Edge of Honor (8 page)

For all her seeming naïveté, Maura was an astute observer of the political scene. She made the connection. “I never did like Rudenkowski. Too smooth and oily.” The needles clicked. “Senator Leland is a problem, isn’t he?”

Maddy nodded. “He’s a real bastard.”

Sarah pulled off her headset. “Who’s a bastard?”

“Young ladies don’t use profanity, Little Miss Snoopy,” Maura said.

Maddy frowned. “You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”

“I was an innocent bystander,” Sarah argued, making her case. She gathered up her books. “I’ll study in my room.” She knew when to make a tactical retreat.

“No phone calls until you’re finished,” Maddy called.

“Yes, Mother.”

The two women waited until the door was closed. “I’ll never understand what motivates men like Leland,” Maura said.

“Patrick does,” Maddy replied. There were times she missed his shrewd advice and hardball approach to politics.

Maura dropped her knitting into her lap. “That’s because he’s one of them. Maddy, I’ve watched these people and listened to them. Oh, I know there are some good men and women here who deeply care about our country.
But far too many came to Washington for all the wrong reasons. They’re not here to help people, only themselves. And they don’t care who they hurt in the process. You should change the Constitution and make every elected politician swear an oath that ‘First, I will do no harm.’”

“Like a doctor.”

Maura picked up her knitting, her lecturing done. “And I’d kick Patrick Flannery Shaw all the way back to California.”

Maddy smiled. Maura O’Keith was her moral gyroscope, always upright and true. “Yes, Mother.”

The Hill

Brian Turner rubbed his close-cropped hair and tried to make sense out of the biology book in front of him. It wasn’t going to happen. “Hey, Maggot,” he whispered to Little Matt, “do you really understand this shit?”

Little Matt looked nervously around the library. The rules of the Toles Learning Center were strictly enforced and he didn’t want any more demerits. They had just finished walking ten punishment tours for the fight. “Yeah. It’s a snap.” Another quick look around. “I’ll help you when we go back to the room.”

Temporarily satisfied, Brian pushed back his chair and wandered into the book stacks. They still had ten minutes to go on the first half of night study hall and, at eight-fifteen, they would have five minutes to return to their room for another seventy minutes of enforced study. He hated it and promised himself for perhaps the five hundredth time he would escape NMMI at the first opportunity. He started a mental countdown to Family Weekend at the end of September. He rounded a book stack in a back corner and stopped when he heard a rustle of clothes in the next aisle. He chanced a peek. It was Zeth Trogger and a First Classman locked in a passionate embrace. He beat a quick retreat back to the table. “Hey, Maggot,” he muttered. “Check that out.” He nodded in the direction of the book stacks. Rick Pelton, the regimental XO and second-highest-ranking cadet at NMMI, was walking out
of the book stacks. A few moments later, Zeth emerged from another aisle.

“So?” Little Matt replied.

“They were sucking tongues big time.”

“Pelton making it with the Trog? No way. He can have anyone he wants. PDA gets you what? Eight Ds?” PDA was public display of affection and worth eight demerits. “Who’s gonna risk eight tours for kissing the Trog? Besides, his buddies will dump on him big time.”

“I’m telling you he was doing it with the Trog.” It was time to go and they gathered up their books to make the quick march back to Hagerman Barracks. An ever-present Secret Service agent trailed along, out of sight and unobtrusive. “Hey,” Brian said, “maybe he likes her.”

“Sure, he does,” Little Matt said, mustering up a fourteen-year-old’s worldly cynicism.

“They’re screwin’,” Brian announced.

“Gimme a break.”

“Everyone fucks, Maggot. Even your parents.”

“Obviously. We’re here, aren’t we? Read your biology book.”

“Not my mom, not anymore.”

Little Matt conceded the point. “Being president is different. My dad had a girlfriend, Sam Darnell, who lived with us. I really liked her and kinda hoped they’d get married.”

“Was she good-looking?”

“She’s beautiful.” For a moment Little Matt was on the edge of tears.

“Do you remember your mom?”

“Kinda. I was only seven when it happened.”

“I’d just turned twelve,” Brian told him. He paused, trying to remember his father. But the image was out of focus and gray. “But it’s getting hard to remember.” Another pause. “Do you think your dad will ever get married again?” Little Matt shrugged an answer. “Is your dad really a fighter pilot?” A nod answered him. “Did he ever shoot down another airplane?”

