Edge of Honor (4 page)

“I think we can,” McMasters answered.

“They’re going to walk off at least ten demerits,” Day said. “That’s ten tours in the Box.” The Box was the quadrangle in the center of Hagerman Barracks and a tour was fifty minutes of marching back and forth.

“Shouldn’t we hear their side of the story?” Sarah
asked. She gave Maura a questioning look. “That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

Maura and Pontowski nodded in agreement and the two miscreants were brought in. Brian Turner was a tall, strapping, good-looking boy who, physically, was going on eighteen. Little Matt was a frail, skinny kid who looked all of eleven. Yet both were within six months in age. Brian had a bruised eye and swollen lip. Little Matt only had a Band-Aid over his right knuckles. The commandant asked each for his side of the story and Brian went to some length justifying his actions and why he had lost the fight. He had slipped on the wet concrete floor and Little Matt had unfairly hit him in the face four or five times before he could regain his balance. Little Matt only said that he did it and the facts were correct.

“How did you get into the Tunnels?” Day asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Little Matt answered. “The door was open.”

They had a problem. Picking a lock was a serious offense but finding the guilty party would be very hard, and did they really want to pursue it and kick some cadet out of NMMI? “General McMasters,” Pontowski said. “May I suggest you give the cadets some wiggle room on this so they can learn from their mistakes? Issue a blanket warning on how serious it is to pick a lock and fix the door.”

“I agree,” Maura said.

“It appears we’re in agreement,” McMasters said. “Colonel Day, it’s in your court.”

Day fixed the two cadets with a hard look and called in Zeth Trogger. “Mr. Turner, Mr. Pontowski, meet your new squad leader. As of now, you are roommates and are welded hip and thigh. You will do everything as a pair and you will learn to get along. Any questions?”

“Please, sir,” Brian begged, “not a girl.”

“Why?” Day asked.

Brian stammered an answer. “Ah…ah…girls can’t hack it.”

Colonel Day grew very serious and put weight in his voice. “How long have you been at NMMI, Mr. Turner?”

“Almost three weeks,” came the answer.

“Then you have a lot to learn,” Day said. “They’re all yours, Miss Trogger.”

“Outside,” Zeth ordered. Pontowski smiled. There was iron in her order. The two Rats double-timed out the door with Zeth right behind them.

McMasters stood and walked to the big windows overlooking the campus. “I think you need to see this,” he said. They all joined him at the windows. Below them, the two cadets were standing at attention while Zeth leaned into them, her face a mask as she spoke. “I imagine,” McMasters said, “that she is explaining a few facts of life to them.”

Zeth’s face was exactly thirty inches away from Brian’s nose. “We seem to have a basic difference of opinion here,” she told them, her voice low-pitched yet hard as nails. “If you’re right and girls can’t hack it, then…”

Brian interrupted her. “Get out of my face, Trogger. You’ve got to stay thirty inches away,” Then, not so sure of himself, “That’s what the regulations say.”

Her laugh was not reassuring to either of the boys. She knew she was at the exact distance allowed by the
Blue Book
. She leaned in another inch, challenging him. “That’s twenty-nine inches.” She pulled back. “This is thirty, dirtbag. If you’ve got a tape measure, use it. Otherwise, stifle yourself or you’ll be walkin’ tours.”

“You think I’m gonna march any freak’n tours?” Brian retorted. “Look, I’m gettin’ out of here and there’s nothing you can do to me.” He motioned to the two men standing in the doorway to Lusk Hall. “See them? They’re Secret Service. You touch me and they’ll be all over you like stink on shit.”

Zeth cast a look at the two men. They were standing rock-still, faces impassive, well within earshot. For a moment, she was confused, off-balance. Then she recovered. “You mean like when Pontowski reached out and touched you?”

Brian blinked, worry now written on his face. She pressed her advantage. “I don’t have to touch you, dirtbag. I’ll heap so much shame and ridicule on you that you’ll be on the World Wide Web under ‘www dot Buttjoke dot
com.’” She motioned at the agents. “And they won’t do a thing about it. Mr. Pontowski, a knowledge question. What do you get when you cross Brian Turner with an ape?”

“I do not know, ma’am.”

“A retarded ape.” She leaned into Brian. “Hey, dirtbag, I did that one without trying. Wait until I go high-speed on the Internet. You’ll love it. Check your good buddies who are supposed to guard your worthless butt. Are they laughing?”

Brian chanced a glance. One of the agents was smiling and he heard Little Matt laugh.

Zeth was on a roll. “Stifle yourself, Pontowski. Only one thing is gonna save your two worthless butts.”

