Air Force Eagles

by Walter J. Boyne

  "I never really liked this place, you know—the first guesthouse we had was just an old farmhouse, but it was cozy."

  The marshal nodded; the woman drove him crazy with her endless palavering, but he had instructions to be nice to her.

  "Will you be doing some traveling now, Mrs. McNaughton?"

  "Some. I'm going to Elkhart, Indiana, first. They make good trailers there, and I'm going to have one custom-made just for me."

  "To pull behind your car?"

  She couldn't restrain herself from mischievously running her hand up his arm; he jumped, startled. "No, silly, to live in. I'm going to get a nice, big comfortable trailer, set it up on a big lot, and just have fun."

  Backing away, he asked, "Here in Nashville?"

  "No, I think I'll be going to Alaska. Always wanted to go there."

  It was easy to see that he wasn't a live one, and there was no point in telling him that she was going to Little Rock, to see some friends.

  *

  Little Rock, Arkansas/March 23, 1956

  Locked in an unwilling partnership like a bounty hunter and his quarry, Ginny and Stan sat sipping coffee in the sun-room of the old Ruddick home. He was slouched in one of the well-worn wicker chairs, nursing another of his monumental hangovers while she read the Gazette's latest account of the racial turmoil sweeping the South. She encouraged Stan's drinking and enjoyed his hangovers; looking at his red eyes and puffy face strengthened her own resolve not to drink anymore.

  "Good! Listen to this, Stan. They found that jumped-up nigger preacher, King, guilty! That'll teach him to go around organizing boycotts."

  Coleman didn't speak, gazing morbidly out at the leaf-filled fish pond in the garden. Once the grounds had been immaculately kept—by Nathan. The image of Nathan and Ginny came to him again, as fresh as the day it happened. He should have strangled her on the spot.

  "And look at this, some little colored girl has been admitted to the University of Alabama. Well, it won't happen here, the governor won't let it. And neither will Daddy!"

  Stan buttered a piece of toast and forced himself to eat it. In an hour he had to be in uniform to be picked up by his driver.

  "Now, Stan, don't be sullen. I know you hate me, but just remember, if it wasn't for Daddy, you'd have gone to jail. I don't know how you could have been so foolish to try to do a stunt like that, when he would have gotten you promoted to general on his own."

  He would have hated her less if she had not said it every day and if it had not been true. He'd encouraged the cheating at Frederick because he wanted to make brigadier general on his own terms, without any help from Ruddick. Then, when it all blew up, Ruddick had quashed the court-martial charges and instead had him brought into the Arkansas Air National Guard as a special liaison officer to the governor! It made his abrupt resignation from the Air Force look like a planned move. The governor had infuriated the commander of the local Air Guard unit by giving Coleman the rank of brigadier general. It couldn't have been done in the regular Air Force, but the Guard was totally politicized, and what the governor wanted, the governor got. Yet Stan was a little distressed—the careful way Ruddick kept his promises made Coleman believe he'd keep his threats with equal fidelity.

  "Ginny, I've got a surprise for you. Your old boyfriend is back in town."

  "Don't try to pick a fight, Stan, you always lose."

  "Yes, after all his college education, and the tricks you must have taught him, he's working in a tire shop, mounting those big truck tires. Of course, he'd rather be mounting you."

  "Shut up; that's enough."

  Enjoying himself, he went on, "Does your current boyfriend know about your affair with Nathan? I'll bet he'd be proud to know he was following in a Negro's footsteps, so to speak."

  She folded the paper carefully, put it down on the table, and looked him in the eye. Unconsciously, her hand wandered to the back of her head, searching for the single strand of hair. When she stopped drinking her old compulsive habit had returned. Her voice was icy.

  "By current boyfriend, do you mean the governor?"

  "Yes, I mean the governor—unless you're bumping somebody else on the side. What would he say about Nathan? Maybe someday I ought to tell him about your little experiment with colored men."

  "For your information, my relationship with the governor is purely professional." Exasperated, she banged her coffee cup down. "Stan, I wonder what Daddy sees in you. You don't even know how to threaten properly."

