Top Gun (13 page)

Mr. Campbell nodded somberly. “Son, you asked me why I hate Herman Gold, and now I’m going to tell you. The bad blood came
about in 1933, after we’d been together seven years.” Mr. Campbell thumbed his chest. “Thanks to me, GAT come out of the Depression
tempered by the flames, stronger than ever and poised for even greater growth. You see, I understood that the key to the future
was to expand into the vacuum that had been left by so many smaller aviation firms that had gone under during the Depression.”

“But Mr. Gold refused to follow your strategy?” Layten asked.

“He refused, and we quarreled,” Mr. Campbell replied. “But I always managed to win our arguments. You see, Herman was a genius
and a risk taker when it came to designing and building his airplanes, but he was a timid old lady when it came to spending
money on anything
but
aviation research and design. Herman didn’t understand finances. He called what I did money mumbo-jumbo.” Mr. Campbell’s
fists clenched. “Can you beat that, son? Can you imagine my hurt and insult when he said that to
me,
the man who’d saved his fucking company for him when it was about to go under?”

Layten thought back over the years to the initial planning sessions concerning the MR-1 project when he’d met Herman Gold….
“Yes, sir, Mr. Gold was a man who could be terribly blunt and impatient with others.”

“The ornery son of a bitch called what I did mumbo-jumbo,” Mr. Campbell muttered. “But that was Herman’s way: What he didn’t
understand or didn’t care about he turned his back on, dismissing it as unimportant. “ He smiled grimly. “That was also Herman’s
Achilles’ heel. His weak spot. And I used it. I set up new, separate lines of communications at Skyworld Airlines, cutting
Herman out of the loop. I played it smart, son. I was always careful not to go too far, and I always made sure that there
was plenty of money available for Herman to spend on new airplane designs.” Mr. Campbell closed his eyes. “I seem to recall
that in those days Herman was all wrapped up in his Monarch GC-1 airliner.”

“Yes, sir. Back in the mid-thirties all the airplane builders were scrambling to come up with the replacement for the Ford
‘Tin Goose’ Trimotor.”

“Yeah.” Mr. Campbell nodded, opening his eyes. “That’s right…. Very good. Turner.”

Layten beamed. He prided himself on being a quick study. Since coming to work for Mr. Campbell, he’d been reading up on the
airliner business.

Mr. Campbell said, “The final straw came when I had the chance to buy out a small midwestern air-cargo outfit. They flew a
route between Chicago and New York that I coveted: That route would have been the last piece in the puzzle to make Skyworld
a coast-to-coast airline.” He pounded his desktop. “That was my dream. Turner. In those days all I lived for was the chance
to make Skyworld a major player, and not just for me, son. For both me
and
Herman.” Mr. Campbell scowled. “But Herman said no. Said that Skyworld had the money, but he didn’t want it spent in case
he needed it transfered to GAT to fund unanticipated R and D problems with that fucking Monarch GC-1.” Mr. Campbell’s voice
rose. “Herman said that Skyworld would
always
come second to Gold Aviation, because that’s the way
he
wanted it. That they were both
his
companies and that I better get that straight in my head!”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Layten said hurriedly, trying to placate Mr. Campbell, worried that the man would have a stroke
or a heart attack, or something. The doctors had warned Mr. Campbell about his high blood pressure….

“But what Herman Gold forgot was that public companies belong to their stockholders.” Mr. Campbell chuckled, abruptly calming
down. “Behind Herman’s back I put together an investor group to buy up GAT shares, and then waged a proxy battle for control
of the company. Herman and I fought hard, we fought nasty, and in the end we each came away with half a loaf. He kept GAT.
I kept Skyworld.”

“So you got what you wanted,” Layten heard himself blurt.

“What
I
wanted?” Mr. Campbell echoed, again becoming livid. What I…? No, son! What I wanted was for the company I helped to build
to remain
whole!”
he sputtered, a white froth of spittle collecting at the corners of his trembling mouth. “All I wanted was for Herman and
me to stay together as partners! Together we could have gone all the way until GAT was, was…” He shook his head, suddenly
at a loss. “… until it was bigger than anything. Until GAT was
supreme!”

Mr. Campbell paused to take a deep breath. Layten hoped the man would use the moment’s respite to regain his composure.

