Air Force Eagles (53 page)

Frost nodded that he understood. Then he leaned over and asked, "Has this got anything to do with the bus boycott down here?"

Marshall liked Frost and trusted him; he didn't feel he could ask him to make flights like this without knowing what was going on.

"Corky, I'll level with you. They didn't even tell me what this is all about. But Fred Peterson wouldn't ask Saundra to make a trip like this unless it was important. I suspect she's carrying some money for the local leadership."

"Where does this guy Peterson get his dough?"

"He's a hell of a businessman. When he bought this airplane Roget was suspicious because of all the gyrations Peterson went through, with one company owning the airplane, another financing it, another leasing it—but when it was all done, Roget had a check for seven hundred grand in his hand."

"You know, you ain't got no money, you ain't never gonna get any; you got money, you can't stop gettin' it."

"Looks like it. Me, I'm one of the 'ain't got no' types. Let me go back and wake Saundra, so she can clear her ears on the way down."

He slipped back into the cabin and stared at her for a moment. Even though she was so tired, worn-out from trying to do too much, she was still so beautiful. Yet she'd become so remote; they no longer had a marriage in the real sense. They were faithful to each other, and sometimes they still had sex, but he could tell it was just conjugal duty on her part, all the old fire was gone. They no longer enjoyed themselves on the rare occasions when they went out to eat, or to a show. Paradoxically, the only time they became close was when they talked about the thing that was pulling them apart, the civil rights movement.

The problem was that he loved her so, even though she clearly had a new mission in life. Only a few months ago she'd been consumed by her business; now she'd virtually turned it over to her managers, spending as little time with them as possible. She was totally committed to working with the small group of Black leaders from Atlanta that Peterson had introduced her to.

He stroked her head. "Saundra, wake up. We're almost there. Be sure to keep your ears clear on the descent." He kissed her and went back to his seat.

She sat up and began combing her hair. She wore very little makeup now—it didn't seem appropriate, even if she was in the business.

Clearing her ears carefully as they descended, it struck her that it was the first time she'd ever flown with John, and that she'd paid no more attention to him than if she'd been on a commercial flight. It was natural, she had faith in his ability. She wished she could have the same faith that he would understand what was happening to them, that he would approve of her being called to a vocation.

Yet as much as she tried to convince herself that it was purely a religious calling, she was aware that it was also a part of her endless search for a father figure. That's why she'd been so attracted to John at first, and then, when he was gone, why she'd been drawn to Fred. Now, when she had proved herself in business, when she was financially independent, another cause—and another man—had come along. She was still groping for a way to explain her feelings to John when she heard the squeak of the wheels touching down on the Montgomery airport runway.

They taxied past the line of hangars to the fuel pit, where the transfer went off easily. Marshall had flight-planned to arrive just before dawn, and the sleepy line boy was more than glad to have him help with the refueling. While John kept him occupied, Saundra flitted out from the airplane like a ghost; the line boy didn't see her.

Twenty minutes later John carried her two bags over to where she was waiting. He put the luggage in the trunk of a tan 1941 Ford sedan; the two men in front nodded to him but did not speak.

"Saundra, are you going to be all right? Have you got a place to stay? This whole thing is beginning to scare me."

"They'll fix me up with some family in town. I'll be fine, and I'll call you in a few days."

He kissed her, and she said, "John, this is important. You know I wouldn't leave you, leave my business, unless it were."

"I know it's important. I just hope it's not more important than me, than us."

She didn't answer; instead, filled with a nameless excitement, she gave him a little wave, then slipped into the backseat of the Ford.

*

Nashville, Tennessee/January 26, 1956

Elsie McNaughton, mink coat almost dragging on the ground, moved slowly through the guesthouse, talking to the U.S. marshal with her. He was friendly but businesslike, assigned by the court to make sure that she took nothing but personal belongings from the property.

