Air Force Eagles Read Online Free PDF Page B

shatter what Popular Science called the sound barrier and what they hoped was a myth.
    In the clear blue desert sky twenty thousand feet above them, tucked like a baby kangaroo in the B-29's bomb-bay pouch, the sleek research plane's white skin was frost-crusted from the chilled liquid oxygen in its fuel tanks. The bomber, its undersurfaces still painted in wartime black, droned in a holding pattern, waiting for permission to drop. One P-80 chase plane was escorting the bomber, another was positioned five miles ahead to pick up the rocket plane after it had expended its fuel and was gliding back.
    A gray Cadillac pulled up and Troy McNaughton catapulted out of the back, shouting "Don't let them drop." Grabbing Bandfield by the arm, he pulled him into the hangar. "Goddamn it, why didn't you tell me Marshall was a Negro?"
    The two squared off like fighting cocks, not for the first time in their lives. McNaughton was an inch taller and forty pounds heavier than Bandfield, but the younger man was in far better condition. As they stood there glaring, fists clenched, Bandfield remembered another day at Muroc when he'd almost hammered McNaughton. Four years had passed since then, and time, sun, and whiskey had not been kind to Troy. His once-silver hair hung yellowish-white over a florid face dotted by suspicious-looking brown spots, large and hard-edged.
    Controlling himself, Bandfield moved back and said, "Look, General Varney called you and told you why I'm here—to ride herd on you! You saw my orders—and I'm going to protect the Air Force's interest. I don't care if the pilot is black, blue, or purple as long as he can fly the airplane."
    "He's a friend of yours! They showed me your letter of recommendation."
    "Sure, I recommended him. And he's been doing a great job. He'll make McNaughton famous when he goes supersonic today."
    McNaughton motioned Bandfield to follow him into one of the tiny glassed-in engineering offices that lined the hangar. The dusty cubicle was in normal GI disarray, filled with wall charts showing which airplanes were in commission and which parts were in short supply. A stack of seven squared-off baseball betting pool sheets recorded the Yankees' recent World Series win over the Dodgers.
    The older man slammed the door, then lowered his voice.
    "Frank, you're supposed to be here to help me. Now, goddamn it, do it! I've been spending all my time on the ballistic missile program. I didn't even know that Marshall was colored, but now someone's tipped off Milo Ruddick! He asked me if I knew my test pilot was a nigger! 1 felt like a damn fool."
    Bandfield suddenly understood his uneasiness about Ruddick; the man was playing a double game, pretending to be open-minded about integration when he was really a segregationist at heart.
    Sputtering, his red face a patriotic flush against his white hair and blue suit, McNaughton went on. "Ruddick tells me that if I make a hero out of this nigger, I'll never get another contract."
    "Milo Ruddick's too smart to say something like that, even if he believed it. And even if he did, you can't let some bastard bigot tell you what to do."
    "Hell, I let everybody tell me what to do. Look how I let Varney shove you down my throat."
    The older man picked up a dusty tech order and slammed it down on the battered desk. "Ruddick is calling the tune for Defense, and when he plays, I dance."
    Bandfield modulated his voice carefully, masking his anger with sweet reason. "Wait a minute, think about this! You've got the entire range alerted, the telemetry is up, and we've got two P-80 chase planes just about ready to run out of fuel! You can't afford not to drop. The next time Yeager flies, he'll break the sound barrier, you can be damn sure of that! There'll only be one first time, Troy. If Yeager's first, Bell will pick up all the marbles."
    McNaughton, as decisive as an executioner, stormed out to the communication truck. "Get me Marshall on company frequency."
    The speaker