Did they think that holding conferences in secluded Georgetown houses would
help?
Assesl
He was oblivious to the rain; it came down steadily, in straight lines. An
autumn rainstorm in Washington. His raincoat was
46
open, the jacket of his uniform damp and wrinkled. He didn't give a damn
about such things; he couldn't think about them.
The only thing he could think about was packaged in a metal casing no more
than seven inches wide, five high, and perhaps a foot long. It was designed
for those dimensions; it had the appearance of sophisticated technology; it
was tooled to operate on the fundamental properties of inertia and
precision.
And it wasn't functional; it didn't work.
It faded test after test.
Ten thousand high-altitude B-17 bomber aircraft were emerging from
production lines across the country. Without highaltitude, radio-beam
gyroscopes to guide them, they might as well stay on the ground!
And without those aircraft, Operation Overlord was in serious jeopardy. The
invasion of Europe would extract a price so great as to be obscene.
Yet to send the aircraft up on massive, round-the-clock, night and day
bombing strikes throughout Germany without the cover of higher altitudes
was to consign the majority to destruction, their crews to death. Examples
'were constant reminders . : . whenever the big planes soared too high. The
labels of pilot error, enemy fire and instrument fatigue were not so. It
was the higher altitudes.... Only twenty-four hours ago a squadron of
bombers on the Bremerhaven run had scrambled out of the strike, exacting
the maximum from their aircraft and regrouped far above oxygen levels. From
what could be determined, the guidance systems went crazy; the squadron
ended up in the Dunbar sector near the Scottish border. All but one plane
crashed into the sea. Three survivors were picked up by coastal patrols.
Three out of God knows how many that had made it out of Bremerhaven. The
one aircraft that attempted a ground landing had blown up on the outskirts
of a town.... No survivors.
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
47
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,
rightT
'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 insideT
'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.
48
'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.'
6He'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 whitehaired, 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.... GentlemenT
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
49
Washington - don' t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down - hav
e a
tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?'
Swanson returned the old gentleman's veiled look. Vandarrun 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. Sball 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.
50
'What the hell does that meanT 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
'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
51
corridors for space. We need that extra altitude! We need the guidance
systems to operate at those altitudes! Anything less is unthinkablel ... 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 pointT
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
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, generaW exclaimed Craft with very little conviction. 'The thne,
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
52
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. ~Welve 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 guaranteeT
Oliver looked at Spinelli. 'What would you estimateT 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,
53
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.'
'Yes.'
Swanson looked over at Vandamm. 'In light of this, Mr. Undersecretary,