The Fly Boys (11 page)

“Of course,” Gold said, thinking back to 1925 and the crash of his German-built, Spatz F-5a airliner. That crash killed ten
people and the attendant bad publicity almost killed his fledgling air transport company. And then there was the 1931 Fokker
Trimotor crash that killed Knute Rockne, among others, and caused the grounding of all Fokkers, and a tremendous, thankfully
temporary, public backlash against air travel.

“We intend to overbuild the Starstreak,” Luddy said, tamping his pipe. “We want to promote her as the most vigorously tested
aircraft in history. Obviously that’s going to require tremendous financial resources. The British government will help with
that to some degree, but we’d very much like GAT assisting.”

“You’re looking for investment capital?” Gold asked.

“We do want your money,” Luddy began, “but we also want your expertise.” He paused to strike a match and get his pipe going.
“Virtually all of Stoat-Black’s design experience has been in building military aircraft. We’ve learned a great deal during
the time we spent assembling your Monarchs, but we don’t pretend to have GAT’s experience in constructing commercial airliners,”
he finished, exhaling smoke.

Gold nodded, trying hard not to let it show that he was smarting over the fact that Luddy was lauding GAT’s talent at
constructing
, not
designing
airliners. “I need some time to go over these specs before I can give you an answer about whether GAT wants to buy in. And
I’ll need to bring other people into the decision-making process. Teddy Quinn, for example.”

“Of course, Herman,” Luddy said. He closed the manila folder, removed a large brown clasp envelope from a desk drawer, and
slipped the folder inside. “This set of plans is yours to take home with you to California.” He handed it to Herman. “Study
it at your leisure. I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you. I only ask that you, and any of your staff you may consult
with, respect our secrecy concerning the Starstreak project.”

“I understand,” Gold said. “Thank you for offering GAT the opportunity to consider coming into a partnership with you,” Gold
said.

“No thanks are necessary, Herman. GAT helped put Stoat-Black on the map, and now it’s time for us to return the favor.”

Meaning you think GAT is a has-been
, Gold thought. Luddy, wreathed in an aromatic, blue pipe smoke, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’ll think very seriously
about this,” Gold told him.

“You do that, lad. But just so there’s no misunderstanding, let me say one last thing.” Luddy grew very serious. “It would
be grand to have your experts—and funding—but we mean to proceed with the Starstreak, with or without your help.”

“I understand the situation.”

“Do you?” Luddy persisted, looking quizzical. “We’re old friends, so I know you won’t take it amiss when I say that it’s no
secret that GAT has fallen flat with its own jet fighter project,” Luddy confided as he walked Gold to the door.

“Hugh, it’s a temporary setback—” Gold started to protest.

“Herman! You don’t need to trot out the excuses for me!” Luddy patronized. “It’s a natural law, you see! What comes up must
come down! GAT has been enjoying grand success for many years now, but no one can forever remain king of the mountain. Now
it looks as if it’s going to be Stoat-Black’s turn to enjoy the view,” Luddy said smugly, patting Gold’s shoulder. “Lad, you
grab on to our coattails while you can.”

On his way back to London Gold stopped at a roadside pub for a bite to eat. Inside, the pub was all dark mahogany and polished
brass. Gold found a small table near the roaring fire and ordered a plowman’s lunch and a pint of ale.

He watched a dart game in progress between the locals while he ate. He tried to put it out of his mind, but he couldn’t help
thinking about what Luddy had intimated.

“
You’ve fallen flat on your face…. Your day has passed…. GAT had better grab on to Stoat-Black’s coat-tails while it can
….”

At one time in the not very distant past, Luddy’s condescension would have infuriated him, but not these days. Truth was,
Gold found himself agreeing with Luddy. GAT
was
falling fast. His organization seemed to have run out of creativity, and ideas were the lifeblood of flourishing business.
How long had it been since he’d felt the enthusiasm—the
fire
—that had been in Luddy’s eyes when he’d been talking about the Starstreak?

