Trophy for Eagles (45 page)

Despite the usual strain of building a prototype—parts that don't
come in on schedule, drawings that don't get changed so that other
parts don't fit, totally unforeseen problems in routing of controls and
cables, the whole complex of things that could go wrong going wrong—Bandfield drew strength from little niceties that counted. The windows in the old Smith plant were positioned exactly right for the natural illumination of his drafting table. There was a small
but eager and efficient staff already on board, like Grace Davisson,
who had moved from secretary to office manager three weeks after she was hired. She had taken an enormous load from his shoulders,
running everything with a cheerful efficiency that automatically picked up his morale.

And there were big things as well, the most important being the bank's establishing a strong line of credit for them, based on the
acceptance of their preliminary design by the Air Corps. Design acceptance was a long way from winning a competition and signing
a contract, and Bandy suspected that Howard Hughes might have had a hand in influencing the bank to lend him the money.

He sat rubbing a pencil back and forth between his palms. All the things he enjoyed, all the work he did, were poor palliatives for the
loneliness that gnawed at him. His dreams—night dreams and
daydreams—had changed subtly in the last year. He still dreamed of
Millie, but now her face was that of Patty Dompnier. It was totally
stupid. Howard had more leftover women than the average man could use, and he was always willing to fix Bandfield up. He had gone out a few times, even found himself tumbling happily in bed with some of them, but nothing permanent had developed. He was looking for someone who didn't exist—Millie—and someone he couldn't have—Patty. Or could he?

Maybe it was just a defense mechanism, an excuse to stay single and avoid the responsibilities of marriage. It didn't matter much: for
whatever reason he was desperately lonely.

Even as he thought of Patty, Bandfield was uncomfortably aware
that his heart had picked up the trip-hammer rhythm of the riveting
machines outside, wondering what she was doing. It had been eight
months. How long did young women mourn nowadays? Could she be seeing someone else already?

He shrugged the thoughts away. He had more than three strikes against him. She surely must resent his having won the race in which her husband had died. And then there was Hafner! How
could he even think of courting the stepdaughter of a man he hated,
and a dangerous business rival at that!

He went back to work, wondering what Howard's plans were for
the evening. Maybe he'd have a spare.

*

Wright Field, Ohio/June 15, 1933

Wright Field had quite by chance turned into one of those blessed anomalies, a military base where civilian scientists and military
officers worked in almost perfect harmony. Their activities had the extraordinary benefit of being considered too complicated for in
vestigation by Congress, which in large measure gave the appropria
tions and didn't attempt to manage the programs. The result was a fertile hothouse of innovation, where manufacturers, inventors, geniuses, and crackpots all intermixed to create new and better aircraft. England had a direct counterpart at Farnborough, and France, to a lesser extent, at Villacoublay, but there was probably nowhere else in the world where science, business, politics, and service matters melded together in so efficient a manner.

There were plenty of fights, ranging from polite arguments to
fist-slinging brawls, and the test pilots were often prima donnas, jockeying to get the most record flights. But the combined effect of
tradition and the great good fortune of having several excellent
commanders in a row made the place work. It even made it possible
for flamboyant showmen like Bruno Hafner to be tolerated.

Hafner Aircraft was there for the bomber competition, but Bruno
had pulled off an unprecedented stunt. He had flown the bomber in
himself; on its right wing was the new transport, flown by Dusty
Rhoades. There had been rumors at Wright Field about the transport, but the big surprise came with the third plane in the formation, a beautiful low-wing amphibian racer. Charlotte Hafner had flown it from Long Island in record-setting time, climaxing the trip
by arriving precisely as the two larger planes appeared over Wright
Field and doing a barrel roll around them before joining them in formation.

The inevitable result was a complete scoop for Hafner in the local
newspapers and the wire services. The Wright Field brass, who liked
to keep the competitions as low-key as possible, were furious, but
said nothing. Charlotte, legs crossed and the top two buttons of her
blouse unbuttoned, was sitting on the wing of the amphibian, holding court for a flock of reporters, half blind from the flash cameras but loving every minute of it.

It didn't make the Air Corps feel any better when Hafner announced the humiliating fact that both the bomber and the amphib
ian were faster than the hottest Army plane at the station, a Boeing P-26 pursuit. This was headline material, particularly when a blond
"It" girl was doing the most spectacular flying. Then as a throwaway
line, Charlotte commented that the transport was "only just as fast as the P-26"; it was frosting on the cake for the reporters, hemlock for the Army.

Yet they couldn't deny the scope of Hafner's accomplishments,
and the German ace was jovially expansive as he led Major Henry
Caldwell's troupe of grim and tight-lipped engineers around.

Hafner, his face a broad grin, was shouting his familiar chorus,
boasting, "I've more goddam Russians working for me than Stalin. Every time Sikorsky loses a contract, another dozen show up at the door. I'm going to have to start borrowing his samovars to keep up
with the demand."

Charlotte wondered if anyone had noticed the difference in Hafner's appearance. For years he'd worn the Teutonic skinned-sideburn haircut that had been stylish in his cadet school. Then one
evening at the movies, watching
The Dawn Patrol
(he loved it when
the Germans won at the end), he rebelled at the sight of a captured German officer wearing the same style haircut. He had let his hair grow and then gone to see "Arlie the Barber" in Manhattan for a conventional haircut.

