Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  Matt Pontowski would not have been so cocksure of himself if he had known what the look on his commander’s face meant. It was the rock-hard look of determination that froze his features when he went about the business the United States Air Force paid him for—combat. The last time Locke had worn that particular expression he had killed seven men. But those men had never seen his face in the impersonal and antiseptic arena of aerial combat. They were lucky.

  “Lieutenant,” Locke finally said, his voice measured and calm. Matt stifled the grin that wanted to break out. He wasn’t particularly worried about what the man could do to him. Hell, he mused, this guy is a lightweight. Locke caught the smirk on Matt’s face and correctly interpreted it. “It’s too bad you take your commissioning oath so lightly. This may come as a shock to you, but the President of the United States does place a special trust and confidence in you.”

  Matt wanted to laugh. “I think I know much better than most what the President of the United States expects of me.” He had made his point and almost added, “Now do your damnedest, Colonel, do your damnedest.”

  Locke did. He was tired of the irresponsible young man in front of him who thought rules were for others. His voice never lost its reasonable tone and his face did not change. “Right. You overstayed your leave eight days and made no attempt to report in. A telephone call was in order. You should have contacted the squadron and extended your leave.”

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Matt interrupted, “but just what phone number was I to call? The squadron was moving.”

  “Apparently, you can’t read either. Read your leave slip. The phone number to call in case of emergencies or requests for extension is on the front.” Locke handed him his leave slip. Matt read it and felt his self-confidence starting to erode. “Now that we have that small matter straightened out, is there anything else you wish to say in your defense before we continue?”

  “Colonel, you’re making this sound like a court-martial.” The lieutenant was still trying to reassert his position, gain an unspoken dominance over the man.

  “You’ll have your chance for a court-martial in a few moments.” For the first time, Matt understood how serious Locke was. Then he saw the look in the older man’s eyes and was suddenly worried. “As of now, you are grounded while I initiate the paperwork for an Article Fifteen.”

  Article 15, nonjudicial punishment under the UCMJ, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, was much like a traffic ticket but with much more harmful fallout for an officer. Good sergeants were expected to get at least one as they made the system work, but it was the kiss of death for an officer. Article 15s were handed out by commanders as punishment for breaches in discipline. Officers were expected to give them, not get them, and were rarely promoted if they had one in their file.

  “That’s coming down pretty damn hard.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant. You don’t have to accept it.” Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He had forgotten that an Article 15 had to be voluntarily accepted in place of punishment under a court-martial—much like plea bargaining. “If you choose not to accept it,” Locke continued, “that leaves me two options, I can drop the Article Fifteen and we’re back to square one or I can initiate court-martial proceedings.” The look on Matt’s face told Locke that the lieutenant didn’t believe he’d do the last. Too bad.

  “Also, you were on the promotion list for captain. I red-lined you. You’re going to stay a lieutenant for a while longer—until you start acting like a captain and stop screwin’ around.”

  “Colonel, this sounds like overkill.” Matt was still trying.

  “Then go for the court-martial. Lieutenant, go for it.”

  Matt got the message. “If I accept the Article Fifteen, what punishment are you going to lay on me?”

  “Six weeks’ restriction to base.”

  “Anything else?” The tone in Matt’s voice indicated he thought it was pretty steep.

  “Well, to keep you busy, you’ll be in charge of the self-help project we’ve got under way here making the squadron building suitable for human life.”

  “Self-help? Where we paint and fix up the squadron instead of Civil Engineers? That’s their job. Shit, Colonel, self-help is just an excuse for the Civil Engineers’ not doing their job.”

  “Lieutenant Pontowski, you’re not reading my lips. Try it. It’ll save a lot of confusion on your part. You’re about to become the best construction engineer in the United States Air Force in Europe. Dismissed.”

  “Colonel, I—”

  “I said, ‘Dismissed.’ Also have the flight surgeon check your hearing. If you can’t hear me, we may have to ground you permanently.” Matt saluted and beat a hasty retreat.

  “You’ve had it, you fucking meathead,” Matt muttered, leaving the squadron and searching for a telephone to make a private call. Twenty minutes later he was talking to Melissa Courtney-Smith.

  “Matt, I’m sorry,” Melissa told him, “but Mr. Fraser clears all telephone calls to the President and he isn’t in yet. It’s still early in the morning here.”

  “Melissa, I have to talk to Grandpop.” She relented and put him through, aware that Fraser would try to fire her if he found out.

  Zack Pontowski listened to the recital of Matt’s troubles. He smiled when Matt told him that his squadron commander was holding up his promotion to captain and “offering” him an Article 15 all because he overstayed his leave. Just like his father, Pontowski thought. “Matt, you wanted to be an officer in the Air Force and fly. Well, in my book, that means you take the good with the bad. Sounds to me like you’ve got some bad headed your way.” He listened to more protests before he cut him off. “Do you remember when you came home from school, I think it was the seventh grade, claiming your teacher had punished you unfairly for pouring water down a girl’s back?”

  Matt remembered only too well. The elder Pontowski had said that he had gotten into trouble by himself and he could get out by himself. Then he had grounded Matt for a month when he learned what had really happened and about all the other trouble the twelve-year-old had been in.

  “Your grandmother’s quite ill,” he told Matt. “I’m in her bedroom and … right, here she is.” He handed the phone over to his wife and picked up his read file. That boy’s been up to something else, he decided. He’s on his own now. He made a mental note to tell Fraser not to intercede on Matt’s behalf.

