The Rhinemann Exchange (7 page)

Germany was in the curve of inevitable defeat, but it would not die easily. It was ready for counterstrike. The Russian lesson had been learned; Hitler’s generals were prepared. They realized that ultimately their only hope for any surrender other than
unconditional
lay in their ability to make the cost of an Allied victory so high it would stagger imagination and sicken the conscience of humanity.

Accommodation would then be reached.

And
that
was unacceptable to the Allies.
Unconditional surrender
was now a tripartite policy; the absolute had been so inculcated that it dared not be tampered with. The fever of total victory had swept the lands; the leaders had shaped that, too. And at this pitch of frenzy, the leaders stared into blank walls seeing nothing others could see and said heroically that losses would be tolerated.

Swanson walked up the steps of the Georgetown house. As if on cue, the door opened, a major saluted and Swanson was admitted quickly. Inside the hallway were four noncommissioned officers in paratroop leggings standing at ready-at-ease; Swanson recognized the shoulder patches of the Ranger battalions. The War Department had set the scene effectively.

A sergeant ushered Swanson into a small, brass-grilled elevator. Two stories up the elevator stopped and Swanson stepped out into the corridor. He recognized the face of the colonel who stood by a closed door at the end of the short hallway. He could not recall his name, however. The man worked in Clandestine Operations and was never much in evidence. The colonel stepped forward, saluting.

“General Swanson? Colonel Pace.”

Swanson nodded his salute, offering his hand instead. “Oh, yes. Ed Pace, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So they pulled you out of the cellars. I didn’t know this was your territory.”

“It’s not, sir. Just that I’ve had occasion to meet the men you’re seeing. Security clearances.”

“And with you here they know we’re serious.” Swanson smiled.

“I’m sure we are, but I don’t know what we’re serious about.”

“You’re lucky. Who’s inside?”

“Howard Oliver from Meridian. Jonathan Craft from Packard. And the lab man, Spinelli, from ATCO.”

“They’ll make my day; I can’t wait. Who’s presiding? Christ, there should be
one
person on our side.”

“Vandamm.”

Swanson’s lips formed a quiet whistle; the colonel nodded in agreement. Frederic Vandamm was Undersecretary of State and rumored to be Cordell Hull’s closest
associate. If one wanted to reach Roosevelt, the best way was through Hull; if that avenue was closed, one pursued Vandamm.

“That’s impressive artillery,” Swanson said.

“When they saw him, I think he scared the hell out of Craft and Oliver. Spinelli’s in a perpetual daze. He’d figure Patton for a doorman.”

“I don’t know Spinelli, except by rep. He’s supposed to be the best gyro man in the labs.… Oliver and Craft I know
too
well. I wish to hell you boys had never cleared them for road maps.”

“Not much you can do when they own the roads, sir.” The colonel shrugged. It was obvious he agreed with Swanson’s estimate.

“I’ll give you a clue, Pace. Craft’s a social-register flunky. Oliver’s the bad meat.”

“He’s got a lot of it on him,” replied the colonel, laughing softly.

Swanson took off his raincoat. “If you hear gunfire, colonel, it’s only me fooling around. Walk the other way.”

“I accept that as an order, general. I’m deaf,” answered Pace as he reached for the handle and opened the door swiftly for his superior.

Swanson walked rapidly into the room. It was a library with the furniture pushed back against the walls and a conference table placed in the center. At the head of the table sat the white-haired, aristocratic Frederic Vandamm. On his left was the obese, balding Howard Oliver, a sheaf of notes in front of him. Opposite Oliver were Craft and a short, dark, bespectacled man Swanson assumed was Gian Spinelli.

The empty chair at the end of the table, facing Vandamm, was obviously for him. It was good positioning on Vandamm’s part.

“I’m sorry to be late, Mr. Undersecretary. A staff car would have prevented it. A taxi wasn’t the easiest thing to find.… Gentlemen?”

The trio of corporate men nodded; Craft and Oliver each uttered a muted “General.” Spinelli just stared from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

“I apologize, General Swanson,” said Vandamm in the precise, Anglicized speech that bespoke a background of wealth. “For obvious reasons we did not want this conference
to take place in a government office, nor, if known, did we wish any significance attached to the meeting itself. These gentlemen represent War Department gossip, I don’t have to tell you that. The absence of urgency was desirable. Staff cars speeding through Washington—don’t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down—have a tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?”

