Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [310]
It was a good company with good products and a good reputation. It employed three hundred people. The letter stated they were not able to adjust to modern methods. He had heard that Clinton Loveless once helped out small companies in trouble and allowed them to survive without being gobbled up.
“Will you help us?” the letter asked.
Judy read both letters. She took the one from Pudge Whitcomb, tore it into a hundred parts, put it in the fireplace with a final comment. “That jerk.”
Stonebraker poked his head into Clint’s office.
“Morning, sir.”
“Why aren’t you in the Control Center with the rest of the peasants!”
“Sit down, General, take a look at this,” he answered dreamily.
He spread out a set of drawings. Clint was playing with the idea of preloading cargo on pallets in the rounded shape of the airplane’s fuselage. The pallets would be lifted to the plane by conveyer belts, rolled down the floor of the craft on ball bearings. There wouldn’t be an inch of waste space.
Stonebraker realized Clint had an idea of great brilliance for that time when the jet transport was developed with its great capacity.
“Bring this crap into my office when we finish today. Looks interesting.”
Finishing up “today,” meant midnight No one was about to leave Taunusstrasse until the final figure of the Easter Parade was known.
The day wore on. No breakdowns in the rhythm of the Lift. The tonnage reached and passed five thousand ... six ... seven ... eight.
Ten o’clock that night Hiram Stonebraker was concentrating on a Penn Fishing Tackle Catalogue. He shoved it into his desk drawer as Woody Beaver came in and began stuttering.
“Speak up, Beaver!”
“Ten thousand tons, General. We’re landing them every sixty-three seconds!”
“Well, don’t get your bowels in an uproar. We still have two hours left.”
Phone calls came from British Headquarters in Luneberg. Air Vice Commodore Rodman was beside himself. A phone call came from Ulrich Falkenstein; a phone call came from Chip Hansen. Finally, a phone call came from the White House.
Everyone at Taunusstrasse was jammed into the Control Center as the direct lines from Gatow, Tegel, and Tempelhof kept edging the tonnage up.
Hiram Stonebraker remained in his office reading an article about the high hopes of a record albacore run off Catalina.
The clock moved up to 2400. Beaver got to the general’s office first. “Twelve thousand, nine hundred tons!”
Stonebraker grumbled contentedly. “Advise General Buff Morgan, our erstwhile USAFE commander of his great feat, and call the boys in for a celebration.”
The general arose, walked a few steps, winced, gasped ... and stumbled.
“Beaver ...” he called shakily, “pill from the top drawer ... water ...”
Beaver responded quickly. The general allowed himself to be helped to his couch. “Get outside ... keep everyone out ... don’t say ... anything ...”
Clint was next to reach the general’s office before Beaver could act. “General doesn’t want to ...”
“Outside, Beaver ... don’t let anyone in ... move dammit, I’ve seen this before.”
He half shoved Beaver through the door, locked it, went to the phone.
“Get away from that phone.”
“Not this time, General.”
“You’re lucky,” the flight surgeon said. “That bomb was about ready to explode. It’s a good thing Loveless called.”
“I’ll bust his ass.”
“No you won’t. You’ll thank him for having the sense to do what you should have done. He saved your life, General.”
“Well ... send the bastard in.”
“We’ve all had a big day. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“I said I want him in here.”
The flight surgeon weighed the alternatives. The aggravation of refusal could cause him more damage than a short visit by his vice chief.
Clint pulled up a chair next to the bed. “We really clobbered them today, General.”
“You know what makes me so smart, Clint? I’m smart enough to have people like you working for me.”
“You must really be sick, General.”
“Clint, it isn’t even a year since we had lunch together in New York. This country of ours can do