Her hand stung, and she rubbed it on her hip.
"I'm trying to do the same thing with you, letting you fly in the military competitions. If you want me to get you a publicity agent, I will. You know, you could be the first woman to fly around the world. You and Patty could do it together, just like Post and Gatty."
Charlotte's anger evaporated in a chill of apprehension as the conversation turned in the wrong direction. "Wait a minute. I'm a realist even if Earhart is not. Flying is not worth dying for. I don't mind taking my chances, but I don't want to do any ocean flying, not in bad weather especially. I can fly in the clear, and I can fly instruments if someone will navigate. But I'm not exposing Patty to any dangerous flights, and I'm not going to do it alone."
"You don't have to. Post took Gatty. Now I hear he's having an autopilot installed for a solo flight. We could get one for you, put it in one of the new transports. It would be good publicity. Believe me, Liebchen, if you don't, Earhart will."
Charlotte realized this was doubly dangerous ground. If Bruno flared up now, he might force her to agree to do something she was afraid of doing. She shifted her attack back to Earhart. "She's always so fucking wholesome. Did you ever read her book? Sounds like it was written by some goddam twelve-year-old nun. But she's tough underneath—you try to upstage her when a reporter's around and she'll cut your armpits out."
Bruno looked at his pocket watch, a gift from a grateful Pierre Dompnier. It was nearly seven. Patty and Stephan would be there shortly.
"Look, Charlotte, you can't have it both ways. You can't want the publicity and not make the flights, and you can't treat the press like you do, like one of the boys. Amelia gives them the pap they can print. They are not going to write about a woman who curses and pinches them on the arse. They may like you better than Amelia, and I think you probably like them better than Amelia does, but their editors are only going to print sugar-candy stuff."
It was the winning point. More than once he'd found her crying, embarrassed that she had ruined an interview. Bruno was becoming increasingly bored with this familiar routine, and he wanted to end the conversation.
"If you don't want to fly around the world—and I think you should—let's figure out a string of record flights you do want to make. I think we could fix up one of the bombers with tanks in the bomb bay, and go for closed-course records for distance, speed, and maybe altitude, too."
Charlotte found comfort in this.
"Maybe, Bruno. It sounds better than flying around the world. That scares me, no kidding. I don't want to be over some big goddam ocean and not know where I am, and maybe have an engine cut out."
"Just wait till Amelia does it—then you'll do nothing but complain."
"She'd never make it. Bruno, she's a lousy pilot, no matter what they say. I've watched her time and again, and it's all she can do to get an airplane on and off the ground."
Hafner changed the subject. "What's your competition going to be like?"
She frowned. "Mostly Gee Bees like mine, and one clip-wing Laird biplane. I should be able to win, or at least take a second."
Bruno decided to make amends. He needed this woman for a while longer. In time, he would solve all the problems, her involvement in the business, for which she was getting disproportionate credit, and the stupid romance with Dusty, which had become embarrassing. In Germany, he would have had to call the man out, duel with him. Well, he would take care of them both. "I asked Armand Bineau to design a racer for you. It doesn't make sense for us to be advertising Gee Bee products."
"I've already got one hell of an airplane. It's all I can handle. Don't have Bineau do anything until I talk to him. I want something safe as well as fast."
Bruno's voice took on his Kaiser's officer quality, the set of his lips changing quickly from a tense line into a V-shaped smile. He barked out, "There is no airplane you cannot handle!" Having settled the question for all time, he changed the subject. "Are you serious about having Patty and the Frenchman come into the business?"
"Yes. I want Patty to stay in this country, and Stephan says aviation is dead in France."
"If he wants to come in with us, he can help his father and Monique running the Marseilles operation. Things are busier all the time there, and having a former French air force officer would be good camouflage."
"He can't do that! He's embarrassed enough that his father is selling bootleg arms. Besides, he wants to fly."
"Yes, Charlotte, but we are living from contract to contract, just like everybody else."
