Edge of Honor (5 page)

“Hey, Matt,” one of the Mentor pilots called, “what the hell happened out there? That son of a bitch almost nailed you.”

“He came damn close,” Pontowski answered. “Claimed he had an emergency.”

“His only emergency,” another pilot said, “was taking a piss. Never saw anyone get out of a plane so fast after landing. He relieved himself right on the ramp.”

Pontowski shook his head. “Suspicions confirmed.” They shook hands all around, old friends bound by a common interest in T-34s.

“Are you going to file a near miss?” the first pilot asked.

Pontowski thought about it for a moment. “The tower’s on top of it. But I do need to talk to him.” He walked across the ramp, slowed by the large crowd of spectators already at the air show before the heat grew too intense. He made a mental note to cover the Plexiglas of the Mentor’s tandem cockpit before it got too hot.

A pudgy, fair-haired man in his early thirties was talking to a mixed crowd of civilians and foreign military officers about the Marchettis. He was wearing a tight red Nomex flying suit festooned with patches on the shoulders and chest. A gold name tag identified the wearer as
SAMMY BEASON
. Pontowski wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing it.

“Quite an outfit,” a voice said behind him. Pontowski turned to the speaker, a tall, slender man with white hair.
“Bob Bender,” the man said, a broad smile on his face and his hand outstretched. “Aren’t you Matt Pontowski?”

Pontowski immediately recognized the four-star general. “Guilty, sir.” Even in civilian clothes, Robert Bender was all military, hard lines, and unbending attitude. The general was a legend in the Air Force: a former Thunderbird solo pilot, a fighter jock who had flown every high-performance jet in the inventory and shot down two Iraqi MiGs in the Gulf War. Recently, he had commanded Air Combat Command and was now the vice chief of staff of the Air Force, rumored to be in line for chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. But there was more. He was a commander men and women trusted and would follow willingly into combat, even at the risk of death.

They shook hands. “What brings you here?” Pontowski asked.

Bender shook his head. “That gentleman.” He was looking directly at the Marchetti pilot.

“I need to explain a few things to him,” Pontowski said.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” the general said. Pontowski waited for an explanation. “He claims he had an intermittent electrical malfunction,” Bender added.

“That can’t be duplicated on the ground. Who is he anyway?”

“Sammy Beason controls an airline, a basketball team, and who knows what else. He got them when his father retired. Unfortunately, he’s also the CEO of World Security Systems.”

Pontowski was beginning to get a clue. World Security Systems, or WSS, was the world’s leading private arms merchant. But WSS had taken it to a much higher level. Besides supplying weapons to the highest bidder, WSS also provided military expertise, support services, and training programs. WSS could deliver, on demand, export licenses for some of the United States’ most technologically advanced weapon systems. Further, for the right price, WSS could provide a turnkey, combat-ready, military force. It could do all this because Sammy Beason, through his father, had access to some of the most impor
tant politicians in the country. “So what is he doing here?” Pontowski asked.

“Peddling an all-up tactical fighter force under the cover of a pilot-training program. WSS provides the instructors, the planes, weapons, maintenance, and training. The client provides the air base and the student pilots. While the students are being trained, the so-called instructors function as combat-ready pilots. Voilà, instant air force. As you can see, there is some interest.”

Pontowski’s eyes narrowed. “I’d like to create some disinterest in that program.”

Bender smiled. “I might be able to arrange that. Can you hang around for a few days?”

Washington, D.C.

It was a congenial group that gathered at Secretary of State Serick’s Georgetown townhouse for a garden party celebrating American labor. But the only people who had ever turned an honest day’s labor were the waitresses, waiters, and caterers. Most of the women were wearing bright summer dresses, although two pairs of designer jeans were to be seen. But those were worn by the young and thin trophy wives. The men all wore light summer sports coats with open-necked shirts. If a society reporter had been present, she would have noted all the dignitaries and overlooked Herbert von Lubeck, the first secretary to the German deputy minister for economic research.

But a political commentator or reporter would have looked at the group differently. Why were so many high rollers still in the city on the last summer holiday and at a party for such a minor foreign functionary? The answer was in the second-floor den where Stephan Serick was examining the excellent Havana cigar Herbert von Lubeck had given him.

