by T. E. Cruise
“You know,” Harrison was saying, “there have been times since Herman died when I’ve been working here all alone late at night and I thought I heard his voice calling me….”
“Mom says the same thing,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I tried to talk her into putting the Bel-Air estate up for sale and moving into an apartment. I told her it’s no good rattling around all alone in that big old house with nothing but the servants and her memories to keep her company.”
“Erica will never sell that place,” Don declared. “For the same reason, I haven’t changed the office decor. Neither of us wants to bid Herman farewell.”
Steve sighed. “You know, I promised Pop that he’d see me make General….”
“You can still keep that promise,” Don began.
“Maybe, but the notion has kind of paled since Pop died,” Gold mused, remembering the conversations he’d had with his invalid father in the garden at the house in Bel-Air. “Pop always wanted it for me more than I ever wanted it for myself. As far as I’m concerned, being a general just means a bigger paperwork headache. And generals don’t get to fly their own planes, which is pretty much the only reason I’m still in the Air Force.”
“You can be a general and fly all the airplanes you want,” Don said. “Right here at GAT.”
“Huh?”
“Steve.” Don leaned forward, planting his elbows on his desk. “Your father had always wanted you to come into the business, right?”
“Well, sure…”
Don nodded. “Well, now’s the time. I need you. These past six months since he died have been hell. I can’t run this company all by myself.”
“Of course you can’t, Don. Nobody can!” Gold comforted. “But you’re not alone. You’ve got yourself a goddamned office building full of executives and managers.”
“I need more than a bunch of yes-men following me around like baby ducklings in a row.” Don scowled. “I need you. Just like your father needed me after he lost Teddy Quinn.”
Gold busied himself lighting a Pall Mall in order to buy time to think. Teddy Quinn had been with Pop since the beginning, even before there was a Gold Aviation, when Pop was running a fledgling mail and freight air-transport company operating between Los Angeles and San Francisco. For over thirty years, Teddy had been Pop’s chief designer, his sounding board for new ideas, and his best friend, until Teddy passed away in 1951. Pop, emotionally distraught over losing Teddy, had tried to go it alone, but even then GAT was too much to handle for just one pair of hands, no matter how capable. Without a copilot, GAT was suffering a severe downturn in productivity, never mind the fact that the company’s heart and soul, its Research and Design Department, was drifting leaderless. When Pop was finally able to bring himself to begin his search for Teddy’s replacement, it didn’t take him long to realize that if he wanted the best there was only one choice: Donald Harrison, in those days aviation’s boy wonder. In 1951, Don agreed to leave his position in charge of R & D at Amalgamated-Landis, another of the giant concerns that made up California’s aviation industry, to join the GAT team. Don came aboard as chief engineer in charge of aviation research and development, but it wasn’t long before he was Pop’s right-hand man.
“It’s as important to me as I’m sure it is to you that we keep family control of this business,” Don was saying. “Someday I intend to bring my own son Andrew into GAT.”
Gold had to grin. “I know Andy is precocious, but I very much doubt that the world is ready for a sixteen-year-old aviation-industry executive.”
“I did say someday,” Don reiterated, smiling.
“Well, you have another son.”
“I have thought about Robbie….”
Gold waited expectantly. Robert Blaize Greene, thirty, was Don’s stepson, Steve Gold’s sister’s son by her first marriage to World War II RAF fighter ace Blaize Greene, who was killed in action. Robbie was a Vietnam veteran, an Air Force captain, and recipient of the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Silver Star. Steve Gold had always been extremely close to his nephew, but the bonds of affection between them had been further strengthened in 1965, when Robbie had risked his own neck on Gold’s behalf by flying Rescue Combat Air Patrol when Gold had been shot down over North Vietnam.
“Well?” Gold asked. “Have you made this offer to Robbie?”
Don frowned. “You know as well as I do that there’d be no point to that,” he said impatiently. “Robbie and I have never truly gotten along…. I don’t know, I guess the kid blames me for taking his father’s place in his mother’s heart, or some such tomfoolery.”