“But Herman didn’t want that.” Mr. Campbell sighed. “He thought he could do it alone, or with the help of people like Teddy
Quinn, and when Quinn died, Don Harrison.” His voice hardened to steel. His eyes turned cold. “And all this time since we
split up, I’ve been doing my damndest to see to it that Herman and his clan
don’t
do it alone. I bide my time. Turner. I strike only when the odds are with me. Herman and I have had our skirmishes down through
the years. Some he’s won. Some I’ve won. But the victories on either side have never proved decisive.”

“But hopefully this one shall, Mr. Campbell,” Layten said encouragingly.

“This one shall, there’s no doubt about it, Turner! For me, Herman won’t be dead and buried until I can wipe the monument
he left for himself and his heirs off the face of the earth.” He nodded vigorously. “Until I’ve destroyed or humbled GAT,
the war will go on.” He grinned. “But at long last, it looks as if my V-J Day is about to dawn.”

“And Steve Gold?” Layten asked hopefully.

“When we take GAT down, Steve will go with it,” Mr. Campbell said reassuringly.
“And GAT is going down!
Don’t forget, I know Don Harrison. He was head of engineering at Amalgamated-Landis back when I outright owned that company,
back before Herman stole Harrison away from me. I know how Harrison thinks: that’s why I know his options are limited. He
can withdraw the Pont from the market, but that’s the equivalent of putting a gun to GAT’s head and putting the company out
of its misery once and for all. He can shave the airplane’s unit price until the Pont becomes a loss leader, then dutifully
supply the airplane with Payn-Reese engines when the airlines demand it, but that will still be financially devastating for
GAT.”

“There is the GAT Stiletto project, sir,” Layten pointed out.

Mr. Campbell waved the objection aside. “Oh, sure, GAT might be able to limp along if it wins that DOD contract, but the days
of GAT reigning supreme, the era of Herman Gold, will be over. And not only that”—Mr. Campbell licked his lips—“GAT will no
longer be in a position to meet its financial obligations to retain its membership in Skytrain Industrie. The Europeans will
be looking for a new American partner—”

“And I’m sure Amalgamated-Landis will be the perfect replacement for GAT.” Layten smiled.

Mr. Campbell nodded, beaming. “That’s the icing on the cake. I get my revenge and in the process make a bundle. I still have
a substantial stock holding in A-L—” He snapped his fingers. “You know. Turner,
you
ought to be buying up all the A-L you can while the stock price is still low due to the news circulating that A-L doesn’t
have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the military lightweight fighter competition.”

“Yes, sir. I
have
been buying stock in the company,” Layten replied. “A-L stock is going to go through the roof when the company joins Skytrain.”

Mr. Campbell gloated: “Thanks to Agatha Holding’s business dealings with Payn-Reese, when the time comes we’ll have laid the
groundwork to pitch Amalgamated-Landis to the Europeans. I’ve already got those Brits at Payn-Reese kissing my ass for giving
them a chance to penetrate the American market through this Pont deal.”

“And Payn-Reese has a long history of supplying aircraft engines to Stoat-Black, which is the British partner in the consortium,”
Layten elaborated. “Amalgamated is a shoe-in once GAT folds its tent and slinks away.” Layten stood up. “Well, sir. I’ll be
going. I have a lot to do.” He was heading for the door when Mr. Campbell stopped him.

“Turner!”

“Yes, sir?” Layten grew apprehensive when he saw Mr. Campbell’s frown.

“Whatever you got to do around here today, cancel it, or postpone it, or whatever,” Mr. Campbell ordered. “I want you to take
the afternoon off to go shopping for clothes. Stuff with a little more pizzazz…”

Layten, bewildered, looked down at himself: gray suit, white shirt, gray socks, black shoes. But his tie was red….

I swear to God, Turner,” Mr. Campbell was muttering. “Every time you come in here I worry I’ve dropped dead and you’re the
fucking undertaker. You go see what they got that might tickle your fancy at Mister Fred’s on Rodeo Drive. Or maybe try Ted
Rutledge, Limited. They sell some of that tweedy shit you like. You tell ’em I sent you. No! Better yet, I’ll call them and
let them know you’re coming. That way you’ll be sure to get the same VIP treatment they give
me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Layten murmured, swallowing hard as he,took in Mr. Campbell’s Kelly-green turtleneck and his tan suit with
the contrasting turquoise stitching on the lapels and pocket corners.

“And Turner?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Campbell?”

“It’s about time you cut that ‘sir’ and ‘mister’ crap. Sir is what I always had to call my father….” He trailed off, looking
sour. “You just call me Tim.”

