Edge of Honor (26 page)

Problems started when he asked to visit a Polish fighter squadron. The air attaché, an Air Force colonel, disapproved his request saying such a visit was outside the Office of Defense Cooperation’s area of responsibility. Pontowski was about to march into the colonel’s office for a quick head-knocking session when Ewa stopped him. “Let me speak to his secretary first,” she said. She bought some flowers on her lunch break and, later that afternoon, the request was approved.

“What would I do without you?” Pontowski asked.

“You wouldn’t see the Polish Air Force,” she replied.

The traffic on the road leading to Okecie Airport slowed and came to a halt. Pontowski shifted his weight and looked out the car window. Three tour buses were unloading what looked like Russian soldiers in front of a huge monument on the other side of the street. Ewa followed his gaze. “That’s a monument to the Russian soldiers who were killed liberating Poland from the Germans in World War II. They remember.”

“Is that all the Russians did for Poland?”

She shrugged. “They built the Palace of Culture and Science as a gift to the Polish people.”

Pontowski twisted around in his seat. The ugly brown building dominated Warsaw’s skyline. “It’s a monstrosity.”

“It’s useful,” she replied, “and it serves as a reminder.” The traffic started to move and a few minutes later, the staff car pulled into the barracks next to the airport. Pontowski buttoned the coat to his uniform, adjusted his scarf, and belted his topcoat. First impressions were everything.

A Polish brigadier general and two other officers saluted when he entered the building. “Welcome to the 1st Air Regiment,” the brigadier said. They shook hands. “We were the first to fly the F-16 and like to think we are the premier air defense unit in our Air Force. We are at your service.” They talked while a staff sergeant got his parachute bag out of the car’s trunk. “I see you brought your flying gear,” the brigadier said nervously. “Perhaps we can accommodate you with a flight in our D model if the weather cooperates.” He sounded hopeful that it would not. As expected, the Polish Air Force had put its best foot forward for Pontowski’s visit, wanting to impress him. But he knew what to look for. The office equipment was old, the building needed repair, and no flights were posted on the scheduling boards.

“How much flying time do your pilots get?”

The brigadier hesitated. “Fifty-five to sixty hours a year.”

Pontowski was shocked. A fighter pilot had to fly five times that much to maintain minimum combat proficiency. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to fly in the backseat with a pilot who was, at best, marginally proficient in basic flying skills. “I would consider it an honor to fly in the front seat. Of course, with an instructor pilot in the back.”

“Of course,” the brigadier replied. He was not a happy man and spoke to his aide in Polish. “Arrange for General Pontowski to fly as pilot. I want our best instructor to go with him.”

It was a long drive from the barracks to the far side of
the airport where flight operations were hangared. Pontowski felt better when they drove up. He knew a fighter squadron when he saw one. “Matt!” a voice boomed when he got out of the car. It was Emil, the Polish officer with the unpronounceable last name who had flown with him at the air show when Danny Beason had crashed. “No crashes today!”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Good. I’m flying on your wing as number two.” He escorted Pontowski into the locker room where they changed into their flight suits.

The IP, instructor pilot, flying with Pontowski briefed the mission while the two pilots jotted down notes on their kneeboards. The flight was little more than a familiarization ride in the jet and was totally undemanding. Afterward, the IP asked Pontowski about the squadron patch above his right chest pocket. “The 303rd is an A-10 squadron?” he asked.

“It’s a reserve outfit at Whiteman Air Force Base. I was the squadron commander for a while.”

The IP studied the patch. “A most unusual coincidence. In the Battle of Britain, the 303rd was a Royal Air Force squadron made up of Polish pilots. They flew Hurricanes.”

“My grandfather flew with the RAF in the big one.”

The IP nodded. “Yes, I know. He flew Mosquitoes.”

The patch was on Velcro and Pontowski pulled it off. He handed it to the IP. “As a souvenir of this flight.”

