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 wearing 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.
The portly professor cleared his throat. He lifted his chin and looked at the class over reading glasses that hung low on his nose. Unlike the military instructors Rod had had over the past four years with their spit-shined shoes, immaculately pressed trousers, and buzz-haircuts, this professor looked as though he had stepped off the jacket photo of a literary novel. He was dressed in a brown corduroy jacket, maroon weave tie, and dark blue shirt; his white hair had a tan bald spot.
As Rod watched the man, he thought that the only thing the professor needed was a pipe to complete the stereotype.
The professor reached down to a drawer in the podium and pulled out a polished wooden pipe.
He looked up and banged loudly on his books. “Welcome to Aero 500, Special Topics. I’m Professor Rhoades. This class is designed to introduce the Aeronautical Engineering graduate student to a wide variety of cross-disciplinary topics, such as discussing if jet airliners may ever be commercially viable. Or if sustained supersonic flight is possible. We will have experts from the government and industry participate, interspersed with class discussion, and will meet every Tuesday afternoon for an hour and a half.
“Although I assume the majority of you are aeronautical engineers, I find it useful to introduce ourselves, especially since this class also serves as graduate credit for a variety of other disciplines.”
He pointed his pipe to the young man sitting next to Rod. “Edward, since you’re my student, please introduce yourself. Tell us your major emphasis and what your graduate goals are.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the blackboard.
Edward said, “Thanks, Professor.” He turned to face the class. “Edward Mark, Aeronautical Engineering with an emphasis in the new field of computational aerodynamics. I plan to do my thesis work at the Ames Research Center.”
The professor pointed at Rod. “You. Go ahead.”
Rod still felt flush from his earlier outburst. “Rod Simone, general engineering. I’ll be finishing my degree without a thesis since I’m on a Guggenheim Fellowship, and I’m heading off to pilot training after my masters.”
A murmur rippled across the room. The professor held up a sheet and squinted at it. “Simone?”
“Yes, sir?” Rod said.
“You sound French. Where are you from? The École Normale Supérieure? I don’t remember you from any of my classes.”
Rod squirmed in his seat. “The Academy, sir.”
“The Academy?”
“Yes, sir. The United States Air Force Academy.”
“Oh, yes.” The professor smiled. “That explains your earlier enthusiasm. I’m glad to see your flying school finally got off the ground.” The class laughed politely at his pun. “The experiment must have succeeded for you to have won a Guggenheim. Congratulations and welcome, Mr. Simone. I mean, Lieutenant Simone.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The professor hesitated, cocked his head and squinted at Rod, staring. He looked so long that someone coughed at the back of the room; a murmur ran through the class. After a moment the professor opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought the better of it. He looked around the lecture hall. “Who’s next?”
Five minutes later the class had nearly exhausted reciting the schools that were feeding the graduate seminar: Stanford, CalTech, MIT, Princeton, Chicago … although Rod had heard of all of them, he was the only one present with a national scholarship and the only one from an unknown school.
He felt good, heartened that the Academy would be able to compete with so many heavyweights, when he heard a low, husky voice from the back at the room that made him feel weak—
“Richardson. Barbara Richardson, from the Graduate School of Journalism.”
Rod twisted his head and tried to search her out among the fifty or so students in the lecture hall. A torrent of memories roared through his head: That magical night with Barbara in San Francisco … and a year later when he’d flown to Stanford on impulse, when his attempt to surprise her had turned to disaster. He’d relived both memories in his mind dozens of times, and wondered what he could have done different.…
The professor took off his glasses and peered up at the back of the room. “Miss Richardson. You were in one of my seminars last semester.”
“Yes, sir. I’m in aviation journalism. This is my second technical elective.”
Rod spotted her. She was just as beautiful as when he’d last seen her two years ago. She wore her blond hair long over her shoulders; her ice-blue eyes bore into him from across the room. She was stylishly dressed in a white shirt, brown sweater over her shoulders, and a red-plaid skirt. She looked more self-assured and even more mature than before … and infinitely more alluring.
His hands felt clammy; it was difficult for him to breathe. He hadn’t felt this helpless since basic cadet training.
“Welcome, Miss Richardson. Now, let’s get started.”
