Top Gun

by T. E. Cruise

  “You said you’d advance the airline’s loan payments directly to AVG.” Tolliver paused. “What will that do to your own cash flow?”

  “GAT will enjoy a huge influx of operating capital from the government, thanks to the Stiletto.”

  Tolliver looked sour. “There’s that confidence again.”

  “It’s not confidence, it’s certainty.”

  “Donald, it’s bad enough the way you’ve spent the money you’ve borrowed.” Tolliver lectured primly. “You certainly shouldn’t be spending money you haven’t yet earned. There’s no guarantee that the government will choose your fighter.”

  “There is a guarantee,” Harrison declared. “The certainty born of quality. The government will buy the Stiletto because GAT’s new fighter is the best there is.”

  Tolliver held up his hand. “Just for the moment, let’s assume that GAT does not win the fighter competition. What then?”

  Harrison shrugged. “Then we’ll come to a new financial arrangement, of course. As I said at the beginning of this conversation, GAT has always met its obligations and will continue to do so in the future.”

  “And as I said at the beginning,” Tolliver replied, “the question was not if, but how?”

  “I can’t operate on ‘ifs and hows’ that far down the road,” Harrison snapped, feeling exhausted. For a while there he’d been hopeful he was persuading Tolliver to go along with his plan, but now it looked like he was losing ground.

  “But it’s my responsibility to formulate varying strategies taking into account all the ifs,” Tolliver said. “To that end, AVG had taken the liberty of working up a corporate restructuring plan for GAT.”

  “What?” Harrison blurted, astonished.

  Tolliver nodded to one of his assistants, who produced a manila folder from out of a briefcase and pushed it across the table toward Harrison, who eyed it like it was something dead he’d spotted on the side of the road. From all Harrison’s years spent watching and listening to Herman Gold negotiate deals, he knew that it was a bad mistake to let the other side of the table take control of the agenda, but that was happening now, and Harrison didn’t know what to do about it. He was fresh out of ideas.

  Tolliver said, “We’ll certainly take GAT’s debt-restructuring proposal under advisement, and get back to you on it—”

  Yeah, and the check is in the mail, Harrison thought dismally.

  “—with the understanding that your proposal is predicated upon GAT being awarded the DOD’s fighter contract,” Tolliver was continuing. “If you should win the contract, all well and good, but if not, AVG believes that there would be no more auspicious time for GAT to, shall we say, draw in its horns.”

  “Roland, say what you mean,” Harrison replied wearily. His throat was dry and his voice was hoarse from talking. He sipped at his coffee, but it had gone cold.

  “What we’ve done is draw up a plan to reduce GAT’s overhead by eliminating six thousand to eight thousand jobs.”

  Harrison was horrified. “You’re talking about an almost thirty-percent reduction in the work force!”

  “Of your military aviation specialists.” Tolliver nodded. “On both the corporate and operating-unit level. We’d also assist you in selling off your military avionics and related subsidiaries.”

  “What you’re suggesting is that GAT quit the military aviation market,” Harrison challenged.

  “What we’re suggesting is a way for GAT to meet its debt obligations to AVG.” Tolliver argued.

  “Castrating my company is not the way to go about it, Roland.”

  “Why think of it that way?” Tolliver soothed, smiling. “As the saying goes, ‘Small is beautiful.’”

  “Not that small.” Harrison watched Tolliver’s smile fade along with his own hopes that AVG was ever going to ease his company out of this jam.

  “In any event, small is better than oblivion,” Tolliver observed dispassionately. “In AVG’s opinion, this partial dismantling of GAT is preferable to a total dismantling through bankruptcy. But one way or another, we intend to get back our investment.”

  “You’re not talking about money any longer,” Harrison complained. “Now you’re talking about a pound of flesh.”

  Tolliver actually looked hurt. “I suppose it’s every money lender’s fate to be called a Shylock at some point.”

  “That’s who you’re acting like.”

  Tolliver wagged a finger at Harrison. “What we’re trying to do is save GAT, not kill it.” He gestured to a nearby shrub. “The plants in this solarium are healthy in part because they are regularly pruned back. That’s all AVG intends for GAT, a good, healthy pruning.”