Pontowski preflighted the F-16 with the crew chief. The jet was in pristine condition and glowed with tender loving care. But he sensed something was wrong. “Don’t your pilots preflight their own aircraft?” The crew chief shook his head. “Ah, I see. It’s the way we do things. Flights can be very demanding.” The crew chief was not convinced. “Have you ever been up for a ride?”

“It is not allowed.”

“Maybe I can change that. Then you’d know why it’s best to double- and triple-check everything.” The resistance he felt coming from the sergeant melted away.

Within moments, he was sitting in the front seat of the cockpit, his hands running through the familiar checklist.
The crew chief helped him strap in and pulled the boarding ladder away. Engine start and taxi went smoothly and within minutes they were at the end of the runway waiting for clearance to takeoff. Pontowski was surprised there was no quick-check crew waiting for them to do a final inspection for leaks, loose panels, or cut tires before they took the runway. At the last minute, the IP changed the takeoff and called for instrument departures. Pontowski shook his head in disapproval. The weather was improving and more than adequate for a formation or twenty-second in-trail takeoffs. Weather was always a problem in Europe and a fighter jock had to learn how to handle it or he would spend most of his days on the ground. Also, an instrument departure would burn a lot of fuel before they joined up. He made another note.

The takeoff and climb-out were routine as the two fighters followed radar vectors and were passed over to Crown East, the GCI site near Bialystok. The GCI controller separated them and set them up sixty miles apart. When they were headed directly at each other, the controller identified Emil as the target and Pontowski as the interceptor. Pontowski cringed when he realized it was going to be a simple stern conversion where the controller gave him vectors that hooked him around into Emil’s six o’clock. It was enough to bore a man silly and even the controller did not sound enthused. On the fourth setup when Pontowski was the target for the second time, he realized they were accomplishing nothing. “We’re boring holes in the sky and my attitude,” he told the instructor pilot in the backseat. “Emil needs practice playing with an aware bandit.”

“What’s an aware bandit?” the pilot asked.

“It means the guy you’re trying to hose out of the sky knows you’re on him and has a clue. Let me put my nose on Emil and see what he does.”

“What should he do?” the pilot asked. The fact they were having such a leisurely conversation revealed how relaxed the mission was.

“Take over the intercept and use the vertical to maneuver into weapons-firing parameters.”

The pilot was shocked. “It’s not allowed.”

Pontowski gritted his teeth as Emil swung around in a level turn to his six o’clock position, still following the vectors from the GCI site. He was frustrated because a pilot with the F-16’s radar and black boxes could run a better intercept than any ground controller. This was not his idea of how to fly and fight.

He felt a sense of relief when the IP called Crown East for vectors back to Okecie for landing. They had been airborne forty minutes and accomplished nothing in the way of training. “Fuel is a consideration,” the IP explained. Pontowski made another note.

Approach control split them up for radar vectors to an Instrument Landing System final, an approach the airlines preferred. Since Pontowski had more fuel remaining than Emil, he landed last. The weather was still improving and the field was bathed in sunlight with fifteen miles visibility. “Okecie Tower,” Pontowski radioed, “request an overhead recovery.” An overhead recovery was the standard circling approach fighters flew returning from combat.

Before the IP could object, the tower called, “That approach is not allowed.” Pontowski made another note and made a straight-in landing. The crew chief marshaled them into parking and chocked the wheels. Pontowski climbed out and collected his thoughts as they walked in for the debrief. Tact and diplomacy were high on his agenda. But there was no debrief. He made another note.

In the locker room, Emil motioned for Pontowski to wait until the IP had changed and left. “Polish pilots don’t like to hear criticism,” he said.

“Is that the reason you don’t debrief?” A nod from Emil confirmed his suspicions. “But that’s when you learn from your mistakes.”

“I would never criticize you,” Emil confessed.

“Then you’re not doing your job.”

