A month later, Adrian decided Amanda was well enough to attend Buchanan’s Christmas party. Her presence was especially important this year. The piece de resistance in the center of the hangar was a gleaming white mockup of the Starduster. Everyone tramped through it while new employees were told in heroically sentimental terms the story of how the first SkyRanger rolled out six weeks ahead of Victoria Van Ness—and flew to glory. Everyone hoped Amanda was casting an equally favorable aura on the Starduster.
Amanda wore a ruby red Balenciaga chemise selected by Adrian. Older employees swarmed around them to shake her hand. The foreman of the work gang on the original SkyRanger, now the assistant manager of their Mojave Desert plant, was among them. He had brought along a picture of the original party. There stood Amanda, eight months pregnant, blinking into the flashbulbs. She looked at it and said: “I was pretty, wasn’t I, Adrian.”
“Yes,” Adrian said.
“But you were rather vile looking, even then.”
Everyone laughed. They thought she was being funny.
By far the happiest man at the party was Frank Buchanan—for the first hour. He kissed Amanda and said the new Starduster would be finished twelve months ahead of schedule, to celebrate her recovery.
After two attempts to talk to Amanda, Frank drew Adrian aside and snarled: “What’ve you done to her? What’ve you and Willoughby done?”
“Done?” Adrian said, glancing nervously around to make sure no one was within earshot. “We’ve cured her. Brought her back from a raving madwoman—”
“She doesn’t remember me. She doesn’t remember anything. I told her I was going to send her a copy of Pound’s newest Cantos. She didn’t know who he was! Ezra Pound! The greatest poet of the twentieth century! She doesn’t remember Helen Hunt Jackson, Mary Austin—none of her favorite writers.”
“She’s had severe memory loss,” Adrian said. “It’s not unusual after acute psychosis.”
“You’re not telling me the truth, you bastard,” Frank said. He had a full glass of Inverness in his hand. “I dare you to tell me. I want to know where the woman I loved has gone.”
“I loved her too, a long time ago,” Adrian said. “I tried to love her again but it was impossible, thanks to you. Now it’s impossible for both of us. But I promise you, as a man of honor, I’ll take care of her for the rest of our lives.”
Frank looked over his shoulder at the mock-up of the Starduster. “After a crime like this—a crime in which I’m willing to admit I share—do you think that plane will fly? Do you think we’re worthy of it? Do you think the guardians of this universe will permit it? All I see in that plane is doom, Adrian. Death and doom!”
Eight hours later, at 3:30 A.M., Adrian sat in his study, unable to sleep, haunted by Frank Buchanan’s words. For the hundredth time he rejected them. Why was he listening to a maniac’s ideas about spiritual rewards and punishment? Adrian closed his aching eyes and saw the Starduster soar skyward on her huge propellers. This was the plane of his manhood, his liberation from the petty power-plays of Buzz McCall and his world of military procurement, of fawning over generals and politicians. The plane that would trump the jets on which millions were being gambled at Boeing and Douglas and Convair. The plane that proclaimed his supremacy over every man and woman in his universe. He was in command of his fate at last, a true conqueror of the sky.
DYNAMIC COUPLING
On a hot August day in 1958, Cliff Morris watched the first Starduster roll out of Buchanan’s main hangar in Santa Monica. A band played and thousands of the men and women who had worked on her cheered. “You’re looking at a plane that will sell a thousand copies!” Adrian Van Ness roared into the microphone.
Cliff had never seen Adrian so wound up. Gone was his usual aloof air of command. He was closer to a southern stump speaker whipping the faithful into a frenzy. Over and over, he called it the safest plane in the world.
Beside him on the platform stood his wife, Amanda, in a powder blue suit. She stared into the distance, barely listening to Adrian. Their daughter Victoria, back from England with a British accent that almost matched Sarah’s, wore a forced smile that suggested she would rather be someplace else. She had matured into a tall, thick-bodied young woman with Adrian’s heavy face and wary eyes and her mother’s auburn hair.
