The Officer Read online

  “Air Marshal, do you know Professor Clifford Rhoades, chairman of Stanford’s aeronautical engineering department? I’ve learned he’s just completed a six-month sabbatical at Cranwell, and with his experience, he’s just the person I need to help establish our own air academy.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m very familiar with Dr. Rhoades,” the Air Marshal said. He shook Rhoades’ hand. “Pleasure to see you again, Professor. Have you met General McCluney?”

  “Yes, I have,” Dr. Rhoades said. “Air University, 1948, at the first Air Academy conference.” McCluney and Rhoades shook hands. “General McCluney is a living legend. He escaped from occupied France in the war by climbing over the Pyrénées, negotiating a nine-thousand-foot mountain pass. That was quite an accomplishment, especially on only one leg.”

  “I actually lost my leg to gangrene after reaching Esterri d’Àneu,” Hank said in a soft voice. “But I would not have made it without Jean-Claude—excuse me, I mean Rod. My son helped me every step of the way along Le Chemin de la Liberté.”

  Rod’s face turned red at the attention. His adoptive stepfather had saved his life by rescuing him from his burning home. Afterward, Rod had stubbornly refused to leave Hank’s side, even after they’d made contact with the underground resistance.

  “The Freedom Trail,” Dr. Rhoades mused. “A highlight of allied relations. If I recall, the French Resistance helped over 600 American pilots escape from Saint-Girons to neutral Spain.” He turned to Rod. “Not too many people have had the privilege to experience such a proud moment in history. Your father’s a hero, young man. And it sounds as if you are as well.”

  Vandenberg took his cigar out of his mouth. “Damned straight McCluney’s a hero. That’s exactly why I’m twisting his arm to join General Fairchild’s commission to establish our own air academy.” He pointed his cigar at McCluney and Rhoades. “With you two on the committee, I know it will be a success.”

  “Well, well!” The Air Chief Marshall’s eyebrows rose. “Good show, General. And to you, Master Rod!” He turned to Rod’s father. “General McCluney, I’d be delighted to sponsor you for a lecture at Cranwell if you have the time before you fly home. You’d be a brilliant follow-on to Dr. Rhoades, and this would allow you to experience the British way of running a military academy.”

  Rod started to speak up but waited as a heavy transport aircraft thundered low over the airfield. His adoptive stepfather had told him that Cranwell was the world’s oldest military air academy, but in contrast to the Brits, the US was still debating the necessity for even having an equivalent school for the Air Force—despite the fact that two-fifths of America’s West Point graduates and a third of the Annapolis ensigns were being required to enter the fledging Air Force instead of their own respective services.

  Hank spoke over the airplane’s engines as he shook the Marshall’s hand. “I’d be honored to accept, sir.”

  A young RAF escort officer wearing a silver epaulet around his shoulder appeared, almost as if on cue. “Madam, sirs—would you follow me please?”

  The officer took Mary’s arm and led her away as Rod and his father followed. They strode across the concrete tarmac, keeping pace with Vandenberg and Rhoades as they walked to a grassy field where colorful tents had been set up lining the runway.

  Red, white, and blue canvas ruffled in the wind. Rod smelled roasting lamb, baking bread, and warm sour beer that contrasted with the distinctive tang of gasoline and kerosene-based airplane fuel. People mulled around aircraft sitting by the runway.

  The Black Watch played bagpipes as they marched across the grassy plain in their traditional glengarry bonnets, black jackets, red tartan kilts, and white knee-high stockings. Rod felt a swell of pride as he watched their progress. His stepfather had spent the last four years teaching Rod the pipes and he appreciated the difficulty of playing while performing maneuvers.

  High overhead a single plane roared out of a barrel roll and bore toward the ground. Its engines whined, increasing in pitch as the plane drew closer.

  Rod turned to watch the brightly painted jet, the new British de Havilland DH.110 Sea Vixen. The plane continued to accelerate as the pilot tried to pull out of its dive.

