Concorde: Sonic Boom and Bust | The Supersonic Race | 2

It's November 28th, 1962 in Whitehall, the center of the British government in London. Julian Amory hunches over his desk trying not to look at the clock. He's waiting for a call that will make or break his tenure as British Minister for Aviation. Julian was appointed a few months ago after Peter Thorneycroft was promoted to Minister of Defense. It was a bittersweet moment for Peter. For the last several months, he had grown enthusiastic about Britain's entry into the race to build a supersonic passenger plane on the cutting edge of technology. If successful, Britain could lead the world in aviation. But with his appointment to Minister of Defense, Peter now wouldn't be able to see the project through to the finish line. His successor Julian Amory, however, is aware of the stakes, and after all the work that's gone into the project, he doesn't want to be the one to drop the ball. The British government has struck a deal with the French to develop the supersonic plane together. The terms are due to be signed tomorrow, but there's a single clause in the treaty which is causing unhappiness in London and Paris alike. It's up to Julian to stop the deal from collapse. "Yeah, this is Amory. I hope you're about to tell me this is a joke." "Ah, Reggie. Reginald Molding is Chancellor of the Exchequer, the man in charge of the British Treasury, and the politician with the power to derail the supersonic agreement." "What on earth have you boys been playing at? This cost-bearing clause. Have you lost your minds?" "Well, it's not so dramatic as it sounds. It's only there to reinforce the idea that this is a partnership. We don't want France halfway through picking up their ball and going home." "But what if we want to pick up our ball? We'll be forced to bear all of the development costs incurred by both sides. That's what it says here in black and white." "I know, but. " "Julian, the projected costs of this supersonic plane are already astronomical. But not only are we jumping headfirst into a money pit, the only way to get ourselves out of it is to pay double. This isn't a treaty. It's a suicide pact." "Reggie, the clause is there to protect us. You know how the French have been. They'll look for any excuse to cut and run if things go wrong." Julian looks out the window as he speaks, measuring his tone, because he made precisely the opposite argument to the French finance minister just an hour ago. It would be irresponsible not to include some kind of insurance policy for British taxpayers. And that's what this clause is. It's not perhaps like you, but we're tied in anyways, Reggie. B.A.C. have already shared their designs with the French. If we don't sign the agreement now, the French are just going to go on without us and take all the glory and profits for themselves. I don't want history to remember me as the man that handed the supersonic aviation industry to the French. Do you? There's a long silence on the line, and Julian can almost hear Reggie mentally counting the costs and weighing them against the benefits one more time. Finally, Reggie speaks. "I hope you're right about this, Julian. Otherwise, I fear history will remember both of us for a very different reason." The next morning, Julian Amory welcomed the French ambassador to London, and in front of reporters and photographers, the two men signed the Anglo-French agreement, solidifying the supersonic partnership between the two countries. The project had taken a big step forward. But while there were smiles for the cameras in London, the treaty provoked alarm in Washington and Moscow. The United States and the Soviet Union were not used to being left behind, but the supersonic race was far from over. The British and the French had only just fired the starting gun, and now it was time for their rivals to respond. 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Make sure to listen to business wars on Audible, or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondering, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is Business Moons. During the economic boom that followed the end of World War II, the United Kingdom was eager to re-establish itself as one of the world's technological superpowers. Its government saw the aviation industry as ripe with potential, but by the 1950s, British manufacturers had fallen far behind those in the United States. So ministers and London decided that what was needed was for Britain to strike out for a new frontier and take civilian flyers somewhere they'd never been before through the sound barrier. But the cost of this technological leap was beyond the resources of the private sector. It was even beyond the means of the British government. So in the 1950s, a search began for an international partner to share the costs of the endeavor. Finally, at the end of 1962, a wary alliance was struck between Britain and France. Engineers on both sides of the English Channel got to work on building the first supersonic passenger plane together. And under the term