  Harrison scowled. “Sure, starting with my company’s balls. Look, Roland, GAT has a tradition to be maintained. When Herman Gold founded his company, he intended it to supply airplanes to both the civilian and military markets. GAT is not going to swallow your so-called restructuring without a fight.”

  “Oh, Donald,” Tolliver looked wistful. “GAT currently has enough fights on its hands, don’t you think?”

  The bluster went out of Harrison. Talk about castration: AVG had GAT by the short hairs, and that was that.

  Tolliver eyed Harrison from over the tops of his horn-rims. “GAT’s pruning is a prerequisite if you wish AVG to extend the line of credit you’re going to need to beat Tim Campbell at his own game. The choice is yours.”

  “It’s no choice at all,” Harrison said. “Don’t you sec, Roland, either way Tim will get what he wants: the legs chopped out from under GAT.”

  Tolliver said brightly. “There is your fighter contract. Perhaps it will come through for GAT.” He smiled thinly. “You seemed so certain of it just a few moments ago.”

  “GAT is going to get that contract,” Harrison vowed. “My company is going to come out of this smelling like a rose! Bigger and better than ever. When that happens, you’ll be begging me to let you lend me money!” He slipped his left hand into his jacket pocket and crossed his fingers.

  Tolliver looked bored. “Well, then. The sooner the DOD makes its decision, the sooner AVG can make its decision concerning your proposal to us. Meanwhile, you might as well explore our suggestions for getting GAT into fighting trim.” Tolliver looked philosophical. “Just in case…”

  “GAT’s dismemberment won’t be necessary. You’ll see.”

  “We certainly shall.” Tolliver stood up. His two assistants sprang to their feet. “Donald, thank you so much for coming.”

  (Two)

  British Ministry of Aeronautical Science

  Whitehall

  London, England

  10 May, 1974

  Steve Gold considered Sir Lyndon Tobray’s office to be a temple to aviation. The elegantly furnished office in the ministry building that overlooked St. James Park in the heart of London was overflowing with memorabilia representing the grand tradition of British aeronautics. Gold saw scale models and framed, detailed three-view spec sheets of British-built military aircraft from World War I to the present; from the famous Sopwith Camel biplane fighter and circa forties Fairey Swordfish open cockpit bomber, to the contemporary, extraordinarily unique STOVL Short Take Off/Vertical Landing Harrier jump jet multirole warbird.

  The commercial side of British aviation was also well represented within the mahogany display cases and upon the beige walls of Sir Lyndon’s office. There were models and drawings of the early. Spartan, Bristol 170 Freighter, and the luxurious Vickers Viscount turboprop of 1950, among others.

  “Mr. Gold, I don’t know what could be keeping the others,” Sir Lyndon apologized as he guided Gold past the collection. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting a few more moments?”

  “No problem.” Gold smiled.

  Sir Lyndon looked relieved. He was a short, somewhat frail-looking man in his early seventies, with a silvery fringe of beard and hair, and very bad teeth. He was dressed in a three-piece, black, chalk-striped suit with all four buttons of his jacket primly done up, a stri
ped regimental tie, and a blindingly white shirt with a detachable collar.

  Sir Lyndon said: “I do think it would be rather pointless to begin our discussion without a representative on hand from Payn-Reese, and someone present from Stoat-Black.”

  “I agree, and I don’t mind waiting at all,” Gold reassured Sir Lyndon. “To tell you the truth, I’m enjoying myself. I could poke around your office for days.”

  “It is rather a tidy little exhibition of the air, eh?” Sir Lyndon smiled proudly.

  “The equal of the RAF Museum,” Gold flattered.

  “Ah, not quite, I’m afraid.” Sir Lyndon laughed appreciatively. “Have you been to the RAF Museum, then?”

  “In Hendon?” Gold nodded.

  Sir Lyndon eyed him. “Hendon is rather off the beaten path. It takes an effort to get there.”

  “True enough.” Gold smiled. “But I had a personal reason for making the pilgrimage. You see, my late brother-in-law, Captain Blaize Greene, was an Englishman and an RAF ace.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” Sir Lyndon said, flustered. “Lord Blaize Greene, the young undergraduate engineer who worked with Whittle at Oxford on the gas turbine project, and then took up air racing for Stoat-Black.”