“A gift from Cuba’s president,” von Lubeck said in German.

Serick breathed deeply and savored the cigar’s aroma before lighting it. “Excellent,” he replied, also in German.
“Unfortunately, we won’t be importing any of these for some time.”

“A very shortsighted policy, my friend. But one that my government encourages. Our trade with Cuba benefits greatly by your absence.”

Serick rolled the cigar in his fingers, apparently more interested in the cigar than in von Lubeck’s unusual candor. On the surface, von Lubeck had a minor post in an obscure office of the German government. In reality, he was a plenipotentiary with far-reaching powers and was in the United States for a definite purpose. Serick doubted that his visit had anything to do with Cuban cigars. “Like a good cigar,” Serick said, “foreign policy is not made in a day.”

“The key is good soil and land,” von Lubeck said. “Without it, nothing can grow to its proper size.”

The secretary of state chose his next words carefully. Since uniting in 1990, Germany’s agriculture sector had been the weak spot in its economy and was holding them back. “Ah, yes, your agricultural base.”

“We are pursuing certain initiatives to correct that deficiency,” von Lubeck told him.

Serick put on his “how interesting” expression to mask what he really thought. The State Department had been flooded with disturbing reports about renewed German interest in its pre-World War II territories in Poland. On the face of it, it seemed fair enough; the German government was helping its citizens who had lost land in Poland after the communist takeover in 1945 to reclaim their holdings or seek compensation. But what was going on below the surface was far more worrisome. The Germans were using it as a cover for buying large tracts of Polish land.

“The Poles,” von Lubeck said, still rolling the cigar in his fingers, “are asking for our help in modernizing their agricultural sector. We believe that would be beneficial to both countries.”

“Beneficial?” Serick asked, packing a ton of meaning into that single word. Von Lubeck only smiled in response and Serick decided it was time to flash a little of his famous irritability. “We feel a German expansion in that direction could destabilize Eastern Europe,” he said, still
speaking in German. It was easy to sound cranky in that language.

Again, von Lubeck smiled. “Exactly the reason for this conversation, my friend. Germany has no intentions of reclaiming its lost lands. We are content with the current Polish border along the Oder and Neisse Rivers. This is simply an economic endeavor. German agriculture is much more efficient and this, I must emphasize, this will prove beneficial for both countries.”

“Then why don’t you invest in Polish agribusiness instead of outright purchase of land?” Serick replied, pulling off the diplomatic gloves.

Von Lubeck showed no sign of surprise at Serick’s revelation that the United States knew what was going on. He waved a hand in dismissal. “There is a certain, ah, shall we say, inherent instability in Polish affairs. We merely want to insure a sound base for our investments.”

Serick humphed. He knew how Germans interpreted stability. “The United States will not allow a change in Poland’s borders.”

Von Lubeck guillotined the end of his cigar with a silver cutter. He wanted to say that what the United States wanted was becoming less and less important. Instead, “That certainly is not our intention.”

Serick knew how quickly intentions could change. He gave a diplomatic sigh of resignation to encourage von Lubeck. “We understand,” the German said, falling for it, “the problems you are having with the lack of resolve and consistency in your current administration.” He lit his cigar and puffed it to life. “Your poor Mrs. Turner is in over her head.”

Didn’t the world learn anything from the Okinawa blockade?
Serick thought. Within weeks after assuming the presidency upon the death of President Roberts, Madeline Turner had to resolve a major crisis in the Far East. China had blockaded Okinawa in an attempt to drive a wedge between the United States and Japan. The world had moved perilously close to nuclear war when fighting broke out. Turner had contained the crisis and brought the Chinese to the negotiating table. But it had been a near thing.

Von Lubeck came to the heart of the matter. He was amazingly candid. “Our goal in Eastern Europe is economic and political stability which only Germany can provide.”

Because you don’t think Maddy Turner can
, Serick mentally added.

