Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  The domestic affairs advisor checked his notes. “Here it is. At one time, the Army. But now, HUD.”

  “So it’s ours,” she replied. She pointed at a group of young men clustered around an opening in the fence. “Are those drug dealers?”

  “We wouldn’t be driving by if they were,” the advisor answered. “Drug dealing is high tech now, call and deliver, strictly out of sight. They’re most likely gang members who can’t handle the technology and are unemployable, even as criminals. At best, they might be part-time runners.”

  Turner said firmly, “Richard, I want something done about this.”

  “I’ll check into it, Madame President.” No one in the limousine made a note or seemed overly concerned.

  Turner spoke in a low voice, her words even and without emotion. “I want action on this. Fortunately, I know how bureaucracies work. They nod their heads in agreement, put it on the bottom of the pile, and hope I’ll forget about it. That’s not going to happen here. I want a memo on my desk by close of business Tuesday outlining what we are going to do, when we are going to do it, and who is in charge. If that memo is not on my desk, or if it’s bureaucratic hooey, I want the two highest-ranking GS-17s who are responsible for those buildings in my office Wednesday morning. And I assure you, it will not be a pleasant meeting.”

  She picked up the phone next to her and spoke to Dennis in the front seat. In a few crisp sentences, she summarized what she had said. Dennis would not carry out her directions, but he would ensure they were not forgotten. The domestic-affairs advisor keyed the phone on his side of the car. He chuckled to himself. A lot of bureaucrats were going to wish Madeline Turner had gone to New Mexico instead of Detroit.

  The Hill

  Matt Pontowski walked around Little Matt’s room and smiled. The bunks were inspection tight, the lockers in perfect order, and the floor spotless for Parents Weekend. “Just like when I was at the academy,” he said. He examined his son’s desk. A framed photo of him and Little Matt in front of their T-34 stood between the telephone and computer monitor. “You really like it here?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Little Matt shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He looked good in his uniform and was proud of his new shoulder boards that Pontowski had pinned on after the parade, but something was bothering him. “Dad, I want to go to the Zoo like you did.” The Zoo was the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. “I want to fly fighters.”

  “Just like your great-grandfather and grandfather,” Pontowski said. Conflicting emotions tied his stomach in a tight knot. Pontowski’s father, Matthew Zachary Pontowski II, had been killed in Vietnam flying F-4 Phantoms. Did he want his son to be the fourth in the long line of Pontowskis whose destiny was tied to the profession of arms as practiced by men who fought and died in fighter aircraft? Little Matt was a sweet kid, small for his age, and uncoordinated, not the stuff of fighter pilots. Yet, he wanted to hug his son for wanting to carry on the family tradition. “Well, son. You’ve got lots of time to think about it.”

  “Think about what?” Brian asked from the doorway. Like Little Matt, he was wearing his new shoulder boards that had been awarded after that morning’s parade. His sister Sarah and Maura O’Keith were standing behind him.

  “Nothin’,” Little Matt muttered.

  Sarah bounced into the room and climbed the ladder onto Little Matt’s bunk above his desk. “Hey, Chubs,” Brian said, “stay off Maggot’s bunk. He’ll get stuck with two demerits. That’s two hours of walking tours.”

  “It’s okay,” Little Matt said. Sarah smiled at him.

  Maura and Pontowski exchanged greetings and the customary pleasantries about the activities flowing around Family Weekend. There had been a major change in the afternoon’s activities because the visiting football team from Hobbs had to cancel at the last moment. Sarah sat on the edge of Little Matt’s bunk, her feet swinging back and forth as she watched Brian shift his weight from one foot to the other. He was obviously uncomfortable and bored with the weekend. “Well,” Maura said, “what’s next on the agenda?”

  “There’s an intramural soccer game instead of football,” Little Matt said. “It starts in ten minutes. Zeth, she’s our squad leader, is playing. She’s really something, the only girl on the regular team.” Sarah climbed down off the bunk and Little Matt quickly brought it back to inspection standard. “It doesn’t take long to do this,” he told her. “Zeth taught us how.”

