Air Force Eagles

by Walter J. Boyne

  "Great! You should come out and see our place. It's not really a trailer, you know, you couldn't hardly move it nowhere. It's got everything."

  Ruddick drummed his fingers, falling into the exaggerated drawl he used when he was being sarcastic. "You all don't think it's just a little teeny bit risky, her coming here and you moving in with her?"

  "Boss, the FBI ain't looking, or they would have found me. Those guys are good, and I'm not exactly inconspicuous. I don't think the business at McNaughton is a problem anymore. They got rid of Elsie, turned the management over to a bunch of pros—why would they want to look for some poor joker who ordered the wrong parts?"

  "And tore up all the paperwork."

  "That was your idea, boss, don't forget." Baker smiled; he didn't often win an exchange with Ruddick. On balance, he much preferred working for Josten. Ruddick's Southern drawl, the roundabout political way he approached things, his reluctance to use violence, all made him pale in comparison to Josten's no-nonsense approach.

  One hundred yards away, inside the converted bus, Josten sat listening to their conversation. Weeks before, he'd taken the precaution of placing a microphone in the wall of his old office—the one Ruddick was now using—and putting a tap on the telephone. He had no basic disagreement with Ruddick, but he wanted the advantage that good intelligence could bring. Baker, loyal swine that he was, could be helpful when he wanted to provide Ruddick with a little misinformation.

  His eyes wandered around the inside of the bus. The business of running the Storm Klan was sporadic, for he had to work when the men were available, after hours and on the weekends. It left a lot of time on his hands, and he poured it into finishing work on the bus. It was fatiguing—his hands had not recovered their strength, probably never would—but he enjoyed being deliberate, taking his time. Most of the Storm Klanners were blue-collar workmen, and he had used the most skilled of them for the rough work.

  He put a great deal of thought into the design. The bus was powered by a diesel engine, and he had built huge fuel tanks along its perimeter; it had a nonstop range of more than 1,200 miles. It was not fast, he'd drive it no more than sixty, but it was comfortable. There were two bedrooms, one a master suite with a bath, the second with bunkbeds for children. One of the local men had finished the interior in a beautiful walnut, the wood coming from trees felled on the Klaven's grounds. The bus was filled with more conveniences than most American homes had. There was a television set—of no use in the hills above Pine Bluff, but it would be useful on the road. And it had air conditioning—damn few homes had that. He'd had to cover up the windows—couldn't have people peering in—but he'd replaced them with paintings he knew Lyra would like, cadged from Ruddick's collection.

  Less obvious was the fact that the bus could keep guests secure comfortably and without danger to himself. The doors could all be locked from the driver's position, and there was nothing, no andiron, no lamp, not even an electric cord that could be used as a weapon.

  Helmut knew that the time had come to bring Lyra back. He longed to possess her again, to make her see how wrong she was to have divorced him. He was stronger than he had been for years, even though he had not yet recovered his sexual capacity.

  It distressed him that his feelings for Ulrich had changed so much. Yet it was hardly surprising; he had never really known the boy, and now, according to Baker, he was like any American child, no accent, a member of the Cub Scouts. It was difficult to contemplate, but Ulrich might best serve as a means to persuade Lyra to come with him. He would have only a few days with Lyra; they shouldn't be diluted—or inhibited—by Ulrich's presence. Someone would have to take care of him. Ulrich could be the lever, the means by which Lyra could be persuaded to come.

  He needed someone he could trust, someone to take care of the boy for the few days he would spend with Lyra. It was too delicate a matter, and far too hazardous legally, to expect anyone to do it willingly. As he turned the problem over in his mind, he realized that it would have to be Baker.

  ***

  Chapter 13

  Santa Monica, California/January 15,1957

  Tears smeared her mascara as they coursed down her sunken cheeks. "I don't understand it, Fred, you've backed King all along, you've brought me into the movement, even John is convinced, and now you say you're dropping out? What is the matter? What has he done?"

