Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age)

by Walter J. Boyne

  “Of course, Bob, I’m offended that you would even ask. What is your offer?”

  “Fourteen million cash. For every share you own. That’s about twenty percent over the market value, if you figure it out.”

  O’Malley had already figured it out; now he tried to figure out how he could get out of the situation. He stalled, trying to see if there was any way he could come up with enough cash for a counteroffer. According to the terms of their agreement, if he could raise fourteen million, beg borrow or steal, he could buy ActOn out from under Rodriquez. And he could do that by selling his own shares. It would depress the market, but not by twenty percent. So he could sell his own shares to generate the money to buy Rodriquez out.

  But there was a fundamental problem. ActOn without O’Malley would prosper; ActOn without Rodriquez would probably curl up and die. Even running around the country, fighting to get control of Vance Shannon, Incorporated, Bob was getting more business for ActOn than anyone else could.

  “Do Tom and Harry know what you are trying to do?”

  “Yes, I kept it secret for a while, but there was no way I could get the support I needed without them knowing. They know.”

  “Well, I accept your offer, but I’m telling you now that I oppose what you are doing, and I’ll support Harry and Tom to the end. You are making a big mistake, and worse, an unnecessary mistake, for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Spare me your philosophy, Steve. You’ve been a big help in getting ActOn running, but now it’s time for you to go. Help them if you want, I don’t give a damn.”

  Rodriquez, always the soul of courtesy in the past, didn’t even nod good-bye, spinning on his heel to sprint down the curved concrete path to his rental beater.

  Steve walked back into his house and made two phone calls. Harry Shannon answered the first one.

  “Harry, if Tom’s there can you get him on an extension?”

  “Steve, good to hear from you. Tom’s out with Nancy at church. He hasn’t missed Mass since he’s been back from the Hanoi Hilton; says he owes a lot to the Lord.”

  “We all do, Harry. I guess you know what Rodriquez has been doing?”

  “Yeah, it looks like a proxy fight. I hate to see it, but it’s having a good effect on Tom. He’s a fighter, you know, and he’s always wanted to get Rodriquez in his sights. This thing is a tonic for him.”

  O’Malley let out a sigh of relief.

  “That’s great. And you tell Tom that Bob has bought me out, lock, stock, and barrel. I refused to take part in the raid.”

  “Great, we’ll hire you today!”

  “No thanks, Harry, and good luck. I’ve got other plans.”

  And Harry had nailed it. “I’ll bet your next phone call is to Lew Allen!”

  O’Malley laughed at the memory. Harry was exactly right. His next call was to the erudite Chief of Staff, General Lew Allen, begging to be recalled into the Air Force on some special assignment. Allen, after giving him a long lecture about the evils of the military industrial complex’s revolving door, had orders cut, recalling him and assigning him to his own staff in the Pentagon. And as much as Sally hated moving out of California and back to Washington, she was happy for him.

  Their one point of difference was his attitude toward money. Selling his share of ActOn had not only freed him to do what he really wanted to do—get back in the Air Force—it lined his pocket with millions of dollars that he promptly invested in government bonds. Not much return, but safe so that he didn’t have to worry about it. And, to Sally’s dismay, he insisted that they live mostly on what he earned as a colonel, just to stay part of the Air Force crowd, buying a tract house in Annandale, near the beltway, rather than something more expensive close in. O’Malley wanted his decisions evaluated on their merit, not his bank account. He liked the Air Force life, and he knew that he could never get back in the swing of it if he flashed a lot of money around.

  The Air Police guard outside the door to the “Tank” suddenly stood up, and O’Malley turned to watch the group of beaten-looking colonels and generals filing out—their briefing must have gone badly.

  The guard smiled sympathetically and said, “Your turn in the barrel, Colonel O’Malley.”

  Inside the oppressive, ill-ventilated Tank, there was a long center table, surrounded by rows of chairs that reached backward and up to the dimly lit ceiling. O’Malley put his hastily prepared briefing on the podium and checked through his vue graphs one more time. Nothing was deadlier to a briefing than an out-of-place vue graph.

