Air Force Eagles (23 page)

He'd liked her mother, even though she hadn't been well for years. Her suicide had been a sad affair.

He let the Chevy roll to a stop at the far corner of the lot; the only light on in the rambling brick house was in Ginny's bedroom. She was probably reading. Good! He wanted to sneak up and surprise her. She knew he was coming home, but he deliberately hadn't told her when. He'd caught a MATS flight to Little Rock Air Force Base and borrowed the car there.

Coleman reached in the backseat for the string of Mikimoto pearls he had picked up for her in Tokyo. All during the long hops across the Pacific—Guam, Wake, Midway, Hawaii—he had been building an image of her—nude, blonde hair streaming, clad only in this strand of pearls. In his fantasy he completely dominated her, fucking her brains out until she begged for mercy. He felt he had a few extra rounds to spend this time. He's been saving himself for a year, even though he'd been sorely tempted in the sexual smorgasbord lonely GIs found in Japan.

The key was under the mat, and he let himself into the darkened house with a sense of proprietary pride. He'd own this place one day, after old man Ruddick kicked the bucket.

Coleman moved noiselessly across the living room, remembering everything about it—the high-backed chairs, each with its doily, tiered tables filled with china knickknacks, the huge sofa covered with cushions, and, in the center of the room, a portrait of Alma Ruddick as a young girl. In the light, her lustrous gray eyes seemed to follow you around the room—he wondered if she watched the same way in the dark. At the foot of the huge wide stairs, he removed his shoes, and, hand on the carved railing, eased upstairs. Midway, he paused, hearing a man's hoarse cry of pain or passion, then Ginny's voice, low and urgent.

He crept down the hallway to stand by her door, listening with a sick feeling of self-contempt. Then anger swept through him like sheet lightning as he heard her say, "Fuck me, Nathan, fuck me."

Coleman kicked open the room. Just as he had fantasized, Ginny was nude. But instead of him dominating her she was covered by a huge Negro—Marny's son!—who rolled to the side of the bed, obviously terrified to be found with this white man's wife.

Unable to speak, Coleman waved his arms at them, and Ginny said, "He was raping me, Stan, get a gun!"

Coleman looked at her and mumbled, "Get out of here, Nathan. Don't ever come back."

Wide-eyed, Nathan grabbed his clothes and sprinted down the hallway, as Ginny said, "Don't just stand there, call the police!"

"Ginny, shut up. You weren't raped, I heard you talking to him, pleading with him for more. If anybody's been raped, it's me."

Coleman sagged, his shoulder against the door, the pearl necklace spilled upon the floor. All of his past prejudices against Negroes seemed petty compared to the raging hatred he felt for Nathan, this nigger who had crept into his bed and made love to his wife. How often had he done it in the past? How many other niggers had she had?

He looked after her with such loathing that she gave a little scream and ran into the bathroom. Stumbling across her discarded clothing, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring with contempt at his reflection in her vanity mirror. As bad as it was to be cuckolded by a Negro servant, it was worse to be the pawn in the games she and her stepfather played. He would have been better off never to have married, never to have taken Ruddick's favors. Now, on the tousled bed where Ginny and Nathan had romped, he felt for the first time just how truly he was trapped. He hated them all—Ginny and Nathan, Ruddick and the niggers, all of them. And, somehow, he would get even with them all.

***

Chapter 5

Salinas, California/November 14, 1951

Hard work had burnished the wrinkles from his face as it siphoned away his paunch. Hadley looked ten years younger, fit, his skin bronzed by days on the ramp, his step as lively and enthusiastic as it used to be. He was even letting his snow-white hair grow long again, something he said he'd never do after his wife's death. Responding like an old sled dog to the snowstorm of contracts from Wright-Patterson, Roget contentedly loped the production lines from which refurbished North American F-51s, Douglas B-26s, and Curtiss C-46s were pouring, supervising everything. The big IRAN—Inspect and Repair as Necessary—facility suited his busybody talents perfectly, as he helped teach forgotten skills to a new work force. For some reason she could not explain herself, Patty had gone first class with the factory, diving deep into debt for a building that would serve for twenty years instead of trying to make do with modular metal prefabs.

Hadley was crowing, "It's better than the big war, Bandy! I never had so much fun in my life. No worries about whether it's a good design, no worries about competition—just fix the airplane and let them go."

Although his assessment was very different, Bandfield nodded agreement. Home on leave, he was contemplating a relaxing test flight behind the stick of a Mustang just as the wild-goose blare of the crash siren sounded. Responding in a way that had become chillingly familiar in the past few weeks, they leaped on the running board of the fire chiefs pickup as it headed for the runway's edge.

"There he is."

In the hazy sky, a cross and a smudge of gray-brown smoke drew nearer, a schoolboy's drawing of a plane in desperate trouble. The chiefs radio crackled, "Ah, Salinas tower, this is Air Force Nine Seven, four miles out, number one engine shut down and burning, losing power on number two."

"Roger, Nine Seven, you're cleared for a straight-in, emergency equipment standing by."

The B-26 grew larger, canted to the left, crabbing painfully as the pilot sought the field. Bandfield knew what the pilot was going through, sweat streaming from his face, left leg stiff on the rudder pedal, wheel cocked over, throttle jammed forward, eyes constantly switching between the airspeed indicator and the runway, praying hard all the while to keep the sick number two engine sputtering with enough power to stretch his glide to the field.

