Edge of Honor (6 page)

Two hours later, Beason was on the edge of panic as Johar taxied his red Marchetti to the active runway. “Do not worry, Mr. Beason,” the Iraqi said. “Pontowski may be good but I seriously doubt if he is proficient in the Marchetti. I am.” Beason felt an overpowering need to urinate when Pontowski moved into position off the left wing, his side of the aircraft, for the taxi out.

The tower cleared them onto the runway. “You are cleared into the air-show box, ground to five thousand feet. Maneuver parallel to and over the runways. Reposition over the open area northeast of the box.” It was a reminder to stay over open areas and keep the nose of the aircraft pointed away from any buildings or people. It was a constraint Pontowski could live with.

“Now we get to go fly and fight,” Pontowski told his passenger, a Polish Air Force officer named Emil with an unpronounceable last name. As briefed, he taxied into position on the right of the Marchetti. Johar Adwan would lead the takeoff, which was exactly what Pontowski wanted. Johar was sitting in the right seat of his Marchetti and glanced at Beason in his left seat. He then made a circular motion with his forefinger to run the engines up. Pontowski shoved his throttle full forward and rode the brakes. Johar tilted his head back and then dropped his chin, the signal to release brakes. The two aircraft moved in unison down the runway, rapidly gaining speed.

They lifted off together. Pontowski snapped the gear handle up and mentally counted to ten, the time it took for the gear to retract. Johar was a fraction of a second slower. Pontowski felt his gear lock at the count of nine. He immediately jerked his aircraft forty-five degrees to the right, pulling four
G
s. He leveled off less than fifty feet above the ground and turned back to the original heading to keep Johar in sight. “Fight’s on,” he radioed. The maneuver had given him nose-tail separation from Johar. His reflexes were still rattlesnake quick and he turned back into Johar, crossing behind and accelerating. They were at midfield. As Pontowski expected, Johar lost sight of him and pulled up. Pontowski rolled out at Johar’s six o’clock and followed him in the climb. He was in the saddle, a perfect position to employ an aircraft’s cannon. “Guns, guns, guns,” he radioed, pulling the trigger on the stick. But there was no gunfire, only a laser beam illuminating the spot on Johar’s aircraft where the bullets would have hit. The fight was over and it was all recorded on the videotape. Pontowski hit the radio transmit button. “Splash one Marchetti.”

“
Fantastique!
” Emil shouted.

But Johar had other ideas. He leveled off at a thousand feet and accelerated straight ahead, gaining speed to separate and reengage. But Pontowski nosed over and dived under him, using gravity to help him accelerate. He rapidly closed on the Iraqi who was now directly above him. Johar snap rolled to the right and saw Pontowski still beneath him. The Iraqi pulled on the stick and started a loop.

“An Immelmann ain’t gonna save your ass,” Pontowski grunted, fighting the
G
s as he followed the Iraqi. He slipped his aircraft to the left, falling into Johar’s eight o’clock, the side of the aircraft Beason was sitting on and in Johar’s blind spot. “Betcha can’t do a belly check in a loop.” Again, Johar had lost sight of Pontowski. “He knows we’re here,” Pontowski explained to Emil, “but he can’t resist a peek to be sure. Watch.”

As expected, Johar flew a half-loop and rolled upright the moment he reached the top of the loop. Again, Johar snap-rolled. Pontowski rolled with him, still camped at his eight o’clock.

“Where is he?” Johar shouted over the intercom. Beason’s head twisted to the left and his panic turned into pure fear when he saw Pontowski in tight formation, rolling with them. Beason had flown acrobatics, but never anything like this. A cooler head would have said, “Bandit camped at our eight o’clock.” But words totally failed him.

“
Merde!
” Johar shouted. He rolled his Marchetti to the left, doing a belly check to that side. But Pontowski had anticipated that maneuver and rolled with him, holding his position, still in Johar’s blind spot. Beason was vaguely aware of the warm feeling in his crotch as he lost control of his bladder. But the fight was far from over. The engines on both aircraft screamed in protest as the pilots kept them at full boost and dived for the ground.

“Sucker!” Pontowski shouted as he followed Johar. Much to his delight, he discovered he had even more over-take than before. He set up for a high-to-low attack followed by a high-speed overshoot. At 300 feet above the ground, Pontowski deliberately overshot Johar and nudged his nose over. He was hoping Johar would see it and do the opposite. He did. The Iraqi pulled up to reduce his speed and to add to Pontowski’s overshoot problem. But Pontowski was already pulling on the stick and rolling into Johar, countering the overshoot. He had to get rid of the speed generated by the dive and the bellowing engine. Johar instinctively turned into Pontowski as they entered a series of climbing crisscrossing nose-to-nose turns and overshoots. “We’re in a scissors,” Pontowski explained
to Emil. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Now we gotta see who can fly the slowest and get behind the other guy.” Emil laughed.