to the agreement, production work would be split equally between the BAC factory and Bristol and sued aviation in Toulouse. Two versions of the supersonic plane would be developed simultaneously, a French medium-range model and a British long-range one. This partnership was an innovative and risky endeavor. Many in the French government thought Britain was too close to America, while many in Britain felt France was trying to exclude them from Europe. But despite the mutual mistrust between politicians, the two engineering teams were able to collaborate more smoothly. When the project was finally given an official title in March 1963, it seemed only suitable that the name recognized the spirit of cooperation. To arrive from the French word for harmony, the supersonic plane would be known as Concorde. The project's announcement sparked excitement around the world, but it also provoked jealousy. The United States was caught off guard by Concorde and scrambled to catch up. Meanwhile, the Soviet Union became even more determined to showcase the strengths of communism with a supersonic jet of its own. All three projects were conceived for political reasons as much as business wants. And in their rush to outdo their international rivals, all three contenders would make critical mistakes. This is the second episode in our four-part series on the rise and fall of Concorde, the supersonic race. It's June 1963 in Washington, D.C., seven months after the Anglo-French agreement was signed. Najib Haliby walks briskly along the west colonnade of the White House. Najib is the administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration, and he has a meeting in the Oval Office soon. Normally, he looks forward to speaking with the president, John F. Kennedy, but today is different. Earlier this week, news broke that Pan Am World Airways had joined Air France and the British Overseas Airway Corporation in placing it in order for the Concorde supersonic jet. Najib had been anxious about the British French product for months. He tried and failed to persuade the president to back development of an American equivalent. But now, though, the order for a foreign plane from America's flagship airline has finally caught Kennedy's attention, and Najib intends to take full advantage. Najib walked into the Oval Office to find the president perched on the edge of his desk. "Ah, did you know this was coming? The Pan Am order? No, sir. I was as surprised as you. How did this happen? We turned the bridge down and then gave him a head start." Najib resists the urge to point out that he tried to warn Kennedy about the Concorde program more than a year ago. Instead, he keeps silent and stands up straight as the president shakes his head. "How close are they to having a working aircraft? Well, they claim they can have it in the air by the end of '67. I'd take that with a grain assault, though. But it's not just then we got to worry about, though, is it? What about the Soviets?" Najib grimaces. The Soviet Union supersonic program is shrouded in secrecy, but what little he knows does worry him, and America's Cold War rivals have repeatedly shown that they're not to be underestimated. Still, Najib tries to project confidence. "Well, sir, ultimately, the competition isn't going to matter. We're the global leaders and civilian. aircraft manufacturing and that's not going to change. We have every advantage, the technology, the funding, the infrastructure. As long as we act quickly, we can turn this around. But the pan-am order and the others, they must be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Well, airlines will go after whatever is new and shiny. We just need to give them something newer and shinier. All right, go on. What do you got planned? The president waves to a chair, and the jeep sits down pulling out a set of notes from his briefcase, which he hands to the president. I've had conversations with Boeing, Lockheed, and North American Aviation, and they're all eager to start development. I suggest we have them compete and make the best design win. Well, I like the sound of that, but we should announce it as soon as possible, so the people know that the concourse is not the only game in town. And it's not the fastest, either. It may be supersonic, but it's going to max out at Mach 2. We can do better than that. That's why we turned them down. Our feasibility studies suggest we should be focusing on a Mach 3 aircraft. Three times a speed of sound. That's right, sir. It'll blow the concourse out of the water. A few days later, President John F. Kennedy announced the National Supersonic Transport Program. In front of a crowd at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, President Kennedy laid out his plan to develop a supersonic passenger jet. He emphasized the importance of maintaining America's global lead in long-range aircraft, and he promised that America's plane would be ready to fly before the end of the decade. Britain and France might have gained the head start, but America intends to win the race. At the