She had lost the guesthouse forever, just as she had lost the house Troy had built for her and the old farm that Henry Caldwell had given her. All the properties had been wrapped up in the complex financing of McNaughton Aircraft, and the settlement she'd made took them all away from her. In exchange, the government had arranged a sale that gave her more money than she'd ever dreamed of. It was more than a good deal; it suited her new attitudes, her new habits. Once a fireball of energy, she now was relaxed and easygoing, content to enjoy herself.

She felt that the government had been rigorous but fair. As both a stockholder and a chief executive, she was considered responsible for the installation of the defective milk-bottle pins, even though she had denied any role in the coverup. Because the plant was essential to B-47 production, she was given a choice of criminal prosecution or divesting herself of her interests in McNaughton.

It had been an easy decision. So many things had changed. Troy was dead, Baker was gone, and the nature of the business was so different. McNaughton no longer made aircraft, and she'd found no enjoyment in subcontracting to other manufacturers. In the past year, the new management she'd brought in had tried to diversify—they were making canoes and buses now, along with metal cabinets, barrels, and other totally boring products, and making money on none of them. The canoes were three times as expensive as a standard canoe, and the buses broke down with monotonous regularity. It was time to take the money and run. Surprisingly, finding a buyer had been easy; Congressman Dade had seen to that. It had not been difficult for him to get financiers interested; they knew that his hinting of a whole series of juicy contracts was better than another man's promise.

The Air Force had been as anxious as she was to consummate the deal and shut down the investigation. They had shown no interest in trying to find Baker, and if they had tumbled to the Ruddick connection, they had declined to pursue it.

"Some. I'm going to Elkhart, Indiana, first. They make good trailers there, and I'm going to have one custom-made just for me."

"To pull behind your car?"

She couldn't restrain herself from mischievously running her hand up his arm; he jumped, startled. "No, silly, to live in. I'm going to get a nice, big comfortable trailer, set it up on a big lot, and just have fun."

Backing away, he asked, "Here in Nashville?"

"No, I think I'll be going to Alaska. Always wanted to go there."

It was easy to see that he wasn't a live one, and there was no point in telling him that she was going to Little Rock, to see some friends.

*

Little Rock, Arkansas/March 23, 1956

Locked in an unwilling partnership like a bounty hunter and his quarry, Ginny and Stan sat sipping coffee in the sun-room of the old Ruddick home. He was slouched in one of the well-worn wicker chairs, nursing another of his monumental hangovers while she read the
Gazette's
latest account of the racial turmoil sweeping the South. She encouraged Stan's drinking and enjoyed his hangovers; looking at his red eyes and puffy face strengthened her own resolve not to drink anymore.

"Good! Listen to this, Stan. They found that jumped-up nigger preacher, King, guilty! That'll teach him to go around organizing boycotts."

Coleman didn't speak, gazing morbidly out at the leaf-filled fish pond in the garden. Once the grounds had been immaculately kept—by Nathan. The image of Nathan and Ginny came to him again, as fresh as the day it happened. He should have strangled her on the spot.

"And look at this, some little colored girl has been admitted to the University of Alabama. Well, it won't happen here, the governor won't let it. And neither will Daddy!"

Stan buttered a piece of toast and forced himself to eat it. In an hour he had to be in uniform to be picked up by his driver.

"Now, Stan, don't be sullen. I know you hate me, but just remember, if it wasn't for Daddy, you'd have gone to jail. I don't know how you could have been so foolish to try to do a stunt like that, when he would have gotten you promoted to general on his own."

He would have hated her less if she had not said it every day and if it had not been true. He'd encouraged the cheating at Frederick because he wanted to make brigadier general on his own terms, without any help from Ruddick. Then, when it all blew up, Ruddick had quashed the court-martial charges and instead had him brought into the Arkansas Air National Guard as a special liaison officer to the governor! It made his abrupt resignation from the Air Force look like a planned move. The governor had infuriated the commander of the local Air Guard unit by giving Coleman the rank of brigadier general. It couldn't have been done in the regular Air Force, but the Guard was totally politicized, and what the governor wanted, the governor got. Yet Stan was a little distressed—the careful way Ruddick kept his promises made Coleman believe he'd keep his threats with equal fidelity.

