Edge of Honor (28 page)

Pontowski stood in front of the scheduling board in the squadron and tried to pronounce the names of the three pilots who would be flying on his wing. He had serious misgivings about leading a four-ship training mission so early on. But he liked the aggressive spirit behind the idea. “I won’t be flying with you today,” Emil said, obviously
disappointed. “My brigadier wants to expose as many pilots as possible to your style of flying.”

“How about scheduling me in a D model and you fly in the pit? That way I’ve got an interpreter and someone who knows the local area.” Emil readily agreed and it was easily arranged. They walked into a small briefing room where the three nervous pilots were standing behind their chairs.

“Sit down and relax,” Pontowski said. He started a standard briefing by listing the sequence of events on the chalkboard. “Since the weather is cooperating, we’ll do a formation takeoff in pairs with twenty-second spacing between elements.” From the worried looks on their faces, he sensed it was wrong, too aggressive. Or perhaps they didn’t trust him. He changed his mind. “Make that single-ship takeoffs with twenty-second spacing. I’ll turn out to the left and hold 350 knots. Join up in fingertip formation, with number two on my right wing.”

“That means I’ll have to cut you off on the inside of your turn and then cross underneath,” his wingman said.

“That’s correct,” Pontowski replied. “Take your time, I’ll give you plenty of throttle. When three and four have joined on my left, I’ll use our radar to clear the airspace and find a break in the clouds to punch through on top.”

The three pilots scribbled furiously as he covered the details of each event. When he was finished he quickly recapped what they would be doing. Finally, they stepped to the waiting aircraft. Emil was quiet as they walked up to the two-place F-16. “Perhaps,” he hedged, “we’re doing too much for the first mission?”

“Then we’ll play it by ear,” Pontowski said.

He found out exactly what Emil meant on takeoff. As briefed, he turned out to the left, carving a graceful arc around the southern part of Warsaw. It took his wingman almost three minutes to cut him off, cross under, and move into place on his right wing. By then, he couldn’t find his second element of two aircraft and wondered where they had gone. He called approach control on the radio and asked for radar vectors for a rejoin. But the ground controller was confused. Finally, Emil had to tell approach control exactly what they wanted him to do. From the tone
of Emil’s voice and the brisk flurry of Polish, Pontowski was sure most of the adjectives Emil was using would never be found in a Polish/English dictionary. He made a mental note for the debrief.

Twenty minutes after takeoff, he found the missing two F-16s circling at 24,000 feet. He called for a fuel check and groaned inwardly. The backseat in his D model F-16 replaced the forward fuselage fuel tank and he took off with 1,400 pounds less fuel than the other three jets. Yet, his number two and three wingman had less fuel than he did! For a fighter jock, running out of fuel was one of the cardinal sins. He made another note to talk about fuel management and throttle technique in the debrief.

Emil’s warning about doing too much on the first mission echoed in his mind. He had to slow down. Once he had them flying straight and level in a reasonable wingtip formation, he practiced formation turns. The first one was a fiasco, the second one better, the third perfect. He made a note for the debrief.

Then he moved them out into a line-abreast formation with the second element 4,000 feet to his left and his wingman 500 feet off his right wing. Then he worked them through a classic fluid-four turn where they turned ninety degrees and still came out in the same formation. It would have been perfect except they lost number four. Again, Emil got on the radio and had approach control vector them for a rejoin. By now they were getting good at rejoining and Pontowski had their measure. They were fast learners and good pilots who suffered from lack of flying time and aggressive training. He would talk about it in the debrief. He went into an extended trail formation with the second element three miles behind him. He turned to the right, pleased that his wingman was now welded in position on his right wing. The second element closed for a turning rejoin and moved smoothly into formation.

Pontowski called for a fuel check; it was time to head for the barn. He called approach control and broke the flight up, sending three and four home first. He called his wingman. “Okay partner, how are you on overhead recoveries?”

“It’s not allowed,” Emil said from the backseat.

“It is now,” Pontowski replied. He briefed his wingman on exactly how to fly the traditional recovery flown by fighters returning from combat.