  With the room in inspection order, they headed for Stapp Parade Field where temporary goals had been set up for the game. Pontowski was surprised when Sarah slipped her hand inside his as they walked. “Did you fly down in your airplane like last time?” she asked. He nodded an answer. “Can I go for a ride?”

  “That’s up to your grandmother,” he told her.

  Brian came alive. “You got your airplane here? That’s cool. Can I go too?”

  “Brian wants to go to the Air Force Academy and fly fighters like General Bender did,” Sarah announced. “We used to talk to him all the time when he worked in the White House.”

  “Shut up, Chubs,” Brian grumbled.

  Pontowski arched an eyebrow at Maura, an unspoken question. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s okay.”

  “Great,” Brian said. “Let’s go.”

  “How about after the soccer game?” Pontowski ventured. Brian sulked and followed them into the bleachers behind the reviewing stand where Little Matt had almost been chaired. The teams were already on the field, as the team captains flipped a coin for the kickoff. “Is that Zeth, center midfield?” Pontowski asked. Little Matt confirmed his guess. Zeth’s team won the toss and two forwards stepped into the circle for the opening play. The referee blew his whistle and one of the forwards faked a pass to the side, stepped over the ball and back-kicked it to Zeth. She moved the ball downfield with speed and finesse. “She’s good,” Pontowski said admiringly. “Watch how she can drop the ball to her feet, keep it there, and pass off accurately.” The tempo picked up and it became obvious that Zeth was controlling the center, causing constant disruption when the opposing team tried to bring the ball downfield. “She’s fierce,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to play opposite her.”

  “Do you play soccer?” Brian asked.

  “I used to,” Pontowski answered.

  “He played on the academy’s team,” Little Matt said. “He was an all-American.” Brian focused on Zeth, seeing her in a different light.

  The forward playing opposite Zeth was the ringleader of the cadets who had tried to haze Little Matt. The other cadets had ragged him unmercifully because Zeth had stopped him and now he had a chance to even the score. “Stay out of the way, Trog,” he threatened. “I’ll run right the fuck over you.”

  “Like last time?” She faked a move and scooted past him. But he threw out an arm and hit her in the breasts, hard. She ignored it and scrambled after the ball, hoping the referee saw the foul. But there was no whistle as she bumped shoulders with the midfielder bringing the ball downfield. She crashed into him again and took the ball away. She broke down the sidelines, charging the defending fullback between her and the goal. Her feet flashed and she passed the ball across the field in front of the goal. Her team’s forward was there and he drilled the ball into the net. Zeth trotted back up the field while the spectators cheered.

  The forward was waiting for her. “Sorry ’bout the tit slap.” There was no apology in his voice.

  The other side had the ball and again, she bottled up the center. But this time, she held back, always keeping the forward between herself and the ball. “Go for the ball, Zeth!” her coach yelled from the sidelines. But she concentrated on the cadet in front of her.

  The forward grinned. “Tits hurting?”

  “A little,” she said.

  “Can’t stand the pain, don’t play the game.”

  The opposing goalie kicked the ball upfield after a missed goal. Zeth put on a sudden burst of speed and charged the ball, bringing the forward with her.
But she easily outran him. She almost smiled when the angles were right. Her right leg swung in a full kick, her momentum and body weight behind it. The ball was an artillery shell with a flat trajectory as it bounced off the forward’s face. He fell to the ground and she trotted over to him. The ball’s seams were imprinted on his cheek. “Sorry ’bout the head slap,” she said.

  “Yes!” Little Matt shouted, coming to his feet. “She nailed him.” Brian was right beside him, shouting and pounding on Little Matt’s head. Little Matt jumped on Brian’s back and they danced around as two trainers helped the dazed forward off the field.

  “Grams,” Sarah asked, “what happened?” Maura explained how the forward had fouled Zeth and gotten away with it. The kick decking him had simply been a form of rough justice delayed. She didn’t realize how rough and how delayed. “When did you learn about soccer?” Sarah asked.