Don was blushing. Gold, feeling awkward, and sorry that he’d brought up the subject, said, “You know that’s one point over which Robbie and I part company. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve always done your level best to be a good father to that kid.”
“Thanks,” Don said, almost gruffly. “Anyway, Robbie’s got a fine career still ahead of him in the Air Force. There’ll be time enough for him to come into the business once he’s established a reputation and some clout in the industry.” He winked. “Like his uncle Steve.”
“I admit I’m getting a little antsy in the Air Force,” Gold began. “There’s no wars to fight….”
“What the hell,” Don said pointedly. “Face facts, Steve. You’re too old to fight ’em even if there were some wars around.”
Gold wistfully chuckled. “I can’t argue that. But I guess I’ve had my share of furballs.”
“That you have,” Don remarked, smiling. “But you’ve got an even bigger challenge than any war waiting for you right here at GAT, if you’re willing to take it on. I need you to help me overcome the Defense Department’s resistance to the GXF-66 Stiletto.”
“You’re kidding!” Gold said, shocked. “Are you telling me the brass doesn’t want that fighter? She looks like a beauty to me.”
“She is a beauty, Steve,” Don declared adamantly. “Unfortunately, the DOD’s procurement teams can’t objectively evaluate her. Their vision is too clouded by bad memories concerning the F-110.”
“Goddamn…,” Gold cursed. Back in the late 1960s, Pop had harbored high hopes for the twin-seat, F-110 fighter bomber he’d dubbed the Super BroadSword, but the over-engineered airplane loaded with the latest in black-box technology had turned out to be a gremlin-plagued disappointment, and the Air Force canceled its contract after receiving just a few units. “Sometimes I think that damned airplane killed Pop,” Gold said bitterly.
“I hear you.” Don looked somber. “Herman had suffered setbacks before and had always been able to overcome them, but not the Super BroadSword. Your father just never seemed to be able to bounce back from that failure.” Don brightened. “Until R and D came up with the prototype design for the Stiletto. Herman really perked up when he saw those specs. I think your father wanted the Stiletto to be his swan song, Steve. I think he wanted his last airplane to be a fighter pilot’s kind of war bird: a fighter to follow in the tradition of the original BroadSword….” Don paused. “Hell, a fighter to follow in the tradition of Herman’s Fokker Dr. I, the triplane he flew when he was serving with the Red Baron.”
Gold nodded. “But you’re saying that you can’t get the brass interested in the Stiletto?” It was a sobering thought. Unlike many engineer types who couldn’t get beyond their narrow specialties, Don had business savvy, the ability to comprehend the big picture. If Don couldn’t sell the Stiletto, something was seriously wrong.
“I’ve got to be honest with you.” Don shrugged. “The military aviation division of this company lost a good deal of its luster due to the Super BroadSword mess. Then came Herman’s retirement, and then his death. I’m doing all I can, but I’ve made my mark in the commercial aviation side of the business. Those military procurement types don’t hear me, but they’d listen to you. You’ve got a fighter pilot’s reputation, and the contacts in the military to get the Stiletto a fair shake.”
Gold stood up and went to the wall of windows behind Do
n’s desk. The office was located on the executive/administration building’s top floor, and had a view of the company’s airfields filled with rows of finished GC-9 series jetliners awaiting delivery to their respective airlines.
Pop sure would have liked to see those fields filled up with fighters. Gold thought. He turned away from the windows. “I’d like to help, but I really don’t know how it would work out between us. There’s no denying that we’ve had our ups and downs through the years.”
Don swiveled around in his chair. “I hope you don’t think I still harbor a grudge concerning you and Linda?”
I don’t know. Do you? Gold thought, going back in his mind to how the long-simmering feud between them had begun on that fateful summer morning back in 1952, when Steve, home on leave, had run into an old flame, a pretty little brunette of a newspaper reporter by the name of Linda Forrester, sunning her bikinied curves on the beach at Malibu. The two had gone directly from that beach to Linda’s bed, which was where Don had found them when he’d come calling later that day. It was only after the fact—way too late to make amends—that Steve had found out that Linda was Don’s fiancée.
