They did it Army-style. Sitting in a top-floor office of the Materiel Division headquarters building, at a highly polished dark oak table, Bandy listened while a series of sharp young lieutenants and captains brought him up to date on all the trouble spots in the world, each man an expert with maps, pointer, and overhead projector. While he was getting groggy from the lectures, Caldwell spent the time getting to know Patty, gently interrogating her.
Bandfield was astounded at how weak the United States was militarily, given the critical world situation. If you believed the briefing officers, everything was apparently going to hell everywhere, and all Roosevelt seemed worried about was the Navy and the National Recovery Act. Maybe Lindbergh was right.
The Congress wasn't providing much money to the military, the Navy got the lion's share of what was given, and the Army kept a tight rein on Air Corps spending. Every major country in the world, including Russia and Japan, was getting ahead of the U.S. militarily, especially in the air.
Bandfield had promised Patty dinner at the officers' club, but Caldwell had asked him to come by his little house in Dayton first, to tell him what the whole trip was about. Patty, weary with the interviews, and not anxious to see Caldwell again, had gone directly to the club.
When Caldwell opened the door, Bandfield laughed openly. The major, never spic-and-span, was scruffier than ever in a workman's cap and a set of coveralls with a big Sinclair Oil sign with its familiar brontosaurus insignia. Underneath was the legend "Mellowed a Hundred Million Years." Old Henry Caldwell would take longer than that to mellow.
"What the hell is this, Henry? Are you working as a grease monkey part-time?"
"Sorry, Bandy, but my old Hupmobile burned out a main bearing and I'm overhauling it. Tonight's one of the few times I've had to work on it. We can talk while I work, if you don't mind."
In the tiny wooden garage at the back of his lot, lit by a dangling bare bulb in a white porcelain socket, Caldwell had rigged an A-frame to pull the Hupp's engine from the hood.
Caldwell reached inside the brass-buttoned coverall and pulled out a standard Army manila folder carrying large red secret markings.
"Bandy, it's all right here. It got delivered to me by a courier straight from Air Corps headquarters. They tasked me to pin a rose on you, and I'm pinning it. If you'll let me."
He wiped his hands on a greasy rag, then delicately pulled out a file and said, "And I learned a little bit about you. I never knew you and Slim had a midair or that you were a washed-out cadet."
"Being washed out is not the first thing anybody wants to talk about. Yeah, Slim ran into me one day down in Texas. He came out of it pretty well. He got to Paris, and he's made colonel already."
Caldwell laughed. "Well, we can't do that well, but how would you like to be a captain and maybe go to Berlin and Rome? Or maybe China and Tokyo?"
Bandy raised his eyebrows. "I didn't even make second lieutenant. I stopped at buck-ass cadet."
"They want you for a special project. They need somebody who has a reputation as a pilot, is an engineer, and knows how to build airplanes. You fit the bill perfectly."
"Really? I don't know how much of a reputation I have outside of a pretty small community."
"You'd be surprised. Anyway, to use you legally, we'll need to commission you a captain in the United States Army Air Corps. I can have the paperwork here tomorrow if you'll agree. Of course, you won't be able to tell anybody about it, or about the project for that matter."
"What am I supposed to do?"
Caldwell's voice dropped to a conspiratorial level.
"We'll arrange that you get some official tours, at the highest level, of some foreign air forces. Some will be friendly, some not so friendly. The not-so-friendly ones are our real interest, of course."
"I thought that's what the Army and Navy attaches did."
"They're supposed to, but they don't have your experience. Mostly they see what the host country wants them to see."
Bandfield hesitated. "Tell me a little more about it. What does it have to do with Hafner?"
"Well, I'm not sure. I just think you might be able to confirm something about him on your trip to Germany. You'll be entertained, you'll meet a lot of the top people. Maybe you can sound something out."
"I don't know, Henry. I've got a lot of responsibilities back at the plant. And I don't want to leave Patty."
"Take her with you. And Hadley can run the plant, can't he?"
Bandfield's mind was racing. Actually, the timing was not bad. Douglas had outsold them across the country, and it seemed certain that the production line for the RC-3 wouldn't run much beyond the original order from Mahew. If he left, went on the Air Corps payroll, it would make it that much easier for Hadley to survive.
Caldwell seemed to be reading his thoughts. "You know, Hadley came to work for us once when things were quiet at the plant, back in the early thirties. You were off trying to sell airplanes, and the money he was making kept Roget Aircraft going. Maybe it's your turn to pull a tour of duty and let Hadley run the plant."
Bandfield nodded, wondering how Patty would feel about being married to another Army captain.
