The Hot Pilots (20 page)

She couldn’t believe it when he shook his head.

“I’m going to get my own,” Robbie told her.

Ordinarily Steven Gold got a kick out of the Corvette. It was a 1959, red and white Sports Roadster with a manual transmission.
When he toed its throttle the car kicked him back against the tan leather bucket seat like a jet fighter.

It was dark, well after the evening rush hour, when Steve had left his Pentagon office. The roads had been clear, but tonight
he hadn’t been in the mood to play with the ‘Vette’s fuel-injected V-8. Tonight, as the Corvette’s headlights stabbed the
darkness, he was looking forward to a quiet evening in his apartment listening to jazz on the stereo, with no company except
for a nice big scotch on the rocks.

He and his staff had been working late every night this week, and it didn’t look like there was an end to the work in sight.
Sometime last Sunday night an MR-1, a.k.a. Mayfly spy plane, had been shot down over the Soviet Union. The pilot had been
taken alive by the Russians. The pilot’s name was Chet Boskins, a.k.a. “Lowball” to his friends, not many of whom, including
Steve, expected to see their fellow pilot again.

Washington was in an uproar. The Soviets were milking the fiasco for all it was worth, doing their “Imperialist War Mongerers”
number at the United Nations and in the international press. The White House, the State Department, and NASA—which was gamely
claiming that it had sponsored the overflights for meteorological research purposes—were all putting out conflicting statements.
At the Pentagon, Steve, who was the USAF/CIA liaison in charge of technological developments, had been keeping his staff busy
working the telephones and typewriters, helping to put out media fires by generating a load of technical horseshit designed
to back up NASA’s stories. Both the Air Force and the CIA were frantic not to be drawn into it, despite the reports that Lowball
had been carrying I.D. and had announced to his Commie captors that he was a civilian pilot employed by the CIA.

Meanwhile, in the Kremlin, Khrushchev was threatening to disrupt this month’s Big Four Summit in Paris, and derail the disarmament
talks in Geneva. At the United Nations Soviet Foreign Minister Gromyko was demanding an official apology from Ike. Someone
with access to the Oval Office had confided to Steve that the President was bullshit that the MR-1 incident would taint his
last months in office and throw November’s election to the Democrats. At the very least, the incident was expected to give
a boost to the Democrats’ likely candidate, a senator from New England named Kennedy…

As far as Steve could tell, nobody seemed much concerned about the captured MR-1 pilot, except, perhaps, Jack Horton. The
CIA man was telling everyone who would listen that none of this would be happening if Chet Boskins had done “the right thing”
…

For his part Steve was sorry he’d ever become involved in the pilot recruitment program. He couldn’t help thinking that if
he hadn’t been so good at his job, Lowball wouldn’t now be languishing in a Russian prison cell. Sure he’d taken on the job
for self-serving reasons, but he’d also sincerely felt that he was doing his patriotic duty. He’d thought that he was being
a good soldier, but Jack Horton and his band of spooks had used him like a fool; a dupe. Not that Steve had any business feeling
sorry for himself. The stuff coming in through the diplomatic channels had it that if the United States didn’t publicly apologize,
the pilot would be tried as a spy. If the Soviets carried through with that threat, Lowball’s certain conviction could mean
his execution or at best a lengthy prison term.

As Steve drove through Alexandria’s quiet tree-lined streets, and then turned onto Prince Street, he wondered what Lowball
was thinking right now. Was he blaming Steve for getting him into this mess? It didn’t really matter to Steve whether or not
Lowball blamed him for his predicament because Steve blamed himself. He was trying his best to make things up to Lowball.
He’d been making the rounds up on the Hill, leaking the facts about what had happened to certain influential members of Congress
in the hopes that they would push to get the pilot released through diplomacy. Some of the people Steve had talked to had
warned that he was pushing too hard; that what he was trying to do on Lowball’s behalf could end up hurting his own career.

Steve was certainly worried about that: The Air Force was all he had. Still, he figured he owed Lowball, and he believed in
paying his debts.