  “I was one of the first soccer moms when your mother was growing up,” Maura said.

  “Mom played soccer?” This from Brian.

  Maura laughed. “Only for one season. That was before soccer was popular here. She wasn’t very good and it was to impress some boy.” She led the way out of the stands. “Well, Matt Pontowski, how about that airplane ride? I just might want to go up myself.”

  “Ah, come on, Grams,” Brian moaned.

  “May I come in?” Zeth asked from the doorway. It was Sunday evening and Brian and Little Matt were studying, the iron routine of NMMI back in place after Parents Weekend. She stepped inside and sat on the floor, her back against Brian’s locker. “I thought you were bailing out?”

  “I’ll finish the year then bail. That was a great kick. You really nailed that asshole.”

  “Is that why you changed your mind?” she asked.

  “A little bit. But it was everything. My Grams was so proud when she pinned on my boards. And Sarah kept taking pictures. And I went up for a ride in General Pontowski’s airplane. I’ve never done acrobatics and he taught me how to do an aileron roll. It was great.”

  Zeth was persistent. “So why are you staying?”

  “I’m not sure.” He thought for a moment. “Maggot’s dad said that flying fighters was the most fun thing he’s ever done in his life. He also said it was the hardest thing he’s ever done. You have to really work to get it and nobody cuts you any slack. I guess that means I gotta work for it if I wanta do it.” Brian pulled into himself, thinking. “Maggot’s lucky. He’s got a great dad.”

  “Why do you call him Maggot?” Zeth asked.

  “It seems to fit,” Brian replied. Then another thought came to him. He looked at Little Matt. “You okay with that?”

  Little Matt shrugged. “It’s okay. And you got a cool mom.”

  “So why don’t you two introduce them?” Zeth asked. She got up to leave. “Think about it.” She walked out of the room.

  Little Matt shook his head. “Stupid. Can you see your mom in bed with my dad doing it?”

  “No way,” Brian answered. “They’re way too old.”

  Over Western Poland

  Nancy Bender sat in the seat next to her husband enjoying the attention Delta Air Lines bestowed on its first-class passengers. She was a small, dark woman and in total contrast to her tall and fair husband. He was intellectual and analytical while Nancy was intuitive and spontaneous in her thinking, making wild leaps and quick judgments. Where he was prudent and reserved, she was lively and outgoing. Nothing seemed to match. Yet it was a good marriage and they complemented each other in ways that grew stronger over the years. Their marriage had endured rough passages, especially when their only child, Laurie, was killed in the crash of an F-15E. But they had made it.

  She glanced at her husband. Bender was still working his way through the mass of material the State Department had given him during what he called the Foggy Bottom Charm School. At first, the charm school had been little more than briefings on social protocols and every hard question he raised was answered by “Your deputy charge of mission will brief you on that aspect.” Then he got cold and hard, the way only a general can. The bureaucrats responded by dumping a pile of documents on him, fully intending to bury him under an avalanche of information. Little did they know he would sort through it all, finding what he needed.

  Nancy twisted in her seat, ignoring the queasiness in her stomach she attributed to middle age and the onset of menopause. “A girl could get used to this,” she said, looking out the window. Bender agreed with her. The perks and privileges that went with being the president’s representative far exceeded anything they had enjoyed in the Air Force. “Robert, what wing has the letters SP on the tail of its fighters?” Years of being the wife of an Air Force officer had taught her about tail markings, but she couldn’t remember what they all stood for.

  “The 52nd Fighter Wing out of Spangdahlem, Germany. Why?”

  “Well, there’re two F-16s out there with SP on the tail.”

  Bender leaned across and looked out her window. Two F-16s painted air-superiority gray were camped in a loose formation 2,000 feet abeam of the airliner. He watched them for a few moments as one pulled up and away, leaving the other alone. His eyes narrowed. “Miss,” he called to the flight attendant. “Have we crossed into Poland yet?” She told him she would check and walked forward to buzz the pilots. She was back in a few moments confirming his guess.