“Yeah, four of ’em. But he doesn’t talk about it.”

“No shit? That’s really neat.” Brian recalled the time he had met Little Matt’s father in McMasters’s office. The
image was sharp and clear. Little Matt’s father looked like a fighter pilot, lean and cool. They climbed the steps together and walked along the stoop to their room.

Rick Pelton was waiting for them. “Inside,” he ordered. The two rats hurried inside and came to attention beside their bunks. Pelton stalked around the room, giving it a quick inspection. He stood in front of Brian, their noses almost touching. He exhaled loudly. “Do I have bad breath, Dirtbag?” No answer. “Smart. Keep your mouth shut and you’ll stay out of trouble.”

Brian wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t even think about it. I got real muscle down in the TLA’s office.”

Pelton’s eyes drew into narrow slits. The Secret Service monitored Brian from the Tactical Leadership Advisor’s office. “Fuckin’ Secret Service. You start talking and I’ll dog your rat buddy over there night and day. He’ll love chairing. All because you can’t keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Got it?”

“I got it”—a long pause—“sir.”

Pelton gave Brian a hard look, spun around, and marched out of the room. “Oh, shit,” Little Matt moaned. “They saw you. What’s chairing?”

“Beats me,” Brian replied. “But I think you got problems.”

Williams Gateway, Arizona

The lawyer seemed out of breath from the short walk to the Marchetti. “I’ve never flown in a little airplane,” she said, her breath coming in short gasps. Pontowski fitted the parachute to her, careful not to touch her in any way that might offend. He showed her how to tighten the leg straps. “Can you tuck them in?” she asked. Pontowski did as she asked, all too aware of her bare midriff, abbreviated T-shirt, and tight jeans. He had to admit that Kate Winston was much more human when away from Jonathan Slater, her senior associate at Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.

Pontowski waited until the FAA inspector had finished fitting Slater’s chute and was helping the lawyer into the
cockpit of their Marchetti before motioning Kate onto the wing. He helped her climb over the rail into the seat. Her breasts brushed lightly against his shoulder as he helped her fit and tighten her safety harness. “I’m really looking forward to this,” she murmured. He walked around to the other side and climbed in. The cockpit of the Marchetti was a tight fit for two people and he was having second thoughts about the two lawyers coming along when they reenacted the accident. Her perfume tantalized him with a soft citrus scent.

As briefed, they started engines together and taxied to the runway. From the control tower, the little red planes looked like ants as they moved into takeoff position. “This is gonna happen real fast,” Pontowski warned her. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the controls.” She nodded, her eyes wide. The FAA inspector gave the signal and they were rolling, exactly as Pontowski had done at the air show. The moment his gear was up, he made the tactical split, again pulling four
G
s. Immediately, he said, “Fight’s on,” and turned back into the lead ship. The FAA inspector pulled up exactly as Johar had and Pontowski fell into the saddle for the shot. “Gun, guns, guns,” he radioed.

“Knock it off,” the inspector replied. Then, “My boy isn’t doing too well.”

“What’s the matter?” Kate asked, disappointed that the flight might be over.

“Slater’s probably sick and about ready to toss his cookies,” Pontowski answered.

“From that? That was fun. Do we have to land?”

Pontowski keyed his radio. “Jim, let’s go out to the training area and do the rest at altitude. We can set five thou as the floor.” The FAA inspector agreed and they climbed out in tight formation, switching lead and wingman twice. “He’s good,” Pontowski said, taking the measure of the inspector. “We’ll use five thousand feet as the floor for maneuvering and never go below it,” he explained.

“Does that mean five thousand feet represents the ground?” Kate asked.

“You got it,” he replied, impressed with her quick understanding.

She wiggled in the seat, distracting him. “Wouldn’t it be more realistic if we did it lower, closer to the ground like you did in the air show?”

“I’m not so sure your buddy could take it. Besides, it’s safer this way.” She seemed disappointed and sat in silence as they flew out to the training area over the desert. The FAA inspector checked them in with Phoenix Approach and quickly set up the next maneuver with Pontowski chasing him in a climb. Twice, they went through the Immelmann followed by Pontowski’s overshoot. Satisfied with the results, they entered the scissors in an exact recreation of the air show. Then, at 7,000 feet, the inspector’s Marchetti departed controlled flight and flipped into an inverted spin. “Knock it off and recover,” Pontowski radioed, the same as before.

