The chimes of the door rang again, and Vance thought, Must be Bob and his date. I’ll have to get out there and see how she looks. There was another flurry of greetings, but somehow they sounded strange, off-key, to Vance. Just then the door burst open and Anna literally ran into the room, not easy for a woman of her size. She stared wild-eyed at Vance for a moment, then half-whispered, half-shouted, “Bob’s brought a Negro, a Negress, I mean, to the party.”
Vance stood up in a welter of irritation. Sometimes this woman was just too much to stand, no matter if she was married to his son. “Please, Anna, be quiet! You are going to cause trouble with talk like that.”
Eyes welling with tears, Anna flounced out of the back of the room, toward the kitchen, beginning the sobbing she used to win most of her arguments with Harry.
Vance sighed and walked rapidly down the hallway to the living room, where the noise had recovered to a normal volume, with Nancy’s silky laugh overriding all. He bounded through the double doors to come face-to-face with one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, a dark-haired beauty with a dazzling smile that seemed to send fireworks cascading through the room.
Bob Rodriquez grabbed him, saying, “Vance, may I present Mae Wilson; she’s a big fan of yours.”
The group coalesced around him, as he stood almost helpless, fighting not to say something stupid and blowing it with, “Bob, any fan of mine is a friend of yours.”
Then he stopped shaking her outstretched hand and kissed it, saying simply, “Mae, Happy New Year, and welcome to our home.”
He glanced around quickly, registering the reactions to the meeting. Bob and Jill looked proud, Nancy happy, and Tom annoyed. Harry had gone to look for Anna.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
February 14, 1960
San Francisco, California
As usual, they had a corner room at the Hotel California, and as they always did, they opened windows on both sides to let the fog-tinged air waft through.
“Cold?”
“Yes, but let’s leave the windows open just a bit more. I love the sound of the foghorns and the feel of the mist.”
They sat on the edge of the bed, arm in arm, still happy from their meal at Des Alpes, a Basque restaurant on the Hill. Bob Rodriquez had been impressed when the waiter turned their wineglasses into coffee cups, and Mae had been delighted by his reaction.
Each time they came to the city, they tried to duplicate, as far as possible, everything that had happened on their first visit, two years before, a romantic preference of Mae’s. Bob was too pragmatic to really understand it, but he understood that pleasing her was all he cared about.
They had met at a seminar in San Diego, fallen almost instantly in love, but Mae had delayed their lovemaking until she felt sure about Bob. When she had decided she was sure, Mae had suggested that they have a little “honeymoon in San Francisco” to celebrate the event. They had been back three times since, each time as good as the last.
“Wonder what the rich folks down at the St. Francis are doing?”
She stood up to close the windows and said, “They’re not having the fun we’re going to have.”
They had made love in the morning and again before going out for dinner, so they were not in any hurry but undressed companionably, brushing teeth, doing all the domestic things that lovers do when they have time and knowledge and assurance.
Lying next to him, she ran her foot up and down his leg, then asked, “Do you suppose Tom Shannon is over the New Year’s party yet?”
“Tom’s all right. He’s just a little old-fashioned. I don’t think any of the Shannons are bigoted; Vance and Harry certainly are not. I’m not counting Anna as a Shannon—she has her own problems.”
They were reflective for a bit and he went on. “To be honest, I think I might have been too dark skinned for him to accept as a junior partner. I wonder how he would have felt if I had showed up at the party with a blonde?”
“Well, I’m practically blond compared to you.”
He laughed. She was right; her skin was much lighter than his.
“Is it, I mean, am I going to cause trouble?”
“No, you saw how Vance reacted. He’s the only one that really counts. His boys are great pilots and pretty fair engineers, but he runs the place.” Then unexpectedly he said, “For now.”
She understood exactly what he meant but asked, “What does that mean?”
Bob sat up in bed, tossed the covers back, and began talking excitedly. “None of them really realize what’s happening in aviation. The impact of what is going on in electronics, in propulsion, in new materials, is going to revolutionize aviation. We’re going to be talking about the aerospace industry rather than the aviation industry, and sooner rather than later. None of the Shannons have a feel for this yet. I do, and I’m going to prove myself to them.”