  Peterson, obviously shaken, said, "It's this personal leadership thing. The man has a Messiah complex. He's set up the Southern Christian Leadership Conference as a grassroots church organization, and he's going to make himself the head of it, you'll see. The N-Double-A leadership is furious, and so am I. He's a great man, but he's not acting in the interest of the movement!"

  Saundra wondered if her obvious admiration for King had influenced Peterson. "Fred, tell me, this is not because of me, because I'm so involved in it?"

  He looked at her in a way he never had before. "You're so transparent, Saundra, and so vulnerable, always searching for your own personal Messiah. But don't pump yourself up. This is not between us; it's not about you. It's about what's good for the movement. And my people have serious doubts about Martin Luther King."

  She was stunned at this, the first unkind thing he'd ever said to her, the first unkind thing she'd ever heard about King.

  He went on. "Don't think you're the only one to fall under his spell; just don't get hurt."

  "What are you saying? He doesn't know I exist."

  "Believe me, he knows you exist, he knows where the money has come from. Now the real question is, how is this going to affect the way we operate? I'm still going to want to use John and the airplanes, but for people I choose, not for King. If you want to use it for his group, you'll have to pick up the tab."

  She nodded, and he pressed on, relentless. "And I know that things are not going as well as they should at Marshall Products. I've talked to the managers I sent over to you, and they're worried."

  "Are they your spies?"

  "Yes, they're my spies, and your best friends, and you know it. But they can't run the place if you're off in Atlanta or Montgomery or wherever most of the time. It's your business—and if you don't run it right, you won't have any money to support your man with."

  Saundra was confused for a moment, not knowing whether he meant John or Martin.

  "You've been good to me, Fred, and you've been good to the movement. I know you're sincere, and I respect that. But I'm sincere, too. We'll just have to see how things work out."

  Saundra called her husband as soon as Fred left, asking him if he could come home from the airport early.

  They met on the balcony of their new house in Malibu Canyon. Marshall had been against buying it, feeling it was obscenely expensive, all glass and redwood, big enough for a dozen people. She loved it, but now she was forced to agree with him; it was probably going to have to go back on the market.

  She told him exactly what Fred had said.

  "What does he have against King?"

  "He says he's going off on his own, that he's trying to establish a personal following that will hurt the movement."

  Marshall mixed a pitcher of margaritas, carefully rimmed two glasses with salt, and poured. They sat on a white glider, looking out over the strange mixture of trees that their little piece of the canyon had, left from the time when it had been a botanical garden for an eccentric millionaire.

  He sipped and began speaking, very slowly. "I'd like to believe that Fred was right. It would make it easy for me to insist you stop backing him, that you pay attention to me. But I believe in Dr. King's movement, too. It's the only rational way to change things, and he's the leader we've been waiting for." He was silent for a long while, tongue just licking the salted rim of the glass. "I know I've got to have faith in you, but despite all your success in business you are a hopeless romantic. You're immature, always searching for a leader to love. The only thing that saves the situation is that I have faith in King. So I've got to support him."

>   "I'm glad you're going to support him. It's going to take all our spare cash now that Fred is dropping out."

  He flung his arms out. "So what? Sell this place, move back to the little house in Santa Monica, use the money for the movement. I was happier there, anyway." He drank the rest of his margarita and poured another, carefully, to avoid washing salt into the glass.

  "Saundra, I survived Korea, and I'll survive this. My gut feeling tells me that I've got to rock along with this until you mature, until you're able to support the movement and be my wife, too."

  She reached over and took his hand.

  *

  Salinas, California/February 1, 1957

  Bandfield felt foolish, knowing it shouldn't bother him, that he should be a bigger man than to worry about something like this. But he'd put twenty years into the Air Force, fought in two wars, shot down twenty planes—hell, been shot down himself a few times, too—and when he retired two days before, there had been only a piddling ceremony in his office at Offutt Air Force Base. In a way, he understood it; he'd always been an outsider, not working his way up through the normal chain of command, neither serving his time as a Pentagon staff wienie nor establishing a reputation in a wing or a squadron. And in the last few years, he'd been in his own office in Omaha so rarely that he scarcely knew anyone at Headquarters.