It went well with his new corporate manner. He had intensified his supervision when he returned to New Jersey, and had submerged himself in the project for the last few weeks. Charlotte tagged along behind the group, talking to Dusty Rhoades, but listening to Hafner with cynical admiration. The business in France
was booming—a good way to put it, since they were selling guns—
and Bruno was going back and forth to Europe regularly while still keeping close tabs on everything in the States. There was no doubt
that he was in charge. His technique was to delegate important projects to people he trusted for a while, then return and take them
over himself again. Spreading himself thin enabled him to get a lot
done, but it was disruptive and hard on morale. It was especially difficult for Armand Bineau, who didn't mind taking instructions,
but hated Hafner's going around him directly to the engineering and
production staff.

After the preliminary inspection, the stone-faced Army officers
were obviously impressed, even as Caldwell saw to it that they were
arm's-length formal.

"We're not in a position to evaluate any aircraft but the bomber, Mr. Hafner. Other manufacturers might think you were gaining a competitive advantage."

"I understand, Major. But I invited a few friends down to see them—airline presidents like Eddie Rickenbacker, C. R. Smith, Patterson, Ted Mahew, Trippe, a few others. I hope you don't mind."

Caldwell turned several shades darker red. His voice was tight and
compressed when he said, "It's highly irregular, Mr. Hafner, but so is almost everything you do." Struggling to end on a graceful
note, he added, "They are all friends of ours, so we'll be glad to see
them."

A hundred yards away, Hadley Roget and Bandy stood under the
wing of their Roget Raider bomber.

"My God, Hadley, Hafner's airplane looks just like your design—
the same big fat belly."

"It sure does. Let's hope you were right on what the Army wants
and I was wrong."

"How in hell did they pull off three airplanes? We busted our butts to get one done on time."

"Well, the transport's just the bomber with a different fuselage. But the amphibian is really something, with that funny gear. I'm going to nose around and find out how they did it."

Caldwell waved them over to his group. "I believe everyone is
acquainted?" They all shook hands except Hafner and Bandy, who didn't even nod to each other.

"Since you're all friends, I'm sure you want to look at each other's
products. We'll meet you in base operations in half an hour, and we'll go to the officers' club for lunch." Caldwell marched rapidly
off to get ratification from Washington on his handling of Hafner's
three-airplane ploy.

Dayton's deadly dullness was reinforced by a savage early blast of
Midwestern heat. The sweat-dampened days passed quickly enough
as they stayed with the Army inspectors doing their precompetition inspection of the aircraft. The planes were measured, weighed, and photographed while the plans were pored over in brightly lit con
ference rooms.

The humid nights, sullen with the soiled heat bounced back from
street and building, were endless. Work ended promptly at four-thirty, leaving a lot of time to clean up, dress, and eat. Once the local movies had been exhausted, there was not much to do but drink.

After the opening lunch, the Army personnel stayed away from
the contractors entirely, not wanting even to have a cup of coffee in
private, for fear of someone's complaining about a competitive advantage. Protocol called for the two companies to maintain a friendly but distant relationship. There was very little mixing between the Roget and Hafner people until Wednesday night in the dining room of the Van Gleve Hotel, when Bandfield found Charlotte sitting with Patty at dinner.

He stepped back behind one of the marble columns of the entrance as he debated whether or not to go over to them. He found
himself staring at Charlotte, avoiding looking at Patty the way as a
child he had saved the best morsel of food for last.

Charlotte was no longer as slender and didn't seem to pay the same attention to her appearance, but she was somehow even
better-looking, having a composure and a serenity he'd never seen in her before.

A narrowing of vision and a constriction in his throat told him
he'd better breathe again. He did, shifting his gaze to Patty, who was
even more beautiful than he had remembered, the golden glow of
her skin set off by her simple white linen dress. She wore a single strand of pearls. She was obviously talking about a serious subject,
for she was alternately staring at her plate and glancing quickly up into her mother's eyes, while her fingers tapped against the side of her glass.

He walked over and said hello. Both women jumped up, genuinely pleased to see him.

"I just wanted to say how sympathetic all of us were to your loss."

Patty nodded, thanking him with equal formality. "It was a great tragedy for us all, and for aviation. Stephan was a wonderful pilot."

Breaking the awkward silence, he asked Patty, "Did you fly out?"

"No, I'm ashamed to say I took the good old Baltimore and Ohio.
I had a lot of paperwork to do."

Charlotte beamed at them. "Bruno keeps her busy. He's been
spending a lot of time on the arms business, going back and forth to
France."

"Yes, he keeps me busy at everything but flying."

Bandfield tried to judge what the tone of her voice meant. She
obviously wasn't angry with her mother, but her comments were tart
and tense.

"Will you be doing any of the demonstration work?"

"No, that's what I was just complaining about. Bruno says it would dilute the impact Mother has on the press if we both flew."

Charlotte excused herself to go to the powder room.

Patty reached over and squeezed his arm. "Bandy, I'm so glad to see you. I wanted to get in touch with you, but just didn't know how
to go about it."

"Really?"

"I want to ask you a favor."

Bandfield knew that if souls had eyes, his had just rolled them
heavenward.

"Shoot."