Air Force Eagles (29 page)

"For Christ's sakes, Colonel, don't tell
me
who the 27th belongs to!" Exasperated, LeMay shuffled some papers on his desk. "Larry Gunter tells me you are a first-rate operator and a fine pilot. Is that right?"

Answers whipped through Riley's mind, and he picked the safest. "Yes, sir."

"Well, I don't need first-rate operators, and I've got a lot of fine pilots. What I need are some wing commanders who'll come in and kick some ass. I've got a lot of outfits that are nothing but flying clubs still celebrating VJ Day. I want hard-nosed, mean sons of bitches who'll get done what I want done when I want it, which is right now."

LeMay's cigar wasn't drawing and he ground it out. He glared up at Riley, then carefully prepared another one, biting off its end, rolling it between his fingers, and lighting it. Riley debated what he'd do if LeMay offered him one. The option didn't arise.

"The biggest problem I have right now is changing SAC over from a piston-engine air force to a jet air force. The B-47s are finally starting to come off the production line, but they're loaded with problems, big problems. Still, we've got four wings converting right now. By this time next year, I want to have ten operational wings and three more in training. You're going to help me."

"Right, and so is this. A permanent exception. Your first job is recruitment. I want you to use your knowledge of hotshot fighter pilots and recruit one hundred of them for me to fly B-47s."

"Yes, sir, but can I ask why?"

"The old days of flying formation for mutual defense are over. The B-47 flies more like a fighter than a bomber, and one of them can carry more destructive power than all the World War Two bombers combined. I want three-man crews who can go in alone to Moscow, Kiev, wherever, and flatten them. I want to infuse the fighter-pilot spirit into my bomb wings. You're the guy who's going to spearhead that infusion."

"When do I start?"

"I'm having orders cut for you to go to Wichita to take the B-47 course. When you're finished there—it'll take about four months—I'll either assign you to a newly equipped bomb wing or drag you back here. I'll let you know. That's all for now."

LeMay picked up another file as Riley saluted and marched smartly out of the room, preoccupied with the assignment. It was only later, when he went to phone Lyra, that a thought occurred to him: SAC guys stay put pretty much; maybe she'll marry me now.

*

Los Angeles, California/September 22, 1952

The whole process with Peterson—exciting, dangerous, and guilt-laden—had started one week before, when she'd gone to the downtown public library in the hope of finding a book that would tell her how to get out of the rut she was digging for herself. Her business had grown swiftly and then leveled off. She was still just breaking even, just able to meet the payroll for the staff of thirty working for her. Every time her sales went up, so did her expenses. The problem was, she had to pay for the expenses faster than people paid for the sales.

Sales had hit a plateau in Los Angeles, but when she tried to expand in San Francisco and San Diego, there was a negative return—the market simply hadn't developed yet. Her first fervent dreams of a national sales organization were replaced by nightmares of not having enough money to pay the bills. She'd already resorted to things she'd never thought she'd do—postdating checks, "forgetting" to put the check in the envelope, cashing checks on one bad account to cover another one. If John Stuart Marshall had known what she was doing, he'd have had a fit.

The librarian's eyes had flashed with warning at Saundra's scream of delight at the article she was reading. Embarrassed, she sat down, holding the copy of
Advertising Today
as if it were a tablet from Mount Sinai. The article said that seventeen of the biggest U.S. cities had Negro populations from 15 to 42 percent, and that the Negro market in the United States was worth over fifteen
billion
dollars—twice as big as the total consumer market in Greece or Belgium. It was incredible; she had no idea of the possibilities inherent in products tailored to Negro needs.

She reread the article again and found a brief squib on the author. His name was Fred Peterson and he lived in Los Angeles.

She walked back to her car, happy for the first time in weeks, wishing that John was there so she could tell him about it. As she put her hand on the car door, she made a decision to write two letters that night. The more important one would be to John, telling him that they could work things out, somehow. She laughed to herself, thinking how pleased he'd be when he got her letter.

The other letter went to Peterson, who called almost immediately to give her the appointment for this morning. Saundra had immediately begun to do research on him and was pleased with what she discovered. According to the dozen articles she'd read about him, Peterson had started his career with a thousand borrowed dollars and unlimited gall. He'd sprung his magazine, OBSIDIAN—
black and sharp,
on an unsuspecting public and had become an overnight success. OBSIDIAN—
black and sharp
had unashamedly taken features from
Life, Time, The New Yorker,
and
The
Saturday Evening Post
and converted them to a racy style that reached to the soul of a broad cross-section of the Negro population. Critics sniped that his magazine was a steal from John Johnson's
Ebony,
but the hard fact was that it was a roaring commercial success on its own merits.

In the process, Peterson had accomplished the impossible—persuaded white manufacturers to advertise in a Negro magazine. And he did it by demanding the unthinkable—the use of Negro models to sell their products.

His office was dazzling, perched atop his own four-story building on Sunset Boulevard. He'd arranged parking for her, and a beautifully dressed young Negro woman was waiting to escort her directly into his office. Erupting out of his chair, he strode around to meet her, and she was, quite simply, overwhelmed.

Six feet four and weighing 220 pounds, Peterson seemed to be all angles and power, as sharply dynamic as a Georges Braque painting. She felt herself immediately attracted to the geometric juxtaposition of his face, a square from the eyebrows up, transitioning to triangles of cheekbones and jawbone below. As they talked, she found herself entranced by his almond eyes, constantly moving, changing expression from friendliness to skepticism to conspiratorial understanding, their animation relieving the energy-charged power of his face. His black skin had such a lustrous, wine-colored velvety look that she yearned to reach out and pat his face, to stroke his closely cropped black hair.