  It was good being tight with the Shannons again. If he hadn’t had the close connection with V. R. Shannon, he’d never have the inside information he had on these celluloid sheets, the documentation of the air drama over Iraq. He had sponsored V. R.’s early assignments, and V. R. had proved himself. Now Tom Shannon’s son was being shuttled around the Air Force from one tough job to another, alternating between the stealth programs and liaison work with the Israeli Air Force. The latter was not a one-way street by any means. The United States was supplying the Israeli Air Force with aircraft and ordnance, but Israel was developing its own armament industry and perfecting some combat techniques for the F-16 that the USAF could use.

  He smiled with pleasure at the thought that it was his airplane, the lightweight F-16, which the Israelis had used with such deadly effect against the Iraqi nuclear facility at Osirak.

  The room stirred as the Chief walked in with his small staff. Unlike most previous Air Force Chiefs of Staff, Lew Allen had never seen combat or even served overseas. But he was a giant intellect, a scientist, and exactly what the Air Force needed now that President Reagan was committed to expanding the armed services. Tall, bald, wearing a heavy set of glasses, he gave a friendly professorial nod and O’Malley began his briefing with the usual courtesies before launching into the first vue graph.

  “As we all know, the Iraqis used French fiscal and engineering assistance to build the Osirak nuclear facility, with the clear intent of producing nuclear weapons.”

  O’Malley tapped on the image with his pointer and said, “The Iraqis planned a forty-megawatt light-water nuclear reactor in place at the Al Tuwaitha Nuclear Center. It is about eleven miles southeast of Baghdad. Construction began in the late 1970s. The initial name for the reactor was Osiris, after the Egyptian god of the dead. The French renamed it Osiraq, to combine the name of the god and the country into one.”

  He called “Next” and the unflappable Master Sergeant Dave Menard flipped the chart, showing a map of the area. He had worked with Menard, an airplane history nut, in the past, and was glad to have him with him now. No incorrect charts, no upside-down tables, with Menard.

  “The Israeli government engaged in intense diplomatic activity trying to stop the Iraqis from proceeding with the development of a nuclear weapon. France declined to help; it was actively engaged in providing the Iraqis weapons in exchange for oil. Italy also refused to intervene, for much the same reason, oil.”

  There was a general murmuring in the audience—O’Malley could not make out the discussion, but assumed it was comment on France’s continuing opposition to Israel.

  “The Israeli Cabinet was informed that a shipment of ninety kilograms of enriched uranium rods was being sent by France to Iraq. They knew that as soon as the rods were placed into the reactor, the danger of radioactive fallout from an attack would be unacceptable. A decision was made to attack the reactor before it went ‘hot’ to avoid excessive fallout. In consultation with his cabinet—and against some bitter internal political opposition—Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin ordered the Israeli Air Force to eliminate the facility. The Israelis believed that Iraqi nuclear weapons would be fatal to their existence. Begin reportedly said that ‘he will not be the man in whose time there will be a second Holocaust.’

  “Next vue graph, please.

  “The Israeli Air Force attacked on 7 June 1981, using six McDonnell Douglas F-15s for escort and eight General Dynamics F-16s for the att
acking force.”

  He called “Next,” and said, “First takeoffs were at 15:55 local time—that would be 12:55 Greenwich. They launched from Etzion Air Base in the Negev, the closest Israeli air base to Iraq. The force flew over Jordanian, Saudi Arabian, and Iraqi airspace at about 750 feet altitude to make the attack. There is unconfirmed word that Jordan’s King Hussein was vacationing in Aqaba. He reportedly saw the low-level Israeli aircraft flying over and personally tried to phone Saddam Hussein to warn him of a probable attack. Fortunately for the Israelis he could not get the call through.

  “Next vue graph, please.

  “Here is their route—660 miles at low level, popping up at 17:35.

  “Next one, please.

  “The actual attack took one minute and twenty seconds. This photo is from the last F-16 to attack, and shows that the reactor is in ruins, its concrete ceiling caved in. The Iraqis had been caught by surprise, and their antiaircraft defense was ineffective.