  “And after that, Greene came to work at GAT,” Gold added.

  “Until the War.” Sir Lyndon shook his head. “Lord Greene’s death was a tragic loss, but then England lost so many of her finest young lads to the War.”

  “I’ll never forget how important it was to Blaize that he join the RAF,” Gold began, and then paused. “Sir Lyndon, by any chance did you know my father?”

  “I had the pleasure of working with Herman Gold on several occasions.”

  Gold nodded. “Then you’re no doubt aware that my father could be a very forceful man when he wanted something. Back during the first years of the war, what my father wanted was for his new son-in-law Blaize Greene to remain in America, at GAT, in order to complete his pioneering research on developing a jet engine. Blaize wanted to serve his country as an RAF fighter pilot, but my father put many obstacles, both personal and professional, in Blaize’s path. Blaize had to overcome a lot to make his dream a reality.” Gold smiled. “Ironically, my father forced me to confront many similar obstacles on my own way to a flying career.”

  Gold abruptly paused, embarrassed to be revealing so much about himself. He wasn’t usually so talkative. Chalk it up to nervousness about this upcoming meeting, he decided, telling Sir Lyndon, “Anyway, although I hardly knew Blaize at the time, I now feel very close to him, or at least my memory of the man.”

  Sir Lyndon grew quiet. Gold took the opportunity to study a fabulous, two-foot-long cutaway model of the Hawker Siddeley D.H. 106 Comet, the world’s first jetliner. In 1954, the U.S. airlines were lining up to buy the Comet, but the aviation firm of Hawker Siddeley saw its bright future turn dark after a series of mysterious midair breakups caused the Comet to be grounded. A lengthy and meticulous investigation turned up the cause of the problem, and an improved version of the Comet eventually saw service, but by then Hawker Siddeley had lost its lead advantage. The Comet never lived up to its full potential, unable to enter the American market due to the competition from American-built jetliners from Douglas, Boeing, Lockheed, and, of course, GAT’s own offerings.

  Let’s hope the Pont’s performance in the marketplace doesn’t parallel that of the Comet, Gold thought. Well, that’s why he was here, to make sure the Pont reigned supreme in America’s skies by getting Payn-Reese to back off. Gold was prepared to do whatever was necessary today to make the British engine firm think twice about trying to muscle in on the Pont deal, even if Payn-Reese’s play was being backed by Tim Campbell. Gold was confident he was going to be able to take control of the situation, and looked forward to reporting back to Don Harrison that this mission had turned out to be a piece of cake.

  And Don could certainly do with an up, Gold thought. A couple of days ago, Don, who was still in New York, had telephoned Gold in London to give him the bad news concerning AVG’s reaction to the GAT Credit Corporation proposal. On the telephone, Don had tried to put the best face on it he could, calling Roland Tolliver’s reaction “mixed,” but by now Gold had worked with his partner long enough to be able to read Don Harrison: There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that AVG would advance GAT the line of credit necessary for the plan unless the Stiletto won the fighter competition, or, barring that, GAT agreed to AVG’s restructuring proposal. Don was still in New York, trying to drum up some enthusiasm at AVG, and among the rest of the investment community for GAT’s defensive strategy against Tim Campbell, but Gold didn’t think much of Don’s chances for success. The other financial underwriters would take their lead from AVG; if Tolliver and his bunch vetoed GAT’s plan, that would be that.

  The office intercom buzzed. Sir Lyndon went to the antique, gateleg oak dining table he used as a desk and spoke to his secretary.

  “Ah, they’re here at last, Mr. Gold.” Sir Lyndon smiled. “Thank you for your patience.”

  The door opened, and in they came. Talk about Mutt and Jeff, Gold thought.

  Lord Geoffrey Glass, Stoat-Black’s chairman, was an English nobleman by way of Shakespeare: a large, rotund man in his fifties, with curly gray hair and a bushy salt-and-pepper beard. He was wearing a three-piece suit cut from scratchy-looking green tweed, and was carrying a walking stick with an ivory carved dog’s head—some sort of spaniel it looked like—for a handle.

  On the other hand, Quint Peters, the senior sales director for Payn-Reese Motor Works, looked like a racetrack tout. He was fortyish, and sleek as an otter in his skimpy, Italian designer sharkskin suit. Peters had thinning, slicked-back dark hair, and one of those pencil mustaches like David Niven wore.