  Coleman was immediately defensive. "I'm not threatening you."

  "Sure you are. You just go ahead and tell the governor about Nathan. I'll tell him Nathan raped me and you wouldn't defend me. Do you think he'll believe you instead of me? I even know what he'd call you—a poltroon."

  Imitating the governor's deep voice, she said again, "Poltroon! That's what he'd call you. Even Daddy wouldn't be able to stop him from firing you, and then what would you do? Poor baby, you've never gotten a job on your own. You'd wind up toting groceries at the A&P."

  He got up and strode out of the room, furious with himself because he knew she was right. As he passed the buffet, once again lined with decanters, the doorbell rang. Thinking that it might be his driver, early, he answered it, and found Elsie McNaughton.

  "Stan, honey, aren't you going to invite me in? Where's Ginny?" Turning to the cab driver behind her, she said, "Just bring the luggage in and sit it by the door."

  *

  Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska/April 13, 1956

  They sat on straight-backed chairs in the harsh light of LeMay's outer office, a room hacked out of the old Martin Aircraft bomber plant, its windows providing a view of the Omaha stockyards, more suitable for a garage foreman than for a four-star general. A constant stream of staff officers shuttled in and out, clutching their files to their chests, jaws tight; there was no small talk, no jesting, none of the usual we're-near-the-boss camaraderie.

  "Friday the thirteenth—we'll be lucky if we get out of here with our lives."

  Bandfield was more relaxed than his friend. "Nonsense, Bear. He's probably calling you in to tell you you're going to make general."

  "So what are you doing here? You're going to be promoted, too?"

  "Not likely. He just knows we've been working together, probably wants me to be here to congratulate you."

  "Yeah, LeMay's like that, always trying to figure out ways to make the troops happy. I don't know what you're smoking, but whatever it is, send me a carton."

  A glassy-eyed lieutenant colonel popped out of LeMay's office like a cork from a champagne bottle. He steadied himself, looked around, and mumbled, "He wants you two next," and then staggered off.

  "Looks like he's in good form today."

  They walked in and saluted smartly; the great stone face said, "Sit down, both of you," and went on reading a file, marking it ferociously with a big red grease pencil, grumbling to himself like a dyspeptic dragon. It occurred to Bandfield that he was the only man he'd ever known who could snarl quietly. After a very long two minutes, he turned to them, saying, "All right, Bandfield, what's the bad news on the McNaughton milk-bottle pin fittings?"

  "The best guess we can make is that there could be as many as forty B-47s in the fleet with defective parts installed. The problem is you can't tell if it's a bad part or not unless you pull it out of the airplane and analyze the metal in it. On the surface, the damn things look just like a standard unit."

  LeMay turned his head, scowling at the wall, rubbing his iron jaw with his hand.

  "What kind of audit trail was there?"

  "None. Whoever was responsible at McNaughton—we think it was a guy named Baker—did a real job on the paperwork. It's not only the data on the milk-bottle pin that's missing, but he got rid of the paperwork on everything they'd bought for the past two years. When the heat came on, he vanished."

  LeMay's lips contorted. "Is the FBI looking for this guy?"

  "They were, but they've had no luck at all."

&
nbsp; "Well, what're we going to do? Ground the fleet?"

  Bandfield knew that wasn't the right answer and put a single sheet of paper on LeMay's desk.

  "No, sir. I'm recommending that we restrict the LABS maneuver tactic to a specific number of aircraft to minimize the chances for overstressing the wings." LABS was the acronym for the Low Altitude Bombing System developed for the toss-bombing technique.

  "If we equip about ten percent of the fleet with the LABS, and shift the rest over to use parachute-retarded bombs, we'll reduce the impact of the problem considerably. We can earmark the ones we select for extra inspections for cracks."

  LeMay nodded unenthusiastically, and Bandfield went on. "They've finally got things worked out at the Special Weapons Command at Kirtland; for most of the units you can get the same degree of accuracy from a parachute-retarded weapon as you can from a free-fall bomb."