“What’s that?” Brian asked, defiance still in his voice. But it was all false bravado and Zeth knew it.

“You two becoming the best Rat buddies who ever marched a tour in the Box. You two will be showdogs for the Corps or the butt of every joke for a year. Your choice. Drop and give me fifty.”

Brian sneered. “Right after you,
Miss
Trogger.” The challenge was obvious.

Zeth dropped to the ground and rapped out fifty fast push-ups, the maximum allowable as punishment. She bounced to her feet. “Now, drop,” she commanded. The two boys fell to the ground and struggled to repeat her performance.

“How many?” Brian asked through gritted teeth.

“Until I get tired,” she shot back. She intended to let them go the full fifty but both were running out of steam. “Save me from wussies,” she moaned.

Moscow

“Natasha, I’m Geraldine Blake, Mr. Vashin’s secretary,” the Englishwoman said in perfect Russian as she extended her hand in a businesslike manner. The girl, still in her teens, gently shook the outstretched hand and nodded, her blond hair flowing gracefully around her face. Everything about her shouted youth, grace, education, and breeding, exactly what Vashin wanted. Geraldine Blake spoke to the guard at the elevator door and he, in turn, spoke into his palm radio. A voice answered and the guard jerked his head. The elevator was descending from the penthouse. They waited in silence until the doors opened, revealing two more guards. Geraldine motioned the beautiful prostitute to enter first. The doors closed behind them.

“Please do exactly what you are told, Natasha,” Geraldine said, “and everything will be fine. Whatever you do, don’t lie.” The girl gave a little nod, her eyes filled with fear. “Take off your wrap,” Geraldine said. The girl handed her the expensive silk cloak draped around her arms. She wore a simple, low-cut flimsy black dress that revealed her lovely shoulders. The dress barely reached the girl’s thighs and was a gossamer cloud designed to showcase her beauty. It cost more than a thousand dollars in Milan.

One of the guards frisked her, his hands moving roughly over the delicate fabric of the dress. Then he reached under her short hemline and groped inside her panties. He ran his fingers from front to back, poking and prodding for a
hidden weapon. The girl’s face was impassive as she endured the search. “How old are you, Natasha?” Geraldine asked.

“Seventeen,” came the answer. Her voice was soft and sweet.

“You are a very foolish girl,” Geraldine said. “But I’m sure Mr. Vashin will understand because of your age.” The girl was trembling. The doors whisked open and the Englishwoman led the way into the penthouse. Mikhail Vashin was standing in front of the architectural model of his skyscraper complex, Vashin Towers. It had become his favorite spot and he never seemed to tire of it, especially late at night. A man sat on one of the heavily brocaded couches across from Viktor Kraiko, the president of the Russian Federation. Two guards stood in front of the elevator doors.

“Is this the girl?” Vashin said, his voice dull and flat. Geraldine recognized the tone and nodded. She wanted to leave but knew that was impossible. “Well,” Vashin said, turning to the girl, “are you the one they call Little Dove?” The girl’s voice was barely audible when she answered. “You have nothing to fear from me,” Vashin said. He held out a closed hand and opened his fingers. Resting on his palm were a pair of beautiful amber cuff links mounted in silver. The amber droplets glowed with a golden warmth and richness. Encased in each gem was an identical insect, both with extended wings as if ready to fly. But they were of a species extinct over ten million years.

“The silver mountings are nothing,” Vashin explained, “a convenience. But the amber is priceless and has been part of Poland’s history for six hundred years. They were stolen by the Nazis in 1942 and later confiscated by the Soviets. I decided it was time to return them to their rightful owners”—he gestured at the man sitting opposite Viktor Kraiko—“as a token of Russian goodwill. You were to make Mr. Gabrowski comfortable, be his companion, and warm his bed. Surely, you are well paid for your charms. So why did you steal the cuff links?”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Because they are so beautiful and…and…I wanted a special gift for
my boyfriend’s name day.” Her head hung low and she whispered, repeating herself. “They are so beautiful.” It was a plea for understanding.

“Indeed they are,” Vashin said. He reached out and lifted her chin. A strand of errant hair fell around her left cheek, making her even more vulnerable. “Undress,” Vashin said. The girl threw Geraldine a quick glance and reached for the straps of her dress. With a quick motion, the dress fell to the floor. She only wore black panties and shoes. Without hesitating, she hooked her thumbs into the panties and stepped out of them. She stood there, tall and radiant in her youth. Vashin handed her the cuff links. “Please return these to Mr. Gabrowski.”