“What are you planning, some sort of corporate takeover?”
“No, no, I’d never do that to Vance, not even to Tom or Harry. They’ve been good to me. But they will see the need and they’ll want me to run things. I can see it coming just as clearly as I see a little bit of passion in the corner of your mouth.”
“What? Where?”
He kissed the corner of her mouth and they resumed the replay of their honeymoon in San Francisco.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
March 24, 1960
Ramenskoye Airfield, near Moscow, USSR
The Lavochkin team had already arrived and set up its easel bearing a stack of charts, each one meter square and prepared of good white paper bonded to cardboard. The top chart showed the S-75 in flight, resembling nothing more than a finned telephone pole with a jet of fire issuing from its base.
Artyom Ivanovich Mikoyan nodded to Syemyen Lavochkin and Petr Grushin, then walked briskly around the table, greeting his colleagues from his design bureau in his usual outgoing manner, blandly ignoring their solicitous looks of inquiry.
Mikoyan was in fact quite ill, his face drawn, with dark circles around his eyes, all clear signals that he was working too hard, that his heart was troubling him again. Glancing up at the huge clock on the wall, he smiled and said, “The Minister is late,” just as the door opened and the Deputy Minister for Defense, Marshal Dmitry Ustinov, strode in. He looked dour, with his wire-rimmed glasses perched on a coarse, globular red nose and his forehead reaching far up in perpetual surprise. They all knew one another; there were no pleasantries, no introductions, Ustinov simply barking, “Let’s get started. Your team first, Mikoyan.”
Mikoyan had selected his deputy for this project, Viktor Aleksander Arkhipov, to do the briefing. Arkhipov was exceptionally articulate, a brilliant briefer who could think on his feet. He had already prepared charts that would show exactly what had been done in the best possible light and in a manner that Ustinov could readily understand.
Mikoyan sat silent in the knowledge that their briefing would fall short, revealing their latest aircraft’s inadequate performance. There was no way to fool Ustinov; he was smart and tough. Fortunately, he was not irrational, as Khrushchev sometimes seemed to be.
Arkhipov pulled the cover back on the first chart, a drawing of the MiG-19, the world’s first operational supersonic fighter.
“Comrade Ustinov, I present the MiG-19SV.”
The drawing was of the typical production MiG-19S. Underneath the drawing, printed in large letters, was one word, “Visotniy,” meaning “altitude.”
“Here are the principal changes.”
The next chart listed:
wing area reduced by two square meters
two NR-30 wing cannons removed
pilot’s armor plate removed
engine turbine inlet temperature increased to 730 degrees C
flaps deployable to twelve degrees above 15,000 meters
“We’ve reduced weight, reduced wing area, and increased engine power. Here are the results.”
The third chart said simply:
with zoom climb, 21,000-mete
r altitude capability
without zoom climb, 19,000-meter altitude capability
top speed, 1,420 km/h at 10,000 meters
Ustinov shook his head, asking, “What is a zoom climb?”
“It is a standard tactic. The pilot climbs to a high altitude, builds up the maximum speed possible, and then climbs at a carefully calculated rate, trading the airspeed for the altitude.”
Ustinov frowned. “This is not enough, if the U-2 comes over at its maximum altitude.”
Lavochkin and his team looked pleased. But Ustinov went on, “But the Americans cannot solve everything; they must have problems, too. I know that our engines have more difficulty at altitude. If the U-2 pilot has engine problems, he may come in at twenty thousand meters or less. If so, we have a chance.”
Mikoyan spoke for the first time. “Exactly right. And we also hope that our colleagues from Lavochkin might put up some missiles that might force him to a lower altitude.”
It was an ingenious ploy, seeming to praise the archrivals but shifting the burden of responsibility to them. Ustinov understood it exactly for what it was and approved. Given the inadequate performance of the MiG-19SV, Mikoyan was doing the only thing he could do.