  LeMay rolled a fresh cigar back and forth between his fingers. "How much time will it take to modify the stockpile of bombs?"

  "Two months, three at the outside."

  The general lit the cigar, mind racing. "Well, if we have to go to war before then, we won't be worrying about the wings falling off anyway. Okay, I'll go along with that. What's next?"

  Bandfield and Riley concealed simultaneous sighs of relief. They'd never thought LeMay would go along with having only ten percent of the B-47 fleet dedicated to the LABS technique.

  "When the airplanes go through modification at Boeing for the LABS, they ought to have their milk-bottle pins pulled and new ones substituted. It will be expensive as hell, but I don't see any way around it."

  LeMay was scribbling furiously on a big yellow pad. "Okay. I'll try to get authorization to have one hundred fifty aircraft designated for modification for LABS. The rest of them we'll restrict to two G-maneuvers and pray that the wings don't start falling off. Bandfield, you're excused."

  When the door had closed he turned to Riley. "Bear, I'm sorry to tell you that you're not going to be on the general's list this year, and probably never."

  Riley shrugged. "I didn't expect to be, sir."

  "Well, I expected you to be, and I'm pissed off that you're not. But you've got a congressman mad at you, and the word's been given to the air staff not even to submit your name."

  "What is it, the crackdown on the 103rd?"

  "You got it. It's Congressman Dade who's blacklisting you. He carries a lot of weight, and doesn't mind using it. I figure it's his old pal Ruddick who's putting him up to it."

  Bear Riley actually felt relieved. Academically he liked the idea of being a general officer; realistically he knew he wasn't cut out for it. It might have been nice for Lyra, as much as she enjoyed the club work, but . . .

  "No problem, General, I never expected to be more than a buck-ass major flying the line anyway."

  "Me either. Funny how things work out. But let me tell you why I can't go to bat for you like I'd like to. Dade's on the House Armed Services Committee, and I've got this legislative package coming through on improving airmen's housing. I can't afford to antagonize him."

  Bear nodded; it made sense. LeMay had done more for the troops in the last five years than anyone else in the Air Force. He couldn't win them all.

  LeMay went on. "But at least I can give you a break from this miserable staff work; you're going to take over the 103rd at Frederick. You've earned it."

  Riley was stunned. "I'd love to have a wing, General, but how is the 103rd going to react to me? I blew the whistle on them, and fired a lot of their bosses. They'll want my ass on a platter."

  LeMay had already shifted back to his stack of files. "Jesus, Riley, don't tell me your problems, I got enough of my own."

  *

  Pine Bluff, Arkansas/May 20, 1954

  It was truly a luxurious trailer. Elsie had spent two months at the Elcar factory overseeing its design, incorporating everything she'd liked about the old guesthouse and Baker's little trailer, along with custom touches that had daunted the builders until they were sure that money was no object. They had never built bedrooms and baths paneled entirely in mirrors, and there was a lot of sniggering about it until Elsie personally demonstrated their utility to the general manager one evening.

  The whole project almost came to a halt before it started when they told her that what she wanted would be too big to haul over the roads. She remembered how they'd shipped huge parts of airplanes from McNaughton and suggested that they simply split it into thirds, then assemble it on-site. When they finally saw that they weren't building a trailer at all but a modular house with supernumerary wheels, they became enthusiastic.

  She'd come to Little Rock knowing only that Baker was somewhere in the area—they had not communicated once since his rapid departure. Staying with the Colemans had been just a whim, a way to make sure she learned from Ruddick where Baker was—and a chance to sample Stan again. The first time Ginny left the house he'd willingly leaped into bed with her for his usual insipid lovemaking. It convinced her that Baker was what she wanted out of life.

  Ruddick had tried to quash the idea, refusing at first even to tell her where Baker was.

  "Elsie, my dear, I reckon we've been friends for a long time, done a lot of business together. Your husband was a good friend, too." They were alone, drinking bourbon and branch water in the study. "But coming here is just plain crazy. What if another airplane crashes, and they start the investigation again? Ah'm not going to be able to help." It sounded like heallp.