“Steve, I got over that incident concerning Linda twenty years ago, the day I fell in love with your sister,” Don assured. “As a matter of fact, I ran into Linda just last month at a commercial-aviation conference in Chicago. “ He paused. “Did you know she quit her television correspondent’s job on the network to write full-time? That she’s working on a book about the airline industry?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Gold muttered, wondering why it still bothered him to talk about Linda. They’d gone together for a while after she’d broken up with Don, but eventually things became strained: Linda wanted to settle down and raise a family. Gold was wedded to the Air Force. It was all in the past….
“Anyway, when I saw Linda, it was just like seeing an old acquaintance,” Don continued. “Nothing more, nothing less, and that’s the truth.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Gold said wryly. “I’d hate to think you’re two-timing my sister.”
Don laughed. “If I feel anything toward you concerning Linda, it’s gratitude. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have married the real girl of my dreams: your sister, Susan.”
“It’s not just that,” Gold murmured, growing serious. “There’re other differences between us.”
“Sure there are,” Don agreed. “But on the whole, I’d say that we’ve become more friends than enemies…?”
“That’s an accurate assessement.” Gold nodded. “But—”
“But nothing,” Don cut him off. “Look, I didn’t want to get into this, but I see it’s necessary, so let’s call a spade a spade. The truth is you’ve never been able to come to terms with your own anger and resentment concerning your father’s affection toward me.”
Gold flinched. It was true that Pop quickly came to rely on Don as a sounding board as well as a creative source, much as he had relied on Teddy. Thinking about it now. Gold could feel the old emotions he’d struggled to keep tamped down rising up in him, filling him with bitter rage. It’s yesterday’s news, he told himself, trying to rein in his temper. Water under the bridge. He told Don, “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Come on, dammit!” Don said roughly. “You brought this crap up, not me. So now the least you can do is be man enough to admit that you’re jealous of my relationship with Herman. You always have been!”
“You egghead son of a bitch!” Gold exploded. “How do you expect me to feel? You were the son my father always wanted, not me!” He stopped, taken aback by the way Don was smiling at him. “What’s so fucking funny?”
“Nothing, everything.” Don’s amused expression turned wistful. “I guess it’s funny how reality plays tricks on us. If only you could have heard the way your father talked about you. If only you could have realized how proud he was of his son, the fighter ace.”
Gold found his anger had vanished, leaving him hollow and hurting inside. “I tried as hard as I could to be who he wanted me to be,” he said softly. “And I think that toward the end we both realized how much we loved each other….” He had to pause, his throat grown tight. “But I was never able to fulfill his expectations.”
“Fulfill them now,” Don said urgently. “Your father wanted the Stiletto to redeem GAT’s reputation for building fighters. Help me make his last wish a reality.”
Gold turned back to the windows, gazing out past the jetliner fleet glinting in the sun, to the immutable, tawny California hills beyond the high, barbed-wire fence. The offer was tempting, no doubt about it. He and Pop had unfinished business; this might be the way to make peace between them.
“Don,” Gold began. “I don’t think I could take orders from you.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Don got up out of his chair to come stand behind Gold. “We each have our areas of expertise. I know how to design and build airplanes. From all your years spent working for General Simon in Air Force Procurement, I believe you know how to market them.”
“A team, huh?” Steve mused. “Kind of like a pair of fighters flying a swallowtail pattern, watching each other’s backs?”
Don nodded. “You understand the term ‘synergy’?”
“The whole adding up to more than the sum of its parts?”
“Close enough,” Don responded. “What I’m suggesting to you is a synergistic partnership. We can work out the financial details and who gets what title later. The bottom line is that I’m hoping that us two working together can approximate more than the sum of our parts: in other words, one Herman Gold.”
“Not a chance,” Gold said. “When they made my father, they broke the mold.”
“I think so too,” Don replied warmly. “But with Herman gone, we’re the best that GAT has got.” Don paused, looking hopeful.
“So what do you say? It sure would make a dynamite splash at the stockholders’ meeting this summer if I could announce that you’re coming aboard.”
“This summer,” Steve said doubtfully. “That’s not much time.”