“What do you say to that, Comrade Lavochkin?”
Flustered, Lavochikin stood, saying, “We hope to do better than force them down to MiG-19 altitudes. We expect to destroy the U-2 with a direct hit, or perhaps even with a near miss.”
He motioned to Grushin, who pulled back the cover concealing his first chart. It showed the S-75 surface-to-air missile on an articulated trailer hauled by a ZIL-157 truck. The second chart showed the missile erected for launching, its cruciform fins prominent on the nose and the tail. Without a word, Grushin went to the third chart, which showed the S-75 streaking skyward toward a distant target, no more than a dot.
The fourth chart was the key to the briefing. A U-2 was seen being struck in the fuselage just behind the cockpit. Other S-75s were shown exploding nearby. Underneath the drawing, in large print, was:
A KILL AT 25,000 METERS
The last chart was simply numbers, showing the S-75s’ range (50 kilometers) and the warhead weight (130 kilograms) and launch weight of 2,300 kilograms.
Mikoyan looked at the chart, admiring its understatement. He turned and saluted Lavochkin, a risky maneuver, given that Ustinov had not yet commented.
The Deputy Minister was making some notes in a cordovan leather case. Finally he looked up. “Mikoyan, I am disappointed in you. We need better performance, and we are not getting it from your bureau. Lavochkin here has done his job well. Let me tell you how serious this is. The Americans are operating with impunity. If we do not stop them, and soon, your heads will roll. Unfortunately, and this is the tragic part, so will mine. So there is no point in my threatening you; my fate is bound up with your success. If you fail, I fail. I cannot threaten you with punishment—that is implicit. I can only wish you—for my sake—good luck.”
It was a surprisingly gracious, slightly humorous statement from a man not known for either grace or humor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
May 1, 1960
Over the Soviet Union
The U-2 pilot was busy all the time, carefully watching the heading, the altitude, the instruments, the autopilot, and, above all, the sky, to keep the fragile Lockheed on course in its long haul from Peshawar, Pakistan, across the endless Soviet Union. But there was still time to think as the immensity of the Russian nation rolled beneath, slowly to the eye, but at the rate of 7 miles per minute.
My God, what could the Germans have been thinking of?
Gary Powers shifted in his seat, trying to improve the circulation in his pressure suit-constricted veins. Hitler must have been crazy. How could eighty million Germans have expected to conquer such an enormous country?
Today’s mission was to gather information on Soviet progress in the intercontinental ballistic missile race, as well as to note anything new of interest—bombers at new bases, new factories, new missile sites, anything with military potential. His 3,788-mile flight path took him across the Soviet Union far beyond the farthest German penetrations, north-northwest over the secret base at Tyuratam, with the Aral Sea gleaming thirty miles to the west, on to a quick curve around Chelyabinsk and Sverdlovsk, and then a dogleg on to cover Plestetsk, Archangel, and Murmansk. He would exit Soviet air space shortly after Murmansk and then make a sweeping turn to land at Bodø, in Norway. A brief thought of the simple but unbelievable pleasures waiting there comforted him—easing out of the cramped confines of the cockpit, having the clutching helmet and pressure suit stripped off, a cold beer, and perhaps a shot with it, the utter freedom of being able to move, to breathe fresh air voluntarily, without the pressure of the oxygen system. It was almost worth it to suffer for hours to reach such bliss.
Like when it feels good when you stop hitting yourself in your head, he mused.
The MC-3 partial pressure suit was an uncertain life belt, uncomfortable as it squeezed its seams into your skin, extracting a flow of perspiration that partially compensated for the inability to urinate. The suit was dangerous because it restricted movement and visibility, turning sensitive hands into unfeeling claws that fumbled at every switch. The suit had to be worn because the U-2, essentially a jet-powered glider, flew at 70,000 feet. Air bled in from the engine brought the cabin pressure down to about 28,000 feet, so the pilot always had to breathe supplemental oxygen, drying his lungs and throat. If the plane depressurized, the suit would pressurize, preventing the body fluids from exploding and vaporizing as it would if unprotected at altitudes above 63,000 feet. When the pressure suit functioned as designed, it enabled the pilot to get down to an altitude where he could survive. But pressure suits had fatal failures in the past and everyone regarded them with distaste before, during, and after a flight.