Natasha did as commanded and walked over to the man sitting on the couch. “Put them on his cuffs,” Vashin told her. She knelt in front of Gabrowski as she fastened the cuff links through his shirt cuffs. Her long fingernails made the task difficult. Finally, she was finished and stood. Gabrowski ran his hand down her stomach, lingering for a moment. “Come here,” Vashin ordered. Obediently, Natasha returned to him, all eyes rooted on her. She stood in front of Vashin, her hands dangling at her side. He reached out and fondled her breasts. “So young and firm,” he said. “So beautiful.” He squeezed hard, released, and squeezed harder. Her eyes filled with tears but she didn’t move. “You do not steal from my guests,” he said. “Because of your foolishness, your boyfriend is dead.” He squeezed again, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. She cried out.

“So young,” Vashin sighed, releasing her. “You may leave.” She knelt to gather up her clothes on the floor but he stepped on them. She looked up and he shook his head. He jerked his chin toward the elevator. She stood. “Leave your shoes,” Vashin ordered. She stepped out of her black pumps and walked quickly across the room, totally naked. As she reached the two guards, one inserted a key into the elevator lock and twisted it fully counterclockwise. She stood at the closed doors. The doors silently opened but there was no elevator. The girl gasped as the other guard placed a hand between her shoulder blades and gave a hard shove. She tumbled into the black pit and her
scream echoed for what seemed an eternity as she fell thirty stories. It halted abruptly. The guard twisted the key and the doors closed.

Kraiko sweated heavily and his face was deathly pale. For a moment, Vashin was certain Kraiko would be sick, as he was at the cemetery. “Politicians,” Vashin said to Gabrowski, “do not have a stomach for obedience. But Viktor is learning.” He shook his head in pity. “I give you my word,” Vashin said, “that we are honorable men and can be trusted.” He made a slight motion toward Kraiko. “Not like politicians.”

Kraiko wanted to escape. “It’s late,” he croaked, fighting the bile rising in his throat. “Can we finish this tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Vashin looked at his guest. “Is there anything else we can do for you tonight?”

Gabrowski studied Geraldine and smiled. “I have always found Englishwomen very appealing,” he said.

“Of course,” Vashin replied. He nodded at Geraldine and she walked toward the stairs descending to the guest bedroom. “We will finish our business tomorrow morning.”

The Hill

Brian Turner stood in the middle of the dorm room in Hagerman Barracks and checked the time. Just after 8:00
P.M.
Friday night and less than two hours to taps. He and Little Matt had been preparing for Saturday morning’s room inspection since returning from supper and he was bored with the entire drill. “Stupid,” he muttered, “fuckin’ stupid. I gotta get out of this place.”

Little Matt finished arranging the drawer in his locker and pushed it closed. “Your locker is gross. We ain’t gonna make it.” Saturday’s inspection was always a killer. He fell silent when he heard footsteps on the stoop, the cement walkway outside the room, come to a halt.

“Who gives a shit,” Brian muttered, oblivious to the person standing in the open door. Little Matt jumped to his feet and came to attention.

“Mr. Turner,” Zeth Trogger said, “read what the
Blue
Book
has to say about profanity. Page one dash twenty-nine, I believe.”

“Little Miss Blue Book,” Brian mumbled under his breath, an obvious reference to the deputy commandant, nicknamed Colonel Blue Book, who took reports and administered punishments for infractions of the rules listed in the
Blue Book
, the book of cadet regulations.

Zeth ignored the remark and looked around the room. “Gross, absolutely gross. You’ll never pass. Haven’t you wussies learned anything?” She walked around the room and ripped the bunks apart before trashing Brian’s locker and desk. Then she inspected Little Matt’s locker, leaving it undisturbed. “Marginal, but it will get by.” She groaned loudly at the sight of his desk and destroyed it.

Brian’s face filled with anger. “You can’t do that. You’re history, Trogger.”

“Really?” she answered, surveying her handiwork. “What for? Hazing? Fagging? Get a clue.” She stood on a short ladder to work on Brian’s bunk that was above his desk. “Got a dollar, wuss?” Brian handed her a dollar bill. “Watch, wussie, and check the time.” She used the dollar bill as a measure to fold the blanket and sheet into a white collar. Next, she folded the corners at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Then she remade Little Matt’s bed before arranging Brian’s locker and desk. She finished by putting Little Matt’s desk in inspection order. She stepped back and raised her hands when she was finished. “That’s how it’s done. How long?”

“Thirty-eight minutes,” Little Matt answered.

“Yeah!” Brian said. “About time someone cut us some slack here.”

“Really?” she replied. The two boys stared in horror as she dismantled the bunks. “I’ll show you how it’s done, but you have to do it.” She spun around and walked out the door. “Have a nice evening, wussies. See you in the morning.”