“It was not a very demanding mission,” Emil said.

Pontowski thought for a moment.
How do I tell them the truth and still keep the doors open?
“At least I learned something.” The eager look on Emil’s face demanded he say more. “You’re a good pilot and can fly the jet. Now we have to get you enough fuel and flying time to learn how to fight the F-16.”

“To fly and fight,” Emil repeated. “I remember you saying that before we took off at the air show.”

Pontowski’s face was deadly serious. “That’s what this business is all about.”

The White House

Maddy Turner’s maid hovered in the background as she undressed for bed. Of all the rooms in the residence, she loved her bedroom. It was personal and feminine, and free of the showroom look demanded by Washington’s political establishment.
What would Matt think?
she asked herself, trying to envision his reaction to her room. To her bed. “Laura,” she called from the dressing room next to the bath, “you can go. Have a nice weekend.”

“Thank you, Mrs. President,” came the reply.

She was alone as she slipped a simple white silk nightdress over her head. It fell to midthigh and was low cut.
It’s almost nothing
, she decided, studying herself in a mirror. She sat at her makeup table and brushed her hair. She laid the brush down and pushed the narrow straps of her nightdress away.
What would Matt see?
She looked at her breasts. She stood and pulled on a full-length terry-cloth robe. But rather than go into her bedroom, she sat back down.

She tried to let her mind wander down some pleasant lane of remembrance. But the present was too strong and demanding, the future too near, and her State of the Union Address only five days away.
How are people seeing me? How am I coming over?
She chastised herself for constantly linking her self-image to her political image. “Is that all that’s left of me?” she said aloud.

When should I announce? And where? Do I do it at a press conference? Maybe at the conclusion of a speech?
For a moment, her mind’s eye saw a children’s hospital in the background. She discarded that image. The press would say she was using children as props for her political ambitions.
Maybe it should be an intimate setting with my family?
She made a mental note to speak to Shaw about the how and where.

She sat still for a moment, trying to understand the reflection in the mirror.
Am I letting too much show or not enough? Noreen would know
. Her friend’s laughter echoed in her memory. Now the images were back, sharp and clear. For a moment, she was still in the helicopter and Dennis was spinning her seat around as they plummeted to the earth. She forced the image away.

The image in the mirror seemed to blur and fade, a gossamer mirage in the wind.
So fragile. So fragile
. She reached for the phone. “Please call Reverend Ford.” She waited. Within moments, the minister was on the line. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she began, “but it’s the crash. It keeps coming back.”

“That’s the way a sane mind deals with an insane act. For now, don’t be afraid of facing it and talking about it. It will become less urgent with time and should fade.”

“I keep asking myself, why me? Why did I survive and no one else?”

“No human knows the answer to that question and no one can speak for God. But there must be a reason.”

“Why do I find that so hard to believe?”

“To believe otherwise invites chaos. Perhaps, we won’t ever know the why of our existence. But we must keep faith, not only in ourselves but in each other. Your friends did not die in vain if you keep their memory and honor them by doing what is right. But no matter what happens, remember them.”

Ford’s words washed over her like a soothing breeze carrying a comforting echo of what Pontowski had so gently revealed to her. “I will,” she promised.

Moscow

Tom Johnson dropped the videocassette on Geraldine’s desk. “That’s the unedited version,” he told her. “I got it through one of my contacts in Washington. You need to see it first.” Geraldine glanced at the camera that was part of the elaborate security system in the Towers. Vashin had been fixated on the short news clip run by CNC-TV News and any delay was out of the question. Besides, she already knew what was on it, which would have been an even bigger surprise for Johnson.

She picked up the cassette and marched into Vashin’s office. “Mikhail, we have the unedited videotape from Warsaw.” She readied the TV as he settled on a couch. He nodded and she hit the play button. The tape started with the image of a tall man issuing orders in the middle of Zlota Street. “He appears to be the only one not drunk,” Geraldine said.