  “Next one.

  “Each F-16 carried two unguided Mark 84 two-thousand-pound bombs, with time-delay fusing. They also carried external tanks, which was a potential problem.

  “Next chart.

  “The external tanks were not designed to be jettisoned while the airplane was still loaded with Mark 84s; fortunately, they dropped them over the Saudi desert without incident. When they were about to enter Iraqi airspace, they dropped down to about one hundred feet. Two F-15s stayed with them as close escort; the other four climbed in different directions in Iraqi airspace to create a diversion, and to engage any airborne Iraqi aircraft. Such an engagement would have been fatal to the Israeli planes, as they did not have enough fuel to enter combat and get home.

  “At 17:35 Israeli time, about twelve miles out from the nuclear reactor, the F-16s climbed to seven thousand feet. They acquired the target, and dove at about six hundred knots indicated, releasing their weapons at thirty-five hundred feet. The airplanes had about a five-second separation between them; all bombs hit the target, but two failed to detonate. All the Israeli aircraft immediately climbed to altitude—forty thousand feet, I understand—for the trip home.”

  O’Malley nodded to Menard to shut the vue-graph projector off.

  “Any questions, sir?”

  There was a dead silence; until Allen spoke, his staff would stay quiet. Finally Allen stood up slowly and said, “There’s been adverse political reaction to the strike all around the world. We’ve been helping Iraq in its war on Iran. I know you aren’t a political analyst, Steve, but your briefing shows you have sources. What’s your take on this?”

  Caught unprepared, O’Malley hesitated, then said, “Let me comment on the technical aspects first. The mission was brilliantly executed by the top pilots in the Israeli Air Force. They pulled it off without having to use in-flight refueling. Probably no air force in the world, besides our own and the RAF, could have done it.”

  He paused, still frantically gathering his thoughts.

  “But politically it’s a mix. Inside Israel, everyone’s delighted with the short-term results. But some are worried that Israel is blinded by the Holocaust syndrome. Others are worried that the Iraqis will just start over, and this time bury the facility so that it cannot be attacked.”

  Allen interrupted him. “I didn’t mean your take on Israel. What is your take on the effect on the United States?”

  “We’ll probably never have to fight Iraq; but if we do, it’s better for Israel and the U.S. for them not to have nukes. And better for the Iraqis as well.”

  Allen nodded, stood up, and strode out, his staff following. Menard looked up. “Good briefing, Colonel, all except for that last part.”

  “You mean about us fighting Iraq?”

  “Yeah, like that will ever happen. We’ve got the Israelis there to clean their clocks.”

  “You may be right, Dave. I hope you are.”

  December 31, 1981

  Palos Verdes, California

  TOM SHANNON SAT at his father’s big desk, laboriously typing a letter he was going to stuff into the envelopes of his Christmas cards. They were all signed, and would be going out the following Saturday, weeks later than his usual early November sending.

  “This is the first year I’ve ever put a letter in the Christmas cards, but so much has happened, and I had to explain why I’m late. I hate being late. It makes you look like you are only sending out cards to people who have already sent you one!”

  Harry responded, “You’ve got a lot to tell them, Tom. Just the big fight with Rodriquez alone would fill a couple of pages. And then you have to hit all the things that affected the company this year; at least with your old business friends.”

  “The fight with Rodriquez was just like combat, Harry. If you turn away from an attacking fighter, you are dead. You turn into him, guns blazing, and you have a better chance. It worked with Zeroes, it worked with MiGs, and it worked with Bob Rodriquez.”

  Harry watched his brother with pride. Eight years ago he had come home, literally a beaten man, savaged by more than six years as a prisoner of war in Hanoi. He was starved, his broken bones had not healed properly, and no one knew the extent of his psychological scars.

  The first few years of his recovery were slow, in part because of the extent of the trauma, in part because of the death of his father, and in part because he felt emasculated that in his absence his wife Nancy had become chairman and CEO of Vance Shannon, Incorporated. He loved her, but he didn’t want to work for her, and he resented the fact that neither he nor his twin Harry was running his father’s company. He even resented Harry not taking over, just because he was preoccupied with his wife Anna’s drinking problem.