"Ginny, I've got a surprise for you. Your old boyfriend is back in town."

"Don't try to pick a fight, Stan, you always lose."

"Yes, after all his college education, and the tricks you must have taught him, he's working in a tire shop, mounting those big truck tires. Of course, he'd rather be mounting you."

"Shut up; that's enough."

Enjoying himself, he went on, "Does your current boyfriend know about your affair with Nathan? I'll bet he'd be proud to know he was following in a Negro's footsteps, so to speak."

She folded the paper carefully, put it down on the table, and looked him in the eye. Unconsciously, her hand wandered to the back of her head, searching for the single strand of hair. When she stopped drinking her old compulsive habit had returned. Her voice was icy.

"By current boyfriend, do you mean the governor?"

"Yes, I mean the governor—unless you're bumping somebody else on the side. What would he say about Nathan? Maybe someday I ought to tell him about your little experiment with colored men."

"For your information, my relationship with the governor is purely professional." Exasperated, she banged her coffee cup down. "Stan, I wonder what Daddy sees in you. You don't even know how to threaten properly."

Coleman was immediately defensive. "I'm not threatening you."

"Sure you are. You just go ahead and tell the governor about Nathan. I'll tell him Nathan raped me and you wouldn't defend me. Do you think he'll believe you instead of me? I even know what he'd call you—a poltroon."

Imitating the governor's deep voice, she said again, "Poltroon! That's what he'd call you. Even Daddy wouldn't be able to stop him from firing you, and then what would you do? Poor baby, you've never gotten a job on your own. You'd wind up toting groceries at the A&P."

He got up and strode out of the room, furious with himself because he knew she was right. As he passed the buffet, once again lined with decanters, the doorbell rang. Thinking that it might be his driver, early, he answered it, and found Elsie McNaughton.

"Stan, honey, aren't you going to invite me in? Where's Ginny?" Turning to the cab driver behind her, she said, "Just bring the luggage in and sit it by the door."

*

Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska/April 13, 1956

They sat on straight-backed chairs in the harsh light of LeMay's outer office, a room hacked out of the old Martin Aircraft bomber plant, its windows providing a view of the Omaha stockyards, more suitable for a garage foreman than for a four-star general. A constant stream of staff officers shuttled in and out, clutching their files to their chests, jaws tight; there was no small talk, no jesting, none of the usual we're-near-the-boss camaraderie.

"Friday the thirteenth—we'll be lucky if we get out of here with our lives."

Bandfield was more relaxed than his friend. "Nonsense, Bear. He's probably calling you in to tell you you're going to make general."

"So what are you doing here? You're going to be promoted, too?"

"Not likely. He just knows we've been working together, probably wants me to be here to congratulate you."

"Yeah, LeMay's like that, always trying to figure out ways to make the troops happy. I don't know what you're smoking, but whatever it is, send me a carton."

A glassy-eyed lieutenant colonel popped out of LeMay's office like a cork from a champagne bottle. He steadied himself, looked around, and mumbled, "He wants you two next," and then staggered off.

"Looks like he's in good form today."

They walked in and saluted smartly; the great stone face said, "Sit down, both of you," and went on reading a file, marking it ferociously with a big red grease pencil, grumbling to himself like a dyspeptic dragon. It occurred to Bandfield that he was the only man he'd ever known who could snarl quietly. After a very long two minutes, he turned to them, saying, "All right, Bandfield, what's the bad news on the McNaughton milk-bottle pin fittings?"

"The best guess we can make is that there could be as many as forty B-47s in the fleet with defective parts installed. The problem is you can't tell if it's a bad part or not unless you pull it out of the airplane and analyze the metal in it. On the surface, the damn things look just like a standard unit."