  Rod frowned. From the times he and his adoptive father had spent watching fighters outside of March Air Force Base, he knew the plane’s angle of attack didn’t look right; something was wrong.

  Hearing the plane, Hank and General Vandenberg stopped speaking. They brought a hand up to shield their eyes from the sun as they searched the sky. The senior officers in Vandenberg’s staff gawked at the accelerating craft.

  The British escort officer muttered, “Blimey, look at that. Bloody fool’s not going to make it.”

  “He’s coming in at too steep of an angle!” Rod said. “He won’t be able to pull up!”

  Dr. Rhoades cocked his head. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I just do.” Rod turned back to watch the aircraft; he felt sick to his stomach. The plane was heading straight for the row of people and tents in front of them.

  He heard Hank whisper, “My God, the lad’s right! This is like what happened to my B-24.”

  Watching the plane accelerate to the ground, Rod remembered his stepfather’s horrid account of when he had been shot down over France, nearly a decade ago.

  It was almost as if time stood still; everything seemed surreal, out of place in the peaceful, bucolic countryside.

  Rod shivered as if a cold chill had swept across the field. He looked around; no one seemed concerned about the plane. He felt his heart race. “He’s going to crash! Run!”

  Startled by Rod’s voice, General Vandenberg frantically waved at the people on the other side of the grassy field. “Move away! Get the hell out of there!”

  Rod saw a few individuals watch the incoming plane, but they stood transfixed, as if they thought the de Havilland would miraculously pull out of its dive. Hundreds of others continued to mill about, unaware of the descending plane.

  Vandenberg’s young aide, Lieutenant Whitney, broke away from the entourage and started sprinting toward the crowd; he screamed, trying to get their attention.

  Rod immediately took off after the young officer, waving his arms and yelling as well. “Run! Get out of the way!”

  “Jean-Claude!” Hank shouted behind him. “Stand down, lad!”

  The plane started to shake; a high-pitched scream came from its engines. A cascading roar rolled from the jet as it strained to pull up its nose.

  Suddenly, the plane tumbled and disintegrated, smashing into the grassy field just off the runway. The engine separated from the fuselage. It bounced into the air, and turned end over end as it careened into the crowd.

  The plane’s body shattered into pieces and swept through the throng; it mowed down the spectators like a scythe slashing through wheat.

  Aircraft fuel sprayed from the tank in the fuselage and ignited. A ball of orange and yellow flame boiled into the sky. Smoke and streams of fire trailed after the tumbling pieces.

  Screams mixed with the sound of explosions.

  Rod and the young West Point graduate stopped and watched the carnage. Rod felt his breath quicken, blood pounded in his ears. There must have been fifty people killed in the blink of an eye.

  A fireball roiled into the air, charring the grassy field and igniting the canvas tents.

  Rod staggered back and held a hand to his face as he tried to mask the fire’s heat.

  Sirens from distant emergency vehicles wailed.

  The Lieutenant grabbed Rod by the arm. “Get the hell out of here, kid!” He shoved Rod toward his parents.

  Rod balled his fists. Why did the lieutenant do that? He was trying to help! People were hurt. They needed assistance! He started to retort, but the man left and dashed to General Vandenberg.

  Rod breathed heavily and started jogging back to his parents.

  As he approached he saw the lieutenant reach the entourage of senior American officers
. The lieutenant turned and pointed to the field; he appeared to give an eyewitness account of the carnage.

  A British officer ran up to the group, breathing in deep gasps. As he caught his breath he straightened and gave a flat-handed salute. “General Vandenberg! Air Chief Marshal requests your presence, sir.”

  “I can’t leave these people!”

  “You’re not safe here, General.”

  “Screw my safety. These people need help!” Vandenberg threw down his cigar and started jogging for the crash site.

  The RAF officer held out a hand, stopping him. “Sir, you must depart the area. Both you and General McCluney are in grave danger.”

