Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  “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 airb
orne 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.

  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 Gs. 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 Gs 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.

  THREE

  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 as
ked. 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.”