The Fly Boys (39 page)

“I’ll stretch out here for a few hours,” Teddy promised.

“Please see that you do,” Gold implored. “I’ll see you in the office at the regular time.”

“If I’m asleep, don’t wake me,” Teddy joked, and hung up.

Gold hung up the telephone. He felt wide awake. He sat up and swung his feet out of the bed, sliding them into his slippers.

“Where are you going?” Erica asked.

“Downstairs,” Gold said, pulling on a burgundy velour robe. “I’m up, but I don’t want to disturb you.”

Erica, looking at him, shrugged and began getting out of bed. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

“It’s been one hell of a month for the aircraft industry,” Gold said as he sipped his coffee.

He was sitting at the marble-topped, wrought-iron table in the tiled kitchen. The kitchen was dimly lit. The only light was
from the recessed fixture above the double sink.

“First Circle Airline is grounded due to its pilots going on strike,” he muttered. “And then that Trans-Way airliner goes
down over Africa….”

“And now this,” Erica sighed. She had her back to Gold as she rummaged through the cabinets. “I know there are some cookies
somewhere if I can just figure out where Ramona put them.”

Gold watched as Erica took down a tin, opened it, and began to put some cookies on a plate. She was wearing a short-sleeved
ivory-colored silk robe over her nightgown. For a while now she’d been wearing her blonde hair cut into a mass of short curls
that she said was called a poodle clip. The youthful haircut, combined with her trim figure, made her look a decade younger
than her fifty-one years.

“What will Stoat-Black do?” Erica asked as she brought the plate of cookies over to the table and sat down.

“The only thing they can,” Gold said. He began nibbling on a cookie. “They’ve got to cooperate fully with the British government
and the European airlines in an investigation.”

“Do you think there’s something intrinsically wrong with the SB-100?” she asked as she added a dollop of cream to her coffee.

“A few months ago I would have said no,” Gold replied, taking another cookie. “I would have told you that it had to be pilot
error. Now I just don’t know what to think. Neither do the European airlines, nor Stoat-Black, I would imagine, and that’s
why they’ve moved so quickly to ground the Star-streaks.” He shrugged. “When you look at the total picture, it’s just overwhelming.
The first Starstreaks went into service in Europe in April of last year. Within six months there were two serious accidents,
but both of them occurred on takeoff and were attributable to pilot error. Takeoff procedures were modified, and everything
seemed back to normal. Then, a couple of months later, while supposedly flying high
above
a storm, a Starstreak went down over the North Atlantic. That was considered a mysterious but not totally implausible accident.”

“Because of the storm,” Erica said.

“Right,” Gold nodded. “All airplanes are vulnerable in bad weather, but now there’s
this
accident,” Gold said. “From what Teddy told me, it suspiciously resembles the last one, except that this time there’s no
bad weather to blame. This has got to cast doubt on wheather bad weather was truly responsible for knocking down that Starstreak
over the North Atlantic.” He shook his head in anger and disgust. “Whatever the hell is happening, until the authorities can
nail it down, they’ve got to keep those planes on the ground.”

“Don’t become so upset about it,” Erica said. “It’s not your problem—”

“I’m in the airplane business,” Gold cut her off impatiently, grabbing another cookie and stuffing it into his mouth. “So
it
is
my problem,” he managed with his mouth full. “In this business, whenever something terrible happens —to me or one of my competitors—it
only serves to undermine the public’s confidence in aviation, and that hurts everyone in the industry!”

“But—” Erica tried to interrupt.

“But, nothing!” Gold snapped at her. “You asked me so I’m
telling
you. Be quiet and
listen
. Jets are new to the public, and when something is new people are naturally wary of it. Stoat-Black anticipated that problem
by marketing their jetliner as the most safety-tested airplane in history, and the public—in Europe, at least—believed it.
Now that the supposedly fail-safe Starstreak has been taken out of service due to its annoying habit of falling out of the
sky, how do you think the public is going to react when GAT eventually unveils the GC-909?”

“I understand all that,” Erica said coolly. “What I don’t understand is why you’re yelling at me.”

Gold leaned back in his chair, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I guess I’m upset, and you know me….”

“That I do,” she said wryly.