end of the summer of 1963, the Federal Aviation Administration issued its specifications for America's Mach 3 jet and invited manufacturers to submit design bids. Najib Hallabe and his colleagues had calculated that development could cost as much as a billion dollars, the equivalent of 10 billion today. That was more than any private manufacturer could bear on its own. So the FAA came up with a plan to split the costs. The federal government would pay for 75% of the development work, with manufacturers covering the rest. The government would then get its money back through royalty payments from airlines that purchased the finished plane. And immediately after Kennedy's announcement, the nation's top aerospace companies all got started on designs. Boeing and Lockheed Martin seemed to be leading the pack, and excitement was growing in the U.S. aviation industry. But then in November 1963, American politics was turned on its head. John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, and succeeded by his vice president, Lyndon B. Johnson. The future of all of Kennedy's pet projects was suddenly in doubt, and that included America's supersonic jet. But while the aviation industry in the United States waited to see what the new president would decide, on the other side of the Atlantic, Concord was running into troubles of its own. Several deficiencies had emerged in BAC and sued aviation's first joint design. The biggest problem with the long-range Concord was that it wasn't yet capable of flying all the way to America from Europe. Its range was about 500 miles short. The good news was, though, at least airlines were showing an interest in the long-range plane, while the medium-range aircraft had been turned down again and again. Airlines operating routes around Europe needed capacity most of all, but the medium-range Concord was designed to carry a maximum of only 100 passengers. And over the relatively short distances between Paris and Beirut, or London and Athens, Concord's advantage in speed was also more limited. The plane could only fly supersonic once it was at its cruising altitude of 60,000 feet, not while climbing or descending. But on many routes within Europe, that meant by the time Concord reached those heights, it would almost be time for it to come down again. So while the French had once been absolutely committed to the medium-range aircraft, the poor response from the market forced them to rethink. The engineering teams at BAC and sued aviation decided on a new joint approach. The medium-range aircraft would be scrapped, and instead they would focus their combined efforts on redesigning the long-range Concord to ensure that it could make the full transatlantic journey from London or Paris to New York. But despite cutting the medium-range aircraft, development costs continued to spiral. The initial report produced by the British government engineer Morian Morgan and his team in 1959 had estimated that the costs of building a supersonic jet would be no more than 95 million pounds. Now though, that estimate seemed naively optimistic. The cost of Concord had almost tripled to 275 million pounds, the equivalent of almost 8 billion dollars today. These budget overruns could not have come at a worse time for Concord. In October 1964, there was a general election in the United Kingdom. The Conservative Party had been in power for 13 years, but amid an economic downturn, voters turned their backs on them and replaced the conservatives by the opposition Labour Party. When the new government took office, it inherited a 700 million-pound annual deficit, and immediately Labour ministers began searching for ways to make savings. Prestige projects backed by the previous government were an easy target, and when the new team at the Treasury took a look at the ever-rising costs of the Concord program, they blocked. It fell to the newly appointed Minister of Aviation Roy Jenkins to break the news to the French. The British were pulling out, but when he arrived in Paris to negotiate the withdrawal, Roy got an unpleasant surprise. It was only then that he was made aware of the clause in the small print of the Anglo-French agreement, which stated that a withdrawal would mean paying back all of the other party's costs to date. This meant that canceling Concord could land written with a bill for 200 million pounds. In other words, it would cost almost as much to withdraw as it would push on. So begrudgingly in January 1965, the new Labour government announced it would continue to fund the Concord program. At the factories in Bristol and Toulouse, there was relief business could carry on as usual. And by now, the supersonic plane was finally moving from the drawing board to reality as engineers began construction on the first Concord prototypes. Since the medium-range model had been abandoned, the French and British teams were now building two identical planes from a final design that had been perfected after months of extensive testing. Concord was an innovation from top to tail. Every aspect of its design had