They sat on a long leather sofa, sipping coffee as he quizzed her closely on her business and her prospects, asking her incisive questions about sales, marketing possibilities, and her willingness to work. They talked easily, the conversation quickly moving from stiff business questions to an easy informality that implicitly acknowledged their strong mutual attraction. At one point he reached out to take her hand, shook himself, and abruptly got up to go sit behind his desk.

When he sat down he furrowed his brow and said, "Whew, that was close, wasn't it?" She laughed and he asked, 'Td like to try to help your business. Are you married?"

"Yes, my husband's a pilot; he's flying combat in Korea." She told him about John's career as a Tuskegee airman, of his victories in Italy, and his work at McNaughton.

As she talked she watched his expression change from anticipation to disappointment and then to resolution. Finally he said, "Good for him! We'll do a story on him—on both of you—in
OBSIDIAN.
We need all the black heroes and heroines we can get."

When she left, she knew she'd made a friend. She was afraid that she might have found a lover.

*

Nashville, Tennessee/September 22, 1952

A storm had moved through the night before, cracking the long spell of summer heat, and making it pleasant to walk by the lake. When the plant had been built, the engineers had designed a combination runoff basin and water storage pond for use in case of a fire. The first year, wild ducks had stopped over, charming Troy so that he'd uncharacteristically invested a few dollars to create a park for his employees. Simple, with some swings, picnic benches, barbecue pits, lots of white pines, and gravel paths, it was always filled on the weekends.

It hadn't been long before a few domestic ducks showed up, abandoned pets or sick animals from one of the local farms. Now the lake had a stable population of cheerfully interbred fowl, ranging from pure white domestic through mottled oyster mixed-breed to genuine mallard, all of them quacking for a handout.

Elsie, wearing an old flight jacket and slacks, handed Ginny a bag of stale bread to feed the ducks. It had been an odd meeting so far, with Ginny desperately trying to talk about something, and never being able to come to the point. Had Stan done something stupid, like confessing to their affair?

Ginny picked her way along the path in her high-heeled shoes, her manner strained. "Did Stan visit the plant before he went overseas?" .

"Yes, of course, you know he did. Is that why you're here?"

Emptying the crumbs from the bag into the lake, Ginny turned and burst into tears, moaning, "I needed to talk to someone. Stan and I are breaking up."

Nonplussed but still cautious, Elsie said, "Maybe it's just a quarrel? How long have you been married?" Elsie knew the answer very well—Stan had kept moaning about the best eight years of his life.

Biting back her tears, Ginny said, "Eight years. The best eight years of my life."

Broth-er!
Elsie thought, they're a pair, all right.

"And you don't want to break up?"

"No, not because I made one little mistake."

Elsie was instantly relieved. Stan had not confessed; she had misjudged him. Then she asked, "He caught you screwing somebody?"

Ginny laughed for the first time. "You're terrible! No, I just mean that they have some special understandings about how business works with the government. Is Troy well?"

Elsie's tone was brusque. "No. He's dying of cancer. They've operated twice now, first on his lip, then on his jaw. It's spread to his throat. Troy isn't kidding himself, and I won't kid you. He's probably got six months or a year, but he won't take it."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Go ahead." No longer worried about being accused of being the other woman, her manner changed. She preferred being in command.

"Daddy wonders if you are willing to maintain the same relationship, to keep things going as they are."

"Tell your dad that I've been running the place for Troy for years, and that of course I want to maintain the relationship."

Elsie thought for a moment about her last tryst with Stan. She no longer needed the variety and quantity of sex that she used to, and she had just been going through the motions—the old drive was missing. Yet it might be amusing to have Stan around, for as much as she enjoyed Dick Baker as a lover, he was independent—he'd leave in a minute without a thought. That was one of the reasons she liked him.

"Look, Stan's a good man, and I can use him. But he's just an employee. He has nothing to say about the business, about policy. Why would he?"

"Well, he's hurt. He might not want to associate with the family." Her voice had quivered. Elsie looked at her with new interest. Something even worse than just being caught
flagrante delicto
had happened.

*

At the mouth of the Yalu River, North Korea/ September 22, 1952

Shattering pain reverberated through Marshall like a struck cymbal; it felt as if his arm were being wrenched from its socket. His scream frightened the North Korean farmers tugging at his sleeve. They leaped back and he heard the question, "Russkie?"

He had been unconscious, and now his eyes were caked with mud. He tried to pull himself together, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. One of the farmers plowed through the mud to a ditch at the side of the littoral where he'd crash-landed and brought back a rusted canful of water, extending it to him with a bow.

Marshall's left arm hung uselessly at his side. Even pulling the flight suit zipper with his right hand jarred the arm, causing his knees to sag with pain. He found a handkerchief and dipped it in the water. Forgetting how Korean fields were fertilized, he smeared the handkerchief over his face, the filthy water oozing into his eyes and mouth.

After a second swipe, he looked up and the group jumped back. They were expecting a blond Russian and got a black Marshall.

One of them came forward and extended his forefinger, gently touching Marshall's skin and lightly scratching at it with his knarled, dirt-encrusted nail. There was a hurried conversation and their mood changed as fast as crystal cracking.