But all was not equal light and joy in Johar’s cockpit. “Knock it off!” Beason screamed. Johar ignored him as he again turned into Pontowski. Johar’s stall-warning horn was blaring as their airspeed decayed. But Beason’s screaming drowned it out. Suddenly, at 2,000 feet above the ground, Johar’s Marchetti departed controlled flight and snapped inverted, entering an upside-down spin.

Pontowski zoomed clear and radioed, “Knock it off and recover.”

Getting out of an inverted spin is tricky and requires a series of actions best described as unnatural acts. Fortunately, Johar was an accomplished pilot, knew what to do, and had enough altitude to recover. But Beason decided to vote and cast his ballot by doing what appeared normal. He stepped on the rudder pedal opposite the rotation and pushed the stick forward in the sequence required to recover from an upright spin. The result was to raise the Marchetti’s nose and put them into a fully developed inverted spin.

By the second full turn, Pontowski knew the Marchetti was in trouble and yelled the recovery procedure over the radio. “Step on the pedal that has resistance! Back pressure on the stick!” He watched the Marchetti enter the third turn and tasted bile in the back of his mouth. His instincts told him what his mind rejected: Adwan and Beason were dead.

The Marchetti smashed into the ground upside down at the 2,000-feet-remaining mark on Runway 12 Left, well inside the aerial demonstration box.

Pontowski banged his fist against the canopy rail. “God damn it to hell!”

Emil touched his arm, trying to calm him. “It was combat, my friend.”

“This is peacetime,” was all Pontowski could think of.

“We are never at peace,” the Pole answered.

The White House

Dennis, Madeline Turner’s personal assistant, stood in front of her desk in the Oval Office, his hands clasped in front of him as they went over her daily schedule in detail. Richard Parrish, her chief of staff, sat on a couch making notes. “Dennis,” Turner said, “for God’s sake, at least look like you’re taking notes. It makes me more comfortable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dennis replied. He turned to business, not the least chastened. “Mr. Serick and Mrs. Hazelton are first on the agenda and waiting outside.”

“Richard, do you have anything before we get started?” Turner asked. Parrish stood and handed her a memo on Serick’s meeting with von Lubeck while Dennis ushered in Serick and Mazie. Dennis closed the door behind them and left. Turner could read more than 1,200 words a minute with close to 100 percent comprehension and, by the time they had sat down, she had read and digested the memo. “I hope you had a nice holiday,” she said, welcoming them back from the Labor Day break.

“We were at Kennebunkport with Went’s mother,” Mazie replied. Mazie’s husband, Wentworth Hazelton, was a scion of the Hazelton family who moved in rarefied social and political climates. But more important, his mother was Elizabeth Martha Hazelton, better known as E.M. to her friends and as the Bitch Queen of Capitol Hill to her enemies.

“How is the Queen these days?” Parrish asked.

“She had an interesting guest Saturday and Sunday,” Mazie said, “a Herbert von Lubeck.” Serick’s head almost twisted off as he turned to look at her. “They spent a great deal of time together in private conversations,” Mazie added. “I don’t know what they were talking about.”

Serick looked like he was on the verge of a stroke. “The bastard,” he finally sputtered. “I talked to him Monday and he didn’t mention meeting with Hazelton. He’s playing games with us. I don’t trust him.”

Turner tapped Serick’s memo as she considered the implications. Without a word, she handed it to Mazie to read. “I think we’re dealing with an expansionist Germany.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mazie said. “I’ve dealt with Germany before and they might just be testing the waters. I found them opportunistic, not imperialistic. There is a difference.”

“Ah, yes,” Serick said. “You’re referring to the UN peacekeeping mission to South Africa. A fiasco.”

“It did result in a certain stability there,” Parrish said.

“Temporary at best. Soon it will go the way of the rest of Africa below the Sahara.”

“I’m not familiar with that operation,” Turner said. “Or the current situation in South Africa. Put together a briefing book on it.” Parrish made a note to create another blue binder. Turner’s staff had learned the hard way not to procrastinate and it would be ready that afternoon. “The important question,” she said, “is whether there’s any domestic fallout or other linkage here?” Turner was still concerned with von Lubeck and Germany.

“There may be a linkage with what’s going on in Russia,” Mazie said. “The CIA reported that Viktor Kraiko was at a series of meetings with Mikhail Vashin and a Pole over the weekend, a man named Gabrowski. We don’t have anything on him and think he was using an alias.”