Don answered, “We’ve got no time to waste if we want to keep your father’s dream alive.”
Gold turned to see Don Harrison holding out his hand to him. “Can I have a big office like this?” Gold joked.
“Bigger!” Don promised.
“A pretty secretary?”
“We’ll raid Hollywood.”
“Ah well, then, what the hell,” Gold said, shaking hands with his brother-in-law. “I’m tired of wearing Air Force blue.”
Don laughed happily. “Welcome, partner. I’ve got a very good tailor I can recommend to you.”
CHAPTER 2
(One)
In the skies over Germany, near Sembach Air
Base
14 June, 1973
United States Air Force Captain Robert Blaize Greene banked his F-12B Sun-Wolf through the woolly cloud bank, breaking through into an extended vista of sky so blue it hurt his eyes. Greene was on routine combat air patrol above the green and brown checkerboard landscape of the Rheinland-Pfalz farmland region of Germany, near the French Border. His Sun-Wolf, the latest variant of the venerable workhorse air-superiority fighter of the Vietnam War, was part of the armada of American combat aircraft assigned to NATO’s offensive and defensive air operations over central Europe. The F-12B was a huge, wide-bodied rear-fuselage warbird, with dual, square, engine-air intakes, sharply tapered wings, and twin, wide-spaced, vertical tail fins. She was powered by a pair of brutish, augmented turbofans capable, during optimum conditions, of moving the Sun-Wolf at Mach 2.5, more than two and a half times the speed of sound.
A voice crackled in Captain Greene’s helmet. “Lonestar, this is Mother Hen. Do you read? Over.” It was the familiar voice of Air Force Lieutenant Buzz Blaisdale, a fellow pilot and close friend who today was acting as Greene’s air controller.
Greene pressed the radio call button on his throttle. “Mother Hen, this is Lonestar.” Greene’
s mustache tickled beneath the close-fitting rubber oxygen mask, and there was a slight echo of his own words in his radio earphones as he spoke. “Am cruising in my patrol sector at 25,000 feet.” He glanced at his airspeed indicator. “Speed 475 knots. Nothing to report.” He twisted his head, taking advantage of the excellent visibility afforded by the Sun-Wolf’s teardrop canopy to study the sky, and then sharply dipped his wings to view the cloud-swept, variegated terrain streaking by below. “Doesn’t seem to be anything but cows, and guys in lederhosen around here, or maybe a blond milk mädchen in leather shorts. I should be so lucky….”
“Listen up, Lonestar.” Mother Hen sounded concerned. “AWAC has just picked up multiple bogies traveling low toward your sector at a head-on intercept with you….”
“Mama Bird.” Greene chuckled. “You sure your Air-born Warning and Control System boys haven’t locked onto a wolf pack of Porsches truckin’ down the autobahn or something?”
“Negative.”
“Come on, Birdy,” Greene teased. “It’s happened before, and you know it.”
“Repeat, negative. These are bona fides, Lonestar.”
“IFF/NIS status?” Greene asked, becoming all business now.
“Working.”
Greene waited for the Identification Friend or Foe and NATO Identification System linkups of black boxes to go through their electronic challenges and counterchallenges with the unknown airplanes’ transponders in order to identify the bogies as either NATO good guys or Warsaw Pact undesirables.
“Mama Bird, just in case, how ’bout some backup?”
“Negative, Lonestar. We got bogies popping up in all sectors. Looks like World War Three from where I’m sitting.”
“Uh-huh. How’s that IFF evaluation coming along?”
“Just in, Lonestar. You got trouble, all right. Definitely bad guys. Forward Radar Air Patrol identifies them as a trio of Fishbed-Js.”
“Fabbbulous,” Greene said sarcastically, although he knew it could have been much worse, considering that it was going to be three against one. A Fishbed-J was just a later variant of the rather outdated MiG-21, which Greene had dealt with over Vietnam. These Fishbeds carried a 23MM cannon pack and—hopefully—nothing more lethal than a pair of short-range, heat-seeking Atoll missiles, the Soviet version of the Sidewinder.
