Edge of Honor (39 page)

Again, he checked the flight in on the radio and taxied for the runway. The eight aircraft parked in a line, noses pointed into the wind, for their weapons to be armed and a final quick check before takeoff. He waited, the old tension mounting. For a moment, he was back in time on his first combat mission, holding at the end of the runway just like now. He knew what Emil and the other pilots were feeling and for one split second, wasn’t sure that he and Waldo could bring it off. A crew chief ran out from under Pontowski’s wing and held up a handful of red safety pins with red streamers. His weapons were ready for flight.

Can we do it?
he wondered. He honestly didn’t know the answer. He made the decision and tapped the front of his helmet with his fist, the signal for lowering their canopies in unison. Waldo passed the signal down the line and when he looked back, Pontowski rocked his head forward and lowered his canopy. Waldo sent the signal down the line and eight canopies lowered in unison. Only the crew chiefs saw it, but it was the first step in the pilots coming together as a team.

Pontowski keyed his radio. “Takeoff single ship, twenty-second intervals.” Waldo answered by clicking his transmit button once. Six more clicks echoed in acknowledgment. Pontowski grunted in satisfaction. It was a good beginning. He called for takeoff clearance from the tower and taxied onto the runway. The others followed him, taxiing into a staggered pattern to avoid jet blast.

“Cleared for takeoff,” the tower radioed.

“Rolling,” Pontowski replied, starting the clock.

New Mexico

It was one o’clock in the morning when the headlights of Sanford’s truck raked the swollen Rio Hondo. He got out and checked the bridge. It was under three inches of water. He hurried back to the truck. “Zeth, you’ve lived here most your life. Do you think it’s safe to cross?”

“My dad used to drive across all the time when it was under water. I guess it’s okay.”

“Let’s try it.” He grabbed a rope out of the truck and tied one end to the front bumper and the other end to himself. “I’m gonna walk across and check it out. If I fall in or get swept away, I’d appreciate a little help on the rope.” The teenagers played out the rope as he walked across the bridge. He made it across and was coming back when, suddenly, a single shot rang out.

Sanford fell into the raging current as a volley of shots shattered the truck’s windshield. The teenagers fell to the ground and rolled under the truck. But Zeth kept crawling and pulled herself onto the floor of the front seat. Two more shots slammed into the truck, spraying glass over her. She reached up and pressed the button on the emergency locator beacon. But the set was dead, shattered by a bullet.

Moscow

An honor guard at Vnukova Airport stood at attention in the morning sun as the motorcade drove up to the boarding steps of the waiting Tupolev TU-204. The Russian military had converted the twin-engine turbofan airliner for VIP use and it was the flagship of Transport Aviation, rivaling Air Force One in comfort and luxury. The motorcade coasted to a halt.

General Colonel Peter Prudnokov, the commander of Transport Aviation, saluted Vashin as he emerged from his limousine. “We are at your service, Mr. Vashin.” Vashin nodded, taking the salute as his rightful due. He climbed the steps.

Vashin hesitated at the door and looked over the assembled crowd below him. The sun streamed onto Vashin’s face and a sense of euphoria lifted him upward until he was flying on his own, ever closer to the sun. “This way, please,” a uniformed steward said, bringing him back to earth.

He stepped inside and the forward entrance door was closed. He heard the whine of an engine as it came to life. The sense of euphoria was back. His time had definitely come.

General Prudnokov stood with the honor guard and saluted the TU-204 as it taxied out. The salute wasn’t for Vashin but for the crew and his beautiful airplane. “For Mother Russia,” he vowed quietly.

Over Poland

Pontowski was talking to Waldo over the Have Quick radio as they climbed to the east. “Fuel’s going to be a problem. We need to jettison our bombs.” Each of the eight F-16s were carrying two Mark-84 2,000-pound bombs that were intended for the target at Yalta. Now they were excess baggage.