Vashin watched impassively as four men ran for the back of the bank. Then the camera zoomed in on a man rolling on the ground in pain, holding his foot. “He accidentally shot himself,” Geraldine explained. Vashin gave her a quick, questioning look. She bit her lip at the inadvertent slip. She was getting careless. The scene abruptly cut to four men running up the stairs to Exclusive Studios and kicking in the door. Released from their captors, the girls descended on their former guards like vengeful banshees. Even Vashin flinched when one drove the point of her shoe into a prostrate man’s groin. Vashin watched in
silence as sixty-seven men were rounded up and loaded into their own trucks.

“What happened to them?” he asked.

“The police held them for a week and then kicked them out of the country. Unfortunately, they were all photographed, fingerprinted, and typed for DNA before being released. Their records were turned over to Interpol, the British, and the Americans.”

Vashin grunted and replayed the tape. Geraldine watched him for signs of a fit but nothing happened as he reran the tape again and again. “We look like clowns,” he finally said. “Get Yaponets.” Geraldine hurried out of the room to summon the godfather.

Vashin walked across the room to the big picture window overlooking Moscow.
The archangel Michael must love heights
, he told himself. He stared out the window into a dark gray nothing. A winter storm was battering Moscow with a fierce intensity and the window shook. He mentally reran the tape.
They made us look like idiots
. In the back of his mind, he could hear people laughing at the sight of his men, at the mention of the Russian Mafiya.
AT HIM!
The laughter grew louder and seared his soul. The storm beating against the Towers was a perfect reflection of his anger and frustration.
I will not have it!
Vashin felt the power in the storm as the building swayed.

Who is stronger, the gods or me?
His peasant’s soul trembled in fear at the challenge as the huge window rattled in its frame. Suddenly, the wind died and the clouds parted over the center of Moscow. The domes of the Kremlin were bathed in a golden light. He stared in amazement. It was the same as his dream! Or was he still dreaming? For a moment, he wasn’t sure. His eyes opened wide.
This is real!
Then the break in the storm moved away from the Kremlin, trailing the golden light like a spotlight sweeping the ground. It came to rest over Vashin Towers as the storm stalled above Moscow.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the Towers from the Kremlin, glowing in the sunlight that had once been on it. With a certainty he had never felt before, he knew it was a message.
It is me! This is my destiny!

Yaponets found him still standing in front of the window staring into the gray snowstorm that lashed Moscow. He was a patient man and sat down. He studied the set of Vashin’s shoulders, the way he held his head, and the rigidity of his stance. An inner sense warned him that Vashin had changed. “Mikhail,” he said in a low voice. Vashin turned and Yaponets felt an overpowering urge to escape. The look on Vashin’s face reminded him of an evil priest in an old Eisenstein movie he had seen as a child. He fought the impulse to run.

“You need to see this,” Vashin said. He played the videotape and they watched in silence, the two men alone as the windows rattled in the storm. The tape played out. “People are laughing at me.”

“Not in public,” Yaponets replied.

“Adam Lezno is laughing. First, he steals my money and now this. A Pole laughing at me! I won’t have it.”

Yaponets tried to soothe him. “He’s a dead man the moment he flies in his…”

“He didn’t do this alone. Who helped him?”

“The Americans, of course. The new ambassador is in league with the devil.”

“I want him sewn up. Dead. With Lezno.”

Yaponets nodded. “We can do that.”

Warsaw

Bender and Jerzy Fedor stood together as Adam Lezno’s limousine arrived at the aircraft. “I appreciate the chance to go with the president,” Bender said. “I’ve never seen a ship launched.”

“I suggested it when they were arranging the christening. It’s the first of our new Gdansk-class frigates. Very modern and powerful. Besides, you’ll have a chance to meet Lech Walesa. A most unusual individual.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Lezno got out of the limousine and sat in a wheelchair designed for boarding aircraft. “Good morning. Mr. President,” Bender said. “A nice day to fly.”

