The Fly Boys (20 page)

Campbell was in his late forties. He was short and stocky and wore a rust-colored double-breasted suit. A diamond stickpin
winked at Steve from Campbell’s yellow and red polka-dot tie, and the big chunk of gold that was his wristwatch looked heavy
enough to sink a battleship.

“How you been, Stevie?” Campbell kept his voice pitched low so as not to disrupt the hearings. His gray-tinged auburn hair,
slicked down and parted in the middle, glistened under the lights.

“Fine, Uncle Tim,” Steve murmured, even though Campbell wasn’t really his uncle.

Tim Campbell had once been a close friend and business partner of Steve’s father, back when Skyworld Airlines was still a
part of GAT, but at some point Campbell and Steve’s father had suffered a falling-out. Steve didn’t know the details. He’d
been a little kid when it had happened, and neither his father nor Campbell would talk about it. Whatever had caused the disagreement,
its result had been a split in the company as the two men went their separate ways. Steve’s father had retained control of
the aviation design and construction portions of the GAT empire, while Campbell had taken control of the airline.

“I guess I haven’t seen you since you came back to the West Coast for a visit,” Campbell said. “That must have been almost
two years ago, just after the war ended.”

“I’ve been home since then to see my folks, but only for short trips,” Steve said apologetically. “I guess I should have called.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Campbell said. “I know it can get awkward.”

Steve nodded. His father and Tim Campbell professed to still be friends, but Steve thought they behaved more like friendly
adversaries. After all these years there was still some sort of mysterious game of financial one-upmanship going on between
them, but again, neither man would talk about it. Campbell and Steve’s father were cordial with each other when chance brought
them together, but neither man went out of his way to look the other up.

Whatever Campbell’s relationship with Steve’s father, Campbell had remained a presence in Steve and his sister Susan’s lives.
Uncle Tim had never forgotten their birthdays. Even during the war, no matter where Steve was stationed, around the time of
his birthday a card from Campbell and a small token—a bottle of booze or a box of cigars—had always managed to find their
way to him.

“You’re looking great, Stevie,” Campbell murmured. “And I like that uniform! So that’s the new Air Force blue, huh?”

“They call it ‘sky blue,’” Steve smiled. “They were just issued last month.”

Campbell, nodding, gestured toward Steve’s decorations grouped above the left breast pocket of his jacket, below his silver
pilot’s wings. “Pretty impressive helping of fruit salad you have there.”

“Yeah, I guess….” It always embarrassed Steve when people made a big deal over his decorations. As far as he was concerned,
he’d only been doing his job, a job he’d loved.

There was a moment of silence between the two men. Both shifted their attention to the amplified testimony coming from the
front of the room.

“In conclusion, allow me to make the point that to the best of our knowledge the Soviet Union has not yet developed an atomic
bomb. Its ground forces, however, greatly outnumber ours and present a formidable threat to most of continental Europe. There
can be little debate concerning the Soviets’ ability to overrun Europe, and our inability to stem that scarlet tide. Accordingly,
our best hope to halt Soviet drive into Europe is in strategic bombing.”

“Say,” Campbell whispered, “I guess you were pretty lucky to be allowed to stay in the service. The Air Force has really cut
back.”

“Yes, sir … I guess.”

Up at the front of the room, Senator Hill was saying, “Let the record show that we extend our thanks to the gentleman from
the Office of the Secretary of the Air Force for his valuable testimony.”

The Air Force official gathered up his papers and left the witness table.

“So what are you doing here at this hearing?” Campbell asked. “Are you scheduled to testify?”

“No,” Steve chuckled. “I’m a fighter jock—or, at least I was,” he shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t know beans about bombers. I’m
assigned to the Air Force’s Public Relations Department.”

“Ah, now I get it!” Campbell said knowingly. “What better spot for a handsome young ace?”

Steve didn’t answer that. “You know the Navy is doing its best to get the B-45 thrown onto the scrap heap?”

“I do,” Campbell said. “They’d like to get their mitts on the money being spent on the B-45.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said. “Well, my superiors felt that my being present might do our side some good against our web-footed
friends.”

Campbell grinned. “Smart move on their part, sending an Air Force pilot who single-handedly rescued a Navy ship.”

“I’m supposed to lend moral support to the witnesses and get my picture taken….” Steve trailed off, blushing.