“There’s a bomb range to the south,” Waldo said. “We can jettison them safe over there. But I doubt if the range officer is on duty or if the range is open.”

Fuel is always a problem in a jet fighter and hesitation meant valuable fuel lost. “Let’s do it,” Pontowski said. “Enter the range single ship, one mile in trail. I’ll come off the range and turn downwind for the rejoin. Form up in two flights of four, fingertip formation. I’ll lead Red Flight, with Emil on my wing as Red Two.” He named the other two pilots who would be Red Three and Red Four. “Waldo you lead Blue Flight.” Again, he called off who would be Blue Two, Three, and Four. Seven clicks on the mike buttons answered him.

They turned toward the range. “Select jettison safe,” he radioed. Seven more clicks answered as the pilots hit the selective jettison button on the right multifunctional display. Then they highlighted stations three and seven, the hard points under the wings where the bombs were carried. But Waldo’s wingman, Blue Two, accidentally selected station eight where an AIM-9M air-to-air heat-seeking missile was carried.

“Master Arm on,” Pontowski radioed as he approached the range straight and level. When he judged he was clear, he hit the pickle button. He felt the two bombs come off but visually checked to be sure. Since the bombs weren’t armed, there was no explosion, only a cloud of dust.

“Six o’clock at 300 meters,” Emil called, scoring the drop. He pickled off his bombs and one by one the fighters followed. Waldo’s wingman, Blue Two, hit his pickle button and the bomb on the left wing separated cleanly. The AIM-9 on his right wing leaped off the rail and headed straight for Waldo.

The number-three pilot in Waldo’s formation, Blue
Three, saw it and yelled, “
WALDO! BREAK LEFT!
” Waldo’s reactions were honed by years of experience and he rolled his F-16 to the left and buried his nose, loading the aircraft with 8
G
s. The missile flashed by, barely missing him.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Waldo shouted over the radio. “What asshole…”

“Blue Two,” Pontowski transmitted, overriding him, “break right and fall in behind the last man. Select the correct station and pickle the bomb.” It was a bad start to the mission and Pontowski had to get it turned around. If Blue Two could not get his bomb off, Pontowski was going to send him home and he would fly the mission with seven aircraft. But everyone’s confidence would be shaken. He watched as Blue Two circled. The bomb came off cleanly. Pontowski breathed easier. “Join up as briefed,” he radioed. The eight aircraft turned to the east.

A torrent of Polish filled Pontowski’s earphones as Emil gave Blue Two a tongue-lashing. While the Americans didn’t understand a word said, the meaning was obvious from the ripping tone. It had to be a devastating barrage. Pontowski waited for the first break to set things straight. His first priority was to keep them functioning as a tight team. “We all make switchology errors,” he radioed. “Our job is to learn from it. When you make a mistake, correct it and get on the with the mission. You can sort it out on the ground, after you land. The key is to always press ahead. Remember that.
PRESS!
” He hoped they all got the message. “Blue Two, you and Waldo owe Blue Three a beer. That was a good call and he saved your worthless ass.”

Waldo knew exactly what Pontowski was doing: stay focused on the mission, keep their confidence up. He keyed his mike and joked, “Hey, a kill’s a kill. But next time, make it a bad guy.”

“Sorry, Waldo,” Blue Two transmitted. “I fucked up. Bad.”

Pontowski heard the anguish in the young pilot’s voice. He had to get them all back on track. “We’ve got an old saying, ‘no harm, no foul.’ Press.” Seven clicks answered him. They were all back as a team. “Weapons safe,”
Pontowski radioed. He didn’t need to waste another missile.

New Mexico

Brian and Matt were under the truck and pulling on the rope tied to the bumper. “We can’t budge it,” Brian said. “It’s hung up on something in the river.”

“How long has he been in the water?” Matt asked.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” Zeth replied. “Too long.”

“If I can get into the front seat,” Brian said, “I can start the engine and back up. We can pull him out.”