Serick’s voice was a low rumble. “What we are seeing inside Russia is nothing more than criminals capturing the legitimate government. The Germans may be opportunistic or imperialistic, depending on your point of view, but they are not criminal. So what is the linkage?”

“Poland is undergoing an economic renaissance since being admitted to the European Union,” Mazie answered. “Maybe the Russians want a piece of the action. The Germans might see that as a threat. Historically, Poland has always been the shatter zone when Russian and German interests collide.”

Turner was ready to move on to another subject. “Enough about shatter zones. I don’t want to be blindsided on some domestic issue because of what we missed in Germany, Eastern Europe, or Russia.” She tapped her right forefinger for emphasis, which they all caught. Her orders came fast. “Mazie, stay on top of the situation. Richard, I want the FBI and the CIA looking for any attempt by the Germans or Russians to buy political influence here, specifically through campaign contributions and lobbying efforts. Stephan, I want State to keep Mazie fully informed on what you’re seeing in that part of the world.” She paused. “I’d like to get rid of Rudenkowski.” Lloyd Rudenkowski was the United States ambassador to Poland, a political appointee she had inherited from President Roberts when he died in office.

Parrish coughed for attention. “Because of the Polish renaissance, Warsaw has become a political plum. Rudenkowski’s appointment made megapoints with the Polish American community.”

“Not to mention megacontributions to the party,” Serick muttered. “Thankfully, we have an excellent deputy charge of mission in Warsaw and he can cover for any appointee with an open checkbook and a large bank account.”

“Get me a short list,” Turner said.

“It will be on your desk by this afternoon, Madame President,” Serick replied. He would warn her in a private memo that Rudenkowski had political clout and how his removal could cause problems. They quickly reviewed the three other security issues on the agenda and five minutes later were finished. It was exactly 8:23
A.M.
The day had barely started and Madeline Turner was seven minutes ahead of schedule. Parrish buzzed for Dennis to usher in the next group.

“Oh,” Turner said, “I want to speak to General Bender.” Parrish and Dennis exchanged glances.

Williams Gateway, Arizona

The inspector from the FAA’s Flight Standards Office in Phoenix was temporarily in charge of the accident investigation. Until the investigators from the National Transportation and Safety Board, or NTSB, arrived, it was his job to secure the scene of the accident and gather evidence. Because there had been two major aircraft accidents over the holiday weekend, the NTSB was slow in arriving and the FAA inspector had progressed to interviewing Pontowski. Bender joined them for the interview, acutely aware of the anguish weighing on Pontowski. They were all air-men and accepted the hazards that went with flying. But Pontowski would have to live with what happened and always ask, “What if?”

After taking an oral statement, the inspector reviewed the four videotapes from the accident. The first one had been taken from the control tower where the air boss had videotaped the entire flight from takeoff to the final, cataclysmic crash. The audio portion recorded all radio transmissions heard or made by the tower. The second video was shot by a WSS cameraman from a platform on the opposite side of the field. And while the audio recorded the reactions of the spectators, the sound was of little use. The last two tapes were from the HUDs of the Marchettis and recorded the flight as Pontowski and Johar Adwan saw it.

But without doubt, the audio portion of Johar’s video was the most important because it recorded Johar’s shout of “Let go the stick!”

After the video had rewound, the FAA inspector glanced at his notes and then at Pontowski. “This is the best-documented accident I’ve ever seen. But did this qualify as an aerial demonstration?”

“It was a demonstration of air combat training,” Pontowski explained. “ACT is not choreographed like a normal aerial demonstration. But it does have rules.” He
handed the inspector a cassette tape. “I tape-recorded the prebrief. I flew the mission as briefed and we were inside the box.”

They all listened to the tape. “I think it’s pretty obvious what happened,” Bender said.

The FAA inspector nodded in agreement. “That was no time to have someone else voting on the stick.” Again, he looked at Pontowski. “But damn it, you were pressing the envelope.” He held up his hand to shut off discussion. “I know, I know. You had clearance to perform a multiship aerial demonstration in the box. But this was not what we had in mind. You had a lot of confidence in Adwan’s abilities. Perhaps your confidence was misplaced.”

The what-ifs were back, pounding at Pontowski, demanding their price. Slowly, he shook his head, still trying to quiet his demon of responsibility. “Johar Adwan was a good pilot. I flew against him in combat and was damn lucky to have survived.” He read the disbelief on the inspector’s face. “He never lost situational awareness yesterday.”

“How can you be sure of that?” the inspector asked.

“Because there was no fire. I looked inside the wreckage when I retrieved the videotape from his HUD. Johar had turned off the ignition and the fuel selector valve before impacting the ground. He knew he was going to crash and never gave up.”

The inspector closed his notebook and gathered up the tapes. “Well, we have a lot of work to do.” He paused. “General Pontowski, I’m going to have to ask you for your logbook.”