been optimized for cutting through the air at supersonic speeds, from its revolutionary sweat-back delta wings to its long streamline nose and its uniquely powerful engines. The teams of British and French engineers continued to work well together, united by hard work, friendly rivalry, and genuine excitement about the machine they were building. But relations between the country's leaders remained less friendly. British Prime Minister Harold Wilson and the French President Charles de Gaulle couldn't even agree on how to spell Concord. This dispute might have seemed inconsequential, but it was a symptom of a much deeper problem, one that could potentially destroy the entire project. The cross-border unity supposedly symbolized by the Anglo-French agreement had evaporated. In 1963, President de Gaulle had yet again vetoed Britain's application to join the European common market, and there was anger and disappointment in London that their attempts at forming bonds of business and friendship with the French had been spurned again. And as one of the main political rationales behind Concord faded, the growing costs of the project seemed all the more striking. Consensus was emerging in London, the supersonic jet was going to be a financial disaster. But Concord hadn't lost all its allies in Whitehall just yet. In 1966, Tony Ben was appointed as the new minister in charge of the supersonic jet project. The Ministry of Aviation was no more. It had been merged into a wider ministry of technology, and it was as minister for technology that Tony became responsible for Concord. He had been a dedicated supporter of the supersonic project for years, and unlike many of his colleagues in the cabinet, he still believed in Concord. But that wasn't because he thought it would be a business success. Tony was on the left of the Labour Party. He didn't much care for capitalist notions like profit, and he didn't like the fact that the Concord would by necessity cater mostly to the rich. What he did care about was jobs, and as a member of Parliament for a constituency in Bristol, the successive Concord mattered deeply to Tony Ben. Bristol was the location of the Concord's British production hub, and if the planes were in demand, there was a potential for hundreds of new jobs in the region. On the other hand, if the project collapsed now, it would be a disaster for Tony's local area. The factory could close, and hundreds of his voters would lose their jobs. So as far as Tony Ben was concerned, Concord had to take flight, not because it made sense as a business proposal, but because once again, it made sense as a political one. Imagine you're reading Pride and Prejudice, except you're not reading it. Harris Dickinson, a Marissa O'Bella, are reading it to you, unaudible. Her Barb sting you. His coldness sends a shiver up your spine. Your heart aches, your ears burn. You yearn for Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy to profess their undying love for one another. You can't bear it any longer. Well, maybe a chapter longer. Performance is so good, you'll give love a second chance. Audible. Stories that speak to you. In 1969, when police tried to shut down a gay bar in New York City's Greenwich village, they expected little. resistance. Instead, patrons rose off in a series of demonstrations that would ignite a movement. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of the podcast American history tellers. We take you to the events, times, and people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. In our latest series, the police raid on the Stonewall Inn marked a turning point in the fight for LGBTQ rights. But activists had already been hard at work pushing for gay rights for decades, and their battle is still being fought today. Follow American history tellers wherever you get your podcasts. Audible subscribers convince all episodes of American history tellers early and add for you right now. Join Audible and the Audible app, or by subscribing on Apple Podcasts. It's December 1967 in Toulouse, France, a year into Tony Ben's tenure as the British minister for technology. Tony stands outside an aircraft hangar owned by the French aerospace manufacturer Aerospatial. He's one of over a thousand guests waiting to watch the Concorde prototype make its public debut. Behind the scenes, relations between the French and British governments remain tense, and Tony's job today is to smooth things over and present a united front with his French counterparts. Noticing Tony, a young French reporter approaches with a notebook. Once you're Ben, I'm a reporter for Le Mans. May I ask you a few questions? Oh, of course. How does it feel to be here in Toulouse today? Oh, well, it's tremendously exciting. Concorde has been a real labor of love on both sides of the channel. When the agreement was signed five years ago, we said a prototype would be ready to fly by the end of '67. That was an ambitious deadline for such a game-changing piece of technology, but here we are. The fact we've been able to make good on that promise, it