“When I get this way I need to blow off steam.”

“And eat,” Erica added, eyeing the empty cookie plate.

“And eat,” Gold acknowledged as Erica got up to refill the plate.

“I accept your apology,” she smiled. “But
I’m
a little upset, too.”

“About what?” he asked as she sat back down.

“About
you
,” she declared firmly. “I hate to see you get this worked up. You’ve only just started to calm down since that incident concerning
Steven.”

Gold held up his hand in warning. “Don’t even bring that up now,” he grumbled. “It’s been months since he made me a laughing
stock, and the needling I’ve had to take on account of it has just begun to die down.”

“Oh, Herman—”

“Don’t ‘Oh, Herman’ me,” he frowned, reaching for a cookie. “About Steven I have a right to be upset! I still can’t believe
how my own son could stab me in the back. It was in the newspapers and newsmagazines, on the radio and the television: ‘Fighter
pilot voices lack of confidence in father’s aircraft design.’”

“Herman, you know very well that you started it with that speech.”

“I started it, all right. But not with the speech,” he said sourly. “I started it twenty-seven years ago, when I didn’t wear
a rubber.”

“Herman!” Erica gasped, looking appalled. Gold winked at her, and she giggled.

Gold, smirking, reached for another cookie. Erica smacked his hand away.

“No more for you,” she said, sliding the plate to her side of the table. “You’re cut off. I think all that sugar has affected
your brain.”

“Oh, you know I was just kidding,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve got nothing to be upset about anymore,” he grinned broadly. “I’ve
been proven right.
Stevie’s
the one who’s got egg on his face now.”

Back in November the Red Chinese had gotten into the fighting in Korea, just as Gold had predicted. That same month MiG-15s
had appeared in the sky. The F-80 Shooting Star pilots who had tangled with the MiGs had scored some kills, but they were
quick to admit that their airplanes were outclassed by the Soviet-built swept-wing fighters.

And then, in December, the first BroadSwords had gone into action against the MiGs, with excellent results. Now, according
to Gold’s contacts in Washington, the biggest news out of Korea—next to the fact that the Soviets had called for negotiations
on a cease-fire—was that all F-80–equipped squadrons had been pretty much relegated to ground support and bombing missions.
Unless they were attacked, they were to leave the dogfighting to the Broad-Swords.

“You know what bothers me almost more than Stevie’s betrayal?” Gold began. “Since December he’s written home many times. He
even called us from Japan that weekend he was on leave. He had all those chances, and not once did he mention his betrayal
of GAT, let alone apologize. I don’t mind that my son should disagree with me, but I am disappointed that he’s not man enough
to admit when he’s wrong.”

“Oh, Herman,” Erica laughed affectionately, “that’s the biggest crock you’ve handed me in years.”

“No, it isn’t,” Gold said sincerely.

“I just don’t believe you have the gall to look me in the eye and lie like that, Herman Gold! You claiming that you don’t
mind that your son disagrees with you. What a crock!”

He glanced at the clock on the wall above the stove. It was almost six; time to get ready for the office. He stood and stretched.
“Erica, I don’t know whether you’ll believe it or not, but I think something’s changed inside of me. I don’t want to fight
with Stevie anymore. I can’t. It’s his life, I’m ready to admit that. He can and
should
lead it the way he wants.”

“I believe we have a breakthrough here,” Erica teased. “That almost sounded emotionally mature.”

Gold made a face. “I just wish my son could be as mature. Honey, he should have apologized to me for what he did.”

“You’ll pardon me for pointing this out to you,” Erica said gently, “but it’s taken you fifty-three years to become this mature.
Your son is only twenty-seven. However, I’m still gratified concerning your progress.” She slid the cookie plate toward him.
“You may have a cookie.”

Gold got into the office a little before nine, before any of his secretaries were due in, and immediately telephoned downstairs
to check in with Teddy.

The telephone rang several times before it was picked up. “R&D,” answered a male voice.

“This is Herman Gold—”

“Yes, sir! This is Renolds, sir.”

Gold vaguely remembered that Renolds was an engineer, but he couldn’t picture the man. Not surprising. Renolds was a junior
member of the team, and for some years now the weekly R&D progress meeting that Gold attended had been restricted to personnel
at the project-manager level or higher.