“No,” Zeth ordered. “You’ll get shot.” Suddenly, the rope snapped free and snaked across the ground, running downstream. Zeth saw it immediately. “The current’s pushed him against our bank.” She pointed into the dark. “He’s down there about the length of the rope.”

“Let’s go get him,” Matt said, crawling out from under the truck. Brian was right behind him. Now the numerous times they had run the confidence course at NMMI paid off. They were into the brush in seconds and moving fast.

Zeth waited, the minutes ticking, the tension tingling in her. She almost screamed when Brian rolled back under the truck. “We found him. He’s alive and hung up in driftwood that’s piled against a tree. He can see where the shooter is and he said not to come get him or we’ll get shot.”

Zeth thought for a moment. “Where’s the bastard?”

Brian pointed to a shadow on the far bank. “Right about there.”

“How long do you think it will take to get Chuck out of the water?”

“A minute, maybe.”

“The shooter’s got to be using a night-vision scope,” Zeth said. “You go back and when you’re ready, yell ‘Go.’ I’ll shine my flashlight at him and wash out his scope. My TAC officer did it once to me during training and I was blinded for about a minute.”

“Got it,” Brian said. He disappeared into the night.

Zeth crawled out from under the truck and reached into the backseat. She groped around until she found the flashlight. Then she stood, using the angle of the truck as a shield, and held the flashlight on the hood. She crouched behind the fender, her hand over her head, and aimed the flashlight at the spot in the darkness.

Over Poland

Now it was up to Emil to get them safely through Belarus and into the Ukraine. Emil punched a new frequency into his VHF radio. “Minsk Control,” he radioed in his accentless Russian. “This is Vnukova One and Two, climbing to thirty-four thousand feet, destination Kiev.”

“Vnukova aircraft,” the ground controller replied, “our radar paints two aircraft and we do not have a flight plan, or clearance, for your flight to transit Belarus. Remain outside Belarus airspace.”

The first part of the plan had worked and the Belarus radar was painting each formation as a single return. Now Emil had to bluff their way into Belarussian airspace. “We are a diplomatic flight of two aircraft returning from Poland. We filed a flight plan but the Polish pigs are asleep.”

“As usual,” the controller replied. He had handled many of the diplomatic flights. “Say type of aircraft,” he radioed, bored with the whole thing.

“Ilyushin-76s.”

“Roger Vnukova flight. You are cleared to proceed on course. I will obtain clearance for you to enter Ukrainian airspace. Expect further clearance in five minutes.” They were in.

“Radar standby,” Pontowski told them over the Have Quick radio, certain that no one on the ground could monitor the transmission. They had to act like two transports and he didn’t want some air defense early-warning radar site detecting their radars. He called up his navigation display and punched in new numbers. He was a little rusty and it took longer than normal. Vashin’s flight route appeared on the screen. Pontowski punched in more numbers and let the computer work the problem. If Vashin was on
schedule, they would intercept his airliner near Kremenchug in the Ukraine in fifty-two minutes.

It was a long time to fly in tight formation. “Waldo, we need to talk tactics,” he radioed.

Over Russia

Vashin stood at the window of the Tupolev TU-204s VIP suite immediately aft of the flight deck as they leveled off at 34,000 feet and headed south toward the Ukraine and Yalta. His hands were clasped behind his back, his feet apart.

Far beneath him, the broken cloud layer tantalized Vashin with hints of the land below. In his mind, there was no doubt that he was master of his vast domain. For a few moments, he was at peace with the world. But just as quickly, the feeling was gone, replaced by pure hate. An image of Madeline O’Keith Turner filled his mind’s eye. His fury grew as he consigned her to hell. “I will send you there,” he muttered.
Be patient
, he told himself.
Cut off her arms and legs first
.

An eager steward overheard him talking. “May I be of service?”