only speaks to the strength of the Anglo-French alliance. The hard work, talent, and passion from both engineering teams has been extraordinary. But it has it all been so simple, hasn't? Ever since your prime minister was elected, there have been reports that Britain wants to withdraw from the agreement. Tony glances around and notices a small crowd of reporters has gathered, all taking notes in shorthand, so he considers his answer carefully. Those reports were exaggerated. Whenever a new government takes power, it's standard practice to reassess major financial commitments made by the previous cabinet, and after completing that process, my colleagues made the very welcome decision to continue funding the Concorde Program as planned. Is that an unconditional commitment? Or might Britain still back out of the deal? The British government is fully committed to the Concorde Program, and not just because it's an exciting leap forward for our aerospace industry. But because of all the jobs it's created, thousands of my constituents work at the factory in Bristol. For them, the Concorde will be put in food on the table for years to come. One last question. Can you settle the debate over the spelling of Concorde once and for all? Will there be an E only on the French model? And not on the British? Well, I'm glad you asked, because I can officially confirm that Concorde is spelled with an E. Now as we all know, that's the French spelling of the word. But in my mind, the E also stands for England and excellence and for Entente Cordeale. Entente Cordeale translates to friendly agreement, and it's the name of a famous 1904 treaty between Britain and France, which aim to build a better working relationship between the countries. I think this is just the beginning of an exciting new chapter of Angela French technical collaboration. Together, I assure you our nations will reach new heights. The first public glimpse of the Concorde prototype wild the crowds at the French airfield. Gleaming white, the aircraft was unlike anything that assembled journalists and politicians had ever seen before. Even to their untrained eyes, the unique shape of the aircraft's wings and nose made it an extraordinary sight. But despite the triumphant tone of the day's ceremony, Concorde had more tests to pass before it could be declared ready to fly. And what no one yet realized was there was a competitor in the wings waiting to steal Concorde's thunder. By 1967, the British and French teams working on Concorde knew they had competition. Earlier that year, the Federal Aviation Administration had announced the winner of America's supersonic jet design competition. Following the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, his successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, had eventually decided to continue with the program, and Boeing was the beneficiary. Its ambitious design promised to carry over 200 passengers at speeds of up to Mach 3. But by the time Concorde was rolling out his first prototype, the American jet was still in the design phase. As things stood, the British and French felt confident that Concorde could secure the lion's share of the supersonic passenger jet market before the American plane even made it into the skies. But the United Kingdom, France, and the United States were not the only countries in the supersonic race. While many of the trials and tribulations of the Concorde project played out in public, far from prying eyes and deep within the Soviet Union, communist scientists and engineers were hard at work on a supersonic passenger jet of their own. Development had begun in the early 1960s. Back then, the Soviet Union was fresh from its early success in the space race. The first artificial satellite was launched by the Soviets, a Russian cosmonaut was the first human to reach orbit, and a Soviet unmanned probe had been the first to photograph the unseen far side of the moon. The Soviet Union was intent on maintaining this technological lead. So when Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev heard about Concorde and the American supersonic program, he immediately enlisted his top aeronautical engineer to lead a rival Soviet project. Once again, the goal was to prove that the Soviet system was more sophisticated and productive than the West, but in order to do that, they had to be first. Beginning in 1963, Alexey Tupolev and his engineering team worked night and day. Unlike Concorde, there was no fanfare, no public announcements or debate, and certainly no alliances with other countries. The goal was absolute secrecy, allowing the Soviets to sneak up on their unsuspecting enemies. And only five years later, on New Year's Eve, 1968, Tupolev's TU-144 took off from an airfield just outside Moscow. Like the rest of its development, this maiden flight was kept under wraps, that way if anything went wrong, the world would never know. But the flight went smoothly, and so Soviet authorities allowed word to spread. In Britain and France, Concorde was still undergoing its final checks and