"When would I start and how long will it take?"
Caldwell looked at his watch. "Well, it's six p.m. now ..." His voice changed from the joking note. "We'd like to start right after the first of the year."
"Let me talk to her. My inclination is to go along with you, but I want her to approve."
"Bandy, did you ever hear of the draft in the last war?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Well, think of this as your private draft. You can talk it over with Patty, and think it over all you want, but come the first of the year, you are going."
Bandfield bridled, then subsided, knowing that he wanted to go, and there was no point in arguing about being forced to do what he wanted to do.
"Go on back to Downey and get Hadley squared away with the plant. The sooner you get started, the better, because we want to send you through a few quick schools before you go."
"Schools?"
"Yeah, the fighter tactics school. We want you to spend a month or two here at Wright Field, flying all the different airplanes we have, so you'll have some basis for comparison. And they're bringing in some guy from the East Coast to give you a crash course in German."
Bandfield looked bewildered.
"This is a long-term project, isn't it, Henry? You're not investing all that time and dough in me for a one-month trip on the continent."
Caldwell nodded. "As I said, a lot depends on you. But yeah, they're looking to call on you in the future. It's sort of like reserve duty, you know—you're called up for a while, then get sent back to civvie street."
"Jesus, tell me, Henry, what the hell is going on? The Nazis are building subs, the fascists are marching in England, the communists are trying to take over China, there's fighting in Spain, Mussolini's talking about going to war. Finland seems to be the only country with any sense. Are we going to be strong enough?"
"Shit no, Bandy, that's the problem. We're worse off than we were in 1917. The Army's got only a few thousand men—Rumania's got more men under arms than we do!—and you know how bad off we are in the air."
"And I'm supposed to fix it?"
Caldwell laughed. "Well, it'll be a start, won't it?"
Bandfield knew that he would agree, and looked for some quick rationalizations.
"Well, it could actually help the business to see what the competition is doing. Would the Air Corps have any problems with that?"
"Hell no. We won't be paying you much, just a captain's pay and expenses. Anything you get out of it you'll deserve."
Caldwell figured he'd let out enough line, so he set the hook.
"The beauty of it is that you and Patty can travel at government expense. She'd have to keep her eyes and ears open, but from what I've seen of her, she'd be a real asset."
"I'll think it over."
Caldwell's face crea
sed into three parallel lines as he grinned. "You already have. But talk it over with Patty and Hadley, and let me know. For the time being, don't tell anyone else. Okay?"
"You're on!"
*
Burbank, California/September 28, 1934
The crazy working habits of Howard Hughes were a match for his career. He turned everything upside down, from hours of work to return on investment. The money that flowed endlessly to him from his Texas tool company and his oil investments were poured into the film and aviation industries with equally lavish abandon. He was filmmaker, airplane designer, and playboy, all rolled into one, and if he'd had a candle he would have burned it at both ends and the middle as well. Yet the situation was exactly right for Hadley Roget, giving him the time needed to keep his own plant going. Hughes rarely surfaced until after nine in the evening, so Hadley was able to keep on top of things at Roget Aircraft and still be on hand when Hughes needed him. It meant sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, but that was the way he'd worked all his life, and if he began spending some time at home, Clarice would have been suspicious.
He had been Hughes's "boss" for years; it felt funny to be working for him. But Hughes's unusual way of dealing with people seemed to work. He'd pick the best people he could find, tell them what he wanted, then leave them alone. Usually the results were better than he could have expected.
It was a weird world, though. The pay was wonderful—Hughes doled out salaries as if they were all movie stars—and the other people were first-rate. The racer was beginning to take shape, and it was clearly a winner, a sleek low-wing monoplane with the smoothest finish he'd ever seen. The fuselage was all-metal, with every plate butted into the next and flush-riveted so it was smoother than glass. Hadley had been asked to build two wings, one short for the speed-record attempt and a longer one for a transcontinental record.
The only puzzle was Dusty Rhoades. Hadley was shocked by his appearance. In the past, he had been husky, almost overweight, dressing as fastidiously as Adolph Menjou. Now he was rail-lean and dressed like a scarecrow, his long hair uncombed and his manner strange. He had been a great pilot, and apparently still flew, but most of his work with Hafner had been administrative. Hughes seemed to be using him as a general handyman. In his usual bluff way, Hadley asked, "Dusty, what the hell are you doing here? I didn't know you knew Hughes."
"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 supply, 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 bomber, 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 demonstrate the new bomber, I'll go to the clinic. Deal?"
"No. I want you to start as soon as you come back from California. 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 announce 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, particularly 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 t
he 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."
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