Vashin shrugged off the man’s offer before reconsidering. “When will Miss Blake arrive at Yalta?” The steward hurried forward to relay Vashin’s request to the communications officer on the flight deck. A warning tickled at the back of Vashin’s mind and his eyes narrowed as he stared out the window. Why had Geraldine begged off at the last minute? She had pleaded that last-minute details needed clearing up and she would follow him in a few hours. But it wasn’t like her to leave loose ends until the last minute. That bothered him. In his mind’s eye, he saw the climax he had so carefully orchestrated for the conference.
Perhaps
, he thought,
Geraldine should be a part of it
.

His eyes opened wide and fear caught in his throat when a jet fighter popped up a hundred meters off the left wing. Then a second and a third appeared, stretched out in the line tapering back to the left. He spun around and looked out
the other side of the airliner. Three more fighters were echeloned to the right. He hurried forward to the flight deck and burst through the door. The pilots were gazing out the side windows and seemed totally unconcerned.

“We have an escort,” the first officer told him.

“Is there a problem?” Vashin asked.

“None at all,” the first officer assured him. He keyed his radio and spoke to the lead pilot. The fighter rocked its wings. “Think of them as an honor guard,” the first officer said.

Vashin’s euphoria was back.

New Mexico

The waiting was killing Zeth as the seconds turned into days. Her arm was cramping but she didn’t move, afraid to take her hand away from the flashlight.

“
GO!
” Brian finally yelled.

She flicked on the flashlight. Its beam cut through the night and fired the brush on the other side of the river with light. She saw the man holding a rifle and kept him illuminated. He rolled into the bushes but she kept the light on him. Finally, he disappeared. She swept the bank and focused on his car which was parked just short of the bridge. “Hurry!” she shouted.

“We need more time!” Matt answered.

A shot rang out, smashing into the far side of the truck, inches below the level of the flashlight. She saw the muzzle flash and aimed the beam at that spot. Again, she saw the shooter who was shielding his eyes from the bright light. Then he was gone. She guided the beam in a sweeping motion, still holding the flashlight at arm’s length and crouching behind the fender. Her head kept bobbing up for a quick look, first over the hood, then around the grill. She couldn’t see him but kept the light moving.

A single shot rang out and the big flashlight exploded in her hand. She almost passed out from the shock and rolled on the ground, her hand a bloody mess. She was vaguely aware that the truck was still shielding her. She reached into the backseat and found a dirty towel Sanford
used to clean the windshield. She wrapped it around her hand. Two more shots rang out, this time not at her. “Watch out!” she yelled. “The bastard can shoot!”

There was no answer.

Over the Ukraine

“Fuel check,” Pontowski radioed.

In order, the pilots checked in with the fuel they had remaining. Each added “Tanks dry, internal only.”

“Jettison tanks now,” he ordered. On cue, the empty fuel tanks tumbled away. This time, there were no switchology errors. He checked his navigation display. The waypoint where they would intercept the airliner was 240 nautical miles on the nose. He punched more numbers into the navigation display and selected a descent point. Once they dropped off Ukrainian radar, alarm bells should go off.
Keep it high as long as possible
, he thought,
conserve fuel
. He selected a descent point 140 nautical miles short of the intercept point when they were abeam Kiev, their supposed destination. That would look like a normal descent for landing and might delay those alarm bells.

New Mexico

Zeth was passing in and out of consciousness. Then Sanford was over her, water streaming down his face. “Sorry to take so long.” His skillful fingers unwrapped the bloody towel. “Matt, there’s a first-aid kit in the back of the truck. Get it. Be careful. Don’t let him get a shot at you.” He touched her cheek. “Nice work with the flashlight.” Matt handed him the kit and Sanford bandaged her hand, talking as he worked to reassure her. “Your hand must hurt like hell, but I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks. The guy’s good, but not that good. He missed me, but I slipped and fell into the water. They almost had me out when he got off the two shots at us. I could’ve sworn he was aiming at Matt.”