The Ego Makers

by Donald Everett Axinn

  Thick haze dirtied up the sky and enveloped the heliport, banished the sunlight. I took the right seat and donned a headset, looked down and scrutinized my boots. That morning I had put on my lizard pair, handmade for me in El Paso. My lucky boots. I relaxed a little.

  ‘We all set, Craig?” I asked into the voice-actuated intercom.

  Craig Sampson was born in Madrid, the son of a State Department military attaché. He was short, lean, and a year or two older than I was. He had served as a lieutenant colonel in Vietnam, been shot down twice, and awarded almost every medal they could think of. A gash ran from his left ear across his cheek all the way to his chin. The plastic surgeons had done as much as they could, but it was still very pronounced. It was known he had gotten it when he had tried to escape. Sampson had a dry sense of humor except when he was flying. Then he was all business. Craig had logged thousands of helicopter and jet hours, had been with IBM, but came to us when they tried to push him into early retirement.

  “Don’t like the oil pressure, Henry. It drops thirty or forty pounds, then comes back up. We checked the level and all the hose connections but didn’t find any leaks.” I knew Sampson personally examined any work performed by the mechanics. “Be better if we drove in.”

  “Craig, I gotta get to the city. I mean, fast.”

  I searched Sampson’s face. I wanted him to insist on grounding the bird, hoping in spite of my macho behavior that he would try to overrule me. Engine trouble, real or imagined, scares the shit out of me. So does bad weather. But no one was going to find that out.

  “Look, Henry, you pay me to fly with you and be responsible for your aircraft. I don’t shy away from weather or anything else unless I think it’s necessary.” He glanced at the gauges. “Make a deal with you, boss. We go, but if I see anything I don’t like, it’s a fast one-eighty back here or wherever we have to put her down. No ifs, ands, or buts,” he added with military authority.

  “Agreed, Colonel. You handle the radios.”

  The air was thick and ugly. No wind to blow it away.

  “I don’t like taking off in this stuff,” Sampson growled.

  “I don’t care. I have to be in Manhattan pronto!” Sampson gave me a dirty look and shook his head. In a testy voice he advised the traffic in and around the heliport that we were departing to the west, while I twisted and raised the collective, causing the craft to rise into the northwest wind. The sleek, midnight-blue helicopter, its nose slightly down, moved rapidly up and forward in the direction of the Manhattan skyline. Sampson’s eyes were fixed on the oil pressure gauge. I also checked for any fluctuation of the needles.

  It normally took about seventeen minutes to the Sixtieth Street Heliport, but today the flight controllers needed to vector us, so that would add several minutes.

  “LaGuardia Approach Control, Jet Ranger 2285 Whiskey, nine to the southeast. Sixtieth Street Heliport with information Kilo.” Sampson’s professionalism was evident in his crisp, clear tone.

  “Roger, 85 Whiskey, squawk 4247 and ident” Sampson set the numbers into the transponder and idented. Since planes were landing on Runway 4 at LaGuardia, the contrôler directed us to a heading of 260 degrees and an altitude of six hundred feet.

  The next five minutes were uneventful, despite the haze obscuring our visibility. When we were over Long Island City, we both noticed a sudden drop in the oil pressure.

  “Yes, I see it, Craig,” I said as calmly as I could. “What do you think?” Good God, I thought, is this going to be it?

  “We’re closer to Sixtieth than LaGuardia,” Sampson said in a voice so untroubled you would have thought he had just awakened from a pleasant nap.

  “If it quits over the East River, we’re in the drink,” I responded, aware of the tightness in my voice. “Otherwise, we can put it down almost anywhere. I like my baths warm. Maybe we’d better land.”

  “We go to Sixtieth Street. Smarter. Only four minutes away.” He paused. “Well climb as high as possible. Maybe three minutes.” He pressed the transmit button on his stick as he pointed in the same direction we were headed. But we couldn’t get much above six hundred feet or we’d lose all visibility. I tried to remain calm, but I could feel my heart thumping like a big drum. Like it had thumped so often back in Vietnam. Some of my buddies and I were in Vung Tan on a couple of days of R & R. We were drinking pretty good and went to a palm reader for a few laughs. ‘Air, fire, water,” the old crone had Intoned. “You will die by air!” Was the witch’s crystal-ball prediction finally coming true?