Gold couldn’t help thinking that the way things looked now, it was only a matter of time until GAT did scrape bottom, unless
this Starstreak deal served to somewhat break the fall.

And that wasn’t just
his
opinion….

Gold nursed what remained of his ale as he thought about the last letter he and Erica had received from Steven. The kid was
doing really well. In the past few months, Steven’s squadron had taken part in the invasions of Bougainville and the Green
Islands, helping the Navy and the Marines to close the ring around Rabaul. Steven was now better than a double ace, with twelve
kills to his credit. Hell, three more and he’d be a
triple
, Gold thought, proud of his son.

He wondered if Steven was destined to best his own score in the First World War? Gold had twenty confirmed kills to his credit.
He hoped Steven did better.
Let him stay alive to best me
, Gold thought, rapping his knuckles against the worn, varnished tabletop to insure Steven’s good luck. It could only be a
pleasure to have his record broken by his son.

Thinking about it, it puzzled Gold that with such a high score, Steven was still only a first lieutenant. He’d heard that
promotions came fast to successful combat pilots. Gold also wondered why his son never mentioned any buddies he might have
made.

But then, his son had always been a loner, Gold mused. A certain amount of that was good—it showed independence—but too much
was bad. A fighter pilot needed friends to protect his back during combat, and to help him blow off tension between the battles.

What most stuck in Gold’s mind from his son’s last letter home was how Steven had raved about his Thunderbolt fighter. The
kid had written that he’d wished Gold could fly the plane in order to experience its raw power. In his letter Steven had wondered
why GAT wasn’t building them like that.

Gold had hidden it from Erica, but God, how it had hurt to have his own son ask such a thing. Gold could read between the
lines. What Steven was saying was that he thought GAT
couldn’t
build a fighter that good.

Gold paid his bill and left the pub. He got back into the MG and continued on to London. He felt listless and discouraged,
sick at heart and almost unwilling to try anymore for fear of suffering further humiliating failure. There was a knack to
success. Gold couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion that his knack had been lost.

Gold was going to have to face the reality of his situation. GAT might well survive the immediate future by hanging on to
Stoat-Black’s coattails, but it looked as if times had changed.

It looked as if times had passed him by.

It was around nine that night when Steven Gold, feeling restless, left his tent to go for a walk. It was a beautiful evening.
A refreshing sea breeze had blown away the gnats and banished the clouds, revealing a vast array of stars flying escort for
a fat crescent of pink moon.

There were no runway lights on Santa Belle, and the carriage-mounted searchlights set up to guide AA fire in case of a Jap
air attack had never been used. The occasional lantern spilled lemony light through a partially open tent flap, and here and
there a passerby’s cigarette tip glowed cherry red, but mostly there was only the silvery starlight and the pastel glow of
the tropical moon.

As Steve walked, he thought back on all the action the squadron had seen. Months ago he’d celebrated his twentieth birthday
by shooting down a “Val” dive bomber off Bougainville. That had been his tenth kill. Since then he’d shot down two more Japs—both
of them Zekes—during the struggle to conquer the peripheral island enemy bases that ringed the main Jap base at Rabaul. That
enemy stronghold had been isolated, making an actual invasion unnecessary. Word had come down from the brass that the stranded
enemy forces on Rabaul would be left to wither on the vine.

Around March, things had begun to quiet down. The daily air patrols had become milk runs. The opinion was that the Japs bottled
up on Rabaul and the other pestholes in this part of the world had no airplanes left, and that the fighter squadrons on Santa
Belle were just marking time until the brass decided what to do with them.

Steve hoped that the brass would decide soon. He needed action; needed it the way a hophead needed dope. Combat absorbed all
of his energy and concentration. It made his problems go away.

He stopped walking, to listen to the distant, soothing crash of waves against the shore and the rhythmic sawing of the nocturnal
insects. The sounds of nature played counterpoint to the low murmur of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter carrying across
the quiet dark compound.

