Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  “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 li
eutenant 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.

  “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 important 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.”