“I prefer the train,” Lezno replied. “But I’ve got to be
back this afternoon.” An aide tugged the wheelchair up the stairs. “Jerzy, I want everyone in place when I return.”

“We will be ready,” Fedor assured him.

“You’re not going?” Bender asked.

“A last-minute change of plans. A bureaucratic, what do you Americans say, snafu?”

Bender laughed. “Situation normal, all fouled up.”

“I thought the
f
stood for a much better word than ‘fouled.’”

They shook hands and Bender climbed the steps and entered the two-engine business jet that served as the Polish president’s official aircraft for travel in Poland and Europe. Because it was crowded, Bender had to sit at the rear for the short twenty-five-minute flight to Rebiechowo, the airfield on the western side of Gdańsk where they would land. Lezno turned around and asked, “Is it true pilots hate it when they are not at the controls?”

“Absolutely,” Bender replied.

“Once a pilot,” Lezno said, “always a pilot.”

Bender gave him his best fighter pilot grin and strapped in. The takeoff was as expected and the weather cooperated for the short hop. Bender tried to relax and gazed out the window, taking in the landscape. As he was near the engines, he heard the change and pitch as the aircraft started to descend. When they were established on an arc around the southern side of Gdańsk and passing through 4,000 feet, he leaned back and tightened his seat belt.

A loud explosion rocked the aircraft and the window out of which he had been gazing moments before shattered in a shower of acrylic, peppering the woman across the aisle from him. At the same moment, he saw a bright flash off the left wing and, again, the aircraft rocked from the blast. A man tumbled into the aisle, screaming in pain. Lezno turned to Bender and shouted, “What’s happening?” Fear was writ large on his face as the aircraft nosed over and banked to the left.

Bender was out of his seat. “Two fucking missiles,” he shouted, pulling himself forward.

A woman grabbed at him. “We’re going to die!”

“Not if I can help it,” he growled. He pulled free of
her grasp and fought his way forward. A blast of air beat at him and he could see the copilot slumped over the center console on the flight deck.

The man rolling in pain in the aisle clutched at Bender’s legs and wouldn’t let go. It was a death grip Bender couldn’t break. “Let him go!” Lezno roared, his voice carrying over the chaos. The man eased his grip and Bender kicked free, stepping over him. The aircraft’s bank tightened into a spiral as Bender pulled himself into the narrow space between the pilots. The copilot was dead and the pilot slumped forward over the controls.

The ground was rushing at them and they only had seconds to live.

Bender’s reaction was automatic, honed by years of experience and flying combat. He grabbed the pilot’s shirt and pulled him off the controls, back into his seat. He reached for the control column. “Come on!” he shouted, bringing the nose of the aircraft to the horizon. With agonizing slowness, the nose came up and the sink rate slowed. “You can do it,” Bender cajoled. Finally, they were level at less than 300 feet above the ground.

Twenty-six miles away, in a wooded clearing, two men were loading an aluminum case that resembled a small coffin into a van. Their radio squawked, telling them the aircraft was still airborne. Without a word, they opened the cover and pulled out the deadly Strela-3, the shoulder-held, surface-to-air missile that NATO called “Gremlin.”

A fire-warning light flashed at Bender. “Left engine,” he said, more to himself as he pulled the left-engine control lever to the off position. He didn’t realize he was shouting. The pilot’s hand moved toward a T-handle on the top of the instrument panel. Then it fell away as he passed out. But it was enough.

Bender pulled the handle and felt it go into a detent. He twisted and pulled again, firing the halon fire extinguisher. The fire light went out. “I need help,” he shouted. A man appeared behind him. “Help me with the pilot.” He released the pilot’s safety harness while he flew the aircraft with his right hand. Together, they managed
to drag the unconscious pilot out of his seat. Bender slid into the pilot’s seat, aware that his left hand and arm were covered with blood. He pulled the pilot’s headset on and hit the radio transmit button on the yoke. “Mayday, Mayday.”