The noise was coming from Cappy’s big tent, where the squadron’s nightly poker game was going on. Steve approached the tent,
and watched silently from the shadows just beyond the outer reach of the light spilling out from the gathering. The tent looked
crowded, as if all the pilots were in there. The men’s silhouettes loomed larger than life through the lit canvas interior.

He backed off, away from the circle of light, and continued walking beyond the Army encampment, into the larger, Marine portion
of the base. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets, a lit cigarette stuck between his lips.

He’d guessed that it was that stupid confrontation with Detkin that was to blame. He’d replayed that damn October day countless
times while lying on his cot, tossing and turning his way through the sweltering, sleepless nights. Right now, as he listened
to the waves, he could again taste the sweet triumph of chasing down those four Marine Corsairs, and his bitter anger as he
watched Detkin steal his last “kill.”

Later that same day, Steve and the rest of the squadron had assembled in the ops-ready room to view his—and Detkin’s—gun camera
film. Everyone had enjoyed a good laugh over the way Steve had waxed the three Corsairs, and Cappy had promised to send the
film over to Marine Group HQ, just to rub a little salt into the webfoots’ blistered tails.

The guys in the squadron had gone through the motions of congratulating Steve, but by then the news about how Steve had slugged
Detkin had gotten around. Maybe if he’d taken the lecture Cappy had given him to heart and apologized to Detkin right away
things would have turned out differently, but at the same time Steve was still all puffed up with righteous rage over the
“theft” of his kill.

So he’d never apologized, and the breach with the rest of the squadron was never properly healed. Now that breach was like
the scar tissue puckered around that old bullet wound in his leg: it would always be slightly painful to the touch, and it
would never completely go away.

Steve lit another cigarette, amused and a little disturbed by the way his fingers were trembling as he brought up his lighter.
Hell, by now he ought to be used to being a loner. What the hell did he need friends for? Friends were just a liability in
his line of work.

“
Back off, you guys—
”

“
Fuck you, pal! You’re not going anywhere!
”

The angry shouts distracted Steve from his brooding thoughts. They were coming from behind Polly’s Pit, the Marine officers’
club. A bunch of Marines were congregated out in front, drinking and making a lot of noise on their own, but the shouts that
had caught Steve’s attention were coming from around the back, where it was dark. Steve thought he could see some people milling
around back there among the shadows and the garbage cans, but he was too far away to make out anything more than vague shapes
in the dark.

He sure as hell wasn’t going any closer. It was one thing to take a stroll around the base, something else entirely to try
and barge into a webfoot watering hole. Cappy had put the club off-limits—needlessly, because any Army man with half a brain
knew enough to give the Pit a wide berth. Steve was turning to head back the way he’d come when the shouting began again.

“I said take your hands of me, you
putz
!”

Putz?
Steve stopped in his tracks.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” another voice demanded from behind the building. “And what are you gonna do about it
anyway if I
don’t
get my hands off you, you asshole?”

“I’ll kick your Marine ass right now.”

Steve, crouched low, began to move toward the confrontation. As he got closer he could see four guys—by their uniforms he
could tell that they were Marine pilots—in a semicircle around one guy who had his back up against the wall. The cornered
guy was rocking on the balls of his feet, nervously shifting his position as if he was considering trying to make a run for
it, which was a smart idea, considering the odds he was facing. A shaft of moonlight fell on the guy’s face.

It was Detkin, all right.

What the hell do I do now?
Steve wondered. He was only a few feet away, but he was hidden by the darkness. He was crouched behind a parked truck, peering
over the hood like Kilroy in the drawing.

He wasn’t wearing his gun. The island had been cleared of Japanese some time ago, so the general order requiring Army personnel
to wear sidearms had been lifted. Not that he would have flashed a pistol if he’d had one. The Marines and the Army were
supposed
to be on the same side, for chrissake.

Steve watched as Detkin abruptly tried to run. One of the Marines stepped into his path and punched him in the stomach.