Powers was of part of an incredibly skilled volunteer pool of pilots, all men of strong character, carefully selected and trained to use this delicate instrument of espionage that the genius of Kelly Johnson and his Skunk Works had created. The challenge of flying the U-2 was irresistible to military pilots, who had to pretend to drop out of service and become employees of Lockheed to disguise their real relationship with the Central Intelligence Agency. The process was called sheep dipping and the pilots were supposed to retain all of their promotion and career opportunities. “Supposed” is the operative word, as many served as U-2 pilots but subsequently lost out in the competitive race for rank.
Despite separation from home and the difficulties of the mission—this was Power’s twenty-seventh operational sortie, with several of them overflights of the Soviet Union—there were many compensations. Oddly enough, the least important of these was the extraordinary pay, twenty-five hundred a month, several times what Powers had received as an Air Force captain and an unbelievable sum to a boy brought up by a Kentucky coal miner.
Yet the real motivation that captivated the pilots was the mission’s exclusiveness. This small band of U-2 pilots was privileged to fly the newest, highest-flying reconnaissance plane in history, and they were laying open the secrets of the Soviet Union as if they were mounted on a slide in a microscope. It was a cliché, but it was rare for a U-2 pilot, no matter how tired, how uncomfortable, or how hazardous the mission, not to think, I cannot believe they are paying me to do this, at least once on every flight.
Powers was a little uneasy today, sensing that he might be pushing his luck. First of all, the aircraft, Article 360, had a long history of maintenance problems, including a previous forced landing in Japan. None were sufficient to ground it, but cumulatively they were more than enough to worry about. Second, the takeoff had been delayed an insufferable hour, keeping him sweating in the suit, waiting for the personal approval of President Eisenhower to make the flight. The delay was not just inconvenient; it had also destroyed the utility of Powers’s pre-flight navigation computations, thus rendering the sextant useless. Now navigation was going to b
e time and distance, just as it had been in the North American T-6 in which he had learned to fly. Finally, there was the timing. The U-2 missions over the Soviet Union first began on a great American holiday, July 4, 1956, and had been expected to last for only one or two years before Soviet countermeasures stopped them. Today was May 1, 1960, International Labor Day, a great Soviet holiday—and the missions had been flown for almost four years, plenty of time for the inventive enemy to devise countermeasures.
Curiously, the U-2 had become a symbol of both American and Soviet power. The incursions of the spy plane demonstrated American technical genius, as did the internal cameras and sensors. But the Soviet determination to respond and retaliate fueled enormous research efforts that improved their science, technology, and tactics. This incessant race for superiority brought the Cold War to its penultimate level, the crucial but indeterminate point just before nuclear bombs were dropped. The difficulty was that the margin for error was nil. One single miscalculation on either side about the U-2 could cause World War III, which would truly be the war to end all wars—and all living things.
The gathering undercast of clouds opened obligingly as he passed over Tyuratam at the customary Mach .72, and he flipped the switch for the cameras. If he had been lucky, he might have caught an ICBM being launched. Instead, looking down he could see swarms of interceptors climbing up toward him. He knew they were no problem; they could not climb to his altitude, and even if they could, he would be out of range before they could arrive.
Radar had picked up the U-2 before it had intruded into Soviet airspace, and as the U-2 flew its implacable course, a sea of activity coursed along ahead of it, as radar stations, fighter bases, and missile sites went on a wartime alert. The frenzied activity flowed all the way to Moscow, where Defense Minister Marshal Rodion Yakovlevich Malinovsky, following his orders, had Nikita Khrushchev awakened and informed of the intruder. Khrushchev’s instructions were simple: shoot down the U-2 at all costs.
Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age) Page 9