  Still, the Army and the Navy always did things like this better. He hadn't expected a parade, or a fly-over, but somehow he was hurt. There had been a cake, the standard mess hall square white sheet-cake, tooth-numbing white pure-sugar frosting, with Good Luck spelled out in a deathly shade of green icing, along with the sour GI coffee-mess coffee, served in stained brown-plastic cup holders with wax-paper liners. A two-star general he'd never even met came in and said a few banal words, shook hands—and that was it. No Bronze Star, no Legion of Merit, just a few crummy certificates and a handshake. He was glad he told Patty not to come up. It would have been embarrassing. LeMay should have done better by him, but he couldn't be pissed at him; he knew how busy the commander was.

  And the main thing was the job. He'd seen the Air Force grow from a postwar country club into the most powerful force the world had ever seen; the Air Force alone had the power to destroy an enemy with its bombers. The B-47 was working well now, and he'd done a lot to bring it along. The B-52s were coming in, and in a few years the missile fleet would be ready. Still ... it would have been nice if LeMay had sent a message or something.

  His homecoming had been equally low-key—downbeat was a better term. Patty and Charlotte were in Los Angeles, shopping for a few days, and glad as George was to see him, he was all wrapped up in his girls and his studies. There was only one thing to do—get back to work. He'd be sure of a welcome from Hadley, anyway.

  Pushing the door to Hadley's office open, he said, "Is Roget Aircraft hiring?"

  Hadley didn't look up. "We could use an engineering test pilot. But what we really need is a salesman. Interested?"

  "Jesus, don't act so glad to see me. I'm out of the Air Force for good now, old buddy."

  "Yeah, swell, big deal. I don't know why I'm asking you, you never were worth a damn in the past, but how about trying to sell some airplanes for me?"

  "Christ, I couldn't sell tea to Chinamen. You know that."

  Roget rocked back in his swivel chair, cocked a foot up on his littered desk, and said, "Brother, do I! But all you've got to do is sell a few water-bombers to some contractors, forest-fire professionals. Should be a snap."

  "How about selling Rockets? That'd probably be easier and more fun."

  Roget stopped his kidding, smiled, and stuck out his hand. "Welcome back, little buddy. I've missed you." Then, switching back to business, "We don't need no Rocket salesmen, we got customers standing in line for that little racer. But we got to get rid of them TBMs and the Catalina—the inventory cost is killing us. How about working out a tour, sort of like you did when we was peddling fighters down in South America?"

  "Take them out of the country?"

  "Well, Canada, maybe, someday. But for now, just plan to take a tour through the Southwest and South. I've been looking at the fire seasons, and I'd say we should start in southern California in August, and work our way across to Florida. Then we could come back and work our way north, sort of following the fires like pickers follow the crops. What do you think?"

  "You keep saying 'we.' You mean you and me?"

  "The three of us—you, John, me, and maybe two or three mechanics. It'd be fun."

  "The real fun will be when you tell Patty that the guy she made get out of the Air Force because he was never home is off on a six-month sales tour."

  "Don't sweat it, Bandy, I'll handle it. Your wife is putty in my hands."

  *

  Little Rock, Arkansas/March 16, 1957

  Dixon Price was the last to arrive, slipping in the side door. Ruddick had given up his downtown office space, with its beloved view of his land-holdings, and they sat in the old-fashioned living room, the chairs and couches decorated with yellowing antimacassars crocheted half a century before. Stan Coleman, still in his brand-new uniform, sat sullenly contemplating the portrait of Alma Ruddick, her face and eyes so much like her daughter's. He wondered if her morals had been as bad. Ginny passed among them, offering them cut-glass tumblers of Wild Turkey, with ice on the side and a pitcher of water to mix as they wished. Only Josten declined.

