The Fly Boys (43 page)

“That part is true,” Steve said earnestly. “I think he got shook when he saw how good those commie pilots were.” Steve frowned.
“I’ve got to say, Colonel, I got a little shook over that, as well. I’d heard that the North Korean pilots were green. But
those guys knew all the tricks of the trade.”

“Yeah, well…” Billings trailed off, looking hesitant.

“What?” Steve demanded, perking up. “Come on, Colonel. You look like you know something.”

“I do.”

“Then spill—”

“Ah, what the hell, Billings began, lowering his voice. “You came clean with me, and now I’ll return the favor. You weren’t
flying against North Koreans; you were flying against Russians.”

“Holy shit—” Steve gasped. “How do you know that?”

“This is still restricted info, Major,” Billings warned.

“I’ll keep my trap shut, sir, no problem,” Steve swore. “But please, I need to know.”

“Okay. CIA reports have it that the Soviets have started to use this war as a training school for their fighter pilots.”

“And so you think those two we tangled with were Russians?”

“I don’t think,” Billings replied. “I
know
. When you told me how well those two MiGs handled themselves, I got suspicious, so I sent along your description of their
markings to a friend of mine who’s in a position to know about such matters. He confirmed to me that those markings belong
to a crack squadron made up of Soviet aces from the last war.”

“Damn, that explains a lot,” Steve said. He thought back on how the pilot in that lightning bolt MiG had shown such determined
concentration, refusing to be distracted as he finished off DeAngelo.

“You and Mike were up against the best the commies have got,” Billings said. “You bested your opponent, and DeAngelo might
have, if only he hadn’t lost his nerve.”

“That’s being too hard on Mike,” Steve protested.

“Here’s how I see it,” Billings said, cutting him off. “There are two separate issues here. Yes, you were wrong to engage
those MiGs in the first place, but once you had, DeAngelo was wrong to cut and run the way he did. He was a trained fighter
pilot, and losing his nerve like that, well…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “A fighter jock who turns pussy in a dogfight
has got to be considered responsible for his own death.”

“I still got him into that mess, Colonel.”

Billings nodded. “Like I said, two separate issues. Yes, you broke a reg, but there’s precedent for me to look the other way
if one of my tigers shows a little too much initiative. No other F-80 pilot has been disciplined for tangling with a MiG,
so neither will you be. As far as the Air Force is concerned, the matter is closed.”

“And I get off scot-free,” Steve said softly.

“No, you don’t,” Billings said.

“How’s that?”

“Just look at yourself,” Billings demanded. “You’re putting yourself through worse hell than anything the Air Force could
do to you. You’ve got your own conscience to deal with, son. Something tells me that no matter where you go, or what you do,
Lieutenant Mike DeAngelo will be flying off your wing for some time to come.”

Steve, nodding, put his hand up to his eyes. “What am I going to do?” he implored softly. “I can’t sleep. I close my eyes
and I see him. I see him in that photo he used to carry around. The one where he’s with his wife and kids.”

“Listen now, Major,” Billings said. “Just remember that you’re human, and that you’re allowed to make a mistake now and then,
just like anyone else. It isn’t your fault that circumstances have put you in a place where those mistakes can cost lives.”
He paused. “As for what happened concerning DeAngelo, that’ll ease some over time.” He sighed. “That much I can tell you from
personal experience. As far as DeAngelo’s family is concerned, I think that it would be appropriate if you wrote them—”

“I couldn’t!” Steve protested, shaking his head.

“You can, and will,” Billings said sharply. “As a matter of fact, I’m ordering you to do it. I expect you to show some of
the same guts you showed against that MiG, and carry out that order.”

“What could I possibly say to them?” Steve began.

“Off the record, I suggest you lie to DeAngelo’s wife, Major. Make up some bullshit about how her husband died a hero. Give
her something she can hold on to, something she can maybe show his kids someday.”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded slowly. “I can do that.” He looked up at Billings. “He was a hero,” he said defiantly. “He could have
licked that MiG, but he just…” he trailed off. “He just got tired, I guess.”

“Yeah, you’ll put the right things into that letter,” Billings said. His stern expression softened. “And although you may
find this hard to believe, Major, writing that letter might even make
you
feel a little better.”