Swanson returned the old gentleman’s veiled look. Vandamm was a smart one, he thought. It was an impetuous gamble referring to the taxi, but Vandamm had understood. He’d picked it up and used it well, even impartially.

The three corporate men were on notice. At this conference, they were the enemy.

“I’ve been discreet, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“I’m sure you have. Shall we get down to points? Mr. Oliver has asked that he be permitted to open with a general statement of Meridian Aircraft’s position.”

Swanson watched the heavy-jowled Oliver sort out his notes. He disliked Oliver intensely; there was a fundamental gluttony about him. He was a manipulator; there were so many of them these days. They were everywhere in Washington, piling up huge sums of money from the war; proclaiming the power of the deal, the price of the deal, the price of the power—which they held.

Oliver’s rough voice shot out from his thick lips. “Thank you. It’s our feeling at Meridian that the … 
assumed
gravity of the present situation has obscured the real advancements that
have
been made. The aircraft in question has proved beyond doubt its superior capabilities. The new, improved Fortress is ready for operational combat; it’s merely a question of desired altitudes.”

Oliver abruptly stopped and put his obese hands in front of him, over his papers. He had finished his statement; Craft nodded in agreement. Both men looked noncommittally at Vandamm. Gian Spinelli simply stared at Oliver, his brown eyes magnified by his glasses.

Alan Swanson was astounded. Not necessarily by the brevity of the statement but by the ingenuousness of the lie.

“If that’s a position statement, I find it wholly unacceptable. The aircraft in question has
not
proved its capabilities until it’s operational at the altitudes specified in the government contracts.”

“It’s operational,” replied Oliver curtly.

“Operational. Not functional, Mr. Oliver. It is not functional until it can be guided from point A to point B at the altitudes called for in the specifications.”

“
Specified
as ‘intended maximum,’ General Swanson,” shot back Oliver, smiling an obsequious smile that conveyed anything but courtesy.

“What the hell does that mean?” Swanson looked at Undersecretary Vandamm.

“Mr. Oliver is concerned with a contractual interpretation.”

“I’m
not.
”

“I
have
to be,” replied Oliver. “The War Department has refused payment to Meridian Aircraft Corporation. We have a contract.…”

“Take the goddamned contract up with someone else!”

“Anger won’t solve anything.” Vandamm spoke harshly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Undersecretary, but I’m not here to discuss
contractual interpretations.
”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, General Swanson.” Vandamm now spoke calmly. “The Disbursement Office has withheld payment to Meridian on
your
negative authorization. You haven’t cleared it.”

“Why should I? The aircraft can’t do the job we expected.”

“It
can
do the job you contracted for,” said Oliver, moving his thick neck from Vandamm to the brigadier general. “Rest assured, general, our best efforts are being poured into the
intended
maximum guidance system. We’re expending all our resources. We’ll reach a breakthrough, we’re convinced of that. But until we do, we expect the contracts to be honored. We’ve met the guarantees.”

“Are you suggesting that we take the aircraft
as is?
”

“It’s the finest bomber in the air.” Jonathan Craft spoke. His soft, high voice was a weak exclamation that floated to a stop. He pressed his delicate fingers together in what he believed was emphasis.

Swanson disregarded Craft and stared at the small face and magnified eyes of the ATCO scientist, Gian Spinelli. “What about the
gyros?
Can you give me an answer, Mr. Spinelli?”

Howard Oliver intruded bluntly. “Use the existing systems. Get the aircraft into combat.”

“
No!
” Swanson could not help himself. His was the roar of disgust, let Undersecretary Vandamm say what he liked. “Our strategies call for round-the-clock strikes into the deepest regions of Germany. From all points—known and unknown. Fields in England, Italy, Greece … yes, even unlisted bases in Turkey and Yugoslavia; carriers in the Mediterranean and, goddamn it, the Black Sea! Thousands and thousands of planes crowding the air corridors for space. We need the extra altitude! We need the guidance systems to operate at those altitudes! Anything less is unthinkable!… I’m sorry, Mr. Vandamm. I believe I’m justifiably upset.”

