The Hot Pilots (5 page)

“The meeting concerned the increased difficulty we’re experiencing conducting effective reconnaissance flights over the Soviet
Union. The Russians have increasingly been challenging us—even on our border flights—and meanwhile the highest levels have
called for a way to conduct even deeper penetrations of Russian airspace.”

“We’ve been talking about this for years,” Gold said crossly. “You want to go deep over Russia, which means you have to go
high. The Candy Store has come up with a series of airplane proposals which you fellows have seen. The problem has always
been money.”

“That’s all changed, Herman,” Horton replied. “There’s been an increased insistence from the highest levels for adequate reconnaissance.”

Gold thought,
Trust Ike, the new President, and an old military man, to understand the value of solid aerial reconnaissance in dealing with
an enemy
… “So tell me what you decided,” Gold said. “And I’ll tell you if it’s possible.”

“My people in Dayton have compiled a preliminary spec sheet,” Major General Howard Simon said as he passed a manila folder
down toward Gold.

Howie Simon was a taciturn, white-haired, blue-eyed old eagle in his early sixties who worked out of the Air Force’s R & D
center at Wright-Paterson AFB, in Ohio. He and Gold had worked together on many projects down through the years, and in the
process had become good friends.

Gold opened the folder and quickly scanned its contents. “Hmmm … You want at least a seventy-thousand-foot ceiling and an
extended cruising range …” Gold closed the folder. “The rest I can read later. I can tell you right now that this airplane
is going to have to be extremely light to get that kind of performance …” He tore a sheet of paper off his yellow legal pad
and quickly folded it into a glider shape, which he held up to Simon. “Have you fellows considered building her out of paper?”

The Air Force personnel laughed. The CIA spooks didn’t. Gold consoled himself by remembering that a sense of humor was not
high on the list of the Company’s qualifications for employment.

“The other thing you should keep in mind is the time factor,” Horton said. “We’re going to need our new bird—”

“Not bird,” Herman interrupted dourly. “No bird was ever built this light. What we’re talking about is an insect. A
light-weight
insect. Say, a mayfly—”

“Very well, then.” Horton smiled patiently, as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant child. “This Mayfly must be ready within
a year.”

“I’ll have to clear the decks to pull it off,” Gold said worriedly. “Put everything else on hold and put the Candy Store team
on it full time.” He trailed off, wondering how the hell he was going to juggle his staff. The 909-I had to get built, as
well …

“National security is at stake, Herman,” Horton intoned.

It’s always at stake, it seems
, Gold thought. “I’ve got some questions.”

“Of course.” Horton nodded expectantly.

“My first concerns the funding,” he began. “As I’ve been telling you for years now, designing airplanes is a very expensive
endeavor.” Gold looked from Horton to General Simon. “So who’s picking up the check this time, boys?”

“Well,” Horton began smoothly, “considering that we’re talking about building an entirely new airplane from scratch, I would
think that the project falls within the budgetary boundaries of the Air Force.”

“Nice try, Jack,” General Simon scoffed. “You know quite well that the Air Force has been told in no uncertain terms that
this is a Company operation.”

“Why is that?” Gold asked.

“The Air Force can’t take the risk of sending uniformed personnel over Soviet airspace,” Simon explained. “The Russians could
interpret that as an act of war. The way it’s been worked out is this: The Air Force will lend its technical expertise, and
officially discharge those pilots who wish to volunteer for the flight program. Accordingly, since this is officially a Company
operation the Company can pay for it.”

“Okay, Howie, you’ve made your point,” Horton sighed. “Herman, the Company will pay, all right. We’ll get the money to you
through the usual channels.”

“Good,” Gold said. “I’m prepared to start on this first thing, but I have two preconditions. Number one, if I promise to build
you an airplane that meets your specs in the time allotted, you’ve got to be willing to cut me some slack to do it. Agreed,
Jack?”