  The heat from the fireball subsided, but distant screaming filled the air; the sounds of people shouting mixed with the low crackling of fire.

  Black, kerosene-fueled smoke rose into the sky and boiled over the ground like a dark, rapidly moving fog. People stood in shock, others sobbed.

  “I can’t leave—”

  “General, you must. Your safety is a national security concern for your country … and ours as well.”

  Rod saw that Vandenberg suddenly looked tired, as though the general realized the British officer was right.

  But Vandenberg didn’t move; it appeared as if he were wrestling with the need to stay and the need to ensure his own safety. As they waited for the general, Rod realized that no one had tried to help the injured people, except that testy lieutenant from West Point—and himself. Even the senior officers on Vandenberg’s staff had been at a loss of what to do, perhaps overwhelmed by the disaster.

  Suddenly, Vandenberg set his mouth. He turned and barked at his staff. “Listen up! Lieutenant Whitney and I are the only line officers present. I therefore delegate him my authority during my absence. He is in command.”

  He pointed at his young aide. “Lieutenant Whitney!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Coordinate the rescue. Your priorities are to ensure the safety of those not injured, attend to the wounded, and assist the British authorities.”

  The Lieutenant stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

  Vandenberg turned back to his staff. “Gentlemen, I’m appointing the lieutenant my site commander, delegated with my full faith. Assist him and obey his orders. Carry on.” He turned his back and strode away, confident that his order would be accomplished.

  Lieutenant Whitney turned to Hank. “I say, General. You and your wife move out of the way. And take this … this child with you,” he said, raising his chin in Rod’s direction.

  Not waiting for an answer, he turned and immediately started assigning the higher-ranking officers details, appointing each one with a specific action: one to enlist volunteers, another to rescue those who may still be trapped, yet another to coordinate medical care, until the last general had been tasked. It took less than a minute for the senior officers to be transformed into a coordinated rescue team.

  Rod stepped forward to join them, but the lieutenant drew himself up. “I said this is too dangerous for a kid! Stick with your parents.” He turned to the group of officers. “Gentlemen, on my command, follow me at the double time, ’arch.”

  Lieutenant Whitney started jogging to the burning wreckage as the group of older men trotted after him.

  Rod felt his face grow red as he watched them leave. Within moments, the men fanned out as they approached the smoldering debris and started enlisting additional help from those who appeared not to be injured.

  Rod reluctantly turned to join Hank and Mary, still standing by Dr. Rhoades. Warbling horns from emergency vehicles grew louder as fire trucks and ambulances converged on the scene.

  Mary said in a quiet voice, “I’d always thought there’d be a disaster at one of these air shows. These pilots are such daredevils.”

  “It wasn’t the pilot!” Rod said. “The jet started to disintegrate before it hit. I was watching. The pilot had bottomed out of his roll.”

  Dr. Rhoades stepped back and once again gave Rod a curious look. “That’s a keen observation young man.”

  Hank shook his head as he stared across the field. “There will always be crashes. Flying is dangerous business, but these dammed fighter pilots think they’ll live forever.”

  Rod felt a twinge of anger at the remark. Hank knew he loved fighter planes; he’d known it ever since he’d taken Rod to March Field to see the Air Force’s new fighters fly onto the base. Why was Hank criticizing him?

  A crew of firemen extinguished a grass fire as the American senior officers helped with the rescue. At the center of the chaos the young West Point graduate commanded the senior officers and volunteers.

  Hank pulled Mary and Rod close as a British bobbie in a tall black helmet drove up in a yellow golf cart.

  The vehicle slowed to a stop. “May I have your attention everyone,” the bobbie said. “Exit the area. Step out quickly now!”

  Dr. Rhoades walked up and conferred with the officer, then bid farewell.

  Hank motioned for Mary and Rod to leave, but he drew himself up and stopped. He pointed with his cane. “Look. That young lieutenant. He’s the only American out there who knows what he’s doing. That’s why Vandenberg delegated his authority. It’s unprecedented for a junior officer to jump so many echelons in rank and have that level of responsibility.” He stared as the lieutenant barked his orders.