Pontowski shook his head. “I’ll send you a certified copy.”

“Please, don’t play games with me.”

The two men looked at each other, neither wanting to get into an argument. But they were staking out the boundaries of the investigation. Pontowski almost said the FAA was not the Gestapo but was saved when the door opened and a man and a woman carrying briefcases marched in. Both were dressed in dark business suits. The man snapped out a business card and handed it to Bender because he
looked like he was in charge. “Jonathan Slater from Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.” The woman sat down and clicked open her slim briefcase. Bender read the card, frowned, and handed it to the FAA inspector. Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube was a high-powered law firm with offices in every major city in the United States. Just to get them to answer the telephone required a yearly retainer fee of $50,000. “We represent Mr. Beason’s family,” Slater announced as if he spoke for an ecclesiastical power.

The woman handed the FAA inspector a subpoena. “We’re filing a wrongful-death action against all parties for the death of Samuel Beason, and subpoenaing all relevant documents.” She reached for the tapes.

The FAA inspector slapped her hand. “Don’t get grabby,” he told her. He unfolded the subpoena and started to read.

A cell phone buzzed and all five reached for their phones. It was for Bender. He flipped it open. “Bender here.” Even in that simple greeting, there was authority. He listened to the summons from the White House. No emotion crossed his face. He broke the connection and waited for the inspector to finish reading the subpoena.

“You had better get a federal judge involved,” the inspector told the lawyers.

“This is a court order,” the man said. “Are you defying it?”

The inspector shook his head in disgust at the legal gimmicks lawyers would try, even very high-priced ones when they were out of ideas. “Wrong court.” A little smile crossed his face. “We’ll provide you copies at the proper time.”

The two lawyers exchanged glances. “We’re sorry you’ve chosen not to cooperate,” the woman said. The smile never left the inspector’s face as the two lawyers retreated, slamming the door behind them.

“Eat shit,” the inspector muttered. “They want to bury the tapes.”

Pontowski decided he liked the man. “You’ll have my logbook as soon as I can find a Xerox and make a copy for myself.”

“Thank you.”

“I have to get back to Washington ASAP,” Bender told the two men. “There’s a plane waiting for me at Sky Harbor.” Sky Harbor was Phoenix’s international airport twenty-six miles away. But to get there through traffic and into the terminal could take more than an hour.

“I can fly you there in the Mentor,” Pontowski offered. It was quickly arranged.

“I hope you’re coming back,” the inspector said.

“Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?” Pontowski asked.

“Well, we’ve still got three Marchettis that are good to go and since Fine, Schlossmaker, and Trouble want to gather evidence, maybe we can model the accident for them.” Pontowski didn’t reply, but the idea of reflying the accident appealed to him. “Perhaps,” the inspector continued, his face solemn but his eyes giving him away, “we could take those two legal beagles along.” He paused. “Since they’re gathering evidence, of course.”

“Most assuredly,” Bender allowed.

“Now that’s an offer I
can’t
refuse,” Pontowski replied.

The White House

Dennis escorted the four local politicians from Maddy Turner’s hometown in California into the Oval Office and checked his watch. It was late afternoon and they were thirty-five minutes ahead of schedule. He beat a hasty retreat to ensure that the photographers were ready to record the meeting. Then he made a panic phone call to Maura O’Keith. They had a problem.

Photographers loved Turner. She was naturally photogenic and captured the camera. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for one of her guests. One woman, who happened to be the mayor and one of Turner’s most avid supporters, had a sense of fashion caught somewhere between bag lady and troll. Dennis shuddered at the thought of a photo of the two together. Such pictures had a life of their own and always came back to haunt the White House. Five minutes later, Maura was in the secretary’s office as Dennis explained the problem. The intercom
buzzed. They were ready for the photographers and Dennis wished that Turner was a little less efficient in shortening her schedule.

Maura spoke to a secretary, appropriated her scarf, and followed the photographers into the Oval Office, tying the scarf around her shoulders. She made a pretense of examining her daughter’s hair, pronounced it fit for photographing, and generally acted like a mother, which thoroughly charmed the visitors. Then she did the same for them. She lingered over the mayor and smiled. “I know just the thing. It’s the light in here, you know.” She produced a hairbrush from her ever-present handbag, brushed the woman’s hair back on one side and curled it down and around the other cheek. She stepped back, surveyed her handiwork, and then draped the secretary’s scarf around the woman’s shoulders and tied it with a loose knot. The improvement was dramatic and the photographers went to work. Maura spoke to the woman when Dennis ushered them out. “The scarf looks so much better on you. Why don’t you keep it as a souvenir of your visit?” The woman beamed at Maura.