Aces (45 page)

“Then I guess no matter where the Supershark places in the competition, as far as you’re concerned, we’ve won,” Erica said.

She knew Herman had struggled hard to convince the United States government that it should be contracting for fighter planes,
but Washington was putting its money into bombers. When Herman found out that Stoat-Black had a contract with the RAF to build
fighters, he was eager to put money and GAT design input into the project. Someday, hopefully, the experience designing and
building British fighters that GAT was getting today could be put to use back in America. If the American military establishment
ever wised up.

“Who’s flying the Supershark?” Herman asked.

“A young Englishman named Blaize Greene. Suzy and I met him this morning, before the start of the race. He seemed very nice.”

“Charm doesn’t win air races,” Herman grumbled. “We designed into the Supershark a great deal of maneuverability to compensate
for her lack of speed. I hope the pilot has the guts to put her through the tight scrapes for which she’s been born and bred…”

“I was told that that young Mister Greene is an accomplished pilot,” Erica said. “I was told that he trained and received
his pilot’s license at the London Aerodome Club, and has a certificate from the Aero Club of France.”

“Really?” Herman said. “Well, I am impressed. I’d like to meet this fellow.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Erica told her husband. “The Stoat-Black executives have invited us to a lunch at the Hotel Venezia,
to meet the race team.”

Erica remembered with pleasure the veranda dining room at the Hotel Venezia. On their previous visit to Venice she and Herman
had enjoyed a romantic, midnight supper here. They’d been shown to an intimate corner table with a view of the beach in the
charming dining room, with its pink stucco walls and seashell candle sconces. The service had been wonderful and the food
delicious. They’d dined on shrimp grilled in the shell, tortellini tossed in a sauce made of sweet red peppers, and icy cold
champagne. Even now Erica could close her eyes and vividly recall the wine’s bouquet, so like ripe, sweet strawberries. After
their supper she and Herman had gone for a walk on the deserted, moonlit beach. It had been a cool night, but Herman had insisted
upon removing his shoes and socks, rolling up his trousers, and wading into the sea. He’d found her a pretty shell. She still
had it, hidden away, somewhere…

With such fond memories attached to the Hotel Venezia, Erica supposed that it was hardly any wonder that today’s lunch would
turn out so harshly disappointing. Today, for example, the service was barely adequate. The annoyingly supercilious waiters
took their time sauntering around the long table for fifteen, knocking into the backs of chairs, and rudely interrupting conversations
as they served the nondescript meal. The antipasto was soggy, the pasta was gummy and served barely tepid, and the fish, well,
Erica thought, the less said about the fish, the better. To be fair, the food was no worse than at any other large-scale business
function that she and Herman had been forced to attend. At least here in Venice the bread was magnificent, and the Isonzo,
a semi-dry white from the nearby Friuli-Venezia Giulia wine growing region, was well chilled and in generous supply.

Erica and Suzy were the only women at the lunch. The only interesting-looking man from the Stoat-Black contingent was Blaize
Greene, the first-string pilot of the race team. Erica had not had the chance to form an impression of the young man during
their brief morning meeting. He’d been swaddled in flying gear, and his manner, while exceedingly polite, had been very business-like;
he’d been understandably preoccupied with the upcoming race.

Now Blaize Greene was seated at the far end of the table. Suzy had been placed on his left, a man Erica didn’t know was on
Greene’s right. Erica was too far away to hear their conversation, but Suzy seemed to be hanging on Greene’s every word…

That was understandable, Erica thought, amused. Suzy had her bedroom back home plastered with photographs of various leading
men, torn from the pages of movie magazines, and Greene had matinee-idol looks: a thick head of black hair slicked back from
his high forehead, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and devilish, emerald-green eyes. He was tall and slender, but broad-shouldered,
and impeccably dressed in a pearl grey, double-breasted silk tweed.

With nothing to distract her—certainly not the food, Erica thought with a shudder—she had ample time to study Greene over
the rim of her wineglass. He drank sparingly; showed his good taste by glancing with polite, but unmistakable, distaste at
the awful food in front of him; and chainsmoked cigarettes taken from a black onyx case.