“Well, why not?” Campbell chuckled. “You’re a war hero, right?” He winked. “So you’ve got an office at the Pentagon?”

“More like a closet than an office, Uncle Tim.”

“Don’t worry, the big office will come,” he said knowingly. “You’re in a pretty darn good spot for a twenty-three-year-old
captain. Public relations is going to be
the
front line for the military during peacetime. I’m telling you, Stevie, it looks like you’ve got it made.” Campbell winked
again. “I’ve got a feeling I’m talking to a future Air Force Chief of Staff.”

“Yes, Uncle Tim,” Steve said, embarrassed. “But what brings you here?”

“Me? I’m here to fight for my baby,” Campbell said.

“I don’t get it?”

“Amalgamated-Landis is building the B-45 for the Air Force,” Campbell explained.

“I know that,” Steve said. A-L, like GAT, was one of the giant companies that made up California’s aircraft industry.

“Well, did you know that I’m on Amalgamated’s board of directors?” Campbell asked.

“No!”

Campbell nodded. “I put money into A-L years ago, but when I got an advance tip-off about the company being awarded a contract
to build the B-45, I doubled my stake, buying myself a seat on the board. When the Navy started giving the B-45 program a
hard time, I took over the execution of A-L’s counterattack. I know something about public relations myself, Stevie, my boy….”

“That I knew, Uncle Tim,” Steve smiled. His father had often admitted that if it hadn’t been for Campbell’s masterful handling
of GAT’s advertising and public relations, the company would never have survived its early, difficult days.

Senator Hill was rapping his gavel. “The committee now calls Donald Harrison—”

“It was my idea to have Don testify,” Campbell boasted to Steve. “He’s A-L’s chief engineer. The B-45 was his brainchild.”

Steve watched as the bookish-looking guy sitting with the knockout brunette stood up. Steve’s heart sank when he saw the brunette
give Harrison a winning smile as he carried his big briefcase over to the witness table.

Harrison was in his late twenties, Steve guessed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but he looked a little pudgy, soft around
the edges. He was wearing a lightweight blue suit, white shirt, and a red knit tie. His thinning dark blonde hair was slicked
straight back from his high expanse of forehead.

“This is going to be good,” Campbell whispered to Tim. “Harrison is a real go-getter. He reminds me a lot of your father in
his younger days.”

“First I’d like to thank the committee for this opportunity to speak on behalf of the B-45,” Harrison said, sounding relaxed.
He adjusted the mike to suit him, and then opened up his briefcase and began shuffling through his papers. “Let me begin by
outlining to you the B-45’s projected capabilities.” He took a pair of tan, round-framed eyeglasses from the breast pocket
of his suit jacket, perched them on the tip of his nose, and began to read. “The B-45 was created to meet the challenge posed
by this country’s need for a long-range bomber capable of delivering a substantial payload to a target seven thousand miles
away. The B-45, powered by six thirty-five-hundred-horsepower pusher-prop engines, augmented by four, auxiliary turbojet engines
paired in pods mounted beneath the wings, amply answers that challenge….”

For the next half hour Harrison painted a glowing word picture of the B-45 as a superbomber capable of policing the world
on behalf of democracy.

“What did I tell you?” Campbell nudged Steve. “Harrison is demolishing the opposition.”

It was true, Steve thought in admiration. Harrison was a skilled and sophisticated public speaker.

“… The B-45 will carry a maximum eighty-five-thousand-pound bomb load.” Harrison paused to whip off his eyeglasses in a dramatic
flourish. “Eighty-five-thousand pounds of bombs…. Gentlemen, let me remind you that eighty-five-thousand pounds is almost
twice what a fully loaded B-17 weighs in its entirety.”

“A perfect quote,” Campbell pointed out to Steve. “Just look at those news hounds scribbling away.”

Steve, nodding absently, found that his eyes kept being drawn to the brunette who’d come in with Harrison. She had to be romantically
involved with the engineer, he decided. She was listening to him speak with rapt concentration. But then, so was everybody.

Steve wanted to ask Campbell if the woman was Harrison’s wife or sweetheart, but he held back. Questions like that had landed
Steve in hot water more than once in his life.

“… And for those reasons, Senators, it is clear that the B-45 will rightfully take its place as the keystone in the United
States’ arsenal,” Harrison continued. “It will force our enemies to think twice before attacking us, and ultimately persuade
them not to attack us at all.”