  Hank whispered as if he were thinking aloud, speaking to himself. “The chief knows Whitney has been trained to instantly assume leadership. That’s not to say those senior officers aren’t good men; but as non-line officers they simply aren’t in the chain of command.”

  He struck his cane on the ground, as if he came to a sudden realization. “That’s why we need an Academy: line officers, leadership, instantly reacting, doing the right thing. We need a West Point for the air.”

  Rod thought about the Air Chief Marshal’s invitation for his stepfather to speak at Cranwell, Britain’s air academy, and of the on-going debate in America about the fledging Air Force needing its own. Although he thought the lieutenant was full of himself, after seeing him coordinate the rescue, Rod thought that maybe his adoptive stepfather was right about establishing an academy.

  Rod remembered his stepfather lecturing him about even greater challenges that this new Air Force would have to face: Russia’s atomic bomb, enhanced V-2 rockets capable of reaching across continents, or even giant enemy jet bombers that might someday span the globe. When Hank had first told Rod about the need for an air academy, he’d said America needed airmen who could react to new situations, and who could be depended on to always do the right thing.

  But in Rod’s young mind, establishing an air academy wasn’t just necessary to ensure an efficient chain-of-command, to graduate line officers, or whatever else Hank was talking about … for Rod, attending an air academy would be the best way to accomplish what he’d wanted to do as long as he could remember: fly fighters.

  Seven Years Later

  Chapter One

  “Mack the Knife”

  June 23rd, 1959

  Stanford University

  Palo Alto, CA

  The distance doesn’t matter; it is only the first step that is difficult.

  Marquise du Deffand, French noblewoman

  Dressed in civilian clothes, Second Lieutenant Rod Simone sat near the front of the class, his notebook out and pencil at the side. Students filed into the steep lecture hall from the back, and after the first few people sat next to him and nodded a greeting, he felt relieved that he fit in.

  Mentally he knew that no one would care that he’d graduated from the United States Air Force Academy three weeks earlier; nor would they have any reason to know. But still, after four years of being at the center of the national stage by being a member of the Academy’s first graduating class—the only major military university established since West Point and Annapolis—he tried to keep a low profile and not bring attention to himself.

  He hadn’t cut his hair since graduation, and by wea
ring casual clothes he tried not to stand out. His old blue cadet blazer with USAFA emblem, striped tie, and gray slacks would have been too conspicuous at Stanford, and part of his charge in accepting the Guggenheim Fellowship and attending graduate school at a civilian university was that he wouldn’t alienate himself.

  So as a new graduate, new husband, and especially as the new father of a two-week-old baby girl, he felt totally prepared to tackle any obstacle Stanford would throw his way.

  The room grew quiet as a side door at the bottom of the lecture hall opened and the professor walked in.

  Rod immediately reacted. “Room, atten’hut!” He pushed back his seat and bolted to attention. The metal legs of his chair screeched across the floor, and as Rod held rigidly still, it dawned on him that he was the only person in the lecture hall standing.

  A nervous titter swept through the room. The professor glanced up and ignored him as he made his way to the podium.

  Rod felt his face grow warm as he slowly lowered himself to his seat.

  So much for keeping a low profile and not drawing attention to himself. Old habits died hard; his body had reacted by instinct, instantly responding after four years of cadet training. Rod’s ears pounded with the sound of rushing blood, and he was certain that everyone in the room could sense his embarrassment.

  The professor placed his books on the podium and ruffled through his notes. There were 250 seats in the lecture hall, arranged in the steep-ascending theater seating much like the F-series of rooms that Rod had used in Fairchild Hall, but that’s where the similarity stopped. The Academy-centric military customs he’d followed as a cadet—such as calling the room to attention when an instructor came through the door—had to end, and end fast.

  He was an officer now, and he needed to act like one. Otherwise, this next year of graduate school would be one giant faux pas.