As Erica watched, Suzy said something to the men surrounding her that made them laugh. Erica smiled proudly. Her daughter
was well-educated, and had enjoyed a childhood that had fully exposed her to the finer things in life. At seventeen years
of age, Susan Alice Gold was a very sophisticated young lady.

Blaize Greene offered Suzy a cigarette. Erica watched as her daughter shot a glance her way before politely refusing the offer.

Sometimes Suzy was almost
too
precocious, Erica thought. Her daughter’s physical charms had also blossomed at an early age, so that Suzy looked, as well
as acted, much older than she was. Interested single men in the Golds’ social circles who had imagined that Suzy was safely
into her twenties were invariably shocked when they found out her true age.

But pretty, confident young debutantes were not all that unusual in Bel-Air. It was Blaize Greene’s aura of masculine elegance
that most intrigued Erica. He, too, had poise far beyond his years, but in his case, it was something that Greene had been
born with, Erica instinctively knew. Herman, for all of his sophistication, and the respect he commanded from others due to
his achievements, didn’t have it, and neither did any of the other rich and powerful American men she knew. Her son, Steven,
certainly never would, Erica thought, as she felt something inside her responding to Greene’s remarkable aplomb.

And she was not the only one to fall under Blaize Greene’s personal charm. Her daughter was working very hard to capture the
attention of this young man, who had merely to raise an eyebrow, and instantly the waiters who were so blatantly contemptuous
of everyone else at the table were fawning over him in the most maddening and delightful manner.

Erica finally managed to capture a waiter’s attention, without resorting to firing off a signal flare. As he grudgingly filled
her wineglass she turned to the man on her right, whom she knew fairly well: Hugh Luddy, the bearded chief engineer for Stoat-Black.
“Hugh, what can you tell me about your Mister Greene?” she asked quietly.

“You mean
Lord
Greene…”

“My God, you mean he’s titled?”

Luddy nodded. “He’s only twenty-two, but he’s been our chief test pilot for two years,” Luddy said in his thick Scottish brogue.
“He’s got a bit of university-level engineering in his background to go with his flying ability. None of us knows the Supershark
like he does.”

“It’s unusual for a test pilot to fly in a race,” Erica said.

“We felt Blaize’s familiarity with the Supershark would compensate for his lack of race experience.”

“Enough about this flying expertise.” Erica patted Luddy’s hand. “Hugh, darling, be a dear and give me something terribly
juicy and personal about him, won’t you?”

Luddy looked blank. “You mean gossip?” He thought it over. “I seem to remember his mother died early, and there was a bad
bit about his father, who’s also passed away… Now there’s nothing left of his family but his elder brother, the Earl of Weltingham.”

Erica waited. “That’s it? That’s all?”

“I’ve never been much to gossip,” Luddy said apologetically. “Usually it goes in one ear and out the other…”

“Oh, Hugh,” Erica sighed. “You’re absolutely hopeless.” She looked down the table at Blaize Greene. “He must be fabulously
wealthy,” Erica mused. “Considering that he’s landed gentry and all that.”

“You Yanks.” Luddy smiled, shaking his head. “In England one’s personal finances are not the sort of thing gentlemen chat
about.”

After lunch, Erica found Herman and Blaize Greene deep in conversation together out on the patio adjoining the hotel veranda.
She felt a little lightheaded and tipsy as she headed toward them. She hadn’t eaten very much, and the wine had been so exquisite
that perhaps she’d overdone it just a teensy amount…

“Blaize, may I present my wife, Erica,” Herman said. “Erica, this is Blaize Greene.”

The boy has an absolutely blinding smile
, Erica thought as Greene turned toward her.

“Sir, I had the privilege of briefly meeting your lovely wife this morning,” Greene said. “Mrs. Gold, a pleasure to see you
again.”

“How do you do, Lord Greene.”

“What’s that?” Herman asked.

“I’ll explain later, dear,” Erica said.

“Please, Mrs. Gold, I’d prefer it if you simply addressed me by my Christian name,” Blaize said. “We were discussing your
husband’s experiences in the last war,” he continued. “The German Imperial Air Service’s prowess remains legendary. I’m quite
awed to be in the presence of an ace who flew with none other than the Red Baron. I was hoping to coax him into sharing with
me some of his more memorable conquests in the air.”