Horton shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Gold laughed. He glanced at General Simon. “Howie, that means I don’t have to check in for approval with your Dayton people—”
Gold’s arm swept the room. “Or anybody else involved concerning what the Mayfly looks like, and what’s she made out of; if
my engineers working on her have changed their socks, and what they had for breakfast that day. Agreed?”

Simon looked uncomfortable. “That’s not how we’re accustomed to working, Herman …”

“
You
don’t have the money, and
no one
has the time for us to get tied up in the usual red tape,” Gold said firmly. “I’ll keep you apprised of our progress as I
submit my vouchers, but as long as the work is going smoothly, I’ll expect Dayton, and everyone else to butt out. Agreed?”

“Agreed …” Simon reluctantly sighed.

“You said you had two preconditions?” Horton asked.

Gold thought again about how his engineering department was going to have its hands full trying to design and build a prototype
intercontinental jetliner better than Tim Campbell’s AL-12,
and
design and build a Mayfly prototype. And then he thought about how good old Jack Horton seemed to have connections in virtually
all government agencies.

“I’ll have to discuss the second one with you in private, Jack,” Gold said.

Horton studied him a moment, and then nodded. “Let’s get on with new business …”

The meeting lasted another two hours. When it was finally over, Horton sidled over to Gold while he and the others were packing
up their briefcases.

“Herman, come take a walk with me. I don’t think you’ve seen my new office …”

“Okay, what’s on your mind?” Horton murmured as he led Gold through the narrow, crowded corridors that interlinked CIA’s imposing
stone buildings in Foggy Bottom, near the State Department.

“How’s your influence with the CAB?” Gold asked softly.

“The Civil Aeronautics Board?” Horton frowned. “I know some people over there. Why?”

“The CAB inspects commercial aircraft before issuing them a certificate of airworthiness,” Gold said. “Without such a certificate,
an airplane is grounded.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I’d like you to use your influence to get the CAB to take a closer look at A-L’s preliminary specifications for its new transatlantic
jetliner.”

“You sonofabitch.” Horton laughed, shaking his head. “You want me to help you give Amalgamated a black eye—”

“I want you to
suggest
to the CAB that they ought to take a closer look at the AL-12,” Gold repeated carefully. “That’s all I want. Knowing that
the CAB was for some reason interested in taking a closer look at Amalgamated’s new airplane would make the airlines think
twice about ordering it. That’d rob A-L of its momentum, and that would be a tremendous load off my mind. It would also be
a load off the minds of my engineers, who could then divert their attention from my own jetliner endeavor to lend themselves
to your very crucial Mayfly project.”

Horton nodded. Gold smiled, knowing that the deal was done. The CIA man stopped at a pair of mahogany double doors with gleaming
gold knobs.

“Come on in and we’ll have a drink on it,” Horton invited.

“Certainly, Jack,” Gold said, following Horton in.

Horton’s new office
was
plush, Gold thought. Jack had abandoned his previous office’s antique front parlor look for art deco. Everywhere Gold looked
he saw rich black leather upholstery and gleaming silver inlaid with ebony on a wall-to-wall sea of crimson carpeting.

“This office
is
much bigger than the one you used to have,” Gold remarked.

“Doesn’t everyone’s office get bigger over the years?” Horton asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Gold said, settling into an armchair as Horton crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. “Mine were always
big.”

The heavy traffic surprised Don Harrison. It was almost seven-thirty in the evening, supposedly well past rush hour, but there
were still logjams of cars on the road; an endless procession of lemon headlights and flaring, cherry tail lamps, glowing
like neon in the gathering dusk.

Harrison gunned the Hudson Commodore’s powerful V-8 to take advantage of a clear stretch on Sunset. The traffic delays were
especially irritating because he’d purposely left his office at GAT late in order to miss the brunt. He’d spent that quiet
time after everyone else had gone home making some progress emptying his in-box. The paperwork always piled up when Herman
was away.

Harrison turned left onto Havenhurst, gliding past a pair of teenage boys loitering on the corner. The boys nudged each other,
pointing at the white convertible.