He was driving slowly along Prince Street as usual, looking for a parking space. As he passed his apartment house his headlights
picked up a shabbily dressed character shouldering a knapsack lurking out in front. He found a spot half a block down, and
parked the car. Walking back to his apartment he saw that the guy was still there, leaning against a lamppost a few paces
away.

A coffeehouse that featured live jazz, and poetry readings for beatnik types, had recently opened on King Street. Steve figured
this guy was one of those. By the light cast by the street lamp Steve saw that the guy was tall and stocky, wearing grimy
pants, sneakers, a dark turtleneck sweater, and a torn, brown canvas workman’s jacket. He had a dark blue baseball cap pulled
down low on his brow obscuring his face, and that knapsack on his shoulder.

In the past, Steve—wearing civies—had dropped by the King Street hipster joint a couple of times for the music, which he kind
of liked … He’d even picked himself up a set of bongo drums and a how-to book at the local music store … But he had use for
the poetry, which tended toward leftist political slogans against the so-called military-industrial complex.

As Steve reached his front steps the beatnick detached himself from his lamppost to approach him.
Probably looking for a handout
, Steve thought, cautioning himself to ignore any slurs the guy might cast against his uniform. He was just too tired to get
into it tonight; he would think about the scotch on the rocks waiting upstairs—

“Uncle Steve …”

Steve paused to stare. “Robbie?”

He and Robbie had been writing to each other, but he hadn’t seen his nephew, or any of his family, for a long time. He talked
on the telephone with his parents, and now and again his sister called, but since that family dinner when he’d had it out
with his brother-in-law, he’d accepted the fact that he was persona non grata back home, and had acted accordingly.

Robbie, grinning, had taken off his baseball cap to give Steve a better look. “Sorry if I scared you …”

“You’d scare anybody, buddy.” Steve laughed, coming back down the steps. “Look how big you’ve grown!”

“I’m seventeen now, Uncle Steve,” Robbie said quietly.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve asked.

“I ran away from home.”

“Oh …” Steve replied awkwardly, shocked that nobody back in L.A. had seen fit to telephone him with the news. He supposed
that he really
was
out of the family. “Your mother must be frantic.”

Robbie looked away. Steve wrinkled his nose. “Whew, when was the last time you showered?”

“Last Sunday morning.” Robbie shrugged. “I’ve been on the road since then.”

“You hitchhike?”

Robbie nodded. “Not bad making it across the country in under a week, huh? I got a couple of good rides from truckers.”

“Well, come on upstairs,” Steve said. “You can get cleaned up, and I’ll make us something to eat. You must be hungry?”

“I could eat.” Robbie nodded.

“Eggs and bacon are all I have, I’m afraid,” Steve said. “I don’t do much cooking …”

“I ran away because I couldn’t take it anymore at home,” Robbie was explaining. “The guy was just
at me
all the time.” He looked up at Steve for affirmation. “You know how Don can be …”

“I know,” Steve said wryly.

They were sitting in the living room. Steve was in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. His second and final scotch on the rocks—these
days he was limiting himself to two a night—was within easy reach on the end table. Behind Steve in the galley kitchen the
sink was filled with the dishes from their supper. Robbie was on the sofa cradling a coffee mug in his hands. He was showered
and shaved, his thick, black hair still a damp tangle as he sat wrapped in Steve’s blue terry cloth robe. He had asked Steve
for a cigarette, and for some brandy in his coffee, and Steve had allowed him both, thinking that his nephew was a man now.
You could see it in his stature, and in the reservoir of hurt already apparent in his emerald eyes.

“… I was having some trouble in school,” Robbie continued. “Right away, Don got on my case, getting Mom, and Grandpa and Grandma
all upset by telling them I wasn’t going to get into college.”

“Are you doing that poorly?” Steve asked.

“In some things.” Robbie shrugged. “I’m doing okay in math and science.”

“Just okay?”

“Well, I’ve got a B average in algebra, but I’m just passing in English, and social studies,” Robbie confessed. “So I said
to myself, the hell with it! Who needs school.” He grinned. “I figured I’d be like you—”

“What?” Steve blurted, surprised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I want to be a fighter pilot, like you,” Robbie began. “You ran away from home when you were about my age. You never finished
high school—”

“I got my high school equivalency diploma—” Steve said quickly.