Charlotte's voice took on the resolute tone that signaled she would not yield. "Stephan is my daughter's husband. We will make room for both of them in the company."
Hafner accepted her response. He could use Stephan in France; he didn't want him around the plant. A little time would have to pass, and the situation would take care of itself.
"We can if we get another contract," he said. "Just don't make any promises until we see what happens with the new airplanes."
Charlotte checked her appearance in the mirror. Looking good for a daughter was different from looking good for a man, and her long hair was swept back into a bun. She applied a little lipstick just as the knock sounded. The door was a fragile partition between two fields of tension. Bruno stood very erect next to Charlotte, thumbs tucked by his trouser seams in a position of attention.
Charlotte opened the door, and kissed them both. Bruno said, "Come in, Patty, come in, champ. I heard about last night. I'll have to have Max Schmeling give you some lessons."
Time and motion froze as the other three turned to stare at him in horror.
Bruno went on, "Well, Patty, are you pregnant yet? I'll bet Stephan's father would agree with me, by God—we need some grandchildren in this family, we do, by God!"
*
Cleveland Airport/August 28, 1932
A mood as dark and gelatinous as sea-urchin soup hung over the Cleveland Institute of Aviation hangar that Stephan had rented. His mood had been foul for the last two days. The aircraft's engine was still acting up, and his ground crew was no help. The two surly Frenchmen spent their time yammering about the inexcusable quality of American food and the lack of drinkable wine. The magnificent cigarettes, smoked end to end, compensated somewhat, but both longed to go back to Paris.
They were the only two sent from France with Dompnier. Pierre Nicolau was from the Caudron factory, and he knew the racer inside out. He looked like Jean Gabin, knew it, and mimicked him as much as possible in word and gesture. Rene Coty was from the Renault engine works, but had not yet been able to get the engine working right. A brooding Parisian with curly blue-black hair separated from his eyebrows by a slim gash of pockmarked flesh, he kept a cigarette dangling from his lips at all times. Something in his manner suggested that taking advice was not his strong suit.
It was their glowering presence that had inhibited Stephan from asking for help earlier. Now he had no choice—he had to qualify tomorrow, and race the following day. He had asked Hadley Roget to drop by and look at the engine.
Promptly at nine, Roget walked in, followed by Bandfield. Both men walked around the racer, admiring it, oblivious to the obvious dislike of the two mechanics.
Hadley listened to Stephan describe the problem, and what they had done to correct it. The engine would run perfectly well on the ground; as soon as he was airborne it would backfire, sometimes so badly that he wasn't sure he'd get it around the pattern to land.
Roget nosed around. The engine was installed so that the crankshaft lay on top, with the cylinders pointing toward the ground.
"Inverted engine, huh? What attitude do run it up in on the ground?"
Stephan was annoyed by Bandfield's presence and was trying not to show it. He said, "Ah, three-point, of course. Nicolau holds down the tail, and I check it at full power. On the ground it is fine—in the air, pouf!"
Roget had Dompnier go through the drill; the engine sounded perfect.
"Stephan, this time let's
run it up in a level attitude. Put a sawhorse under the tail and we'll see what happens."
Bandy placed a canvas cover on the stabilizer, then piled sandbags on it, while Roget and the two mechanics tethered the Caudron to tie-downs set in the concrete.
Dompnier started the engine. The airplane twitched and trembled, straining at the ropes. In less than sixty seconds, the engine song changed from a fluid roar and began backfiring, belching smoke and flame from the exhausts, the vibration shaking it as a terrier shakes a rat. Dompnier shut it down.
A quiet look of triumph crossed Roget's face, and he began pulling the cowling off. An hour later, he turned to Dompnier.
"There's your trouble. The oil return line is too small. When the oil pressure goes up, it can't handle it, and back pressure from the pump dumps oil down the rocker arms. Did you notice a rise in oil pressure after you took off?"
"Oui—from about one hundred to one-eighty. It seemed to me that high oil pressure is good, not bad."