“Yes… Tim,” Layten said, thrilled.

“That will be all. Turner. Git shoppin’, son.”

Layten left the office, shutting the door softly behind him, wondering if Mister Fred’s stocked gray turtlenecks.

(One)

In the skies near Wright-Patterson AFB

25 April, 1974

Captain Robert Greene’s GXF-66 Stiletto turned a lazy corkscrew through the scattered clouds over the Ohio countryside. Greene
leveled out at 45,000 feet, marveling at the Stiletto’s smooth response to the controls. The new fly-by-wire computer-augmented
control technology the Stiletto incorporated was definitely where it was at, and the Stiletto’s cockpit design was also a
joy: There were far fewer dials and displays in the Stiletto than, say, the F-12B Sun-Wolf or F15 Eagle. The prototype’s HOTAS
hands on throttle and stick arrangement had more buttons and switches than an accordion, but once Greene had gotten used to
them he found that he was able to operate the HOTAS arrangements instinctively, without feeling like a piano player straining
to stretch his fingers across the keyboard. Even the Stiletto’s pilot’s chair was revolutionary. Greene was almost lying down
in the cockpit—the reclining posture was supposed to aid the pilot in withstanding G force—but he still had an outstanding
360-degree view out the Stiletto’s bulging teardrop canopy.

This bird was a keeper, all right, Greene thought as he did a barrel roll, watching tendrils of cloud flit past the canopy’s
curved expanse of Plexi. Below him was the gray-ribbon tangle of roadways leading into the urban sprawl of Dayton, ten miles
southwest of Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.

The official reason for this flight was that Greene was evaluating this new GAT prototype fighter for the DOD’s Lightweight
Fighter competition. Of course, that was bullshit. Even if he were a test pilot, he’d have to disqualify himself from evaluating
this particular scarlet and turquoise painted bird, since the prototype was built by his grandfather’s company. But anyway,
Greene wasn’t assigned to aircraft testing. He was still locked into his assignment serving as a guinea pig for the lab coats
who were perfecting the Simulator Generator System-369. During the past several months, Greene had flown more combat missions
in more exotic places than Terry and the Pirates, but only on the flight simulator. Greene appreciated the fact that the lab
coats insisted upon using him because he was one of the few pilots on base who was able to give their computers a proper workout,
but he was nevertheless getting antsy: He belonged in the sky, but due to his present assignment he only got to take the bare
minimum of check rides necessary to hold on to his fighter pilot’s rating.

Greene had heard so many good things about the Stiletto from the other pilots that he’d been dying to take her up and check
her out, so he’d prevailed upon Colonel Wyatt Dougan to let him take this ride. Dougan owed him a favor in return for the
way Greene had been behaving himself with the lab coats.

“Ice Pick, this is Snowbird—”

The ever-present hiss in Greene’s helmet was broken by Lieutenant Buzz Blaisdale’s voice coming through the headset. Buzz
was flying chase escort in an F-5E Tiger 11.

“Ice-Pick, do you read? Over.”

Greene thumbed his mike switch. “Roger, Snowbird.” He looked around and spotted Buzz’s camo-painted ghost-gray Tiger 11 off
to his left, about 3,000 feet away at two-o’clock level.

“How do you like your bird. Ice Pick?” Buzz called.

“Have you flown her?” Greene asked.

“Negative.”

“Well, in some ways she’s a lot like your Tiger,” Greene began, thinking that the F-5E Tiger II was a sexy little sports car
of a fighter jet, with a needle nose and stubby, straight-edged. razor-thin wings. Greene had seen stereo receivers with more
complex control panels, the Tiger’s avionics were almost nil, and her twin GE turbojets could take her supersonic during afterburn
only briefly and at great fuel cost. Still, the little Tiger II was an absolute ball to fly, and in the hands of a competent
pilot could tie knots around larger, more powerful and sophisticated airplanes. If, say, the F-15 was a majestic and powerful
S-class Mercedes of the sky, than the Tiger II was the airborne version of a ragtop, bug-eyed Triumph TR-2: two very different
and very unequal machines, but each affording its own pleasures and advantages.

“Yeah, Snowbird,” Greene continued. “This GXF is a lot like the Tiger, but with none of that bird’s limitations. She’s definitely
a knife fighter, but with enough electronics to get the job done long-distance if need be. I can’t swear to it now since this
prototype is unarmed, but her eventual air-combat maneuverability should be outstanding.”