There was an involuntary cheer when the B-26 finally limped in to land on the end of the runway, the pilot immediately shutting the good engine down and standing on the brakes. Fear of fire tossed him out of the top hatch like toast from a toaster as the fire trucks began spraying foam.

"Look at him, he won't quit running until he hits the ocean!"

It was almost routine. The planes that staggered in for refurbishment were mostly derelict clunkers like this one, flying on onetime-flight ferry permits, their fabric-covered control surfaces tattered, with paint chipped and gaping holes where instruments had been. Apparently no airplane sat anywhere for more than ten minutes without scavengers savaging it.

Bandfield smiled and punched Roget on the arm. Another tired old B-26 was down safe.

Roget laughed, "We won't make any money on this one."

Bandfield agreed. It was tougher and tougher to get GFE, the Government Furnished Equipment, and spare parts prices were going up all the time. Still, the business gave him an enormous satisfaction, especially a beat-up crate like this one. The prop had hardly stopped ticking when one of their crews began breathing life back into the airplane. In three days, it would be stripped down, steam-cleaned, and fed into the two-block-long production line. Within a few weeks, the same airplane would emerge for its test flight, then be painted—ready for another war.

Patty was even more concerned with the financial risk than Bandy was, even though the first contracts had been very profitable. The Air Force was beginning to tighten up on its negotiations as more competitors entered the field, but there was still a decent margin. It was worth the risk to her to see Hadley and Bandy so happy that they were still a useful part of the aviation scene. It was important work—they were supplying airpower that wouldn't have been available otherwise, getting airplanes to Korea long before new equipment could be delivered. They were proud to do it—and would have done it for nothing if the Air Force had demanded it.

The job also pointed where they should go in the future. The Korean War wouldn't last forever—and when peace came, Roget Aircraft would be ready to go into the modification business, converting the old warbirds into executive transports, an idea Hadley had long been nourishing. Bandy, a native Californian, was more intrigued by an earlier idea—modifying some of the bigger planes to fight forest fires. The market was more assured—and he wouldn't have to be there to watch over it.

He had just walked into his second-floor office, which overlooked the line, when he saw the look on Patty's face.

"What's going on?"

"You just got a call from the Associated Press. Some senator named McCarthy has accused you of being a Communist, and is demanding that all our contracts be cancelled."

*

Nashville, Tennessee/February 14, 1952

Elsie was running late, and Stan was already outside on the sidewalk of the commercial terminal. She put her arms out to him saying, "Stan, you look terrible, what's wrong?"

He didn't answer, embracing her first as an old friend, then not relinquishing her. She'd sent him many signals in the past, and he had always put her off. Today he held her tight.

She sensed the change immediately and pulled him toward the car.

"What's happened, Stan—" He leaped across the seat at her like a lion on a piece of meat. Without a word, ignoring the people outside the car, her mouth met his willingly and they kissed deeply.

After a few moments Elsie pulled back. "Stan, you know I've wanted that ever since we met, and you've always been cold as a fish."

"Things have changed, Elsie. I wanted you before too, but..."

She guessed at once that he was having problems with Ginny, and it pleased her. She had plotted his seduction even before they'd met, purely as a way to spite Ginny. He had always been friendly but distant.

Wiping the lipstick off his face, Coleman snarled, "We've waited too long, honey, way too long. Let's go see Troy, and then we'll have a little party by ourselves somewhere."

The meeting in McNaughton's office began and ended curiously. Troy had looked at them both closely, eyes narrowed, obviously aware that there had been something going on, saying, "How was the canary you two cats have been eating?" Then, with the abstract proficiency of habit, he lit a cigarette and shifted it to the corner of his mouth.

"Damn, that's hot." He ground the cigarette out, then reached into his desk to put a little salve where the Camel usually drooped. There was a sore on his lip.

Troy went on: "I guess you know that Milo hasn't been able to prevent the Air Force from canceling the Manta. They're putting all their chips on the Atlas ICBM program, and it's too expensive to be able to afford us as a backup."

Coleman nodded with indifference. His entire philosophy of life had changed since the ugly scene in Little Rock. He had idealized and idolized Ginny, feeling that she was so far above him that he might have understood her infidelity with someone else. Finding her with Nathan had destroyed him.

McNaughton droned on. "But he's tossed us a juicy bone. We are going to be a subcontractor for the Boeing B-47, building center fuselage sections and inner wing panels. They are expanding the hell out of that program, bringing Lockheed and Douglas in as additional sources. It's not as good as producing something of our own design, but it'll keep the plant going, and it's going to be very profitable."

Troy was terribly preoccupied, fingering his lip as one probes a sore tooth with a tongue, seemingly unable to marshal his usual salesman's persuasiveness. Elsie felt a sudden unease. Could that sore be a chancre?

Yet it was his story, and he stuck to it, frustrating Troy. Resigned, he told Elsie, "You see if you can persuade our friend. I'm catching a plane back to Washington in an hour."

Her Playtex Pink-Ice girdle, fashion's Maginot Line of chastity, slowed him momentarily, but she peeled out of it and he began flailing inside her in a demon-driven way, his eyes closed, breathing hard.

Later, he was sheepish as they finished undressing.

"I'm sorry I was so rough, Elsie. I was hot."

"Lord, honey, you're telling
me
you were hot? I hope that little romp on the rug was just for openers."

He nodded, half smiling. "I guess Ginny told you how I used to worry about saving myself. Not anymore."

Elsie reached for him, cuddling his head between her breasts. She had tasted jealousy in his mouth—his tongue, his whole body, had been probing for Ginny. Why?