A cool voice answered him. “Aircraft calling Gdańsk, please identify yourself.”

“This is Falcon One with an emergency. We have been hit by two missiles. Left engine out, pilots incapacitated. President Lezno is on board, condition unknown.”

“Identify yourself and say the condition of the president,” Gdańsk answered.

Bender silently cursed the controller. He was concentrating on the wrong things and would have to be told what to do, the one thing Bender did not have time for. “I’m declaring an emergency and want a discrete frequency for vectors to the nearest airport. Scramble the crash crews and clear all airspace.” He ignored the controllers repeated request for identification and concentrated on flying the aircraft. He scanned the flight and engine instruments to see if everything agreed. It did. He checked the hydraulic pressure. It was slowly bleeding down. “How long?” he wondered aloud. And what systems would he lose? He slowed the aircraft and ran a controllability check. The jet responded as it should.

To be on the safe side, he reduced airspeed even more and lowered the gear. Three lights flashed green on the instrument panel as the gear clunked down. He turned in his seat and yelled. “Everyone strap in!” The controls started to feel heavy and he knew he didn’t have much more time. “Gdańsk approach, I have a field in sight. It is to the west of town with a long west-to-east runway. I am losing my hydraulic pressure and am landing. Clear all traffic and request tower frequency.”

“Falcon One,” the Gdańsk controller answered. “Do not land without proper identification. I repeat, do not land.”

Bender shouted, “Fuck you in the heart, buddy!” He punched at the radio, finding the frequency for Guard, the universal emergency channel. “Airport west of Gdańsk, this is Falcon One with an emergency, left engine out and
losing hydraulic pressure. I am five miles for a straight-in landing”—he checked his compass—“on Runway one-one. President Lezno is on board. Scramble emergency vehicles.”

A different voice answered. “Rebiechowo Tower has you in sight. Wind is easterly at seven kilometers. You are cleared to land. Emergency vehicles are scrambled.”

Bender worked to control his voice. “Rog Rebiechowo.”
Fly the airplane!
he yelled to himself. He checked his airspeed. “Too slow.” He pushed the right throttle full forward. But the controls were growing more stiff. “Rebiechowo, I’m experiencing control problems.” He looked out the left-side windscreen.
Too many trees
. If it had been open farmland, he would have sucked up the landing gear and made a controlled crash landing. But the trees were growing heavier as he approached the field.

“There,” the man said, swinging the Gremlin onto the approaching airplane. He sighted the missile, laying the crosshairs on the nose.

“Wait,” his partner said. “He’s low and slow. Take an aft shot.”

“He’ll be over the approach lights,” the shooter replied.

“He may crash,” his partner said. “Better for us.”

The flight controls were heavy as Bender crossed the approached lights, still thirty feet in the air. He fought for directional control but the stricken airplane yawed into the dead left engine. He stomped the right rudder, hard. Slowly, the aircraft responded and straightened out as he lined up for touchdown.

He never saw the missile streaking after the aircraft, homing on its one good engine.

The White House

“Madame President.” The woman’s voice was not loud but urgent. Maddy Turner fought against it, not wanting to wake up. “Madame President, we have a situation that needs your attention.”

She came awake. It was Laura, her maid. “What time is it?”

“Just after four in the morning.”

Turner sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a robe. “Why are you here so early?”

“I have the morning shift this week,” Laura said. “A message came in. The night duty officer is outside and Mr. Parrish is on his way. He should be here in ten or twelve minutes.”

Still groggy, Turner stepped into her slippers. Laura handed her a hairbrush and she brushed her hair back with a few quick strokes. She stood and walked into her private office in the residence. The duty officer was standing, a worried look on his face as he nervously fingered a message. “The president of Poland was killed early this morning,” he said.