Harrison enjoyed their admiring glances. The Hudson was flashy, all right; so flashy that he almost hadn’t bought it. His
father had certainly disapproved, calling the purchase an extravagant waste of money. His father was a Ford man, and on his
advice Harrison had always bought Fords: perfectly adequate little hump-backed hardtops …

It had been Herman who’d convinced Harrison to get a car with style. It had to be a big car, Herman had decreed. With a big
engine, the better to take command of the road. And it had to be brightly colored and a convertible, so that people could
see it coming and see who was driving it.

Now, when the admiring glances came Harrison’s way he felt proud, the way he felt when he had Linda on his arm.

Linda loved the Commodore. She loved to drive it, and Harrison loved to let her. He would watch her in the same admiring way
as other men when she was behind the wheel, her dark curls ruffling in the wind. He would admire her, and wonder at his great
good fortune to be in love with her.

His parents had been right, Harrison thought as he parked beneath the tall palm trees in front of the Capullo de Rosa Apartments,
the bungalow court where Linda lived. You work hard and you get the rewards. In school you get good marks. In life you get
the job, the car, the girl …

Harrison glanced at the dashboard clock. It had taken a long time to get here, all right. It was almost eight o’clock.
Better late than never
, he thought, and then he chuckled.
Of course, you couldn’t be late if you weren’t expected
—

He was truly feeling pleased with himself for thinking up this surprise. It had been a struggle not to call Linda to let her
know that he was in town these past few days. He knew that Linda was home tonight. Before leaving the office he’d called to
check, hanging up as soon as she’d answered, of course. He couldn’t wait to tell her that it had been him on the line … So
he was predictable, huh? Well, he’d show her…

He grabbed the bottle of champagne he’d picked up on the way over and got out of the car. The champagne was warm, but a half
hour in the fridge would fix that. He smiled, thinking that he and Linda would have no trouble wiling away a half hour…

He entered the apartment court through the low archway, passing by the tenants’ garages as he made his way along the terracotta
walk that ran from the street to the far rear courtyard. Linda’s apartment was way in the back, on the second floor, overlooking
the swimming pool. Like always, as he made the journey to her door he couldn’t help reminiscing about their first night together.
How intoxicating it had been to hurry with her in his arms, past the backlit, splashing fountains and fragrant tropical gardens.
At some point at her door, while she’d been fumbling through her bag for her keys, she’d turned toward him, and their mouths
had locked for a long and passionate kiss. At that moment Harrison had felt larger than life; that he was forty feet tall,
up on the silver screen, in some wild and romantic movie. He had felt that this could not be happening to him, because such
things had never happened to him.

He’d been to bed with only two girls in his life before Linda, and neither time had the experience been much to remember,
but many times he
had
fallen in love with girls who belonged to other men, or girls he saw walking down the street whom he did not know and would
never see again. When it came to girls, it was a lot like the situation concerning the practical Ford versus the snazzy convertible.
The girls who took an interest in him, and whom he felt comfortable approaching, had always been so ordinary, while the glamour
girls for whom he’d lusted had always seemed so far out of reach—

Until Linda. Beautiful, glamorous Linda.

Yes
, Harrison thought.
It was exactly like his father had said: You work hard, you get your reward
.

He walked quickly, trying to ignore the snatches of conversations and the tinny spurts of radio music and talk from the televisions
leaking from the apartments that he passed. This place was certainly pretty, but the tenants lacked privacy. When the breeze
was still, and people had their windows open, you could hear everything. Linda had said she didn’t mind, but then she traveled
so much her apartment was more like another hotel room than home.

Things would change when they were married
, Don thought as he reached Linda’s building, and made his way up the outdoor staircase to her second-floor apartment.
An apartment was no place to raise children
.

He knocked on the door, and waited. There was no answer, and it seemed pretty quiet inside. He hoped that she hadn’t gone
out during the time it had taken him to drive there, or if she had, that it was just for a moment …