented each one, but he was no salesman. O’Malley knew exactly how to combine a salesman’s bon homme manner, dispensing martinis at expensive restaurants with the detailed scientific knowledge that a smart customer demanded. No matter what he was asked, he had the answer, right then, without checking with anyone, and he impressed people, gaining one contract after another. Most competing company teams used two types of people, one for the martini drinkin
g, one for the technical details. O’Malley did both.
But everything they had planned together, all of their best estimates, was completely overshadowed by a totally new development. Four countries—Norway, Belgium, Denmark, and the Netherlands—had signed up to buy 348 F-16s for more than $2.1 billion. Every one of those countries wanted to share in the coproduction, and few of them had contacts with more than one or two of the almost fifty U.S. suppliers. They all had experience working with Pratt & Whitney and General Dynamics, but they were at a loss when it came to lower tier producers.
That’s where O’Malley scored the most; he had a wide network in the United States and spent his days linking up U.S. producers with their foreign counterparts, always with a contract generated for ActOn in the process. The work kept him so busy that he was looking for a new hire who could handle the GPS side of their business.
O’Malley was back in town, and now breezed into his office, slapping a wad of papers down on top of the stack confronting Rodriquez.
“Here we are, Bob; five new contracts. Three of them are for F-16 simulators.”
Rodriquez’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about, Steve? That’s not our bailiwick! Nancy Shannon will go through the roof when she hears this, she’ll think we are poaching on her turf.”
“And we are. The reason we are is because she’s let the simulator end of her business slide. After you left, there was no one there to push it. The result is she’s not competitive, and I don’t think she cares.”
“I’ll tell you who will care. It will be Tom. He’s always hated me, and now something like this will infuriate him. I don’t know what you were thinking of, you know all this.”
“Right, Roberto, I do, and I did it deliberately. Nancy Shannon is running the company into the ground; she’s lost millions on that stupid mall she got involved in, and now she’s being sued for millions more. Vance Shannon, Incorporated, didn’t have a prayer of getting these contracts for simulators. If I didn’t bid on them, they would have gone to Link or some other big simulator outfit, pure and simple.”
Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age) Page 5