tests on the ground, meaning its Soviet rival had beaten it to the sky. British technology minister Tony Ben was stunned by the news. He'd only been worried about competition from the United States, the Soviets hadn't been on his radar. Now it seemed though, it chalked up yet another first. But if people wondered how the Soviets had caught and apparently overtaken its European rivals, the designs of the TU-144 seemed to give an answer. Its appearance was strikingly familiar. Just like Concorde, the Soviet design featured triangular delta wings and a droop snoot, a long distinctive nose which could be lowered during take-off and landing. These similarities sparked widespread rumors about industrial espionage, and the British press ran with that narrative, giving the Soviet plane the mocking nickname "Concord Ski". Trying to establish whether there really had been a leak, Tony Ben consulted the eminent aeronautical engineer Moran Morgan. Morgan had been the driving force behind the British supersonic program in its early days and was now working as an advisor to Tony's Ministry of Technology. But after carefully examining the TU-144 design, Moran concluded that espionage was unlikely. The design of the wings and nose were both logical solutions to problems any engineering team would face when building a supersonic passenger plane. The delta wings helped with lift and stability at high speeds, while the droop snoot allowed pilots to see over the long fuselage and view the runway. There just simply weren't a lot of ways to design a passenger plane which could fly at twice the speed of sound, and Moran's opinion any reasonably intelligent engineering team would end up with a similar configuration. There were, though, some big differences in the design of the TU-144. Most notably, the Soviet jet had two retractable extra wings known as conards. These were a curious addition to the design. Conards weren't typically used on passenger planes, and Moran speculated that they were probably added to make the Soviet jet easier to handle at low speeds. What they looked like in an awkward addition, and to Moran, the presence of these extra wings suggested that there were probably design flaws in the plane. He advised Tony Ben not to worry about what the Soviets were doing and keep his focus on Concorde, which at last was ready to fly. On March 2nd, 1969, Tony returned to lose for the Concorde's first test flight. Once again, a crowd gathered on the tarmac, but today there was an edge of fear to the excitement in the air. Despite months of extensive testing, this was still a completely new machine and no one knew for sure what would happen once it left the ground. For that reason, its test pilots had to carry parachutes and wear pressure suits in case of an emergency. Tony watched anxiously as the French made Concorde prototype taxi down the runway. Then, with a roar, its engines throttled up, and Concorde took flight. After reaching a cruising altitude of 10,000 feet, Chief Pilot Andre Turquat flew a circular route at a steady pace. As Tricot guided the concord in to land back at Toulouse, the crowd burst into applause. Speaking to reporters after the flight, Tricot said, "Finally, the big bird flies, and I can say now it flies pretty well." A month later, the British prototype built in Bristol made its own maiden flight. With a veteran Royal Air Force pilot in the cockpit, the second concord took off from the BAC factory and soared gracefully into the sky. It flew for an uneventful 22 minutes, for landing at a test facility in nearby Gloucester. For Tony Ben and the concord team, it was so far so good. Dozens of further tests followed, but there was still an even more important challenge to come. Getting airborne was one thing, but the concord had been designed for one specific purpose in mind, to go supersonic. And it was that feat that no passenger plane had ever managed before. Now was the time to find out if the engineering team's hard work had paid off. On October 1, 1969, concord took to the skies over France. Once again under the command of Andre Tricot, the plane accelerated to just over Mach 1 and cruised at that speed for nine minutes. After more than a decade of work, the dream of supersonic passenger travel had finally arrived. The engineers behind concord were ecstatic, but some commentators were less impressed. The New York Times dismissed the plane as noisy and expensive and called it an "ungainly goose on the run." Meanwhile, the economist suggested that its engineers had wasted their best working years building an aircraft that would be an economic disaster. So despite the plane going supersonic as planned, the fears that concord was just a white elephant haunted many in the British government. Ever since the election of 1964, the labor party had struggled to get a grip on the economy. The deficit remained high, growth remained low. Concord had been imagined at a time of post-war prosperity and optimism in Britain, but by the late 1960s, it didn't seem like anyone was in the mood for dreaming. And shortly