  All that changed when Nancy ran the company almost into the ground with failed real estate ventures. She called it “diversifying,” but it almost gutted the firm until he and Harry engineered a coup to take over the company. In the process, Harry took over as chairman of the board, giving the CEO position to Tom. Then, in September 1980, Bob Rodriquez had openly announced his intention to acquire enough shares to take over Vance Shannon, Incorporated.

  The announcement had been like an electric prod to Tom, who had never liked Rodriquez. He was yearning for combat again, just as in the old days when nothing could keep him from volunteering to fight in Korea or Vietnam. He couldn’t fly fighters anymore, but he could sure as hell take on Rodriquez.

  He insisted that Harry take over the role of CEO and then began a series of nationwide tours, soliciting votes from the major stockholders in Vance Shannon, Incorporated. Most of the individuals he saw were old friends, often retired employees from the firm. But he did his best work at the many mutual funds that held substantial amounts of Vance Shannon stock in their portfolios.

  Coming home, he told Harry, “You wouldn’t believe it, little brother, the mutual funds regard our company as the most stable in the industry. It gives them a toehold in aerospace without the risk that most companies have.”

  “What’s their take on ActOn?”

  “They have less confidence. They know Bob’s brilliant, but they are worried about the last year’s performance—it was OK, but not like the previous two years. And of course, we did better last year.”

  “I had no idea we were that popular.”

  “No, neither one of us ever paid any attention to the bean-counter side of the business. Some of it is halo effect from Dad’s name. But just thank goodness we had good people, and that they didn’t lose faith when Nancy put us in the nosedive. In fact, a lot of the mutual funds came in when we were in a slump, figuring they would profit when we recovered. And they have.”

  “What do they say when you tell them Rodriquez is going to buy us out?”

  “That’s the tough part, Harry. They like ActOn, too, but they think Bob is making a mistake trying to buy us out. They run charts on us, they run charts on everybody, and they think that ActOn and Vance Shannon are both big enough and different enough to prosper. They don’t think there’s much
to be gained by a consolidation of the two firms.”

  “Do they know it’s just revenge that’s motivating Rodriquez?”

  “No, he’s selling it as a ‘merger of two equals’ and telling them he can cut out a lot of duplication if he acquires control.”

  “For ‘duplication’ read ‘Tom and Harry Shannon.’

  ” “You’re right of course, but he doesn’t say that. We’ve got a reputation, too, and that would hurt his chances. And when I tell them what the problem is, they sit up and listen. It will probably hurt ActOn in the long run. A lot of them I talk to are suspicious of Bob’s judgment.”

  The battle with Rodriquez was a tonic for Tom. The more difficult it became, the more he enjoyed it, traveling around the country and doing a lot of flying in the company Learjet, always with an instructor pilot, but still in the left seat, making all the decisions, and even regaining his instrument flying proficiency. Concentrating on the gauges was a relief from the tedium of the business details he used to woo the stockholders.

  Matters came to a head at a special stockholders meeting that Rodriquez insisted on, even specifying the time, date, and place—9:00 A.M., Wednesday, October 7, at the big Vance Shannon hangar at the Los Angeles International Airport. Rodriquez knew that it would be difficult for a lot of the small shareholders to get to the hangar in rush hour and that most would be at work on a Wednesday. He believed he controlled enough votes to win, but wanted to make sure.

  The hangar was carpeted with folding chairs, anticipating a large turnout of stockholders, and an improvised stage was built, with two podiums, desks, and chairs for the two respective teams. Tom and Bob did not speak or shake hands. Each man sat near his podium. At the appointed hour, Rodriquez rose and addressed the sparse audience. Relatively few stockholders had managed to get through, but the press was well represented. After some formula words of welcome, Rodriquez came to the point.

  “This meeting was called to announce ActOn’s determination to purchase Vance Shannon, Incorporated, for $250,000,000. This represents a premium of about 20 percent over the current price of thirty-four dollars, and is believed to be in the best interests of the shareholders.”