“Actually, his most memorable conquest took place in Nebraska,” Erica murmured innocently, taking hold of Herman’s arm, in
order to lean against him.

Herman laughed. “You see, Blaize, I met my wife while touring the Midwest in a barnstorming troupe.” He smiled. “And I think
she’s had a bit too much wine at lunch.”

“Quite the sensible course of action, considering the quality of the cuisine,” Blaize smiled. “I would have done the same,
but I
am
flying again tomorrow morning.” He turned toward Herman. “Getting back to our original subject, sir, someday I really would
like to hear about your combat experiences… I’m really quite certain that others would, as well. You really should consider
publishing your memoirs…”

“I’m flattered,” Herman said. “And more than a little surprised. Most young fliers share the establishment point of view that
fighter planes are obsolete weapons, and that the lessons the fighter pilots of the past war have to teach will prove to be
irrelevant in future wars.”

“I don’t have that view, Mister Gold,” Blaize said earnestly. “Oh, I am familiar with the current, popular consensus of educated
opinion against fighters. I have, for example, read General Douhet’s work.”

“Who?” Erica asked.

“Douhet’s an Italian military man,” Herman explained. “He’s written a book in which he describes how swarms of bombers will
darken the skies over enemy cities during the next war.”

“I also believe that bombers flying in protective formations will be awesomely destructive weapons in future wars,” Blaize
said. “But I disagree with those who assert that fighter aircraft will be helpless against them. Mister Gold, I’ve read
your
articles on the subject published in the trade journals. I wholeheartedly agree with your viewpoint that a strong fighter
arm will be essential to defend against bomber attacks. And I also totally agree with you that if fighters are to be effective
against the new generation of bombers that you Yanks are working on—What do you call the latest? ‘The Flying Fortress’?”

Herman nodded. “The B-17, built by Boeing.”

“Anyway, I agree with what you wrote in your article published in the spring ‘37 issue of
Aeronautical Military Engineering:
that if fighters are to be effective against bombers like the Flying Fortress, the contemporary military air arm must adopt
and incorporate into their strategies the German defensive air pursuit tactics formulated during the last war.”

“Now I
am
quite flattered,” Herman said. “All that sounds to me suspiciously like a quote. Either you have a phenomenal memory, or
you’ve read that musty old article fairly recently?…”

Blaize smiled. “I admit, Sir, that I did re-read your writings when I found out that you’d be attending the races. Speaking
of which, during the competitions I intend to incorporate into my strategy some of your theories regarding the
rotte
and
schwarme
.”

“The pair and the swarm?” Erica asked, mystified. “Of what?”

“Fighter planes, dear,” Herman said. “The
rotte
, or pair, of fighters fly to cover one another’s tail while attacking enemy fighters. The
schwarme
, or swarm, of fighters attacks en masse to bring down enemy bombers.”

“As I remember it, Sir, you have in the past proposed a triad defensive strategy against bomber attacks,” Blaize said. “You
advocate the implementation of an early warning system, much like the one the German Imperial Air Service so effectively employed
during the last war; then anti-aircraft batteries, and, lastly,
schwarme
fighter tactics.”

Herman nodded. “I do believe that given enough warning to get into the air, the combined firepower of a swarm of fighters
attacking in close formation would prove effective against the most heavily armed and largest of bombers that manage to survive
the gauntlet of flak.”

“If the fighters can’t stop them coming in, they could most certainly inflict heavy losses on the bombers on their way out.”
Blaize nodded. “I heartily agree with your theories, Sir.”

Herman smiled. “If you’ve recently reviewed my articles, you ought to remember that I clearly stated that these theories are
not original with me; that I used the German terms
rotte
and
schwarme
to honor the memory of the great Oswald Boeleck, the man who did originate the theories, and who taught them to Richthofen.”
He shook his head. “Back during the war, I discounted Boeleck, believing that —assuming one had an experienced pilot and a
sound flying machine—the one-on-one dogfight was a preferable attack strategy. It still may be, in combat between fighters.
The Germans, for instance, have used the one-on-one tactic quite effectively in the Spanish Civil War. But when fighters go
up against bombers, the
schwarme
tactic will be necessary for success, just as members of a wolfpack join forces to bring down prey too large or too powerful
for the individual predator.”