But this time, the inspector went through the recovery procedures and safely recovered the Marchetti. “I was wings-level with five hundred and sixty feet to spare.” He transmitted. They went through the maneuver again. But this time, the inspector entered a fully developed inverted stall, just as Johar had experienced. The aircraft was still inverted when it fell through 5,000 feet, where the ground would have been if they had been at the same altitude as the air show. “Shit-oh-dear,” the inspector radioed. “You have to hold it with wrong stick and rudder to make it happen. The bird wants to fly out of it naturally.”

“What does that mean?” Kate asked.

“Jim just confirmed what we saw and heard on Johar’s videotape. Beason was on the controls.”

“Do you want to try it?” the inspector radioed.

Pontowski looked at the lawyer. “Oh, yes,” she said.

Again, they repeated the scissors maneuver, only this time Pontowski did the spin. But his Marchetti would not flip inverted and they entered a normal spin. They only lost 600 feet before recovering. “Can we do that again?” Kate asked.

“We can try.” He keyed the radio. “Miss Winston
wants to do it again. She wants to see the world from upside down.”

“Ah,” the inspector answered, “maybe we should RTB. My guy looks kinda green. Oops, he’s puking his guts out.” The lawyer’s stomach had caught up with him once they were flying straight and level.

The two planes joined up in a loose formation for the leg back to Williams. “I love it,” Kate said. “That was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.”

Before Pontowski could answer, an annunciator light on the control panel blinked at them. He scanned the engine instruments. The oil pressure gauge was reading zero. “Jim, I’ve lost my oil pressure,” he radioed. “I’m gonna have to shut the engine down.”

“There’s a fairly straight part of a dirt road at nine o’clock, two miles,” the inspector replied. “Shut ’er down while I check it out.” He nosed his Marchetti over and stroked the throttle, racing for the ground while he radioed Phoenix Approach about the emergency. Pontowski went through the engine shut-down procedures and set up his glide airspeed while the inspector overflew the dirt road. “It looks kinda rough, Matt. Plus there’s a series of high-tension power lines crossing the road. You might want to look somewhere else.”

“It’s pretty rocky out here,” Pontowski radioed. “Unless I see something more promising, I’ll go for the road.” The inspector answered with two short clicks on the radio button. When all was said and done, it was Pontowski’s decision. “The road is the smoothest piece of real estate around here,” Pontowski told Kate, an obvious understatement.

Kate sucked in her breath when she saw three sets of power lines that made big droops as they crossed the dirt road in front of them. “Can we make it?” she asked.

“No problem,” Pontowski answered.

Her breath was coming in short bursts. “We don’t have enough altitude!”

“Check the road,” he ordered. “Look for potholes.” He concentrated on the power lines as he descended.

“I see some holes,” Kate shouted. They cleared the first power line by fifty feet. Ahead of them, she could
see the next high-tension wire. “We’re not high enough to fly over it!” she screamed.

“Who said anything about flying over,” Pontowski replied, his voice calm and measured. He dropped a notch of flaps and hit the gear handle, lowering the landing gear. The sudden drag caused the Marchetti to drop like a rock without changing its attitude. They dropped beneath the second power line and flew under, touching down on a smooth section of road. “Nice, baby, real nice.” He was talking to the Marchetti as they rode out a series of rough bumps. They rolled to a stop and he radioed they were down safely.

He slid the canopy back as the other Marchetti flew by and did a wing wag before heading for Williams. “Cheated death again,” Pontowski told her, pulling off his helmet.

Kate turned to him, her eyes wide and unblinking as she removed her helmet. Then her hands pulled at the quick release on her safety harness and it fell away. She reached for Pontowski’s face and pulled him to her as she twisted in the seat. Her mouth was on his as her tongue explored his mouth. “Please, please,” she whispered.

Her fingers pulled at the leg clips on her parachute and the straps fell away. He released her chest strap and she shrugged off the parachute harness. She came out of the seat in a fluid motion. He crawled out of the cockpit as she ran around the tail of the airplane and threw herself into his arms. Her mouth captured his tongue and she sucked. At the same time, she tugged at his shirt. Suddenly she pushed back and proclaimed, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” She pulled free and ran for the bushes, unbuttoning her jeans.