Murray's ruthlessness and his intelligence. Rhoades handled the airplane mechanics, the engine, and the controls, but Murray did all the instrument work.
As Hafner focused more on building airplanes, Roehlk had begun to take over the arms sales. Murray didn't like dealing with foreign ers too much, but he got a kick out of dealing with the gangsters. Hafner had always provided the best guns at the lowest prices, earning a reputation in the underworld that served him well. Mur ray knew he was good with the mob, selling them all the tools of the booming bootleg trade, from Thompson submachine guns to hand grenades. He liked the responsibility and the associations, though they left him little free time for his hobby, building his own radio sets.
Inside the hangar, Murray fumbled until he found the switch. A dozen goosenecked lamps hanging from the rafters blinked on, illuminating the gleaming blue Rocket. Hafner and Fokker followed Roehlk inside.
"Lieb Gott —what a ship!" Fokker was a tough competitor; he pursed his lips in envy, seeking as he always did something to complain about. "Look, they're using a plywood monocoque body, like on the old Albatros."
Hafner ran his hand over the fuselage, a smooth plywood oval streamlined from nose to tail. The high cantilever wing, also covered in plywood, was melded to the fuselage with a deep, sinuous fillet. On his Bellanca, the landing gear was fastened to the wing and fuselage by a wild interconnecting jumble of struts. A single streamlined surface connected the landing gear to the Rock et's fuselage. The windscreen faired the fuselage contours into the leading edge of the wing in a smoothly flowing curve.
"What do you think, Herr Fokker?" The two always reverted to their correct wartime relationship, as if to reject the informal Amer ican style.
"This must be twenty-five miles an hour faster than any other plane on the field. The wing is just like mine, looks like the same airfoil even. He can make it to Paris in thirty hours or less."
Hafher said nothing, but knocked his fist against the smooth metal cowling. "It might overheat. I'd rather leave the cylinders uncovered."
Fokker shook his head. "No, they've done this right. He'll win if he gets off when the others do."
Hafner's eyes met Murray's as they walked out the door, and he whispered an aside: "I still think it will overheat."
Later on the afternoon of the sixteenth, Bandfield stood in the foul-smelling latrine using a rough red shop rag as a towel. He shrugged with disapproval at the image peering out of the cracked sepia-toned mirror, edged at the top with a "Chew Red Man Tobac co" sign. He was tired after too many days of eating in airfield cafes, too many nights without sleep, too many times without a chance for a decent bath or even a wash. He walked into the operations lounge and flowed onto a battered couch, letting his wiry frame spread out. He ran his fingers through hair weeks overdue for cutting, realiz ing that his clothes were wrinkled and he didn't have a tie. His regret that he'd accepted Lindbergh's invitation faded as he automatically listened critically to the sound of an engine being tested outside. Bandfield had earned his college expenses by knowing what engine noises meant. Hadley had helped him fix up a repair truck that carried all his tools and parts, and taught him to be an intuitive mechanic, one to whom the engines spoke their own language. He'd worked his way through Berkeley fixing cars, mostly Model Ts but sometimes more sophisticated foreign cars, and he found himself making more money on the Cal campus than his dad did back home. His dad had been his hero, a romantic figure crusading for just causes, like the plight of the farmers and lumbermen. His dad was always for the laboring man—as long as he didn't have to put in ten hours a day laboring. On the campus, Bandy's native politics were viewed as radical and inconsistent with the good living he was making with his repair truck. A
As Hafner focused more on building airplanes, Roehlk had begun to take over the arms sales. Murray didn't like dealing with foreign ers too much, but he got a kick out of dealing with the gangsters. Hafner had always provided the best guns at the lowest prices, earning a reputation in the underworld that served him well. Mur ray knew he was good with the mob, selling them all the tools of the booming bootleg trade, from Thompson submachine guns to hand grenades. He liked the responsibility and the associations, though they left him little free time for his hobby, building his own radio sets.
Inside the hangar, Murray fumbled until he found the switch. A dozen goosenecked lamps hanging from the rafters blinked on, illuminating the gleaming blue Rocket. Hafner and Fokker followed Roehlk inside.
"Lieb Gott —what a ship!" Fokker was a tough competitor; he pursed his lips in envy, seeking as he always did something to complain about. "Look, they're using a plywood monocoque body, like on the old Albatros."
Hafner ran his hand over the fuselage, a smooth plywood oval streamlined from nose to tail. The high cantilever wing, also covered in plywood, was melded to the fuselage with a deep, sinuous fillet. On his Bellanca, the landing gear was fastened to the wing and fuselage by a wild interconnecting jumble of struts. A single streamlined surface connected the landing gear to the Rock et's fuselage. The windscreen faired the fuselage contours into the leading edge of the wing in a smoothly flowing curve.
"What do you think, Herr Fokker?" The two always reverted to their correct wartime relationship, as if to reject the informal Amer ican style.
"This must be twenty-five miles an hour faster than any other plane on the field. The wing is just like mine, looks like the same airfoil even. He can make it to Paris in thirty hours or less."
Hafher said nothing, but knocked his fist against the smooth metal cowling. "It might overheat. I'd rather leave the cylinders uncovered."
Fokker shook his head. "No, they've done this right. He'll win if he gets off when the others do."
Hafner's eyes met Murray's as they walked out the door, and he whispered an aside: "I still think it will overheat."
Later on the afternoon of the sixteenth, Bandfield stood in the foul-smelling latrine using a rough red shop rag as a towel. He shrugged with disapproval at the image peering out of the cracked sepia-toned mirror, edged at the top with a "Chew Red Man Tobac co" sign. He was tired after too many days of eating in airfield cafes, too many nights without sleep, too many times without a chance for a decent bath or even a wash. He walked into the operations lounge and flowed onto a battered couch, letting his wiry frame spread out. He ran his fingers through hair weeks overdue for cutting, realiz ing that his clothes were wrinkled and he didn't have a tie. His regret that he'd accepted Lindbergh's invitation faded as he automatically listened critically to the sound of an engine being tested outside. Bandfield had earned his college expenses by knowing what engine noises meant. Hadley had helped him fix up a repair truck that carried all his tools and parts, and taught him to be an intuitive mechanic, one to whom the engines spoke their own language. He'd worked his way through Berkeley fixing cars, mostly Model Ts but sometimes more sophisticated foreign cars, and he found himself making more money on the Cal campus than his dad did back home. His dad had been his hero, a romantic figure crusading for just causes, like the plight of the farmers and lumbermen. His dad was always for the laboring man—as long as he didn't have to put in ten hours a day laboring. On the campus, Bandy's native politics were viewed as radical and inconsistent with the good living he was making with his repair truck. A
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