after the first successful supersonic test flight, British minister for technology Tony Ben got the news he'd been dreading. His colleagues in government were once again considering pulling out of the Anglo-French agreement. The economy was in a worse state than ever, and senior ministers were searching for savings wherever they could find them. Concord was an obvious target, but Tony was once again able to convince his colleagues to postpone any decision. The next general election was coming up, and with thousands of jobs on the line, canceling Concord would hardly make a good start to the labor campaign. But with or without Concord, the labor government was doomed. In June 1970, the conservatives would return to power in the United Kingdom, robbing the supersonic project of its champion. Tony Ben would have to pack his bags and leave the Ministry of Technology and a new politician would take his place. But some things wouldn't change. The British economy would remain in crisis, and as long as it did, the future of Concord would remain at risk. And what if AI could recreate the voice of somebody you loved who died? What if it destroyed your reputation with words you never said? And what if you fell in love with something that was never human? I'm Mark Vannell, and in my brand new audible original podcast, I'm traveling the globe to investigate the very personal ways. AI is already changing our relationships, our memories, and our sense of what is real. Unreal. Listen now on Audible. It's December 1970, in No. 10 Downing Street, the British Prime Minister's residence in London, just over a year after Concord went supersonic. Michael Hazeltine sits down to tea with Prime Minister Ted Heath. Michael is only a junior minister in government, but the two men have known each other for years, and ever since the Conservatives won the election five months ago, Heath has been promising Michael a promotion. Based on the look on Heath's face, though, Michael suspects there are some strings attached. Now Michael, you know I can't promise you anything right now, but I'll be looking to reshuffle the government next year. When the time comes, I'd like you to be minister for Aerospace. Aerospace? That's not a cabinet position. No, but you'll be running your own department. It is a step up. Well, I could fit everything I know about Aerospace on the back of an napkin. Oh, that's fine. I don't need an expert. I need a salesman. Heath pulls out a leather-bound sheath of documents. We need to sell Concord. Just one of the many albatrosses bequeathed to me by my previous government. I asked a think tank to look into it and prepare this report on its prospects. And? Well, they say it'll be a commercial disaster. Airlines appetites are changing, apparently. It's the era of mass travel now. And for that, they need jumbo jets, capable of carrying hundreds of passengers. And how many can Concord take? Just one more than 99. But it's running costs are astronomical. Frankly, if this were merely a business proposition, there'd be no question at all. We'd walk away. But Concord has never really been entirely about business. It's about diplomacy. Well, precisely. And with the new government in France, we have an opportunity we mustn't squander. Unlike his predecessor, new President Pompadou isn't determined to veto our entry to the common market out of pure spite. It's early days, but I get the sense he'll actually support our joining. So we must keep Monsieur Le President happy. Well, you've got it. The costs will be substantial, but it's quite literally the price we must pay. If we were to withdraw from Concord now, the French would understandably see it as a stab in the back. Michael Paul says, "considering." He knows that Concord is a poison chalice, but he's also never been one to back down from a challenge. Well, I'll do it, but there's one thing that concerns me. And what's that? Competition. What about the Americans? My understanding is that in typical fashion, our friends across the Atlantic talk a big game, but there's little to show for it so far. And the Russians? Don't the Soviets have a cheaper, bigger, supersonic plane that's almost ready to market? It's going to be risky to negotiate with airlines if they're undercutting us. I don't think we have to worry about the Concord ski either. I've spoken to our engineers and based on what they're hearing, the things a lemon. It's only capable of short flies, less than 2,000 miles, which isn't much use when you can really only go supersonic over water. Well, so he's cutting corners just no surprise, but hold on, why can't you go supersonic over land? He smiles across the table. Oh, my dear fellow. Well, if you take this position, you do have a lot of catching up to do. Shepherding Concord to market wasn't the job Michael Hezelstein wanted, but he was ambitious and determined to do his best. He had a background in business and thought of himself as a persuasive salesman. He would need those skills, though. He had to secure enough sales of Concord to avert a huge financial loss