"Not this time, my friend. I think we can fix this, but it will be risky. We have to run a new oil line, and bore out the inlet. If we don't tap into anything we'll be okay. Will you risk it?"
Stephan shrugged. "I have no choice."
"Lemme take a look at the pistons, too. You might have scuffed them during the backfires."
In another thirty minutes they had the pistons laid out. Two were clearly marred, one so badly that it couldn't be used again. Dompnier had spares, and the five men fell to work. By midnight, the engine was back together and Dompnier had run it up in a level position, the air-cooled Renault engine breaking the night-dampened silence of the airport.
Dompnier jumped down from the wing and embraced Hadley.
"Thank you, and thank you, too, Bandy."
"You're welcome, Stephan. We'd all better get some sleep. It's going to be an early morning."
*
Cleveland Airport/August 29, 1932
The slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun had turned the haze into an incandescent ball. The crowds were streaming away in long lines, and a weary Frank Bandfield sat with Roget, their backs braced against the Chevy's bumper, watching a red-and-white Gee Bee Sportster practicing aerobatics across the northeast edge of the field.
"Whose airplane is that, Hadley?"
Roget, never idle, was cleaning spark plugs as they sat, pressing their ends into a cone-shaped tin and letting high-pressure air sandblast them clean. Squinting, he said, "Looks like Charlotte Hafner's bird."
"She's damn good. I don't think she's moved a yard out of the field boundaries, and she's done everything from snap rolls to spins."
The tiny Gee Bee landed out of a loop, touching down just inside the field boundary. It taxied to a stop inside the wire fence surrounding the hangars Hafner had rented. The pilot got out with the log book in her hand and ran inside, while mechanics pushed the airplane into the hangar. Without apology, they brushed past Bandfield and set up a protective restraining ring of wire, threaded through steel stanchions, designed to keep onlookers out. He was a little annoyed, but stood there, grasping the wire with both hands and jingling the little red "Team Members Only" signs.
Bandfield was waiting outside for Charlotte to emerge, but it was Patty who walked out, short hair glistening in the sun.
"Hello, Bandy. Thanks for helping Stephan with his engine last night."
"Aw, you're welcome, we were glad to do it. But I have to say you surprised me just now. I thought your mother was flying. You were really great." He suddenly felt awkward, all hands and feet, uncomfortable that she might think he was somehow following up on their dance of two nights before.
She turned and nodded in the direction of the hangar. Then she pivoted and said, "Don't go just yet."
The words "Well, how about a cup of coffee ..." turned into an uncontrollable scream as pain coursed through his arms. Patty slumped to the ground laughing, and inside two mechanics fell into each other's arms, hysterical from the oldest joke in aviation—the electric fence hot-wired to a Model T magneto. Four turns sent a harmless jolt of electricity through anyone dumb enough to grab the wire.
"I'm sorry, Bandy, I couldn't resist. We don't often get people over here, and the guys get bored."
Feeling was returning to his arms, and he smiled weakly. "Yeah, that's a good joke. We used to pull it back in Salinas. Ha ha."
Concerned but still smiling, she took his arm and rubbed it, and he realized the electricity wasn't all in the wires.
"I have to act a little rowdy once in a while just to make sure they know I'm one of the guys."
"You sure don't look like one of the guys in that outfit."
She glanced down, and buttoned the upper button of her blouse.
"Bandy, maybe you can help me. Stephan has been in a blue funk ever since that ridiculous incident at the dance. I'm worried that Dickens—or Stephan, for that matter—will do something stupid during their race."
Bandfield nodded. She was smart. It was just something like the fight that might cause either one of them to try to do a little more than was safe during the race.
She continued, "I'd like to get them at least to be civil to each other. I talked to Dickens earlier, and he offered me a ride in a friend's airplane he's making a test flight on."
"He shouldn't take you on a test flight—might be risky."
"No, he says it's just routine. He was apologetic, and I don't want him to be angry with Stephan."
Bandfield shuffled, uneasy at the prospect. "He won't be too happy to see me."