  Beaufort, South Carolina, 1967

  Cherry Point jet school Hotshot Henry, fresh with his fighter-pilot wings. Best in his squadron. Best in the whole damn school! I loved flying jets, screaming into the wild blue yonder.

  I earned my wings, and was assigned to the jet school One well-oiled night, on a dare delivered at the bar in the officers club, I wagered Kevin Clancy that I, Henry Sabatini Martin, would, but that Clancy would not, fly under a particular concrete bridge. It was a small two-lane span that joined the mainland and one of the barrier beaches.

  “C’mon, Martin,” cut in one of the other pilots, Neal Almond, who wasn’t quite as sloshed as we were, you guys are talking nuts. That bridge is no Golden Gate. Too damn low, like maybe 100 feet over the water. And they’ll can you as soon as you land, which you won’t because you’d be a fucking dead twenty-two-year-old mackerel Sober up, tiger.” He pointed at me. ‘You’re a pain in the ass, Martin, but we tolerate you only because you bring around those foxy women.”

  “I mean it, Clancy,” I slurred, paying no attention to Almond, “one hundred bucks, one for each foot. Put up or shut up!” Clancy nodded. I liked and respected Kevin. He was black and raised in Chicago. He excelled in high school, had received a Navy scholarship to Dartmouth and qualified for flight school We met the first day and hung out together. A lot of teasing and drinking.

  “You’re on, “ he slurred.

  “Okay,” I said. “No problem. We’ll fly under the radar.”

  Three days later, at the end of a practice flight, our two planes were screaming along the beach at five hundred feet, an interesting altitude at 450 knots. I wiggled my wings, maintaining radio silence, and circled tightly over the concrete bridge. I didn’t notice any cars, only a single shrimp boat traversing the wide channel.

  I pulled back on the throttle and popped the speed breaks to slow the jet to 200 knots, to better view the objective. Damn, that’s one small bridge, I thought. That arch is pretty low to the water. Fuck it, I can make it, and ol' horseless Clancy will definitely freak out. I'll show those birdheads what flying’s all about.

  I smiled, turned quickly to see Clancy flying in a wide circle, then dropped the gear to slow my aircraft even further. “This has to be just right” I whispered, “level wings, steady altitude and pitch, power just above stall speed. Checklist complete. Watch and scan, scan and watch!”

  I made one practice pass over the bridge, turned back, and thought I saw the men on the shrimp boat gaping up at me. I circled to make a second run. A stiff crosswind was blowing from the north, evident from the small foaming whitecaps and streaky lines the wind was writing on the water. I lined the bridge up and dropped down to fifty feet over the channel. “Okay, okay, okay,” I murmured, “nice. Just above stall speed. Watch, watch! Easy, e-a-s-y. Okay. Slowly. Just take it through, baby. Yeah! You are the best. The best!”

  My plane slid along on the flight path as if guided by invisible wires, only twenty feet or so above the water. The blast of the jet engine carved a sluice into the surface. I flew under the bridge with approximate equal distance and leeway on all four sides. I screamed, forgot all about the radar, and pointed my aircraft straight up into a double victory roll. I found Clancy, flew side-by-side, and gestured with my hand, Alphonse to Gaston. Clancy gave me the finger and dropped down for a practice run. The men on the boat seemed mesmerized. They continued heading toward the bridge instead of turning around and away from the next moment o
f truth.

  Clancy made a wide sweep over the small marsh islands. As he came in over the channel, the plane’s exhaust also created a rounded groove in the water, like the wake of a powerboat. I slowed down even further, to try to get a better view. Clancy s jet was underneath me, slightly to my right. It seemed to me he was too high. The way to execute the maneuver was to set his height above the water early, so that only minor adjustments would be required. The boat was beginning to get in the way. What the hell is the matter with those guys? Get out of there! “Hey, Clancy, “ I said over the discreet frequency we had decided to use, “you need more room. Wait till those clowns move away. “ I listened and watched the jet approach the bridge. “Clancy!”

