Air Force Eagles Read Free Page B

turned to Varney, who seemed to be recovering. "Where do I start?"
    "I'm sending you to North American first, to check out in our first jet bomber, the B-45. Then it'll be Convair, Martin, and McNaughton. Somewhere along the line, I want you to spend time at Lockbourne Air Force Base—that's where the majority of the segregated Negro units are located now."
    "Great. My buddy Marshall is at Muroc—working for McNaughton of all people. I'll try to get some background from him. What else have you got for me?"
    Ruddick handed him the bulging briefcase. "Here's the Gillem Report, with the back-up documentation. When you digest that, I'll have more."
    *
    En route to Lockbourne Air Force Base, Ohio/ September 6, 1947
    In splendid solitude, far above everyone in the sky, their four jet engines churned out long white trails of vapor glistening in the sun, an endless cone of icy crystals tracking the silver bomber's path. Below, brilliant alpine cloud tops belied the black turbulence they concealed within. John Marshall lolled in the back seat of the bomber, glad to have this unexpected respite from the demanding research flying he was doing at Muroc.
    "Well, Bandy, you must have a lot of pull to get a plane like this for cross-country work. I'm glad you decided to take a poor old reserve lieutenant along for the ride."
    "Just part of my job. How does this bucket compare to your rocket plan?"
    "Like the Queen Mary to a Chris Craft."
    Silent as a sailplane, the XB-45 flew at eight miles a minute, six miles above the ground. From behind them, rays from the setting sun gave a feathering of orange and purple to the line of thunderstorms percolating on the horizon.
    Marshall's voice suddenly lifted an octave. "Holy-moly, check the fuel gauges!"
    Bandfield glanced down; the main tanks, one-quarter full only moments ago, were registering empty. He glanced at the "how-goes-it chart" on his clipboard where he had carefully plotted the fuel consumption for their four-hour flight out from Muroc. Everything was on the button—either they had had a sudden massive fuel leak, or the gauges were out.
    Marshall echoed his thoughts. "Might be the gauges."
    "Famous last words."
    Bandfield had taken a cram course on the aircraft systems at the North American plant, followed by a three-hour check-out flight in the local area. But the XB-45 was a complex airplane, and he still had a lot to learn.
    "What do you want to do, Bandy? We're only a few minutes out of Lockbourne."
    "Nothing right now. Can you see if we're streaming fuel?"
    Marshall, seated behind Bandfield in the narrow cockpit, turned and searched behind them, craning his neck to see out of the long slender canopy. "Nothing out there. I just wish I was home with Mama."
    Bandfield's direction-finder needle began to move as they crossed over the Lockbourne ADF facility. He called his position into Lockbourne as he cranked the bomber into a holding pattern.
    He was furious with himself as he visualized the blueprint for the accident unfolding, a series of small mistakes. First, he should never have taken an experimental aircraft on a cross-country flight when he only had a few hours in the plane. Second, while Marshall was an experienced test pilot, he'd never flown in the XB-45 before. And stupidest of all, they'd overflown Scott Field, confident that there was plenty of fuel. That's how accidents happened—not one thing, but a series of minor quirks that added up to a catastrophe.
    The airplane was wonderful, fast, smooth, powerful, and easy to fly, a tremendous advance over any bomber he'd ever flown—when all was going well. But he was far from proficient in it, and things were beginning to unravel fast. His flight plan called for an hour's fuel remaining when he arrived, and now the tanks were bumping empty and the field was socked in with a stack of traffic waiting to land.
    "John, I'm sorry about this—I'm too old for this kind of shit. I should never asked you to come along."
    Marshall