Air Force Eagles (54 page)

LeMay turned his head, scowling at the wall, rubbing his iron jaw with his hand.

"What kind of audit trail was there?"

"None. Whoever was responsible at McNaughton—we think it was a guy named Baker—did a real job on the paperwork. It's not only the data on the milk-bottle pin that's missing, but he got rid of the paperwork on everything they'd bought for the past two years. When the heat came on, he vanished."

"No, sir. I'm recommending that we restrict the LABS maneuver tactic to a specific number of aircraft to minimize the chances for overstressing the wings." LABS was the acronym for the Low Altitude Bombing System developed for the toss-bombing technique.

"If we equip about ten percent of the fleet with the LABS, and shift the rest over to use parachute-retarded bombs, we'll reduce the impact of the problem considerably. We can earmark the ones we select for extra inspections for cracks."

LeMay nodded unenthusiastically, and Bandfield went on. "They've finally got things worked out at the Special Weapons Command at Kirtland; for most of the units you can get the same degree of accuracy from a parachute-retarded weapon as you can from a free-fall bomb."

LeMay rolled a fresh cigar back and forth between his fingers. "How much time will it take to modify the stockpile of bombs?"

"Two months, three at the outside."

The general lit the cigar, mind racing. "Well, if we have to go to war before then, we won't be worrying about the wings falling off anyway. Okay, I'll go along with that. What's next?"

Bandfield and Riley concealed simultaneous sighs of relief. They'd never thought LeMay would go along with having only ten percent of the B-47 fleet dedicated to the LABS technique.

"When the airplanes go through modification at Boeing for the LABS, they ought to have their milk-bottle pins pulled and new ones substituted. It will be expensive as hell, but I don't see any way around it."

LeMay was scribbling furiously on a big yellow pad. "Okay. I'll try to get authorization to have one hundred fifty aircraft designated for modification for LABS. The rest of them we'll restrict to two G-maneuvers and pray that the wings don't start falling off. Bandfield, you're excused."

When the door had closed he turned to Riley. "Bear, I'm sorry to tell you that you're not going to be on the general's list this year, and probably never."

Riley shrugged. "I didn't expect to be, sir."

"Well, I expected you to be, and I'm pissed off that you're not. But you've got a congressman mad at you, and the word's been given to the air staff not even to submit your name."

"What is it, the crackdown on the 103rd?"

"You got it. It's Congressman Dade who's blacklisting you. He carries a lot of weight, and doesn't mind using it. I figure it's his old pal Ruddick who's putting him up to it."

Bear Riley actually felt relieved. Academically he liked the idea of being a general officer; realistically he knew he wasn't cut out for it. It might have been nice for Lyra, as much as she enjoyed the club work, but . . .

"No problem, General, I never expected to be more than a buck-ass major flying the line anyway."

"Me either. Funny how things work out. But let me tell you why I can't go to bat for you like I'd like to. Dade's on the House Armed Services Committee, and I've got this legislative package coming through on improving airmen's housing. I can't afford to antagonize him."

Bear nodded; it made sense. LeMay had done more for the troops in the last five years than anyone else in the Air Force. He couldn't win them all.

LeMay went on. "But at least I can give you a break from this miserable staff work; you're going to take over the 103rd at Frederick. You've earned it."

Riley was stunned. "I'd love to have a wing, General, but how is the 103rd going to react to me? I blew the whistle on them, and fired a lot of their bosses. They'll want my ass on a platter."

LeMay had already shifted back to his stack of files. "Jesus, Riley, don't tell me your problems, I got enough of my own."

*

Pine Bluff, Arkansas/May 20, 1954

It was truly a luxurious trailer. Elsie had spent two months at the Elcar factory overseeing its design, incorporating everything she'd liked about the old guesthouse and Baker's little trailer, along with custom touches that had daunted the builders until they were sure that money was no object. They had never built bedrooms and baths paneled entirely in mirrors, and there was a lot of sniggering about it until Elsie personally demonstrated their utility to the general manager one evening.

The whole project almost came to a halt before it started when they told her that what she wanted would be too big to haul over the roads. She remembered how they'd shipped huge parts of airplanes from McNaughton and suggested that they simply split it into thirds, then assemble it on-site. When they finally saw that they weren't building a trailer at all but a modular house with supernumerary wheels, they became enthusiastic.

She'd come to Little Rock knowing only that Baker was somewhere in the area—they had not communicated once since his rapid departure. Staying with the Colemans had been just a whim, a way to make sure she learned from Ruddick where Baker was—and a chance to sample Stan again. The first time Ginny left the house he'd willingly leaped into bed with her for his usual insipid lovemaking. It convinced her that Baker was what she wanted out of life.

Ruddick had tried to quash the idea, refusing at first even to tell her where Baker was.

"Elsie, my dear, I reckon we've been friends for a long time, done a lot of business together. Your husband was a good friend, too." They were alone, drinking bourbon and branch water in the study. "But coming here is just plain crazy. What if another airplane crashes, and they start the investigation again? Ah'm not going to be able to help." It sounded like
heallp.

In harsh contrast to Ruddick's mellow Murrow voice, after two drinks, Elsie lost her cultivated Southern drawl and her Jersey accent cut through. "If that happens it won't make any difference where any of us are, they'll find us. Look on it as a package deal—you took McNaughton for all it was worth when the going was good; now you have to put up with me because things went sour."

When he did put her in touch with Baker a few days later, the big man had been delighted to see her—the girls in New Orleans were younger and prettier, but they didn't respond like she did. He immediately began planning the installation of her trailer on part of the Klaven's acreage. Curiously, Josten had been all for it from the start, welcoming Elsie effusively. Later he told Ruddick that he thought it would keep Baker from getting into trouble on his regular trips to New Orleans. The truth was he was just glad to have Baker away from his headquarters, but still close enough to call on if he was needed.