  “I only see one now,” Nancy said, looking out the window again. “Where did the other one go?”

  “I imagine he’s on the perch, above and behind us.”

  Nancy looked at him, recognizing the tone in his voice. They would discuss it later, when they were alone. The F-16 on their wing collapsed onto the airliner, now only 500 feet away, close enough for Bender to make out details. The Fighting Falcon had two wing tanks for long-range cruise and a full set of air-to-air missiles. An AIM-9 infrared missile hung on each wingtip with a mix of AMRAAM radar-guided missiles and AIM-9s on the wing pylons. But the missiles were not painted blue, signifying they were for training. These were the real thing. They had an escort.

  Why hadn’t he been told about it? This was the type of surprise he didn’t like. He made a mental note to shake a few trees when he landed. Another thought came to him. What had the president said about putting counters on the table? He considered the possibilities. “Just one of the perks that comes with the job,” he told his wife, making light of it.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, Robert Bender. I saw those steely blues flash. I know when you’re smiling.”

  He changed the subject. “You know, I just might like this job.”

  “I knew you were smiling,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze.

  The VIP lounge at Okecie, Warsaw’s international airport, was filled with dignitaries waiting for the arrival of the Delta flight bringing the new ambassador. The room buzzed with gossip as Winslow James tried to quiet the rumors surrounding Robert Bender and his wife. James was a fussy, potbellied man, pushing fifty. James was always neatly dressed and careful with his words. He was also a hard-working professional diplomat who had worked his way up through a series of posts and was now the deputy charge of the mission. Neither he nor his superiors were happy about Bender’s appointment as ambassador, and the back-channel lines had been humming about how to handle the latest appointee who was neither a political appointee nor a professional diplomat.

  “Winslow,” a voice said behind him, “what a nice reception.”

  James turned and suppressed a groan. It was Jerzy Fedor from the Council of Ministers. Fedor was in his late thirties, and had a lean ravaged look about him that was in total contrast to his buoyant good humor. James was not sure exactly what Fedor did in the cabinet, but he did seem to survive every change in government and moved in the highest circles. “Is it true?” Fedor asked.

  Winslow James forced a smile. “Is what true?”

  “Your new ambassador is a jet jockey, a cowboy top gun.�
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  “I wouldn’t describe General Bender in those terms,” James replied, putting on his best diplomatic face. “At one time, he flew fighters. But he’s retired. As you are probably aware, he has the full confidence of President Turner.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Jerzy Fedor said, ambling off into the crowd.

  James’s wife joined him. She was holding a large bouquet of flowers for the new ambassador’s wife. “What did he want?” she asked in a tone reserved for vermin and snakes.

  “Who knows? He’s probably more interested in the hors d’oeuvres and the wine than Bender.” He looked around. “Well, I see everyone is here and the airplane has arrived.” They walked together to the head of the jetway where Bender and Nancy would be deplaning. They would be the first off so James and his wife could hustle them through the doors into the VIP lounge where they would be separated from the other passengers. The welcoming inside was neatly choreographed to make Bender feel like a VIP and to insulate him from the real Poland as quickly as possible.

  As planned, James greeted Bender and Nancy when they stepped off the jetway. The two men shook hands while James’s wife presented Nancy with the bouquet and welcomed her to Poland. They walked together into the VIP lounge for the welcoming ritual with the Polish minister of foreign affairs. As protocol required, Bender said a few words about how happy he and Nancy were to be in Poland. Then it all fell apart. Before James could hurry them to the waiting limousine, Bender and Nancy walked around the room, introducing themselves and shaking hands. “Robert Bender,” he said, extending his hand to a man standing near the back.

  “Jerzy Fedor,” came the answer.

  “Of the Polska Partia Przyjaciol Piwa,” Bender replied, butchering the pronunciation of the Polish Beer-Lover’s Party.

  Fedor laughed. “You have done your homework, General. But we have gone respectable. Our party is now part of the Little Coalition.” He leaned forward and stretched out his hand. “But I must tell you it was more fun when we were the PPPP.” They shook hands.