  “Shut up, I'm busy," came his answer. Fifty yards away Clancy flew an abbreviated S-turn to avoid the boat. I could only guess what his exact configuration was in relation to the water and the bridge’s arch when he entered.

  In the miniseconds that followed, I first saw white smoke rising from under the bridge, then the jet coming out, banking sharply, the outer portion of its left wing shorn. The right wing dipped into the water, flinging the plane into a crazy-looking cartwheel It continued on its undisciplined course, the momentum of approximately 150 knots air speed propelling it madly until it ended up on its back on an island marsh, enveloped in steam. There was no explosion or fire.

  “Oh, God, no! No, no,” I whispered, head down for a few seconds. I circled the wreckage and noticed cars now stopping on the bridge. The shrimp boat’s wake became larger as it crossed under the bridge and headed rapidly to the smoking jet. I kept circling. “Beaufort Approach, Marine 2874, Mayday, Mayday! One of… Lieutenant Clancy.” I couldn’t finish.

  ‘Marine 2874. Beaufort Approach. Report situation!”

  When local rescue teams arrived, it took them two hours to extricate Clancy’s body. Apparently he did not die instantly, but shortly after the shrimp boat arrived. I landed at the base and was immediately confined to quarters. The other pilots were ordered not to discuss anything among themselves or to visit me until the military court convened. The body was dispatched to Clancy s parents in Chicago, who made a special request that I be permitted to attend the funeral I had expected the Clancys would want me charged with at least involuntary manslaughter, but they were religious Baptists who attributed the incident to their son’s bad judgment and not to my instigation. Their request was rejected, as was one by my father that he be allowed to visit me.

  Four days after the accident, Major Palmer Spenadel, our commanding officer, summoned me to his office. A third-generation Annapolis graduate, Spenadel was all spit and polish, but under the military veneer an okay guy.

  “We debated for quite a while whether we should send you up for a court-martial You should be sentenced to hard labor at a military prison. However, there’s a war going on, and the Marines have spent a great deal of money on you, Lieutenant, “ Spenadel said acidly. ‘You are hereby put on probation and your pay suspended. You are ordered to report immediately to Camp Pendlet on for infantry training. Normal officer’s privileges, including longevity, will be suspended for one year. Your record will so indicate. “ Major Spenadel paused and stared hard at me. “In layman ‘s language, Martin, because what you did was presumably not premeditated, I argued against the court-martial. If we weren't involved in the Vietnam conflict, lean tell you it would have been very different. “

  He walked to the window. A squadron of planes was flying noisily overhead. “We need our pilots to be confident, even a little arrogant, “ he said. “Many of us have broken a rule or two in our flying careers. But you got a man killed, no matter how much you may regret it now. Not to mention the loss of a several-million-dollar aircraft We dont give second chances in Marine Air for that. “

  He turned to face me. I was staring straight ahead. “Martin, do something right in Vietnam. You owe it to Clancy. And his family. That is all, Lieutenant.” I saluted sharply, which was returned by the major. There was no handshake.

  “LaGuardia Approach, 85 Whiskey,’ The contrôler responded, “85 Whiskey has a drop In oil pressure, requesting direct Sixtieth Street.”

  “85 Whiskey, you declaring an emergency?” That was the question the controler by law had to ask.

  “Negative. Just want the shortest route possible as a precaution.” Sampson knew all the red tape we’d have to go through If we declared an emergency. Besides, If we did have engine failure, It might not make any difference.

  “Approved, 85 Whiskey. Keep me advised.”

  Craig reset the Loran for Sixtieth Street and flew on that heading. Both our eyes were focused on the critical pressure Indicator. As pilots, we had both experienced emergencies or near-emergencies. Even though most of us would never admit It, It was reassuring to have a second pilot present.

  We crossed the East River right next to the Queensborough Bridge.

  “You’re a good girl,” I whispered. “Not much farther. Daddy’s going to take care of you, get you something very special. For now, just behave.”

  “She’s okay,” said Craig. “Pressure’s holding. About two more minutes. Damn lucky, Martin. Next time Fm not listening to you,” he said coldly, staring at me. “We should never have left.”