The professor picked up a piece of chalk. He turned and drew on the board. “Consider an infinitely-long wind tunnel with an inviscid, incompressible fluid flowing from left to right.…” The sound of notebooks opening and pencils put to paper filled the lecture hall.
Rod barely paid attention, his head roaring with the memory of that first fleeting night with Barbara … her long arms and strong, tanned legs wrapped around him as they talked all night. Then the relationship had ground to a halt after he’d made a fool of himself at Stanford.
And he remembered his roommate, Fred Delante, constantly egging him to forget her.
Her face had matured. She was no longer a teenager. But she was just as fresh and stunning as she had been two years before, but even more refined. And incredibly more beautiful.
He tried to concentrate on the professor’s lecture. Two sets of equations were written on the blackboard, underneath the words Rankine-Hugoniot. Rod shook his head and wrote the shock-jump relationship in his notebook. Now that he was married, and especially with a child at home, he couldn’t afford to allow his mind to wander, think about other women.…
Ninety minutes later the class ended and the graduate students left in a bustle of noise. Rod didn’t look behind him and purposely took his time placing his material into his leather briefcase, on which he had spent a good part of his first paycheck. He snapped the gold clasps shut and pushed back from the long table.
To his relief the students had filtered out of the room. He didn’t want to interact with Barbara until he had settled down and put the memory of their encounters behind him.
Part of him wondered if she would even remember him. After all, it had been two years since he’d seen her.
But they’d also exchanged letters.
And then there was that beating he’d given to her professorial boyfriend.
There was no way that she would have forgotten about him, and eventually he’d have to meet her face to face.
He took a deep breath. He was married. And a father. Whatever had happened between them was in the past, and was far behind.
He climbed the stairs and started to leave when her voice came from outside the lecture hall. “Hello, Rod.”
He turned. “Barbara.” A helpless feeling enveloped him; he felt weak.
She held a notebook in her arms, crossed over her breasts. “Professor Rhoades was right. You still have your French accent.”
He didn’t know what to say. They looked at each other and he was lost in her ice-blue eyes. Time passed and neither of them spoke. He finally said, “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.” A moment passed; then in a tart voice, “Have you assaulted anyone lately?”
He winced. He placed his briefcase on the floor. Her words cut deep.
Painful, disparate memories of his short temper flooded his head: seeing her with that older man, thinking that the professor had been trying to molest her … fighting Fred Delante at the Honor Board … and yet another memory, coming to blows with his father in that small plane as they flew over the Academy, almost causing it to crash.…
Rod swallowed. “How have you been?”
She ignored his question and glanced at his left hand. “You’re married.”
He blinked and refocused. Why had she noticed so quickly? “And … I’m a father, as well. Nanette was born just a few weeks ago.”
Her eyes widened. “A father,” she whispered.
“Do you want to see her picture?”
She shook her head. “… No. Not now. I … I have to go.” She started to turn then stopped. “So, what brings you to Stanford?”
“The Guggenheim.”
She paused. “Is that all?” She stared; her eyes didn’t waver.
He felt his face grow warm. Did she think he came here because of her? His mind raced for what to say, something, anything. “What about yourself? Graduate Aero seminars are pretty deep stuff for a journalism student.”
She didn’t answer.
After a moment her shoulders sank as the tension melted away. “Aero’s the future. Remember?”
How could I forget. She’d lectured him about it the night they’d first met. “But why this? I thought you wanted to make a difference.”
“I will. These seminars are the best place to discover where the action is, the new technologies. Couldn’t you tell from the topics we’re going to discuss? Commercial jets, supersonic flight, space travel.” Her demeanor changed: ice-blue eyes shined as she clutched her notebook. She seemed so enthusiastic about the opportunities that it was almost as though she’d undergone a religious experience.
He glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to leave. My wife and my daughter.…”
“Yeah.” She nodded and started backing up. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Sure.”
She turned and clicked away. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall as she disappeared around a corner.
Rod stood silent. He ran a hand through his hair.
He was happily married.
He picked up his briefcase. Happily married. Now that he had resolved it with his head, he just hoped that his emotions would follow.
But he had to do more than that.
He had to be proactive, not put himself in a situation where his emotions and old memories would get the better of him. He vowed to avoid Barbara, and make sure he wouldn’t say more than a few words to her every time he saw her.
Happily married.
He’d have to repeat the mantra a hundred times a day.…