Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age by Walter J. Boyne Page A
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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rotated, his helmet flying off. Shannon broke left, calling, “I’ll try to follow him down. Call Luke and give our position.”
He threw the T-38 into a tight turn thinking, Jesus, there must have been a fire in the cockpit to have him eject so fast. I hope he’s OK.
Shannon chopped his throttles, rolled inverted, and scanned the sky below him. Off to the right, almost out of sight, he saw a black dot, fast disappearing toward the rugged mountains below.
“I’ll see him when his chute opens. He better be quick about it, though.”
Rolling level, Shannon checked his fuel and realized he had to get back to the field or they would be out looking for him as well. He rolled inverted again for one last scan, hoping to see the white shroud of St. John’s parachute opening. Instead he caught the sudden flash of flame and smoke as the stricken T-38 dove into the ground.
Four hours later, Shannon sat in the Officers Club with Ginny, both disconsolate, both crying.
“It’s impossible, Ginny, one minute he was there, flying lead; two minutes later he’s smashed into the ground, dead, his parachute unopened.”
Unable to speak, she squeezed his hand.
Shannon had talked to the Air Force rescue team that broughtCharlie’s body back. They found St. John, still strapped into the ejection seat, next to a big hole in the ground. The seat had hit hard, making a two-foot depression, then bounced out to land a few feet away, St. John still strapped in.
“The medic from the chopper told me that it looked like Charlie was knocked unconscious when he ejected. And none of the automatic systems worked. They’ll probably ground all the T-38s until they find out why the seat malfunctioned.”
Ginny spoke, her voice welling with emotion. “I hope they do. Flying is too dangerous. I wish you would give it up and do something else.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “Give up flying? I come from a family of flyers. My dad is an ace, my grandfather was an ace and a legendary test pilot. My uncle Harry is famous for his flying and his engineering. How can I give it up? I won’t give it up, don’t even think that.”
Shannon’s tone disturbed Ginny. “Your best friend was just killed, and you get angry with me because I want you to stop flying? This is a new side of you, and I don’t like it.”
V. R. bounded up, ready to walk out, then abruptly sat down and put his arms around her.
“Ginny, angel, we’re upset. Charlie’s death has got us both confused. I’m sorry I was angry.”
“I wish I could believe you, honey, but I saw something in your eye just now that I’ve never seen before. I saw exactly where I stand when it comes to a choice between me or flying. It will be flying.”
V. R. hugged her, knowing she was right and knowing that there was probably not going to be any sex tonight.
July 18, 1975
Sunnyvale, California
B OB R ODRIQUEZ GLANCED around his office at ActOn, the company Steve O’Malley and he had founded. The name came from a phrase O’Malley used constantly: “We’ve got to act on this now.” It didn’t make much sense, but it had a ring to it that they both liked.
But what in the hell had happened? Six months before, they had opened the new facility on one of the “scientific campuses” flourishing around Stanford. His office had been a thing of beauty, with cleanlined furniture, a big conference table, and comfortable chairs. Now it swam in files and folders, endless printouts from the company’s big IBM computer spilling off to the floor, every flat surface encumbered with plans, books, and odd bits of the hardware they were developing. Two huge chalkboards, both filled with numbers, one with sheets of paper draped over sensitive information, stood there, dripping chalk dust. The only neat spot was a table behind his desk where he had half a dozen photos of his ex-wife, Mae, and his son, Bob Jr. The photos brought him equal amounts of comfort in the memories and pain at his
He threw the T-38 into a tight turn thinking, Jesus, there must have been a fire in the cockpit to have him eject so fast. I hope he’s OK.
Shannon chopped his throttles, rolled inverted, and scanned the sky below him. Off to the right, almost out of sight, he saw a black dot, fast disappearing toward the rugged mountains below.
“I’ll see him when his chute opens. He better be quick about it, though.”
Rolling level, Shannon checked his fuel and realized he had to get back to the field or they would be out looking for him as well. He rolled inverted again for one last scan, hoping to see the white shroud of St. John’s parachute opening. Instead he caught the sudden flash of flame and smoke as the stricken T-38 dove into the ground.
Four hours later, Shannon sat in the Officers Club with Ginny, both disconsolate, both crying.
“It’s impossible, Ginny, one minute he was there, flying lead; two minutes later he’s smashed into the ground, dead, his parachute unopened.”
Unable to speak, she squeezed his hand.
Shannon had talked to the Air Force rescue team that broughtCharlie’s body back. They found St. John, still strapped into the ejection seat, next to a big hole in the ground. The seat had hit hard, making a two-foot depression, then bounced out to land a few feet away, St. John still strapped in.
“The medic from the chopper told me that it looked like Charlie was knocked unconscious when he ejected. And none of the automatic systems worked. They’ll probably ground all the T-38s until they find out why the seat malfunctioned.”
Ginny spoke, her voice welling with emotion. “I hope they do. Flying is too dangerous. I wish you would give it up and do something else.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “Give up flying? I come from a family of flyers. My dad is an ace, my grandfather was an ace and a legendary test pilot. My uncle Harry is famous for his flying and his engineering. How can I give it up? I won’t give it up, don’t even think that.”
Shannon’s tone disturbed Ginny. “Your best friend was just killed, and you get angry with me because I want you to stop flying? This is a new side of you, and I don’t like it.”
V. R. bounded up, ready to walk out, then abruptly sat down and put his arms around her.
“Ginny, angel, we’re upset. Charlie’s death has got us both confused. I’m sorry I was angry.”
“I wish I could believe you, honey, but I saw something in your eye just now that I’ve never seen before. I saw exactly where I stand when it comes to a choice between me or flying. It will be flying.”
V. R. hugged her, knowing she was right and knowing that there was probably not going to be any sex tonight.
July 18, 1975
Sunnyvale, California
B OB R ODRIQUEZ GLANCED around his office at ActOn, the company Steve O’Malley and he had founded. The name came from a phrase O’Malley used constantly: “We’ve got to act on this now.” It didn’t make much sense, but it had a ring to it that they both liked.
But what in the hell had happened? Six months before, they had opened the new facility on one of the “scientific campuses” flourishing around Stanford. His office had been a thing of beauty, with cleanlined furniture, a big conference table, and comfortable chairs. Now it swam in files and folders, endless printouts from the company’s big IBM computer spilling off to the floor, every flat surface encumbered with plans, books, and odd bits of the hardware they were developing. Two huge chalkboards, both filled with numbers, one with sheets of paper draped over sensitive information, stood there, dripping chalk dust. The only neat spot was a table behind his desk where he had half a dozen photos of his ex-wife, Mae, and his son, Bob Jr. The photos brought him equal amounts of comfort in the memories and pain at his
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