"He knows aircraft production," Forrester said stubbornly. "Sure," he said, shooting a curious look at me. If I have to be an armchair pilot, I'd rather do it here, where at least I'm on your general staff." He reached out and took the cigarette from my mouth and put it between his lips. We'll be needing them next summer to pay Jerry back a little." And don't forget to send us the big ones. What if it went down? Who'd be left to run the company?" "It's stupid - all of us on the same plane. "That's what I'm talking about," he said, motioning toward Morrissey, who was acting as flight engineer. The war was pushing us into an expansion that neither of us had ever dreamed of. "Engines one and two, check," Morrissey called from behind us. "I'm not talking about that," Roger grumbled. The way things are going, somebody's going to snap him up." "He's the only man around who can handle it," he said. Forrester leaned forward and flipped the switch. It was the signal to break radio silence. Up ahead of us, I saw the Spitfire formation leader waggle his wings. What the hell, we both know they have to standardize." "They didn't buy our plane but they'll buy all the B-17's we can turn out. There were several fires still burning from last night's raid. "What's stupid?" I asked, looking down behind me from the copilot's seat, to see London dropping back into the early-morning haze.
If it worked, we could knock about three weeks off the production time for each plane. We'd fabricate the parts in our plants in the States and ship them to Canada, where they'd go on the production line. He'd been right - it was a hell of a wise move.