Prologue
“Cry”
September 6th, 1952
Farnborough Airshow, England
The eternal stars shine out as soon as it is dark enough.
Thomas Carlyle
The first thing thirteen-year-old Rod Simone heard when the airplane door opened was the sound of rumbling engines. Thick, humid air rolled into the plane and he smelled jet fuel mixed with the scent of damp, ploughed ground.
Rod looked out the window and saw sleek, aluminized jets from France parked next to new, no-nonsense American B-47 bombers; a cargo plane from Germany was positioned near a collection of government aircraft from over 20 nations.
But his eyes widened when he spotted smoke erupt from a compact British jet starting its engine.
A fighter!
The flight line was crowded with all types of aircraft, but to Rod the only ones that mattered were the swift, nimble jetfighters; to him, they were the star of the airshow.
Every July, Farnborough hosted the largest collection of air-enthusiasts in the world, and the week-long air festival swelled the sleepy English village by 10,000 people who celebrated every form of manned flight, from bi-planes to jets to gliders. The airshow was nestled in England’s green, rolling hills 15 miles southwest of London and was considered the Wimbledon of the aviation world.
The field was packed with civilian and military onlookers; they walked amid billowing tents, food booths, jugglers, and boot sales, making the crowded site look like an ancient medieval faire. His adoptive father had stressed on the long flight over that Farnborough was heaven-on-earth for pilots, and everyone who was anyone attended the yearly event. Here, aircraft executives negotiated million-dollar deals that determined the future of aviation for years.
Rod Simone walked down metal stairs behind his adoptive parents, Hank and Mary McCluney. They disembarked the C-54 transport, following Air Force’s Chief of Staff, General Hoyt Vandenburg. Ever since 1947, when the Air Force had been formed from the Army Air Corps, the fledgling service controlled the nation’s nuclear weapons, making General Vandenburg one of the most powerful men on earth.
Vandenberg’s aide, a young second lieutenant freshly graduated from West Point, stuck to the general like glue. The rest of the entourage was a bevy of senior officers, all of them young, rapidly promoted because of the war. The casualty rate for pilots in World War II had been so high that some colonels—such as Rod’s adoptive father—had been promoted to the dizzying rank of general before they were even 40. But unlike Vandenberg’s aide, most of these men in the high-ranking entourage had nothing more than a high school education, having entered the Army Air Corps without a college degree or long-term leadership training.
The Air Chief Marshal of the British Royal Air Force headed up the official welcoming party and waited at the front of a reception line for the American delegation.
The Royal Black Watch struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner” when General Vandenberg reached the bottom of the stairs. Hank balanced his weight on a cane and grasped his wife’s hand to keep steady; Rod stood at rigid attention. The anthem sounded especially patriotic being led by the Guard’s pipes, and Rod thought the Brits played the instruments much better than himself, despite his four years of bagpipe lessons.
An aide whispered in the Air Chief Marshal’s ear; the British general snapped an open-palmed salute as Rod’s father stepped to the ground. “General McCluney. Welcome to the UK.”
Hank returned the salute. “Aye, it’s good to be back, sir.”
The Air Chief Marshal smiled at his thick Scottish burr. “You sound as if you’re returning home, general. Highlands?”
“Actually, I was born in the Lowlands, but I’m American now. My parents immigrated to America from Pitlochry when I was ten.” He motioned to his wife and adopted son. “Sir, I’d like to present Mrs. McCluney and my son Jean-Claude.”
The Air Chief Marshall bowed to Mary and solemnly shook Rod’s hand. “Madam, Master Jean-Claude.”
“My name is Rod, sir.” Rod avoided his stepfather’s eyes. Hank knew he didn’t like to be called Jean-Claude any more—it was Rod now. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d come home from school with a bloody nose, scuffed pants, and torn shirt from fighting about his name. Jean-Claude was a sissy name for a boy to have in Southern California in the 1950s, and despite applying to officially change his name, Hank still managed to forget.
The Air Marshal drew himself up and nodded, a trace of a smile at his lips. “Excuse me, Master Rod.”
Four silver stars glinted in the rare English sunlight as General Vandenberg walked back from leading the American entourage through the reception line; smoke trailed from his cigar. A portly, distinguished-looking gentleman in a three-piece suit walked next to him. Vandenberg placed his hand on the civilian’s shoulder as he joined the Air Marshal at the bottom of the stairs.
“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.