“Okay, then I will, too …” Robbie replied. “While I’m taking pilot’s training.”

“Robbie …” Steve hesitated. Lately he’d been thinking about how he might relive his life if he had the chance … He’d made
some real mistakes in his professional and personal life, shot himself in a foot any number of times, but not getting himself
an education topped them all. Now, in a way, he was getting that chance to make things right, through Robbie. There would
be a point to his mistakes; they might count for something, if he could keep Robbie from making the same ones …

His nephew was staring at him; ready to hang on his every word, but then Robbie had
always
idolized him. Steve had never realized how important to his own self-image his nephew’s adulation had been … Until now…

Steve thought:
Someday I’ll learn to appreciate what I have before it’s lost
.

“Robbie, it’s time you knew the truth about me.” He had a hard time looking the kid in the eye as he confessed, “I’m a failure
…”

“Come on, Uncle Steve …” Robbie laughed. “What are you talking about? You’re great! You’re a double ace in two wars. A Medal
of Honor winner. You made lieutenant colonel when you were twenty-eight—”

“And now I’m thirty-six, and I’m still a lieutenant colonel,” Steve pointed out.

“What are you talking about?” Robbie demanded, incredulous. “You’ve got a great job—”

Steve held up his hand to quiet his nephew. “Remember that dinner at your grandpa’s and grandma’s? When your stepfather and
I had it out?”

“Yeah.” Robbie grinned. “I’ll never forget the way you tore into Don.”

“We were arguing over whether I should apply for admission to NASA’s Project Mercury astronaut program,” Steve reminded him.

“And you really told off Don good!” Robbie chuckled. “I still remember what you said about how those astronauts were going
to be white rats in a tin can …”

“I’m glad you remember it so well, buddy.” Steve frowned. “Do you want to know the
real
reason why I got so hot under the collar that night? It was because I was lying. Don didn’t have to tell me about the NASA
program. I already knew about it because I’d already
tried
to volunteer—”

“You
wanted
to be an astronaut?”

Steve nodded. “But they turned me down flat, just the way they did at the Air Force Aerospace Research Pilots School at Edwards
Air Base.”

“I don’t believe you—” Robbie said. “Why wouldn’t they take you?” He looked near tears.

“Because I don’t have the education to make the cut, buddy,” Steve said quietly. “The future of aviation belongs to the educated
guys, the ones who can hack the math and high-powered engineering that’s required to drive today’s latest fast movers. I’m
talking about guys like your stepfather. You should be looking up to
Don
, not me. Guys like Don Harrison are going to be tomorrow’s aviation heroes: the
hot
pilots.”

“All right,” Robbie murmured, his eyes downcast.

“And if
you
want to be a hot pilot you’ve got to go to college, like your folks want—”

“I said all right!” Robbie snapped, his green eyes cool.

And that’s what I wanted
, Steve thought, leaning back in his chair.
And that’s what I got
… He stared at his empty glass.
And I guess tonight I’ve earned myself another scotch
…

“I’ll call your folks now,” Steve said, standing up. “Let them know you’re all right …”

Don Harrison flew into Washington National Airport on a rainy Sunday. He took a cab to Alexandria, giving the driver Steve’s
Prince Street address.

During the ride he pondered the past frantic week. Robbie’s disappearance had overshadowed everything, including the superpower
confrontation over the downed, GAT-built MR-1 spy plane. As Herman had so tellingly put it to Harrison last week, “When there’s
trouble in your family, you realize what’s really important …”

Friday night poor Suzy had collapsed into tears of relief when Steve had called to say that her son was with him, safe and
sound. Harrison had gotten on the telephone with Steve to say that he would immediately fly out to get the boy. It had been
the first time he’d talked with Steve since that night they’d almost come to blows over two years ago.

On the phone Steve had been cordial, if a bit cool, which was certainly understandable, and so they’d confined their brief
conversation to working out the logistics of Harrison’s visit. Not once did Steve reproach him over the fact that nobody had
called to inform him that Robbie had run away. Harrison, feeling guilty about that, considering how it had been Steve who
had come to the rescue, had been grateful for his brother-in-law’s tact.