“I don’t care about me,” Steve said. “But that letter will go out today, sir.”

“All right, then.” Billings stood up.

“Wait a minute, Colonel,” Steve began. “There’s something
else
I can do to try and somehow make amends to Mikey. I can
kill MiGs
for him.”

“Look here, now,” Billings glowered, “I’ve kept your ass out of the fire this time, but from now on I expect you to leave
the MiGs to the BroadSword jockeys.”

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Steve said. “I need to be flying a BroadSword.”

Groaning, Billings sat back down. “You’re just going to have to be patient about that, Major. Chances are we’ll be switching
over to BroadSwords sooner or later.”

“Begging the colonel’s pardon, but the 19th has already earned itself a reputation as a crack fighter-bomber outfit, so chances
are we’ll get switched over to Thunderjets.”

“Possible, but—”

Steve shuddered. “Hell, they might even take away our F-80s and issue us refurbished Mustangs and new orders to fly ground-support
missions for the rest of the war!”

“That could happen, all right,” Billings admitted.

“Even if it doesn’t, even if the 19th is put on line for F-90s, it could take forever to get them. You know as well as I do
that we’re not getting all the BroadSwords we need due to our government’s commitment to NATO. The F-90s that
ought
to be here are being sent to Europe!”

“Careful, Major,” Billings smiled. “You’re starting to sound like MacArthur, and you
know
what happened to him.”

Steve smiled politely, but he was in no mood for jokes. “Sir, I respectfully request that you approve my request for a transfer
into an existing BroadSword unit, or a squadron immediately on line for the airplane.”

“It won’t happen,” Billings replied. “You’re not even trained to fly an F-90.”

“Training is no problem,” Steve said. “They’ve got mobile training units that can check out a pilot in less than a month.”

“This is certainly a turnaround for you, son,” Billings scowled. “I seem to remember that you made a few headlines when you
bad-mouthed your daddy’s airplane. I seem to remember that in your opinion the F-80 squadrons were going to single-handedly
keep Korea safe for democracy. Aren’t you sort of putting yourself in the position of eating crow?”

“I don’t care about me. All I care about is evening up the score for Mikey,” Steve said firmly. “If it takes flying a BroadSword
to do it, so be it.” He smiled thinly. “Who knows, Major? If I get to patrol MiG Alley, I might even be lucky enough to run
into a certain pilot who favors blue lightning bolts.”

“Major, I sympathize with you,” Billings said. “I really do. To be frank, I think you
ought
to be flying a BroadSword. Hell, any F-80 jockey who can knock down a MiG being flown by a Russian hotshot has got to be
a
born
fighter jock.”

“Then what’s the problem, Colonel?”

“The thing of it is, son, I’ll be glad to approve your request for a transfer, but I don’t think it’s going to cut much mustard
one way or the other. The bottom line is that every damned fighter jock and
his mother
wants to fly a Broad-Sword. I just don’t have the
clout
to get you transferred.”

Steve nodded, more to himself than to Billings. “That’s okay, Colonel. I know somebody who
does
….”

Gold was meeting in his office with the two engineers he’d come to rely on since Teddy Quinn’s death. The meeting was not
progressing smoothly.

It’s mostly my fault there’s so much tension between us
, Gold thought, feeling guilty. He knew that he was behaving impossibly toward the men he’d tapped to run things. He knew
it, but he couldn’t help it. He was just too filled with grief over losing Teddy, and could barely supress his rage toward
his old friend for deserting him.

There’d been a special chemistry from a friendship that had stretched over thirty years. They’d known each other’s quirks
and had been able to finish each other’s thoughts so that together they’d been more than the sum of their parts; together
there had been nothing they couldn’t make happen, and no problem that they couldn’t lick. Except for Erica, Gold couldn’t
think of anyone he needed more in this world.

But now Teddy was gone, and Gold felt lost.

“Herman, are you listening?” Ken Wilcox suddenly demanded, like a teacher zeroing in on an inattentive student.

“Um, pardon me?” Gold blinked away his dark reveries as he stared at Wilcox.

