Free The Hot Pilots by T. E. Cruise Page A

lifting it away, and Steve glimpsed the snub-nosed revolver in its high-ride, black leather holster on Horton’s right hip.
    “You must really be coming up in the world if your CIA credentials have the clout to get you into an Air Force restricted
     access area carrying a piece.” Steve laughed, shaking hands with Horton. “It’s good to see you again, Jack.”
    “Yeah.” Horton grinned. “It’s been a while.”
    Steve nodded. He and Horton had worked together on Capitol Hill to put a public relations gloss on the joint operation between
     the CIA and the Air Force to supply military aid to the French forces in Indochina.
    Horton pointed to the Starscythe behind Steve. “Most guys would be spending a beautiful Saturday like this relaxing …”
    “Who says I wasn’t?” Steve smiled. “But what brings
you
out here on
your
day off?”
    “Who says it’s my day off?” Horton replied. “I came out here to talk to you about a business matter.”
    Steve wanted to get his ideas concerning the Starscythe down on paper for General Moore while they were still fresh in his
     head. “Tell you what, see if your credentials will get you into the cafeteria over at the main complex.”
    “I think I can handle that.”
    “Okay, you go have yourself a cup of coffee. I’ll hit the lockers and then I’ll join you.”
    “That airplane you were flying is new, isn’t it?’ Horton asked.
    “Yeah,” Steve replied. “She’s got a few nasty habits, but nothing that can’t be tamed.”
    They were at a table in the cafeteria, having coffee and doughnuts. It was after lunch, so the room was nearly deserted. Steve
     had showered, trading his sweat-soaked overalls for tropical-weight tan wool slacks, a light blue cotton shirt, and a green
     and tan, silk-weave single-breasted sport jacket. In his pocket was his rough draft report on the Star-scythe. On Monday he’d
     give it to his secretary to be typed up for General Moore.
    “Over all, I’d say that Amalgamated-Landis had built the Air Force a good fighter,” Steve continued.
    Horton smiled. “Your father is going to be pissed.”
    “That’s true.” Steve laughed. “Even if GAT has temporarily pretty much gotten out of the fighter business in order to concentrate
     on commercial jetliners. The one thing my father can’t handle is taking a backseat to anyone in anything.” He paused. “But
     you didn’t come here to talk about jet fighters. Outside you’d implied that you were here to see me on some sort of business?”
    Horton tore a strip off his napkin and began to methodically shred it. “Let me start off by saying that I was very impressed
     with the way you handled yourself calming our little ruckus …”
    Steve nodded. It had been tricky back in February smoothing out the Indochina flap. The French had been bracing to make their
     stand at Dien Bien Phu, while Eisenhower had been making speeches about what a tragedy it would be for the United States to
     get involved. Meanwhile, the President was busy authorizing hundreds of millions in military aid, and a dozen C-119 cargo
     transports to fly parachute drops to the French forces surrounded at Dien Bien Phu. The Air Force C-119s and their crews had
     belonged to the Air Force but had been transferred to Civil Air Transport, a CIA-backed operation. There had been concern
     on the Hill about the wisdom of letting the CIA get involved in the French fight. Ike had been able to silence the critics
     by warning that if the United States didn’t lend an indirect helping hand in Vietnam now, the nation might find itself having
     to do the whole job later on, but then the shit really hit the fan when it leaked that Ike had authorized the sending of two
     hundred Air Force technicians to help the French maintain the CAT fleet of C-119 transports. For a while it looked as if the
     CIA’s secret airline was going to get its wings plucked, but the concerted public relations campaign by the CIA and the USAF
     had