for the British government, and Michael knew it wouldn't be easy. But as the 1970s began, his prospects of success were about to receive an unexpected boost from the other side of the world. Michael Hezelstein soon learned why Concord could only accelerate to top speed over water. Supersonic travel was a noisy business. A sonic boom was a loud, thunder-like bang produced by a plane when it broke the sound barrier. If it did so over land, many feared it would cause chaos in populated areas below. Windows could smash, pets would be terrified, and residents would be furious. But it wasn't just a sonic boom that made Concord a noisy aircraft. Its engines were louder than a normal planes, and a recent test flight at London's Heathrow Airport had resulted in hundreds of complaints from locals. Concord's turbojet engines also produced a lot of smoke, raising environmental concerns from activists. The more Michael learned about the project, the more it seemed that Concord was just one headache after another. But in the spring of 1971, Michael received some welcome, good news. Things have been strangely quiet on the American front since President Lyndon B. Johnson had awarded the supersonic contract to Boeing. The company's pitch had been for a titanium jet capable of carrying more than 200 passengers at three times the speed of sound. It seemed irresistible, and Boeing had quickly racked up 122 pre-orders from 26 airlines based on designs along. But as it turned out, the Boeing program was in deep trouble. The plane had proved so complicated that even after four years of work, there was still no prototype. By then, the United States government had spent $1 billion on development, but had nothing to show for it. In March 1971, Congress did what so many politicians in Britain had wished they'd done themselves, and voted to end funding for the supersonic program. At first, the news came as a relief to Michael Hezelstein, and everyone else invested in Concord's success. One of the international threats that had loomed over their program for more than a decade was gone. Goliath was dead, and David left standing. It seemed to prove the British engineer Morian Morgan and his colleagues had been right all those years ago. The United States had been unrealistic in shooting for a Mach 3 aircraft, and this was a much-needed boost for the Concord program, plus a reminder that a lot of thought and smart decision-making had gone into the jet's design and production. But as Michael found out more about what had doomed the Boeing aircraft, uncomfortable parallels emerged with Concord. American politicians had become nervous It's not only about the growing cost and lengthening delays of the Boeing project, but also about the sales potential for any supersonic aircraft. Speed of travel was not the clenching argument aviation experts had once thought it would be. The preference of airlines had shifted toward high-capacity jets that made air travel accessible to the masses. Boeing's wide-bodied 747 had entered service the previous year and could carry up to 400 passengers. There was no longer a clear market for a supersonic jet that could carry only a fraction of that. And Concord was still undergoing a rigorous battery of new tests to see whether it would be deemed air-worthy. These included safety reviews and environmental impact assessments, and as he waited anxiously for the results, Michael Hezelstein will be haunted by the image of the aborted Boeing jet. In some moments, the loss of Concord's biggest competitor would feel like a victory, but in others, it would feel like a harbinger of doom. From wondering, this is Episode 2 of Concord, Sonic Boom and Bust for Business Moves. On the next episode, Concord finally begins commercial service, but a deadly crash raises questions about the future of all supersonic aircraft. If you'd like to learn more about Concord, we recommend Flying Concord, the full story by Brian Calvert, Concord, new shape in the sky by Kenneth Owen, and the dream of speed a 2024 article in Arena Magazine by Julius Steinberg. A quick note about our drama stations. In most cases, we can't know everything that happened, but all our reenactments are based on historical research. Business Movers is hosted, edited, and executed produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Muhammad Shahzib, sound design by Gabriel Gould, music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written and researched by Emma Dipton. Executive producers are William Simpson for Airship and Aaron O'Flaherty, Jenny Lauer Beckman, and Marshall Louis for Wondering. You stepped out for your morning jog, except it's not your usual morning jog. You started listening to an epic sci-fi book Unaudible. 30 chapters later, you've accidentally run a half marathon. You lost track of how far you've run, somewhere just past the city limits. You can't stop. You have to find out what happens next. Then it's over. The universe seems bigger. You feel different. You feel like you have no idea where you are. Audible. Stories that speak to you.