Most of the squadron’s pilots were standing outside the operations building and saw the two F-16s as they approached from the southwest. Pontowski locked their airspeed at 300 knots and their altitude 1,500 feet above the ground. When they were over the approach end of the runway, he keyed his radio. “In the break.” He wracked the jet into a turn and peeled off to the left. He aligned the missile rail on his left wingtip with the runway for offset. Five seconds later, his wingman did the same. “Watch your spacing,” he radioed, cautioning his wingman as he bled off airspeed. Then, “Gear down.” His left hand flicked out and hit the gear lever, dropping the gear and the flaperons.

When he was abeam the touchdown point, he circled to land. The airspeed bled off nicely as he came down final. He kissed the concrete at exactly 140 knots. Good landings in the F-16 were easy, but great landings were a gift from God. “How’s he doing?” Pontowski asked Emil.

Emil twisted around in his seat to watch the other F-16 land. “Perfect.”

“Well, at least one thing went right today.” He turned off the runway and waited for his wingman. They taxied to the squadron area as a team and parked. On cue, their canopies came up together and he cut the engine. “Cheated death again,” he told Emil.

Twenty minutes later, the two pilots walked into the briefing room expecting to see the other three pilots. The room was deserted. “Where did they go?”

Emil looked embarrassed. “We never debrief.” He started to explain, but his voice trailed off.

“They’re not used to criticism,” Pontowski said. “Emil, the debrief is the most important part of the mission. That’s where we all learn from our mistakes and how not to make them again.”

It was after six in the evening when Pontowski returned to the embassy. He walked down the deserted hall to his
offices and, as expected, found the two officers who worked for him still there. They briefed him on the message traffic that had to go out, he signed the releases, and sent them home to their families. Then he took off his coat and worked through the folder on his desk detailing a training package for the Polish Air Force. It was a good proposal but it didn’t feel right, not after that afternoon’s flight.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He fished the videocassette from the mission out of his briefcase and popped it into his VCR. The familiar picture recorded through the F-16’s head-up display appeared on the TV screen and his voice was loud and clear over the radio. Again, his frustration built as the mission unfolded.
They’re decent enough pilots
, he reasoned. He glanced at the training proposal and knew it was all wrong. He threw the folder against the wall in frustration and its pages fluttered across the floor. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the strain from the mission demanding its price. He dozed.

“General,” Ewa said, “would you like some coffee or tea?” His eyes snapped open. She was standing in front of his desk holding the offending folder, all neatly arranged and in order. She tilted her head, waiting for an answer.

“Please sit down,” he said, motioning to a chair. “I’ve got a problem. The folder you’re holding is a training proposal for your air force. It’s a good plan, but for some reason, I know it won’t work.”

She scanned the folder and then read a few pages. “Whoever wrote this doesn’t understand Poles.”

He sensed she was right. “So what do I do?”

“You need to talk to my mother.” Without waiting for a reply, she picked up his phone and dialed a number. She spoke briefly in Polish and turned to him. “Have you ever had pierogi with a good Polish beer?” He shook his head.

Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik pushed through the door of the crowded pub and spoke to a heavyset man behind the counter. He looked around and led them to a table with three empty seats. The young couple scooted to one end and went
on talking and smoking as if they weren’t there. “So, what don’t you understand about us?” the doctor asked, coming directly to the point. The couple next to them fell silent, obviously listening for Pontowski’s answer.

“I guess the Polish character is totally beyond me.”

“That’s because we’re a mixed people, speaking a Slavic language, with a European culture. Look at the people around you. Most of them are very young. But never forget they were all born in the Soviet dark ages.” A waitress brought a platter of pierogi and a pitcher of beer. Elzbieta pointed to one. “Try that one.”

Pontowski bit into it and found it delicious. “It reminds me of a Cornish pasty.”

“It should remind you of Poland,” the doctor said. “That is why you don’t understand us. We are a hard-headed people, Matt Pontowski, and learn by example. Your name, what do you Americans say? has weight here. We want to trust you because of who you are. Try not to disappoint us.” She took a healthy drink of beer. “We have been occupied so often and for so long that we distrust words. Authority. Foreigners.”

