Top Gun (41 page)

Now Harrison felt dapper and Parisian, comfortable and uniquely in control of things. Susan, looking chic in a cream-colored
suit and dark, textured nylons, was hobnobbing with a cluster of guests near the ten-foot cutaway scale model of the GC-600
that was the room’s centerpiece. GAT’s best sales and marketing people were sidestepping the cruising waiters bearing trays
of hors d’oeuvres and champagne as they handled inquiries concerning advance GC-600 sales and interest in the World-Bird fighter-plane
project.

Harrison was on his second glass of champagne. He’d been too nervous to eat this morning, so now he was feeling just the slightest
bit pleasurably woozy as the commotion whirled around him. There were the reporters busy jotting on their pads, likely racking
their brains to come up with new superlatives to describe GAT’s triumph; the airline purchasing agents clamoring to get the
attention of the GAT sales team; the camera crew hired by GAT to film the proceedings for the next stockholders’ meeting….
It seemed to Harrison that the next big problem facing GAT would be what to do with all the money the company was going to
make.

There was a scattering of applause from the spectators on the terrace as the GC-600 lifted off. The trim little onehundred-seat
fanjet airliner was painted GAT’s signature colors of turquoise and scarlet. The 600 climbed quickly due to its light weight.
On this first demo flight it was flying without passengers, and the plane required only a two-man cockpit crew thanks to its
computer-augmented controls. Harrison glanced towards the outdoor viewing area in the distance several stories below and saw
that an array of tripod cameras were pointing their long, black telescopic lenses like antiaircraft weapons to capture on
film the striking image of the gaudy GAT bird rising against the white overcast Parisian sky.

This may not be airplane heaven, but it’ll do for now,
Harrison thought as he flagged a passing waiter carrying a champagne-laden tray and exchanged his empty glass for a full
one.

Perhaps the sweetest bonus coming out of all this was that Harrison fully expected the GC-600’s successful debut to at last
erase from the industry trade publications the embarrassing headlines built upon the continued, anonymous leaks that had come
from the traitor inside the company. The private investigators who Harrison had put on the case had yet to come up with the
so-called Icarus’s identity, but after today who the bastard was and what he said would no longer matter.

Icarus had done some serious damage to GAT’s image through his leaks reporting the internal dissension between the engineering,
marketing, and management areas of the company concerning the new jetliner’s readiness. Of course, it was just like the press
to blow the situation out of proportion. Sure there’d been some internal tension at GAT these past eight months, and sure
there had been some honest differences of opinion about the advisability of accelerating the construction of the GC-600 prototypes,
but Harrison had stuck to his guns—he’d
led
—and he’d turned out right. The jetliner just now soaring in triumph above Paris was his vindication.

Harrison was distracted by a colleague coming over to offer his congratulations. As Harrison was shaking hands with the man,
he heard somebody blurt: “Something’s wrong! That airplane’s not flying right!”

Harrison turned quickly, peering fearfully into the sky, and saw that the GC-600 had banked too sharply during its approach
back to the airfield. It was knifing toward the airstrip with its wings perpendicular to the ground.

“The jetliner’s out of control!” somebody shouted.

Behind Harrison, the reception’s genteel tumult dwindled quickly as people roughly shouldered past Harrison to get to the
windows for a view. Harrison kept his eyes on the jetliner, which was now fluttering like a butterfly as its pilots struggled
to regain control.

Jesus Christ, it’s going to crash,
Harrison realized.
This can’t be happening….

There was a brittle cracking sound. Harrison looked down to see that his hand was wet with wine and blood: he had crushed
his champagne glass.

He looked back up at the pastel creation that carried upon its swept wings his company’s future. The jetliner had flipped
over onto its back and was now hurtling toward the earth upside down. The overwrought scream of the 600’s tortured turbofans
was growing louder, rattling the terrace windows.

She might overshoot the runway.
Harrison realized as around him spectators began flitting away off the terrace.
She might hit the
—

“Everybody get out!” Harrison turned and shouted. “She’s going to hit the hospitality suite!”