Adrian was telling the faithful they had orders for 150 Stardusters on the books—worth a reassuring 380 million dollars. He had wanted two hundred—the shortfall was an index of the ferocious competition they were getting from Boeing and Douglas, who had salesmen prowling the country bad-mouthing Adrian’s turboprop in favor of the pure jets their companies were developing. Adrian, playing cheerleader, made the 150 orders sound like a vote of confidence.
Goodwin J. “Goodie” Knight, California’s governor, said the plane made him proud of the state, the aircraft headquarters of the nation. Eddie Rickenbacker, chairman of Eastern Airlines, who had ordered fifty copies, said he could hardly wait to put it to work. C. E. Smith, the balding benevolent dictator who ran American Airlines, added a similar apostrophe.
While everyone drank champagne, Cliff took Sarah and the children through the passenger compartments to the cockpit. “Wow,” Charlie said, gazing at the array of instruments. “Is this more stuff than you had on the Rainbow Express, Dad?”
“About six times as much,” Cliff said.
“When can we fly in her?” Elizabeth asked.
“Maybe when we go skiing in Colorado next Christmas,” Cliff said.
“Let’s hope it’s as safe as they say it is,” Sarah said. “I’m glad we don’t have to fly in it for a while.”
Cliff almost growled with irritation. He had a very large personal stake in this plane. Adrian had not only made him the project manager, he had put him in the office next to his own, with a new title, Assistant to the President. “This is the safest plane in the entire world,” Cliff said.
Cliff was not just echoing Adrian Van Ness. He had seen the incredible things they had done to guarantee the Starduster’s durability. They had fired four-pound carcasses of electrocuted chickens out of a compressed air cannon at the cockpit windows at 450 miles an hour to make sure the outer glass and inner vinyl panes were tough enough. They had hurled frozen ice balls—make believe hailstones—into the engine air-intake ducts to see if they caused damage. They had loaded tons of sandbags on the wings and vibrated them in the company’s wind tunnel to guarantee they were strong enough to support the big turboprop engines. The Starduster had passed every test.
“Every aircraft company wants to believe that about a new plane,” Sarah said.
Cliff knew she was really talking about the de Havilland Comet. He had sensed her hostility to his recital of the Starduster’s virtues from the day he went to work on it. Adrian’s decision to make safety its greatest virtue had sharpened her antagonism. It was more than the Comet and her father’s death struggling to redesign it. Something else had gone wrong between them.
Sarah never stopped picking at him. She said his ties were too loud and bought him a whole new set. She decided he was getting fat and put him on a protein diet. She wondered why he never read a book. She told him he was too old to be driving a convertible and nagged him into buying a sedan. Yet in the bedroom, she was a tigress. She thought he was a no-taste numbskull but she wanted him almost every night. Was it part of that word, need, that had erupted the night the Korean War began?
Like most husbands, Cliff had no idea what was happening in his wife’s psyche. He did not know he was in a bitter inner war between Sarah’s traitor heart and her marriage vows. He was never home when Billy McCall wove his coded messages in the sky. “I was talking to Frank Buchanan before the ceremony,” Sarah said. “He seems awfully dubious about this plane.”
Cliff ground his teeth. In private and now in public, Frank had been incredibly negative about the Starduster. He said he was proud of its design but he was sure it would never be a success. No one understood the reason for this unch
aracteristic gloom. Dick Stone and others theorized it was a residue of bitterness from the destruction of the Talus.
One month later, the first ten Stardusters started flying for Eastern Airlines. Another ten would be delivered to American in the next thirty days. Braniff, Northwest, were next in line. It was time to build on this sales momentum. A week later Jim Redwood and Cliff flew to Chicago and picked up the first New York—bound flight of an American Airlines Starduster. The plane was almost full and the chief pilot could not stop praising it over the intercom. He told the passengers the Starduster was the fastest-climbing, best-handling plane he had ever flown. He invited Jim and Cliff into the cockpit and thanked Cliff for making a number of changes a committee from ALPA, (the Airline Pilots Association) had suggested. “Usually you arrogant bastards ignore ninety percent of what we say.”
