"We've got a few hundred thousand colored down in Arkansas we could send you, though—it'd be good riddance." Coleman hadn't been exposed to Negroes before he married Ginny; since then he'd adopted her family's attitude toward them.
They were sitting in Troy's trophy-bedecked office—photos of famous pilots, film stars, politicians, models of McNaughton aircraft, and Troy's sporting trophies. Coleman made a practice of knowing the name of the best of everything, and he quickly complimented McNaughton on the brace of Purdey shotguns and the Greenhart fly rod.
Troy went to the window to adjust the blinds. He moved around the office constantly in short little runs, from his desk to the sideboard, from the sideboard to the window, as if he could burn away his problems with his energy.
"The long and short of it is this. We desperately need to get a new product in production or just shut down. We were doing fine in our San Diego plant until the idiots in Washington cut the funding for missile research and development."
He tapped a Camel out from a pack and Coleman's lighter appeared like lightning. Troy took the light, his eyes narrowed to avoid the smoke.
"Stan, I understand you're in line to do the test work on Boeing's new bomber. Have you flown it?"
"Just once, up at Moses Lake. Pardon my French, but it's fucking sensational. Handles more like a fighter than a bomber."
"But it's too short-ranged. It needs aerial refueling and that won't work in wartime."
Catching the scent, Coleman jumped in. "Yes, you sure couldn't send tankers over enemy territory."
Nodding in agreement, Troy went on, "And the B-36 has enough range, but it's too slow. Let me show you something."
McNaughton moved a long, narrow box over to the center of his desk and lifted its lid. Inside was a model of a flying-wing bomber, not unlike the one Northrop had built, but much sleeker, with longer, narrower wings and six jets clustered in the center on the trailing edge.
"Ever hear of the Horten brothers?"
Coleman shook his head.
"They designed dozens of flying wings in Germany and flew a lot of them. They had a first-class jet fighter ready to go at the end of the war, faster than anything on either side. After the war they moved to Argentina, like a lot of the Germans, and they kept up their research, working in secret for Vanguard Aircraft. When we bought Vanguard, we acquired the rights to manufacture it."
Coleman ran his finger over the model's smooth black skin. "It looks like a boomerang someone tried to straighten out. Where's the cockpit?"
"Well, that's my little secret. We'll talk about that later. I call it the 'Manta'—it looks like one. It'll be faster than the B-47 and have a longer range than the B-36. And it's so slim, they tell me you won't even be able to pick it up on radar."
Coleman was impressed but felt the need to assert himself. "Why not a new fighter? That's what you've got your experience in."
"I'd like to, but North American and Republic have too much clout—they've got the market sewn up tighter than a politician's wallet. Our last fighter, the Copperhead, got frozen out, even though it was a better plane than the F-84 or F-86."
His eyes bored into Coleman like an IRS auditor checking deductions.
"I want to build a flying wing. That's why I want to hire you."
Coleman nodded as if he fully understood as McNaughton went on. "I've got to take the long view on something like this, Stan, it's a four-or five-year process. We'll have to make some smaller airplanes at first, just like Northrop did, to get the hang of it."
Coleman stood up, wanting to say something strong, insightful. "Well, what about Northrop's wing? It's already flying."
"Yes, but it's an old design—all they've done is stick jet engines in a piston-engine airframe. I'm not worried about them. Boeing's the outfit to beat, and I don't know if anyone can beat them, even us. But the budget's tight and getting tighter, and I've got to get the development
They were sitting in Troy's trophy-bedecked office—photos of famous pilots, film stars, politicians, models of McNaughton aircraft, and Troy's sporting trophies. Coleman made a practice of knowing the name of the best of everything, and he quickly complimented McNaughton on the brace of Purdey shotguns and the Greenhart fly rod.
Troy went to the window to adjust the blinds. He moved around the office constantly in short little runs, from his desk to the sideboard, from the sideboard to the window, as if he could burn away his problems with his energy.
"The long and short of it is this. We desperately need to get a new product in production or just shut down. We were doing fine in our San Diego plant until the idiots in Washington cut the funding for missile research and development."
He tapped a Camel out from a pack and Coleman's lighter appeared like lightning. Troy took the light, his eyes narrowed to avoid the smoke.
"Stan, I understand you're in line to do the test work on Boeing's new bomber. Have you flown it?"
"Just once, up at Moses Lake. Pardon my French, but it's fucking sensational. Handles more like a fighter than a bomber."
"But it's too short-ranged. It needs aerial refueling and that won't work in wartime."
Catching the scent, Coleman jumped in. "Yes, you sure couldn't send tankers over enemy territory."
Nodding in agreement, Troy went on, "And the B-36 has enough range, but it's too slow. Let me show you something."
McNaughton moved a long, narrow box over to the center of his desk and lifted its lid. Inside was a model of a flying-wing bomber, not unlike the one Northrop had built, but much sleeker, with longer, narrower wings and six jets clustered in the center on the trailing edge.
"Ever hear of the Horten brothers?"
Coleman shook his head.
"They designed dozens of flying wings in Germany and flew a lot of them. They had a first-class jet fighter ready to go at the end of the war, faster than anything on either side. After the war they moved to Argentina, like a lot of the Germans, and they kept up their research, working in secret for Vanguard Aircraft. When we bought Vanguard, we acquired the rights to manufacture it."
Coleman ran his finger over the model's smooth black skin. "It looks like a boomerang someone tried to straighten out. Where's the cockpit?"
"Well, that's my little secret. We'll talk about that later. I call it the 'Manta'—it looks like one. It'll be faster than the B-47 and have a longer range than the B-36. And it's so slim, they tell me you won't even be able to pick it up on radar."
Coleman was impressed but felt the need to assert himself. "Why not a new fighter? That's what you've got your experience in."
"I'd like to, but North American and Republic have too much clout—they've got the market sewn up tighter than a politician's wallet. Our last fighter, the Copperhead, got frozen out, even though it was a better plane than the F-84 or F-86."
His eyes bored into Coleman like an IRS auditor checking deductions.
"I want to build a flying wing. That's why I want to hire you."
Coleman nodded as if he fully understood as McNaughton went on. "I've got to take the long view on something like this, Stan, it's a four-or five-year process. We'll have to make some smaller airplanes at first, just like Northrop did, to get the hang of it."
Coleman stood up, wanting to say something strong, insightful. "Well, what about Northrop's wing? It's already flying."
"Yes, but it's an old design—all they've done is stick jet engines in a piston-engine airframe. I'm not worried about them. Boeing's the outfit to beat, and I don't know if anyone can beat them, even us. But the budget's tight and getting tighter, and I've got to get the development
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