Wilcox was in his fifties. He had a long, thin face with a hawk’s beak of a nose and a brush cut and mustache the color of
iron filings. Wilcox was a first-rate engineer. He had a string of degrees from MIT, and had been Teddy’s departmental administrative
assistant, as well as the Broad-Sword project manager. He was also the most senior member of the R&D department, so he’d pretty
much expected to take over Teddy’s spot. At the time, Gold, who had been distraught and hadn’t any better ideas about filling
the vacancy, had been willing to oblige.

“I think you were a thousand miles away, Herman,” Wilcox declared hotly.

“Sorry about that,” Gold muttered, thinking that Wilcox had been exactly right, but was nevertheless a fool for saying it.

Gold had never really liked Wilcox. He thought he had, but these days Wilcox was definitely rubbing him the wrong way. Gold
disliked the way Wilcox sat perched on the edge of his chair, the way he kept his charcoal flannel–clad knees pressed together
and his report file on his lap like some old spinster. Wilcox was so compact and tidy, his necktie always perfectly knotted,
his shirts and suits and shoes all just so. He made Gold feel large and sloppy by comparison.

“The topic currently under discussion was the Air Force’s requested design modifications to the BroadSword,” Wilcox said crossly.

“Yes, of course,” Gold forced a smile.
Wilcox
, he thought,
you’ve got a face like a hatchet
. He picked up a pencil and began to doodle a hatchet on a legal pad.

“The Air Force wants a more powerful engine for the fighter, but Rogers & Simpson has said that will have to wait for a while,”
Wilcox continued. “Meanwhile, the Air Force has come up with a way to modify the BroadSword’s wing to improve its performance.”

Gold nodded. “I’ve already spoken to General Simon about it.” He glanced up at Wilcox and then added a brush cut and mustache
to the hatchet. “Howie’s R&D people in Dayton think that the new wing slat will reduce drag and increase high-altitude performance?”

“Our test evaluations concur,” Wilcox replied. “The modifications will make the BroadSword superior to the MiG in every way.”

“Howie also said that the Air Force has begun to retrofit the F-90s they already have,” Gold said.

“That’s correct.”

“All right, then,” Gold said. He scribbled over the doodle, and then tossed aside his pencil. “I want to get the specs on
the new wing design to all the companies who have subcontracted with us to build BroadSwords.”

Wilcox looked horrified. “Excuse me, but you don’t mean you want to make this new wing design a
running
modification?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Herman”—Wilcox shook his head in the manner of a man about to explain something to an idiot—”it’ll cost GAT a fortune if
they have to halt their production lines to retool.”

“I appreciate your concern about the budget,” Gold said, thinking that Wilcox lacked Teddy’s creative spark, but that he was
a good administrator and always careful with a dollar, like now. “Normally I would agree with you, Ken, but in this specific
instance there’s more at stake than profits. This is GAT’s finest hour. For the first time in history—maybe the
only
time—our country is in a war where our airmen are almost exclusively flying GAT-produced fighters.”

“That’s no reason to throw money away,” Wilcox began.

“Our boys in Korea are depending on us to supply them with the finest airplanes possible,” Gold said. “I don’t intend to let
them down.”

“Nevertheless, Herman, as chief engineer—”

“Excuse me, Ken, but you’re only
acting
chief engineer,” Gold snapped, and immediately regretted his harsh tone. Before he could say anything further, Wilcox had
jumped to his feet.

“These past five months I’ve taken a lot from you, Herman—”

Oh, shit
. Gold thought wearily. “Just sit down, Ken—”

“No! I’ve had it! I’ve taken all the insults I’m going to take! It’s been almost five months since Teddy died, and since I
took over there hasn’t been one thing I’ve done right as far as you’re concerned. You don’t want a replacement for Teddy,
you want a whipping boy. Well, I’m not it! I’m resigning from GAT, effective immediately.”

Gold watched, bemused, as Wilcox stormed out of the office.

“Feeling relieved?” Calvin Jennings suddenly asked, startling Gold. Jennings had been so quiet the last few minutes that Gold
had almost forgotten he was there.

Now Gold stared at him. Jennings was in his early forties. He was a dark-haired, dark-skinned native Californian with a bushy
black beard.