Back in their seats, Jim said: “You’ve got to hand it to Adrian. He’s always thinking ahead.”
“Yeah,” Cliff said, with minimal enthusiasm.
Cliff had not completely forgiven Adrian for Tama’s suicide. For a while he had carried her farewell note in his wallet. I’m sorry to say good-bye this way. But I know you can take it like a man. That’s all I ever wanted you to be—a man. He had finally torn it up and told himself to stop thinking about it. Lately he tried to see the Starduster as a final gift from Tama, a flying carpet to the success she had always wanted for him.
The landing at La Guardia was pure powder puff. It was hard to believe the pilot was putting a four-engine plane on the runway. At the Waldorf, they unpacked and Redwood suggested a late supper at 21. They were halfway through their thirty-dollar steaks when one of the owners strolled over to them. Redwood had long made the restaurant his New York headquarters.
“Bad luck about your new plane, Jim.”
“What plane?”
“The Starduster. One just crashed in south Jersey.”
The steak congealed in Cliff’s mouth. “What the hell should we do?” Redwood wondered. He was thinking of tomorrow, when they were scheduled to call on TWA to sell Stardusters.
“Let’s find out if it’s more than a rumor,” Cliff said.
He telephoned Buchanan Aircraft and asked for Adrian. “His line’s been busy for the past hour,” the operator said.
“Get me Frank Buchanan.”
In a moment Frank was on the line. “It was an Eastern plane. No survivors,” he said. “Ten days after the plane went into service. I knew something like this was going to happen.”
“Jim Redwood and I will go down there and see what we can do.”
“Good idea. It will save us the price of flying someone from here.”
The Starduster had crashed in farm country not far from Camden. By the time they got there the site was swarming with state troopers, local police, and officials from the Civil Aeronautics Board. The man in charge was the CAB’s regional investigator, a tall, thin deadpan type named Jeremiah Coyne. He shook their hands and said: “Take a look. It ain’t pretty. They never are.”
In the headlights from a half dozen police cars they could see hundreds, perhaps thousands of pieces of Eastern Flight 915 scattered across a vegetable field—strips of torn aluminum and yellow insulating material and chunks of the seats and tail surfaces. Mingled with the metal and plastic were pieces of human bodies—a leg here, an arm there. In a tree near the farmer’s barn dangled two headless corpses, upside down. The stench of burnt kerosene and scorched metal and seared flesh lingered in the humid air.
“This thing didn’t crash,” Cliff said. “It disintegrated.”
“That’s about right,” Coyne said. “We just found the left wing and the engines in the woods, a mile and a half from here.”
“Are there any witnesses?” Redwood asked.
“The farmer and his wife were awake. He says they heard a weird sound—a sort of high-pitched whine—then a terrific explosion. The next thing they knew pieces of the plane started raining out of the sky.”
Jim Redwood seized Cliff’s arm and led him back to their car. His face was shiny with sweat. The grisly debris of the crash had made him queasy. “This isn’t our job. Let Buzz send a couple of his engineers out here to pick up the pieces. We’ve got important appointments tomorrow.”
The next morning, Cliff watched Redwood bombard executives at TWA with statistics on the Starduster’s projected performance. They listened politely, agreed that it sounded like a marvelous plane—but said they would wait to hear the results of the CAB investigation of the New Jersey crash. “Midair disintegration is not exactly the sort of thing that suggests a crash-proof plane,” TWA’s brusque president, Jack Frye, said.
A disheartened Jim Redwood decided to return to California. Cliff Morris called Adrian Van Ness and told him he wanted to stay with the CAB investigation. “Go ahead,” Adrian said. “I’m sure it’s pilot error. Maybe you can stop ALPA from blaming it on the plane. That’s their favorite tactic.”
There was an hysterical trill in Adrian’s voice. His legendary calm had seemingly vanished for good. Cliff called Frank Buchanan and told him what the farmer had said about the high-pitched whine just before the explosion.
“A runaway propeller at supersonic speed might cause that sound,” he said. “But it wouldn’t tear off a wing. Those are the strongest wings I’ve ever put on a plane. Only God could tear those wings off!”