“Mr. Quinn’s secretary isn’t at her desk yet.”

Gold knew as much. His daughter was taking her own car to work these days because she had to leave later in order to have
time to get her son, Robert, now nine years old, ready for school.

“Shall I have Mrs. Greene call your office when she gets in?” Renolds asked.

Gold remembered that Suzy wasn’t going to be in at all today. She had some sort of parents-teachers conference to attend at
Robert’s school. The personnel department would be assigning Teddy a floater for the day.

Gold wondered if Renolds knew who Suzy really was? Likely not. Suzy used her married name, and while Erica had suggested to
Teddy that he spread it around that Suzy was widowed, and hence available, she had also warned him against intimidating any
possible suitors by revealing that she was the boss’s daughter. Suzy liked going along with the pretense, even going so far
as to call him ‘Mr. Gold’ when others could hear. Like Stevie, she clearly wanted people to accept her on her own terms, not
because of who her father was.

“Is Mr. Quinn available?” Gold asked.

“Sir, I think he’s in his office,” Renolds began reluctantly. “But he’s got his sign up.”

Gold smiled. More then one young engineer had been blistered for ignoring Teddy’s hand-lettered “Do
Not
Disturb” sign when it was taped to his office door. It meant that Teddy was either working or sleeping. Gold hoped it was
the latter, but either way he knew better than to send poor Renolds into the dragon’s lair.

“Well, then we’d better leave Mr. Quinn be,” Gold said.

“Yes, sir,” Renolds replied, sounding extremely relieved.

“Leave a message for Mr. Quinn’s secretary to have him call me when he can.”

That morning things got busy very quickly, and it was close to eleven before Gold remembered that he’d not yet heard from
Teddy.

That was unusual, Gold thought. He and his chief engineer routinely touched bases several times a day.

He was about to call downstairs again when a secretary buzzed him to say, “Mr. Campbell on line three, sir.”

“Tim Campbell?” Gold asked, surprised.

“I don’t know, sir. I’ll check—”

“No, that’s all right,” Gold stopped her. “I’ll take it.” He picked up the receiver and stabbed the flickering button. “Tim?”

“Hello, Herman,” Campbell said. “How are you?”

“Uh… fine, Tim,” Gold said.

Campbell laughed. “Surprised to hear from me, huh?”

“Well, it has been some time since we’ve talked,” Gold replied.

He occasionally ran into Campbell socially, but couldn’t remember the last time either man had intentionally looked up the
other.

“I don’t want to beat around the bush, Herman,” Campbell said. “Amalgamated-Landis is going to issue a press release today.
I felt that in consideration of our prior history together I should telephone to give you the news personally.”

In other words, you want to gloat
, Gold thought, smiling. “Okay, Tim,” he said indulgently. “What’s your news?”

“Just that Amalgamated is offering up to the airlines a commercial jetliner of its own: the AL-12.”

Son of a bitch
, Gold thought.

“Kind of an unfortunate day to be announcing a new airplane, Timmy,” Gold said pleasantly. “Or haven’t you heard about the
SB-100 crash?”

“Sure, I heard about it,” Campbell said. “But as far as I’m concerned it’s good news. I’m no hypocrite, Herman. You won’t
find me crying alligator tears over the fact that the guy ahead of me in a road race just tripped and broke his leg.”

“The public—” Gold began.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Campbell interrupted. “That the public’s confidence has been shaken. Well, fuck the public,”
he said. “Since when did John Q. Public go shopping for a fucking airliner? The public doesn’t buy airplanes,
airlines do
, and now that Stoat-Black’s wings have been clipped, the airlines have nowhere else to turn but to Amalgamated-Landis.”

“Excuse me, Tim, but there is the slight matter of the GC-909.”

“‘Slight matter’ is right,” Campbell scoffed.

Gold forced himself to control his temper. “Laugh if you want, Tim, but the airlines are behind my project.”

“Yeah? Then how come three months ago every airline who’d seen your presentation sent a representative to Amalgamated’s offices
to beg
us
to take a crack at designing a jetliner?”