“I understand,” said the white-haired Undersecretary of State. “That’s why we’re here this afternoon. To look for solutions … as well as money.” The old gentleman shifted his gaze to Craft. “Can you add to Mr. Oliver’s remarks, from Packard’s vantage point?”

Craft disengaged his lean, manicured fingers and took a deep breath through his nostrils as if he were about to deliver essential wisdom. The executive font of knowledge, thought Alan Swanson, jockeying for a chairman’s approval.

“Of course, Mr. Undersecretary. As the major subcontractor for Meridian, we’ve been as disturbed as the general over the lack of guidance results. We’ve spared nothing to accommodate. Mr. Spinelli’s presence is proof of that. After all, we’re the ones who brought in ATCO.…” Here Craft smiled heroically, a touch sadly. “As we all know, ATCO is the finest—and most costly. We’ve spared
nothing.
”

“You brought in ATCO,” said Swanson wearily, “because your own laboratories couldn’t do the job. You submitted cost overruns to Meridian which were passed on to us. I don’t see that you spared a hell of a lot.”

“Good Lord, general!” exclaimed Craft with very little conviction. “The
time
, the
negotiations
 … time is money, sir; make no mistake about
that.
I could show you.…”

“The general asked
me
a question. I should like to answer him.”

The words, spoken with a trace of dialect, came from the tiny scientist, who was either dismissing Craft’s nonsense, or oblivious to it, or, somehow, both.

“I’d be grateful, Mr. Spinelli.”

“Our progress has been consistent, steady if you like. Not rapid. The problems are great. We believe the distortion of the radio beams beyond certain altitudes varies with temperatures and land-mass curvatures. The solutions lie in alternating compensations. Our experiments continuously narrow that field.… Our rate of progress would be more rapid were it not for constant interferences.”

Gian Spinelli stopped and shifted his grotesquely magnified eyes to Howard Oliver, whose thick neck and jowled face were suddenly flushed with anger.

“You’ve had no interference from
us!
”

“And certainly not from Packard!” chimed in Craft. “We’ve stayed in almost daily contact. Our concerns have never flagged!”

Spinelli turned to Craft. “Your concerns … as those of Meridian … have been exclusively budgetary, as far as I can see.”

“That’s preposterous! Whatever financial inquiries were made, were made at the request of the … contractor’s audit division.…”

“And totally necessary!” Oliver could not conceal his fury at the small Italian. “You
laboratory
 … people don’t reconcile! You’re
children!
”

For the next thirty seconds the three agitated men babbled excitedly in counterpoint. Swanson looked over at Vandamm. Their eyes met in understanding.

Oliver was the first to recognize the trap. He held up his hand … a corporate command, thought Swanson.

“Mr. Undersecretary.” Oliver spoke, stifling the pitch of his anger. “Don’t let our squabbling convey the wrong impression. We turn out the products.”

“You’re not turning out this one,” said Swanson. “I recall vividly the projections in your bids for the contract. You had everything
turned out then.
”

When Oliver looked at him, Alan Swanson instinctively felt he should reach for a weapon to protect himself. The Meridian executive was close to exploding.

“We relied on subordinates’ evaluations,” said Oliver slowly, with hostility. “I think the military has had its share of staff errors.”

“Subordinates don’t plan major strategies.”

Vandamm raised his voice. “Mr. Oliver. Suppose General
Swanson were convinced it served no purpose withholding funds. What kind of time limits could you
now
guarantee?”

Oliver looked at Spinelli. “What would you estimate?” he asked coldly.

Spinelli’s large eyes swept the ceiling. “In candor, I cannot give you an answer. We
could
solve it next week. Or next year.”

Swanson quickly reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a folded page of paper. He spread it out in front of him and spoke swiftly. “According to this memorandum … our last communication from ATCO … once the guidance system
is
perfected, you state you need six weeks of inflight experimentation. The Montana Proving Grounds.”

“That’s correct, general. I dictated that myself,” said Spinelli.

“Six weeks from next week. Or next year. And assuming the Montana experiments are positive, another month to equip the fleets.”