Harrison paused to fix the senators facing him with an intense stare. “Gentlemen, when I designed the B-45, I had in mind
the creation of an airplane so awesome in its capabilities that its mere existence would guarantee peace. It was and is my
goal to give my country the same sense of reassurance against threat that the average American householder feels knowing he’s
got a shotgun behind the door. The B-45 is America’s shotgun. You cannot—must not—take it away. Thank you.”

Scattered applause swept the room.

“Order, please. I’ll have order,” Senator Hill demanded, rapping his gavel. Senator Tabworth looked fit to bust.

“What did I tell you?” Campbell chuckled to Steve. “Your old man could sway an audience like that in his day.”

“Mr. Harrison,” Tabworth began as the applause died down. “Isn’t it true that you scientists believe that the United States
cannot indefinitely retain its monopoly on the atomic bomb? That sooner or later the Soviets will have an atomic bomb of their
own?”

“Well, sir, I’m an engineer,” Harrison smiled. “Your question addresses a topic out of my bailiwick.”

“Nice parry,” Campbell observed, nudging Steve. “He’s showing that he’s not one to shoot his mouth off, and that makes what
he
does
say sound all the more important.”

“Come, come, Mr. Harrison.” Tabworth was scowling. “Surely you’ve given this matter some thought? You have likened your multimillion-dollar
bomber to a shotgun,” he scoffed. “If that is so, isn’t the atomic bomb like the ammunition loaded into that shotgun?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Harrison replied.

Tabworth smiled. “Have you ever hunted waterfowl, Mr. Harrison?”

“No, Senator, I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, young fellow, I have, many times,” Tabworth loudly announced. “And from practical experience I can tell you that a
shotgun is only as good as the ammunition loaded into it. Do you mean to tell this subcommittee that you have never considered
the possibility that the Soviets will one day possess the same atomic ammunition as we for their ‘shotguns’?”

“Senator, if you’re asking for my personal opinion, I believe that the Russians will, by hook or crook, eventually have their
own atomic bomb.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Harrision,” Tabworth replied triumphantly. “But you have just demolished your own argument
on behalf of the B-45.”

“On the contrary, it has just been strengthened,” Harrison replied.

“How so?” Tabworth demanded. “What good is your ‘shotgun behind the door’ if the intruders are similarly armed?”

“Ouch!” Steve said softly. He glanced at Campbell. “Looks like Tabworth has Harrison boxed in.”

Campbell was smiling. “Listen and learn, Steve….”

“Senator Tabworth, I suggest that no intruder in his right mind will attack a household if he knows for sure that injury will
be his only reward,” Harrison declared. “In other words it is clear that the only viable
defense
against adversaries armed with atomic weapons is the promise of our inevitable strong
offense
. Deterrence is the strategy of the future. We must secure our nation by developing and maintaining those weapons, forces,
and techniques required to pose this warning to our enemies: If you attack us, expect a devastating counterattack in return.”

“But what does any of that have to do with the B-45?” Tabworth asked, frowning.

“Senator, you said you were a veteran waterfowl hunter. Isn’t it true that no matter how good your ammunition, you’ll never
get yourself a duck dinner hunting with a short-barreled shotgun? Don’t you need a long-sighting plane for the long-range
shooting you’ll be doing?”

“Well, yes … I suppose that’s right,” Tabworth admitted. “Say, I thought you said you didn’t hunt?”

“Senators,” Harrison continued addressing the entire subcommittee, “I can’t help but think of our great heavyweight boxing
champion, Joe Louis. Louis—coincidentally dubbed the ‘Brown Bomber’ by the sporting press—is blessed with what we might say
are ‘atomic fists.’ But what good would his knockout punch be if the champ neglected to straighten his legs, thereby lacking
the ability to deliver that decisive blow to his opponent?”

Off came Harrison’s eyeglasses as he paused meaningfully. “Senators, I put to you the proposition that the atomic bomb has
become modern warfare’s knockout punch, but it will prove useless to us, and a meaningless threat to our enemies, if we do
not develop the certain means to deliver it.
The B-45 is that means
. Without the B-45, we are as our champion Joe Louis would be if he were forced to defend his title in the ring while strapped
into a wheelchair!”