Baker sited the trailer in a valley, buffered on all sides by thick growths of pine. In just a few weeks, he'd sunk a well, arranged to have the septic tank put in, and, with some reliable Storm Manners' help, built a concrete-block foundation. The three parts of the trailer came together easily, and he handled the installation of the interior himself, not wanting any of the local boys to get a look at the mirrored rooms.

Now they lived like honeymooners, Baker so glad to have her that he reasserted his old dominator role only when they made love, because Elsie wanted it. For the rest, he was like a young newlywed, fixing up the yard in front and, out back, planting a crop of marijuana. Elsie was the soul of domesticity, spending hours with the Sears catalog to get just the right drapes, the right accent pieces.

"Honey, the only thing we need around here is a baby. Too bad we're too old."

"Well, nothing says we can't have pets instead. How about a dog?"

Tears formed in Elsie's eyes. The man seemed to have changed so much, he really was trying to please her. "Let's do get a dog. Two dogs, a big one and a small one. One for you, one for me."

*

Pine Bluff, Arkansas/May 21, 1956

The relief he felt when Elsie moved out was only one of the things that told Ruddick things were going well. Leaving Washington was the best thing he'd ever done, even though nothing had come of the investigations at McNaughton. He hadn't realized how tired he was of the politicking, of the favor-swapping, the back-scratching. At first, he'd been worried about the double loss of income from his salary and from McNaughton, but the real estate market had taken an upturn and there was a small but constant series of contracts coming from the State House for his contracting firm.

Even so, he'd decided to sell off some of his art collection. Dixon Price had located an agent for him in Los Angeles, who was doing a good job, selling off the less desirable pieces first, the things he would ultimately have sold anyway, and the money was pouring in. The biggest surprise was the Hitler watercolors. He put a few of them on the market and they were snapped up by two Texans, each of whom immediately wanted to buy everything he had. He'd pulled the rest of them off the market right away, because their price was obviously going to skyrocket.

And, best of all, Josten had not proved to be a problem. When he came back, Helmut readily assumed the position of second-in-command, behaving with military deference.

Although he seemed physically strong, the man was intensely preoccupied about something. Ruddick assumed that his health was bothering him, but Baker didn't agree.

"He's not feeling too good, boss, but that's not his problem. He's nutty about a woman, and it's eating him up."

"His wife?"

"Former wife. She's married to some Air Force guy now, they have a kid, and it's killing Josten. He's sent me to Omaha, twice, just to spy on them."

"Must be going crackers. What's that big blue bus he's fooling with?"

"He may be crackers, but he's still a genius. If he'd been running things in Germany, they would have won the war, believe me. He calls the bus his command post—he's made a real luxury deal out of it—it's just like a trailer home inside, bathroom, kitchen, everything."

"You should be an expert on that subject. How do you like trailer living?" Disapproval dripped from Ruddick's words. Baker ignored it.

"Great! You should come out and see our place. It's not really a trailer, you know, you couldn't hardly move it nowhere. It's got everything."

Ruddick drummed his fingers, falling into the exaggerated drawl he used when he was being sarcastic. "You all don't think it's just a little teeny bit risky, her coming here and you moving in with her?"

"Boss, the FBI ain't looking, or they would have found me. Those guys are good, and I'm not exactly inconspicuous. I don't think the business at McNaughton is a problem anymore. They got rid of Elsie, turned the management over to a bunch of pros—why would they want to look for some poor joker who ordered the wrong parts?"

"And tore up all the paperwork."

"That was your idea, boss, don't forget." Baker smiled; he didn't often win an exchange with Ruddick. On balance, he much preferred working for Josten. Ruddick's Southern drawl, the roundabout political way he approached things, his reluctance to use violence, all made him pale in comparison to Josten's no-nonsense approach.

One hundred yards away, inside the converted bus, Josten sat listening to their conversation. Weeks before, he'd taken the precaution of placing a microphone in the wall of his old office—the one Ruddick was now using—and putting a tap on the telephone. He had no basic disagreement with Ruddick, but he wanted the advantage that good intelligence could bring. Baker, loyal swine that he was, could be helpful when he wanted to provide Ruddick with a little misinformation.

His eyes wandered around the inside of the bus. The business of running the Storm Klan was sporadic, for he had to work when the men were available, after hours and on the weekends. It left a lot of time on his hands, and he poured it into finishing work on the bus. It was fatiguing—his hands had not recovered their strength, probably never would—but he enjoyed being deliberate, taking his time. Most of the Storm Klanners were blue-collar workmen, and he had used the most skilled of them for the rough work.

He put a great deal of thought into the design. The bus was powered by a diesel engine, and he had built huge fuel tanks along its perimeter; it had a nonstop range of more than 1,200 miles. It was not fast, he'd drive it no more than sixty, but it was comfortable. There were two bedrooms, one a master suite with a bath, the second with bunkbeds for children. One of the local men had finished the interior in a beautiful walnut, the wood coming from trees felled on the Klaven's grounds. The bus was filled with more conveniences than most American homes had. There was a television set—of no use in the hills above Pine Bluff, but it would be useful on the road. And it had air conditioning—damn few homes had that. He'd had to cover up the windows—couldn't have people peering in—but he'd replaced them with paintings he knew Lyra would like, cadged from Ruddick's collection.

Less obvious was the fact that the bus could keep guests secure comfortably and without danger to himself. The doors could all be locked from the driver's position, and there was nothing, no andiron, no lamp, not even an electric cord that could be used as a weapon.