  “C’mon, Craig, smile. We weren’t in any real danger.” A broad grin spread across my face. “Not really.”

  “Of course we were,’ Sampson snapped. “We both could have been killed. Look, Martin,1 don’t fool around. I could lose all my licenses…. I don’t have your milions,” he added.

  That was unnecessary, I thought. But what good would my millions have been if the chopper had crashed? I welcomed Sampson’s candor. I respected him greatly, even though I viewed him as a man with limited goals. What the hell, I often said to myself, not too many guys have the drive to make it big.

  “Yes, sir, Colonel,” I responded as we began to shut down the engine. He had made a perfect landing, right on top of the triangular mark, following the hand signals given by the blue-overall-clad lineswoman, who guided us to a landing position. “Sorry to have insisted. Promise I won’t do it again. There’s a real emergency with the Standard General deal.”

  I grabbed my coat and attaché case from the rear seat and opened the door. “Can’t tel how long 111 be. Dianne will call you at Operations. Or I will.” I smiled and put out my hand. “You were there for me today, Craig. Thanks, I won’t forget it,” I yelled, as I ran toward a waiting taxi.

  2

  IN the taxi, I tried to compose my thoughts and focus on exactly what was happening. I had come too far to lose this lease now. Other deals had presented obstacles, and over the years I had closed damn near every one of them. All the big ones, anyway. Competing developers, brokers, prospective tenants, bankers, mortgage lenders, and especially opposing attorneys. I had beaten the best of them.

  Still, an uneasiness had begun to permeate the office building market. Recently Barrons and Business Week had carried articles about the growing supply of space. A few economists expressed concern regarding what they believed were excessive loan portfolios that banks and insurance companies carried with developers.

  I paid attention to what they were saying. I remembered all too well the big recession in the 70s when some developers got caught with buildings they couldn’t rent. That didn’t happen to me then, and I had been careful to analyze the various factors before deciding to go ahead with my new office structure.

  I thought back to the early ‘80s and the go-go years of the Reagan era. Developers put up more and more buildings on spec, certain they would rent, assuming each lease would be at a higher number than the last one. Financial institutions went on a spree, falling all over one another to make loans. Owners took advantage of the loose-money environment and heavily refinanced their existing buildings. Hell, I did, too. The additional funds made possible new purchases of land for suburban office parks and also projects, like my 355 gem in Manhattan. I was even able to put some money into the stock and
bond markets.

  To keep up with the latest trends, I attended seminars and lectures on real estate finance. I particularly liked listening to Asmund Faerevaag, a top Citicorp economist, whose analyses and prognostications over the years were generally accurate. He warned that when mortgages became too high in relation to the equity and value of buildings, they inevitably become riskier investments. In a downturn, when vacancies are greater and cash flows negative, property owners find it difficult to make mortgage payments, particularly if the payments are higher due to larger mortgages. It was simple arithmetic, but how many professionals refused to listen?

  When I decided to start 355 in 1987, I weighed the risks carefully. For one thing, our overall portfolio had only a 4 percent vacancy. I didn’t like the fact that it would take as long as three years from the initial shovel in the ground to getting the last tenant in and closing the permanent mortgage. No one could predict how good or bad the economy would be that far ahead. Everyone agreed that our Park Avenue location was one of the very best in the Midtown area, and a market study I commissioned indicated demand should remain strong. The banks from whom I needed a building loan mortgage felt comfortable with the study. After extensive negotiations, I concluded the loan with Federated and a permanent take-out mortgage with Teachers Insurance.

  Three-Fifty-Five manifested exactly the architectural style I had always admired: towering vertical lines of limestone alternated with indented windows, making the structure at once dramatic yet classic, functional yet appealing, elegant yet simple. To make it unique, portions of the facade were designed to look like slabs of different widths applied against each other. This building was one of a kind, and I was the guy who created it.

  What also made me confident was the strong interest by Standard General, along with the Eady Corporation, Seaver Network, Allison Communications, as well as smaller prospects. Despite those rumblings about overbuilding, I sensed my timing was good.