Pandemonium erupted. The terrace was quickly deserted. Within the hospitality suite proper chairs and tables were overturned
by the mad crush of shouting people who were battling their way to the exits. The place was emptying out fast.

But’s there’s no way.
Harrison thought.
No way we’re all going to get out in time.
“Everybody down!” he yelled. “Find cover! Get behind those tables! As far from the windows as possible!”

Miraculously the people clustered towards the rear of the logjams at the doors did as they were told. Harrison, looking wildly
around for Susan, saw her standing near the bar, looking distraught: She’d been searching for him.

“Susan!” He ran to her across the food-littered, champagne-sodden carpet, past the tumbled tables and chairs and the toppled
cutaway model of the GC-600. Susan tried to hug him when he reached her but he shook her roughly, commanding, “Quick! Get
over the bar!”

“What?” Susan shook her head, dazed and confused.

“I said—” He stopped abruptly, realizing that she couldn’t hear him. The engine wail of the fast-approaching jetliner was
now deafening.

Harrison picked Susan up, set her on the bar countertop, and pushed. She went over sprawling on all fours. Harrison glanced
toward the terrace, caught a glimpse of the GC-600 filling the windows as it cartwheeled toward the tarmac, and hurled himself
over the bar.

He landed hard on his hip but ignored the pain as he moved quickly to crouch protectively over Susan. He heard the crash:
the initial, ear-shattering ring of the plane’s impact, and then the prolonged screech of tormented metal scraping against
airfield pavement, sounding like the world’s biggest automobile accident. He braced for the secondary blasts as the fuel touched
off, and they came, a thunderous series of explosions that grew abruptly louder as the terrace windows imploded in a wall
of flying glass that tinkled like wind chimes against the draperies and carpet. The explosions faded, replaced by the sound
of crackling, wind-blown flames, shouting, and the rising, mournful two-note song of the European sirens on the emergency
vehicles racing toward the scene.

“You all right?” Harrison asked Susan, still huddled beneath him. She nodded, whimpering. Inside the hospitality suite, now
filled with the acrid stench of burning kerojet fuel, there began to rise scattered moans and cries.

“Got to help. See who’s been hurt,” Harrison muttered, rising up. “What?” he demanded of Susan as he helped her to her feet.
“What was that?” She’d said something, but his ears were still ringing from the explosions.

“I said Steve and Linda were down there!” Linda repeated.

“Oh, Christ,” Harrison felt sick. In his own fear, he’d momentarily forgotten they’d been outside.
Steve and Linda.

(Two)

Steve Gold and Linda Forrest had been outdoors at the flight-viewing area for the hour leading up to the GC-600’s demo flight.
The large, level, concrete space extended like an apron in front of the set-back hospitality-suite complex. The viewing area
was landscaped with shrubs and flowers in concrete planters. It had wooden benches, and was fronted by a steel balustrade
that kept spectators a safe distance from the runway aircraft access ramps. The area’s rear portion was graced by a large
fountain with a ten-foot-diameter concrete basin and a geyserlike spray that shot up twenty feet, creating a dramatic curtain
of water. Walkways flanking the fountain led to the hospitality suite complex and the pavilions housing the show’s trade displays.

There were shouts and applause, and a burst of activity over where the press people had their cameras set up as the GC-600
raced down the runway and into the sky. Linda was standing near the railing. Gold caught his wife’s eye and waved to her.
Linda smiled back, raising her clasped fists above her head to signal her congratulations.
Rightly so,
Gold thought. It had been a long haul to get to this point. He hadn’t believed that Don Harrison could get his engineering
people to pull it off, but Don had, and Gold was ready to give him full credit for the achievement.

Linda was dressed in slacks and a cotton sweater, a light raincoat over her shoulders against the threat of rain. She’d come
along on this trip at Gold’s request strictly as a tourist, to keep him company. She’d been a good sport keeping herself busy
nosing around Paris while Gold was occupied with business, so tomorrow he’d promised to steal the day to spend with her taking
a drive to Versailles.