The young man sitting next to Pontowski snorted. “Especially Russians.”

“My father,” his girlfriend said, “hates all Germans and Russians.”

“So given a chance,” Elzbieta asked, “which would he kill first?”

“Germans,” a man at the next table called.

“Why?” Elzbieta asked.

“Duty before pleasure,” another man shouted.

Elzbieta fixed Pontowski with a hard stare. “Now you are talking to Poles. Are you listening?” She stood and left.

The girl leaned across the table. “Are you the grandson of President Pontowski?”

Pontowski gave her his best grin. “Guilty as charged.”

For a moment, he was surrounded by silence. Then the talking, laughter, and drinking really began.

The price of the evening was a hangover the next morning. It pounded at Pontowski with an intensity he hadn’t felt since he was a young lieutenant at Luke Air Force
Base in Arizona. Ewa took one look at him when he entered his office and handed him a cup of coffee. He sipped at it. “I should know better at my age,” he said.

“Yes, you should,” she chided. But there was amusement in her hazel eyes. “Did you learn anything else last night?”

“Most assuredly,” he answered.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Ambassador Bender said that many times.”

Pontowski felt a tug of emotion but quickly buried it. He checked his address book and jotted down a number. “I’m gonna hire some American fighter jocks to train your pilots. Please call this number in Tucson, Arizona, for me.”

“It’s one in the morning there. You’ll wake them.”

“He won’t mind.”

She went to her office and quickly made the connection. Pontowski picked up the phone and listened for the familiar voice. “Walderman.”

“Waldo, you current in the Viper?”

George Walderman recognized Pontowski’s voice immediately. “I’m still a weekend warrior. Flying with the 162nd Tac Fighter Group here at Tucson.”

“How would you like to get a life?”

“You want me to play hero again, don’t you?”

“Nope. Just train a few.”

“Where?”

“Poland.”

“No one goes to Poland in January.” A long pause. “When do you want me there?”

“Yesterday.”

“Can do. By the way, who’s picking up the paycheck?”

“You’ll be a civilian working for the Polish government.”

“That’s a different show,” he allowed.

The White House

Patrick Flannery Shaw sat in the staff room down the hall from the kitchen and poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s. He swirled the whiskey and savored its aroma. But he didn’t
drink; not when he needed to be at the top of his game. He had spent too many sleepless nights playing out scenarios and had come to the same conclusion every time.

The upcoming election was going to be a squeaker, but Maddy Turner was going down to defeat. And he knew why. The thought of Leland and his buddies running the nation sent a chill down his back. Could he prevent it? Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to work with, not given Maddy’s scruples. But he had to try. He also knew exactly what she would do to him if she found out. His advice to her about sacrificing subordinates who overstepped the bounds had struck home.

“Patrick,” Turner said, bringing him back to the moment.

He stood up. “Madame President.”

She sat down and poured herself a root beer. “No
Mizz
President? You must be worried.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am. I know you’re under pressure to announce for reelection to avoid being labeled a lame duck. But I think it’d be better if you held off announcing as long as possible.”

“Why?”

“Too many balls in the air. And we need to force Leland’s hand.”

“Is he going to run?”

Shaw shook his head. “The Senate hasn’t seen the likes of him since Lyndon Baines Johnson. Leland knows the presidency destroyed LBJ, so why risk what he has in the Senate when he can be a kingmaker?”

She gave a little nod in agreement. “He is a problem.” In a few short sentences she told him about the private meeting with the senator, the deal exchanging Yaponets for a nuclear weapon that went sour, and what Leland wanted for his silence.

“How in hell did he find out?” Shaw muttered. He looked at the woman who had become the focal point of his life. She was all that he could never be, the sum of all he valued. She walked on center stage and commanded the spotlight while he was consigned to the wings. But he didn’t care. In his heart, he loved her like the daughter he never had. His resolve stiffened and he knew what he had to do.