In a warehouse on the outskirts of Camden, the CAB investigators began trying to put the pieces of Starduster YP448, its Buchanan serial number, back together. It was a slow, disheartening job and mostly it told them what had not happened. There was no evidence of an inflight fire started by a tire blowout or a hot wheel brake. The fire definitely occurred after the wing broke off. Had the pilot attempted a violent evasive maneuver to avoid another plane? The Federal Aviation Authority reported no plane had been within ten miles of the doomed Starduster.
In desperation, Jeremiah Coyne convened a meeting of every expert he could think of, including officials from the Army’s Bureau of Aircraft Accident Research and the Los Angeles FAA personnel who had given the Starduster its airworthiness certificate. For five days they hurled possible causes at each other and discarded them. “If this lasts another day,” the pilot who was representing Eastern cracked, “we may decide the accident never happened.”
Cliff Morris flew back to California to report the impasse to Adrian Van Ness. “Pilot error,” Adrian snarled, pacing his office like a man about to face a firing squad. “That damn fool tried some stunt to show off the plane.”
“The pilot had over forty thousand hours in his logbook,” Cliff said. “He was fifty-six years old. He wasn’t the damn fool type.”
“Every pilot’s a damn fool when no one’s watching.”
Cliff went home to confront an unhappy wife. “I missed you so much,” Sarah said.
“I know. But I’m trying to solve a problem that could put us out of business.” She turned away as if she were stifling a nasty reply. You’re getting what you deserve for your hot air about safety. Was that what she was thinking? It did not make for loving thoughts. For the first time in his life, Cliff said he was too tired for sex and went to sleep with a cold good night kiss.
The next morning at the office, Cliff toiled on an interim report on the New Jersey crash for the engineering department. His telephone rang. “Cliff,” Frank Buchanan said. “Another one’s gone down. An American flight. Over Iowa.”
At lunch the gloom in the executive dining room was thicker than any conceivable smog attack. Adrian Van Ness sat at the head of the table like a zombie. “Are you going to keep on yelling ‘pilot error’ now?” Frank Buchanan asked.
“It’s possible,” Adrian said, clutching his wineglass. “Coincidences happen all the time. We don’t even know why this one crashed yet.”
“It’s another wing failure. I feel it in my gut,” Frank shouted. “But it’s impossible. That wing was designed to handle every stress known to aeronautical science. Am I right, Buzz?�
��
“Yeah,” Buzz said. He was drinking Invernesses by the gulp.
“How do we know that’s true?” Adrian snarled. “Maybe the chief engineer was too drunk to read the report that warned us of the problem.”
“If you’re right, the man who sent in that report can have my fucking job, as of now!” Buzz roared, glaring at his engineers. There were no takers.
Again, Cliff volunteered to represent Buchanan at the crash site. At Los Angeles Airport, he had tickets on American’s Starduster Special flight to Chicago. The man ahead of him on the line asked the clerk: “What kind of plane are you flying?”
When the clerk told him, the man said: “I’ll take TWA.”
In Iowa, Cliff shook hands with Jeremiah Coyne again. The CAB had ordered him to ignore his regional title and take charge of the crash site. “If you thought New Jersey was bad, get a grip on your nerves,” he said.
American’s Flight 444, en route from Chicago to Denver, had been flying through apparently perfect weather—blue sky, virtually no wind. About twenty-five miles south of Sauk City, two loud explosions startled farmers for miles around. Looking up, they saw a huge cloud of ugly black smoke. Out of the cloud hurtled Flight 444, minus both wings. Down came the smoking fuselage in a vertical dive to smash into a cornfield at approximately seven hundred miles an hour.
Cliff stood at the edge of the crater the Starduster had dug. It was forty feet deep and at first glance the 100-foot-long fuselage had disappeared in it. Jeremiah Coyne told Cliff that beneath the swirling smoke the long silver tube containing some seventy-three men women and children had been telescoped to less than thirty feet.
Conquerors of the Sky Page 50