  “Sorry to have kept you,” Lord Glass said after Sir Tobray had made the introductions all around and then retreated behind his desk. “Peters here wanted me to take a look at something Payn-Reese has in development.” He sighed. “The traffic between here and the Works was just horrendous.”

  Gold nodded. Payn-Reese Motor Works was located in an industrial park twenty miles outside of London. Stoat-Black, on the other hand, had its administrative offices right here in town. Gold thought it interesting that Lord Glass felt the need to go all the way out to Payn-Reese today when he knew he had to be back in London for this meeting. What was so important to see at Payn-Reese?

  Gold saw a glimmer of hope. Was Payn-Reese experiencing production difficulties concerning the engine they’d designed for the Pont and intended to sell to the U.S. airlines in lieu of the Rogers and Simpson turbofan?

  “Gentlemen, please sit down,” Sir Lyndon invited, gesturing toward a trio of spindly, uncomfortable-looking Sheraton armchairs arranged in a semicircle in front of his desk.

  Gold instantly understood the symbolism: Sir Lyndon, by sheltering himself behind his desk, was signaling that he intended merely to play the role of referee during this furball mix-up. Gold had been halfheartedly hoping for an ally in Sir Lyndon; that the British government had realized how disastrously shortsighted Payn-Reese and S-B were being.

  But it looks like this dogfight is going to be two against one after all. Gold decided, with Sir Lyndon acting merely as an observer on the ground to keep score.

  “I’m rather surprised you felt it necessary to make this trip, Mr. Gold,” Quint Peters began. He took out a cigarette case and opened it, politely holding it out to Gold, who saw that Peters’s cigarettes were filter-tipped. Gold shook his head, extracted a pack of Pall Malls from his coat pocket, and lit one.

  Peters was smiling. “Unless, of course, you’ve decided to submit to the inevitable concerning the Pont, and you’ve come to visit Payn-Reese in order to commission us to design an engine for some new project GAT has in mind?”

  Gold had no patience for this sort of coy bullshit. He’d been a fighter pilot, trained to hit and run. The tactic had always served him well in the sky. He saw no reason to abandon the tra
it in the combat of negotiation.

  “I’m here to keep Payn-Reese from making a big mistake,” Gold told Peters. “I’m here to tell you that GAT has a long memory. You cross us now by muscling in on the Pont, you’ll be looking over your shoulder for some time to come.”

  “Looking over our shoulder at you behind us in success, perhaps,” Quint Peters snapped, his eyes flashing. “But as for Payn-Reese being afraid of GAT”—his thin mustache wiggled into a sneer—”I hardly think so, Mr. Gold. Like your country so recently in Indochina, GAT has become something of a paper tiger—”

  “Here, now.” Sir Lyndon dutifully tried to break in, but Peters was on a roll.

  “Rattle your saber all you wish, Mr. Gold,” the representative from Payn-Reese continued. “But don’t be surprised if the other side is armed with machine guns!”

  “No need for tempers to flare,” Sir Lyndon interjected.

  “That’s all right.” Gold nodded calmly. “I expected a bit of bluster from Payn-Reese. Maybe you’re trying to compensate for your guilty conscience, Mr. Peters?”

  “Guilty conscience over what?” Peters demanded. “My company was presented with a business opportunity and moved to take advantage of it. End of the matter.”

  “I quite agree with Peters,” Lord Glass announced. He’d puffed alight a short-stemmed black briar pipe and was now sending aromatic blue clouds of smoke wafting toward Sir Lyndon’s plaster-decorated ceiling. “This is just business, Mr. Gold.”

  “Don’t hand me that cop-out!”

  Lord Glass rolled his eyes. “I’d hoped that Donald Harrison might have seen fit to attend this meeting.”

  “Mr. Harrison is attending to business in New York,” Gold said.

  “Regrettable,” Lord Glass mumbled from around his pipe. “Mr. Harrison was involved in the Pont project from its beginning. He understands the situation,” he added pointedly.

  Meaning I don’t? Gold thought, riled. “The situation as I see it is cut-and-dry,” he calmly replied.

  Peters laughed sharply. “Yanks!” He shook his head.