But that was tomorrow. Today Gold was working hard, pressing flesh as he maneuvered through the crowd in his suit and regimental-striped
turquoise and scarlet tie, the same GAT colors that decorated the GC-600 just now soaring overhead. Don Harrison had been
apologetic about asking Gold to hang around out here, but Gold had been quite willing to skip the hospitality-suite news conference
concerning the advance GC-600 sales. Don Harrison loved doing that kind of shit, and Gold was content to leave it to his partner.
He himself had received his share of the limelight back during the Korean War, when the Air Force had paraded him around the
country as an ace hero in order to drum up support for the war effort.

And anyway, Gold felt that somebody from the top level of the company should be out here. There were GAT sales people around,
but what if some of the airline reps who’d chosen to witness the demo flight outdoors in order to prove to themselves how
quiet the 600 was wanted to talk major business?

Gold was chatting with some Arab airline purchasing agents looking to spend their oil money on new equipment when he glanced
up at the GC-600. It was bat-turning its way back over the airfield. He thought,
That plane can’t do that. What the hell is Ken up to?

Ken Cole was captain of the two-man crew on board the the GC-600. Gold had known him in the Air Force, and considered him
one of the best test pilots in the business. Gold also knew from personal experience that the guys in the cockpit counted
for a lot, but every airplane had performance parameters, its envelope within which it had to stay for safety’s sake. For
some damn reason, it appeared to Gold that Ken Cole was just now straying way beyond the envelope of the GC-600.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
Gold thought.
After all, I’ve been uptight about this whole idea of rushing the 600’s debut since last year.
Gold looked around at the other guests in the crowded flight viewing area. Nobody else seemed perturbed, and a lot of these
people were knowledgeable aviation experts.
Yeah, I guess I’m just being paranoid.
Gold decided. But then he saw Linda approaching, her expression troubled. He excused himself, stepping away from the Arabs,
to meet her.

“I think there’s something wrong with that plane,” she whispered to Gold.

He looked back at the plane and saw it flip over on its back and begin a swan dive toward the ground.
But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean somebody isn’t chasing you.

“You’re right,” Gold whispered, his heart beginning to pound. “It’s going to crash.”

“That’s not funny,” Linda scolded.

“I know.”

Around them, others who had come to the same conclusion as Gold were already hurrying toward the viewing area’s exits. Knots
of people were crowded around the narrow entrances to the twisting walkways flanking the fountain. Others had vaulted over
the steel baulustrade to put as much distance as possible between themselves and where they thought the stricken bird was
coming down.

“Come on!” Gold said, grabbing Linda’s arm and joining the frenzied exodus.

“Which way?” Linda cried out above the growing banshee wail of the dying jetliner darkening the sky above them.

Damn good question,
Gold thought distractedly, looking around. They were close to the balustrade, but it was too late to try to escape by going
over the railing and onto the airfield,
toward
the likely crash point. And the walkways flanking the fountain were packed.

The fountain.

Gold looked at it, and then up at the falling jetliner. He guessed about thirty seconds to impact. He’d seen plenty of emergency
landings and crashes in his Air Force career; he’d been in the driver’s seat during a few of them. He now used that experience
to judge the falling 600’s angle of approach, calculating that the bird would hit the runway about a hundred yards from the
viewing area.

“The fountain’s our only chance!” he yelled to Linda over the engines’ growing racket, pulling her along as they began the
hundred-foot dash to the concrete basin. Halfway there Gold, looked over his shoulder and saw the GC-600 hit.

The 120-foot-long jetliner impacted approximately where he’d guessed it would. It hit with its nose angled toward the viewing
area, its wings perpendicular to the ground. There was a horrific sound like pealing thunder as the plane hit and bounced,
and then there was the sound of fingernails clawing at a blackboard amplified thousands of times over as the jetliner cartwheeled,
shedding debris in a cloud of smoke and fire. Both wings sheared off, to glide like scythes along the now oil-fire-splattered
tarmac. Gold saw the 600’s fuselage crumple like a beer can.
Ken,
he thought,
and Dave Wentworth, the copilot…
. But there was no way anybody or anything could have lived through that crash.