Free Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age by Walter J. Boyne Page A

yachts, and the shore itself was lined with spectators.
    His old friend Russ Schleeh, a Boeing test pilot, was just becoming interested in racing the fast boats, and he and Vance were leaning against the bridge. As they stood there, crystal glasses filled with champagne, Vance thought, I’ve got to get Schleeh to arm wrestle Kelly Johnson. That would be a match.
    As big as Kelly was, Schleeh was still the strongest guy Vance had ever known, with hands the size of hams, a powerful build, and a big grin—a natural pilot.
    In front of them, Bill Allen, Boeing’s gutsy president, was entertaining some airline executives, potential customers all, with his usual courtesy and wit.
    Schleeh nudged Vance with his elbow and pointed over Allen’s head to the north end of the lake.
    “It’s Tex Johnston. He’s going to make a pass in the 707 prototype.”
    The Seafair announcer came on and alerted the crowd that the new Boeing jet transport would be passing overhead in just one minute.
    Everyone grew quiet as Johnston neared the lake, about four hundred feet off the ground and hitting at least 400 miles per hour. There was an audible gasp from the crowd as the big Boeing began to roll, its left wing going up, its nose lifting a little. To the experts it was obvious that the Boeing had gone out of control and was going to crash right there in front of them. Instead, the roll continued, and then everyone gasped again, none louder than Bill Allen, as the beautiful cream, reddish-brown, and gold-painted airliner rolled smoothly over on its back, looking absolutely outrageous with its engines facing up rather than hanging down. This was the crisis moment when pilots expected to see parts flying off and the nose dropping in a headlong plunge into the lake. Instead Johnston continued his impeccable majestic sweep, rolling out into level flight.
    Then to make his point to the still-astonished crowd, to convince them that it was not a fluke, Johnston executed another flawless roll before speeding away to land at Boeing Field.
    The crowd was stunned at first, and then there burst forth a roar that seemed to shake the waters—no one could believe what they had just seen, least of all Bill Allen, who turned to a friend and asked for nitroglycerin tablets for his heart.
    Vance knew that no one would have authorized a demonstration like that—but he also knew that it was the single best advertisement Boeing would ever have. Even so, Johnston would catch hell for it.
    Nudging Schleeh, Vance said, “Tex Johnston just sold a whole bunch of airplanes—no one will ever forget this—I hope they don’t fire his ass.”
    Schleeh nodded and asked, “Would you call that a barrel roll or an aileron roll?”
    “I don’t know; all I can say is that he probably kept it at one g all the way around and the people inside didn’t spill a single drink.”
    That was a lot more than could be said for the people watching, who collectively had dropped their jaws, their drinks, and their disbelief before the second roll was finished.
    Vance began his descent checklist, heading for McClellan Air Force Base, trying to think of something that would sell the public on space as Johnston had sold them on the 707. Putting a man in orbit was one thing, and the Soviets would probably beat them to it. They probably had something lined up already, dangerous as it was. No, it would take something grandiose, something that von Braun and the others had talked about for years, putting a man on the moon. Trouble was, that was at least twenty years away. They needed something now.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    July 8, 1958
    Above Laughlin Air Force Base, Texas
     
     
     
    S quadron Leader Christopher Osborn pressed his back against the seat of his U-2, trying vainly to suppress an itch that had developed three hours ago. Itching was just part of the package of wearing the MC-3 partial pressure suit, necessary because of the altitudes at which the U-2 flew. He was content, nonetheless,