  Earlier in the day, dressed in a sweater and jeans, Coleman had dropped in again at the tire-recapping shop where Nathan worked. He could see him in the back, laboring industriously. It gave Coleman some pleasure; Nathan had graduated from college, and this was the best he could do. But the scene of him and Ginny coupling had never left him; he wondered if Nathan ever thought about her, if he ever wanted her, worse, if he ever saw her. Ginny would be capable of meeting him on the sly, sneaking him a screw in the back of her Buick. What if they were getting together again?

  Price drank deeply, appreciatively, a serious drinker on his first drink of the day. To give the liquor time to settle in and lend him its warmth, he pulled his handkerchief from the pocket of his new gray flannel suit, patted his lips, replaced it carefully. Ruddick eyed the expensive suit—it didn't come from any shop in Little Rock—and realized that Ginny was taking as good care of Price as she did the governor.

  Leaning forward, Price began to speak in a low, conspiratorial voice. "We've got some problems coming up. I have it on good authority that the nigras are going to try to enforce the Brown decision on us this fall and enroll some children in Central High School."

  Ruddick shrugged. "It was just a matter of time; maybe sooner's better than later." He turned to Josten. "Are we ready?"

  Josten nodded. "We have almost a thousand Klansmen in the area we can count on, and, for the front lines, four hundred Storm Manners."

  Ruddick knew from Josten's accent that he was excited; his English was usually perfect.

  Coleman spoke up. "We're not going to need the Klan; Dixon can ask the governor to call out the Guard. I'll make sure the little pickaninnies get sent back home."

  Dixon Price had spent years speaking at outdoor rallies, fish-fries, Fourth of July picnics; now his deep voice boomed, filling the room. "Let's not be too hasty. How will it look, bunch a Guardsmen with rifles, fighting a dozen nigras? That's a story every Northern reporter would love. We need to get some sympathy for our side, a few white heads cracked, some blood in the streets." He glanced at Ruddick, knowing he was singing his song.

  Baker, ballooning out of a horse blanket-plaid sport coat and too-tight Sans-a-belt slacks, had been uncharacteristically quiet till now. "How you going to get the niggers to fight? All they talk now is nonviolence, this Gandhi shit. Look how they won in Montgomery." He smiled and said, "Excuse me, Ginny, forgot myself."

  Coleman flushed, irritated that Baker would speak to Ginny so familiarly—she was probably screwing him, too. "Look, Baker, when we want your opinion, we'll ask."

  Josten creake
d to his feet, his head and shoulders bent forward, the collar of his suit coat, a Ruddick hand-me-down, forming a little arch behind his scrawny neck. "Herr General"—his voice was harsh, the lapse into German deliberate—"I brought Mr. Baker here. He is my deputy and you must treat him with courtesy." The words were ordinary enough, the menace in his eyes was not. Coleman lowered his head as Baker glowed—it was the first time Josten had called him "deputy." He liked it, realizing in that instance for the first time that some things were better than money.

  Josten then turned to Baker, and with genuine solicitude said, "Your question is valid; let me answer it. We make them fight. Let me march four hundred Storm Klanners through their streets, with a thousand Klansmen following. It will be like the old days in Germany, before 1933, when the Nazis beat the Communists into the ground. We'll drag them out of their houses and break some heads. They'll fight for their lives, believe me."

  Price rubbed his hands together. "Then, Stan, you could send the Guard in, break up the riots; next day, we slap the Guard around the school, and don't let any niggers in at all, no janitors, no cooks, nobody, in the interest of public safety."

  Ruddick was nodding. "That might work. It's not what I'd like; I wanted to have some clear provocations."

  Josten pressed his case. "Could we have the Guard and the Klan battle? We need some gunfire, some casualties."

  "I'm not sure which way the public would swing on that, Colonel Josten; it might work, but it might backfire. Let's think about it. Does the Klan have enough guns?"

  Josten nodded. "Mostly Springfield ought-three rifles, surplus stock from our friends in the Guard." He waved a claw at Coleman to acknowledge his cooperation. Then, persistent, he asked, "Could not we hire some Negroes to fight? Pay them to cause a disturbance?" Josten looked around the room.