"Well, I'm worried about you too. Why not apologize for slugging him? What will it cost you?"
"Seeing as your little trick with the wire keeps me from moving my arms, it might cost me a black eye."
"You can move them, all right. I've seen that hot-wire trick played often enough to know how much sympathy you deserve, and you've already had your quota."
She kept her arm linked in his as they strolled across the dry grass, spotted here and there with empty Coca-Cola and Quaker State Oil bottles. He liked being close to her.
"When I talked to Dickens earlier, he apologized. He said he was just drunk. He promised to apologize to Stephan, too, if I'd take a hop with him. Just be nice and we'll get this all fixed up."
They talked about the dance and the Caudron's engine, and her mother's chances in the women's unlimited race the following morning.
"Dickens said he was test-flying the airplane to pay back a favor to an old friend of his who has entered in the Cleveland-Dayton-Toledo round-robin race."
"I didn't think Dickens had any friends," Bandfield scoffed.
As they approached the hangar Bandfield could see Dickens's head sticking up on the other side of an ancient Bach biplane. The patched and tattered airplane had obviously spent too many winters parked outside in the weather, and Dickens was checking everything with extra care. Bandy watched with distaste, unable to understand why Dickens would ask Patty to fly in such a wreck. When he glanced into the cabin, he saw that there was a bench fitted instead of the usual two separate seats. In the air, she'd have a hell of a time getting away from him if he decided to make a pass.
"Hello there, Bandfield. I guess I owe you one for that sucker punch the other night."
"No hard feelings, Roy. Have one on me, as a gift."
Dickens gave his usual nasty smile. "No, I've got hard feelings all over my ribs. I'll pay you back someday, you can count on it."
After the walk-around inspection, Dickens slid over to the left side, and Patty climbed up into the right. After propping the engine for them, Bandfield trotted alongside as they taxied slowly to the edge of the grassy field. The landing gear was splayed out like an old washerwoman's legs, the paint on the struts cracked like varicose veins.
Dickens leered at him as he went through the engine run-up, the tired engine coughing and backfiring. Bandfield could tell that the spark plugs were fouled with oil. Dickens stood on the brakes as he put the throttle forward to full powe
r, deafening the onlookers with the sharp staccato exhaust noise. The plane strained forward like a sprinter against the chocks, slack fabric quivering, landing gear bending forward.
Bandfield made the classic "cut the engine" sign and bounded up on the wing. Dickens brought the power back and Patty opened her door.
With his left hand, Bandfield unbuckled her safety belt; he shot his right hand under her rump and scooped her out of the cabin, backing off the wing and falling with her on top of him.
Dickens sneered at them as he reached over and closed the door. Then he put on full power and the Bach began its takeoff roll.
Bandfield struggled to his feet, pulling Patty up with him. She was furious, but he held her to him and pointed at the airplane, now struggling a hundred yards down the runway.
Dickens had the power fully on, and as the Bach slowly accelerated, its landing gear began to spread, the wheels drifting farther and farther apart.
They stood stock still, his arms still around her, as with a mime's precision the airplane struggled toward its pratfall. There was a grinding roar as the gear snapped parallel to the wings and the Bach's propeller snubbed itself into a stub and the plane slammed on its belly.
Bandfield whispered, "Dear God, don't let it burn."
The airplane, wheels spread out as if it had stepped on a giant banana, slid to a stop, and Dickens sprang out the side like a runner stealing home, racing away from the inevitable explosion.
The Bach sat for a moment, white vapor showing where the fuel from the ruptured tanks was reaching the red-hot exhaust manifold. A hurricane of flame preceded the sound of the explosion that tossed the airframe fifty feet in the air. It hesitated at the top of the arc, then dove down to impact vertically, wings flying up parallel to the cabin, the tail driving down the collapsing fuselage like a retracting spring.
For a frozen moment, there was no sound anywhere, and Bandy could hear Patty's frantic breathing. Then the strident sirens of the emergency wagons wailed.
Trophy for Eagles Page 27