  In harsh contrast to Ruddick's mellow Murrow voice, after two drinks, Elsie lost her cultivated Southern drawl and her Jersey accent cut through. "If that happens it won't make any difference where any of us are, they'll find us. Look on it as a package deal—you took McNaughton for all it was worth when the going was good; now you have to put up with me because things went sour."

  "Elsie, you could live high on the hog anywhere, with all your money. You don't need to be here, living with us."

  "No, and I won't be for long, not after you take me to see Dick Baker, and we get a few things straightened out."

  Ruddick sighed, knowing that at least one of the things she intended to straighten out was firmly attached to Baker.

  When he did put her in touch with Baker a few days later, the big man had been delighted to see her—the girls in New Orleans were younger and prettier, but they didn't respond like she did. He immediately began planning the installation of her trailer on part of the Klaven's acreage. Curiously, Josten had been all for it from the start, welcoming Elsie effusively. Later he told Ruddick that he thought it would keep Baker from getting into trouble on his regular trips to New Orleans. The truth was he was just glad to have Baker away from his headquarters, but still close enough to call on if he was needed.

  Baker sited the trailer in a valley, buffered on all sides by thick growths of pine. In just a few weeks, he'd sunk a well, arranged to have the septic tank put in, and, with some reliable Storm Manners' help, built a concrete-block foundation. The three parts of the trailer came together easily, and he handled the installation of the interior himself, not wanting any of the local boys to get a look at the mirrored rooms.

  Now they lived like honeymooners, Baker so glad to have her that he reasserted his old dominator role only when they made love, because Elsie wanted it. For the rest, he was like a young newlywed, fixing up the yard in front and, out back, planting a crop of marijuana. Elsie was the soul of domesticity, spending hours with the Sears catalog to get just the right drapes, the right accent pieces.

  "Honey, the only thing we need around here is a baby. Too bad we're too old."

  "Well, nothing says we can't have pets instead. How about a dog?"

  Tears formed in Elsie's eyes. The man seemed to have changed so much, he really was trying to please her. "Let's do get a dog. Two dogs, a big one and a small one. One for you, one for me."

  *

  Pine Bluff, Arkansas/May 21, 1956

  The relief he felt when Elsie moved out
was only one of the things that told Ruddick things were going well. Leaving Washington was the best thing he'd ever done, even though nothing had come of the investigations at McNaughton. He hadn't realized how tired he was of the politicking, of the favor-swapping, the back-scratching. At first, he'd been worried about the double loss of income from his salary and from McNaughton, but the real estate market had taken an upturn and there was a small but constant series of contracts coming from the State House for his contracting firm.

  Even so, he'd decided to sell off some of his art collection. Dixon Price had located an agent for him in Los Angeles, who was doing a good job, selling off the less desirable pieces first, the things he would ultimately have sold anyway, and the money was pouring in. The biggest surprise was the Hitler watercolors. He put a few of them on the market and they were snapped up by two Texans, each of whom immediately wanted to buy everything he had. He'd pulled the rest of them off the market right away, because their price was obviously going to skyrocket.

  And, best of all, Josten had not proved to be a problem. When he came back, Helmut readily assumed the position of second-in-command, behaving with military deference.

  Although he seemed physically strong, the man was intensely preoccupied about something. Ruddick assumed that his health was bothering him, but Baker didn't agree.

  "He's not feeling too good, boss, but that's not his problem. He's nutty about a woman, and it's eating him up."

  "His wife?"

  "Former wife. She's married to some Air Force guy now, they have a kid, and it's killing Josten. He's sent me to Omaha, twice, just to spy on them."

  "Must be going crackers. What's that big blue bus he's fooling with?"

  "He may be crackers, but he's still a genius. If he'd been running things in Germany, they would have won the war, believe me. He calls the bus his command post—he's made a real luxury deal out of it—it's just like a trailer home inside, bathroom, kitchen, everything."

  "You should be an expert on that subject. How do you like trailer living?" Disapproval dripped from Ruddick's words. Baker ignored it.