Williams Gateway, Arizona

The real business of the air show was conducted on Tuesday after the crowds and most of the civilian aircraft had departed. Only a few corporate jets, the military displays, and a lone blue-and-white T-34 Mentor remained on the ramp. The potential buyers had all been wined and dined by the contractors and builders, the right call girl or boy toy provided, and any other required service taken care of. Now the hard sell could begin.

Bender was still in civilian clothes when he met Pontowski outside the old operations building. “I do remember this place,” Pontowski said, recalling his days as a student pilot.

Bender nodded. “I went through training here, too.” He paced slowly back and forth. “My sources tell me WSS has two very interested clients in their all-up pilot-training program.” He named two countries, one in Eastern Europe, the other in North Africa. “Iran and Libya are financing the projects under the table. We can live with the North African venture but the Eastern European deal is in entirely the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Pontowski frowned. He understood the factors that could destabilize a region only too well. “Not good,” he allowed. “Do we have any counters on the table?”

“We might be able to get something going in Eastern Europe—if we can discourage them from going with WSS.”

“Any ideas how?” Pontowski asked. Bender shook his head. “Well,” Pontowski continued, “let’s go listen to WSS’s pitch. You gotta know the opposition.” They entered the building and found seats at the back of the room where WSS was presenting its program.

Sammy Beason was on the stage, still wearing his flashy red flying suit. He started the program by welcoming them all to “the finest and most versatile pilot-training program in the world” and turned it over to his experts. Pontowski was impressed with the Madison Avenue presentation. Finally, it was question-and-answer time and Beason was back on the stage. “In the final analysis,” he concluded, “our program is the best in the world because of our pilots.” He introduced four men in the front row who stood up as he called their names. They were the same four pilots who had flown the Marchettis in an aerial display on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. The crowd had roared its approval, especially at the inverted bomb burst that climaxed the show. The last pilot to stand was an Iraqi, Johar Adwan.

“I’ll be damned,” Pontowski muttered under his breath. He listened as Beason claimed the pilots were typical of WSS’s staff. Pontowski allowed a tight smile when Beason claimed they were acknowledged as the world’s “four top guns.”

“Hey, Joe,” Pontowski called to the Iraqi, Johar Adwan. “I heard you gave it up after I shot you down.”

Every head in the room turned to Pontowski. Johar Adwan, went rigid, then a big smile spread across his face. “Matt Pontowski,” he said. “Always the big mouth. You got lucky that day.”

“Yeah,” Pontowski conceded, “you’re right. It wasn’t a fair fight, two vee one.” He paused. “Say, what happened to your wingman after I stuffed him?” Every pilot in the room caught it. It had been Pontowski against Johar and his wingman and Pontowski had won.

“The planes were unequal,” Johar allowed, still smiling. “If we were evenly matched…”

Bender interrupted. “Mr. Beason, you can settle this argument. Maybe a little ACT? Johar against Matt in your Marchettis.” ACT was air combat training, basic dog-fighting where two of the same type aircraft went one-on-one.

Beason jumped in front of Johar for damage control. He had heard of Pontowski and didn’t want to take any chances. If there was going to be a demonstration with
potential buyers looking on, he wanted the results carefully orchestrated in advance. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the airspace.” He shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “The FAA.” The Federal Aviation Agency controlled the use of airspace in the United States and was dedicated to flying safety.

Bender stifled a smile. “The box is still activated,” he said. The box was a small piece of the sky over Williams’s triple runways that the FAA had designated for acrobatics and aerial demonstrations at the air show. The show’s air boss in the tower controlled the box and the pilots and owners of performing aircraft assumed all the risk.

“I don’t see how,” Beason stammered.

“According to your brochure, your Marchettis are configured with HUDs”—head up displays—“that have airborne video recorders to tape this type of training. We can all watch it from the ground and then review the tapes afterward in the debrief.” Bender smiled at Johar. “I assume we’re dealing with professionals here.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pontowski said. “I don’t mind taking an observer along in the left seat.” The Marchetti was a two-place, side-by-side trainer where the passenger or instructor sat in the left seat. Half the men in the room were on their feet, eager to volunteer. Afraid that someone important would want to fly with Johar in the Marchetti, Beason said he would fly with the Iraqi. Beason’s face paled when he saw the cold look in Pontowski’s eyes.