“Bitch,” Brian muttered.

“I didn’t hear that,” Zeth called from the stoop.

“Look,” Little Matt said, pointing in excitement. Zeth Trogger had left the lockers and desks in inspection order.

“She’s still a bitch,” Brian muttered.

Williams Gateway, Arizona

The blue-and-white T-34 Mentor descended to 4,000 feet as Pontowski followed the published arrival procedures for landing at the air show. He peered into the morning haze and tried to find the distinctive landmarks that pointed to Williams, the old Air Force pilot-training base that had been closed and turned over for civilian use. A tinge of nostalgia tugged at him, for, in many ways, this was a homecoming. He wished Little Matt was with him in the backseat of the T-34 but Saturday on Labor Day was just another duty weekend and Monday a normal class day at NMMI.

Pontowski had been born at Williams AFB when his father was a second lieutenant in pilot training. Twenty-two years later, after Pontowski had graduated from the Air Force Academy, he had returned to Williams also as a second lieutenant for pilot training. Now the old memories flooded back as he approached the airport.
I must be getting sentimental in my old age
, he thought. He shook his head.
Pay attention to business and fly the airplane
.

He overflew the published checkpoint and made the required radio call. “Willie Tower, Mentor Three-Four-One-Five ten miles southeast for landing.” Ahead of him he could see a double string of airplanes lined up for landing. But the airport was still lost in the haze.

“Mentor One-Five,” the tower replied, “you’re number four for runway three-zero right following a Cessna. Report field in sight. Maintain spacing.”

As the arrival procedures dictated, he did not acknowledge the instructions. There were too many aircraft arriving at the same time and the frequency was jammed with radio calls. Ahead of him, he could see the Cessna he was to follow and he slowed to 100 knots, the published approach speed. The Cessna pilot was a professional and was at the same airspeed. Now the triple parallel runways emerged from the haze and he could see the built-up area and parking ramp on the southwest side of the field. Suddenly, a bright red Marchetti 260 zoomed up in front of him and shot through his altitude. The pilot rolled ninety-degrees as he bled off his excessive airspeed and pulled
down into the landing flow of traffic, less than 200 feet in front of Pontowski. But he had lost too much airspeed in the maneuver and was twenty knots slower than Pontowski.

Pontowski’s reaction was automatic, honed by years of flying. He rolled to the right, pulled the Mentor’s nose up, and firewalled the throttle. He cleared the Marchetti’s tail by less than fifty feet. It was a classic near miss in the landing pattern caused by a jerk who thought he was too good a pilot for the rules to apply to him. “Willie Tower,” Pontowski radioed, “Mentor One-Five breaking out of traffic to the north. Will reenter.” The heavy radio transmissions prevented him from explaining why. He was too seasoned a pilot to get angry in the air and would sort it out on the ground.

Fortunately, there was a professional in the control tower. “Aircraft cutting off the Mentor, say intentions.”

A cool voice came over the radio. “Marchetti Whiskey Romeo Two”—the next two numbers were garbled “——landing Williams for the air show. Ah, I do need to get on the ground.”

“Are you declaring an emergency?” the tower asked.

“Not at this time,” the Marchetti pilot replied. He had told the tower that he had a problem that needed taking care of but not severe enough to declare an emergency.

“You’re cleared to land runway three-zero right following the Cessna. Call tower on a land line when you’re on the ground.” The controller wasn’t done with the incident.

This time the pilot’s response was not so cool. “Rog on the phone call.” Then, “Sorry ’bout that, Mentor.”

Pontowski snorted in disgust. If the Marchetti had a real problem the pilot should have been talking to approach control and been well clear of the heavy traffic landing for the air show. Pontowski downgraded his opinion of the pilot to flaming asshole and didn’t bother to respond. But another voice did. “The butthead needs to take a leak.”

Pontowski couldn’t help himself. “Rog on the leaking rectum.”

The air show was well organized and Pontowski was quickly marshaled into a parking spot beside six other
T-34s after he landed. The old Air Force trainers were in the row next to the military displays that were a featured part of the weekend, much like the air shows at Paris or Farnborough. He shut down as the other T-34 pilots wandered over to greet him. They had all met before. He climbed over the canopy rail and stood on the wing as he slid the canopy closed. Two rows down, in the midst of the military hardware, he could see four bright red Marchettis. Even on the ground, the little Italian trainer looked like a hot rod.
One of the aerial demonstration teams
, he decided. His eyes narrowed. He hoped the show’s air boss was having severe doubts about one of their pilots.