  “Passport,” the Iraqi customs official demanded, threatening Shoshana with a hard look. She pulled the bogus Canadian passport out of her handbag and tried to look unconcerned as she handed it over. It was her first test and her heart was pounding. The man thumbed through the passport, studying the visa stamps. Habish’s warnings about Arabs reverting to type in their own homeland came back. The customs man glanced up at her then back to her passport.

  Shoshana tried to act nonchalant as she waited. She glanced around the customs area in the Baghdad airport. A bit on the seedy side, she thought. She forced herself to concentrate. He’ll ask me some question, try to trick me. She went over the details in her passport. She was thankful for the cover name Habish had chosen for her—it was easy to remember.

  “Name!” the official barked.

  “Rose Louise Temple.” She had anticipated his question! Her confidence soared, shattering the doubts and fears that were showering over her.

  “Religion?” He was still acting skeptical.

  “Protestant.”

  “Denomination please.” He was somewhat mollified and not so aggressive.

  “None,” she answered. The man looked at her, confused.

  Then Mana joined her and stared at the official who quickly validated her passport and dashed his initials across the entry stamp. “Welcome to Iraq, Miss Temple. I hope you enjoy your stay.” He forced a smile and looked at Mana, not at her. He had made a bad mistake. The Mana family was not to be trifled with in Iraq.

  Nothing about Baghdad surprised her as they drove from the airport. The streets were dusty,
the buildings on the seedy side, like the airport. The same Arabic music she had heard in Israel assaulted her ears when she rolled the window down at a stop light. And then it hit her—she could have been in East Jerusalem. The sights and the sounds were the same. Again, her confidence climbed. The change in Is’al did bother her, though; he was much more aggressive than in Spain, but in the chauffeur-driven car his family had sent to meet him, he reverted to the original Is’al. She hoped Habish was wrong.

  “This is Sa’adon Street,” Is’al told her. The car stopped in front of an elegant old hotel. “And this is the Baghdad Hotel.”

  Inside, the Baghdad Hotel reminded her of an old movie. It was exactly as she imagined a luxury hotel in an Arab city. None of the run-down look invaded the lobby. The room was true to type: high ceiling, spacious, with large windows that opened onto Sa’adon Street. The bathroom was old-fashioned but immaculate. “Oh, Is’al,” she beamed, “I love it.”

  “Rose, I must tell you now that I probably won’t see you for a few days. I must attend to my family and arrange for your introduction.” She smiled at his formal, stilted English. Only in the most intimate moments did he become relaxed. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t mind waiting, but please don’t stay away too long. I brought some books to read and”—she paused as if a thought had just hit her—“can you arrange for a tutor to teach me Arabic? I must learn your language.” He nodded, a pleased look on his face. “And I can do some sightseeing and shopping.” His frown told her she had said the wrong thing.

  “You must stay in the hotel until I call.”

  Has he reverted to type? she thought. I’ve got to establish some independence or I can never make contact with Habish. “Oh, Is’al.” She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “You know how lonely I get.” He knew no such thing but she felt no need to be rational. “Let the hotel arrange a guide and car for me.” He only shook his head. “Please”—now she was wheedling—“I do need the exercise. Otherwise, I’ll have to spend all my time at the swimming pool.” A shocked look crossed his face. He knew the stir she would cause in Baghdad society once she was seen in a swimsuit. “Is’al,” she breathed his name, “I want to find the most exquisite bowl to hold the ice.” He crumbled and beat a hasty retreat, promising to arrange something.

  The next morning, Mana telephoned, telling her that his sister, Nadya, had agreed to be her guide and teach her some Arabic, but that formal lessons were out of the question. She told him that was perfect and hoped they could meet today. Mana arranged for his sister and aunt to meet her for lunch at the hotel. For the next two hours, Shoshana dressed carefully, picking out her most conservative clothes. She was certain Mana wanted her to be carefully chaperoned and watched—a definite problem.

  At exactly one o’clock, Shoshana’s phone rang and the clerk announced that Nadya Mana was waiting for her in the lobby. Shoshana resigned herself to the ordeal in front of her and went downstairs. “Miss Temple?” a voice called the moment the elevator doors opened. A beautiful young girl of perhaps twenty was waiting with an older woman, an obvious chaperone. Nadya Mana tried to act very Western as she extended her hand and Shoshana could tell by her expensive Parisian clothes that she was the Mana family’s pampered and spoiled pet.

  Lunch proved to be delightful and before too long they were giggling and carrying on like two schoolgirls. Afterward, they went to Shoshana’s room to examine her wardrobe. “Is’al,” Nadya said in exasperation, “should have bought you tons of clothes. Oh, these are beautiful,” she added hurriedly, not wanting to offend Shoshana, “but he should have.” She stomped a dainty foot to emphasize her point.

  “He wanted to,” Shoshana explained, “but I wouldn’t let him.”

  “Why?” Nadya was incredulous.

  Shoshana led her by the hand to the bed and set her down. “You must understand, I love your brother very much. Of course, I can’t tell him that.” Nadya nodded in understanding. Now they were conspirators. “In my country, a woman only accepts expensive gifts from a man if she is his mistress or his wife. I will not be Is’al’s mistress.”

  Again, Nadya nodded. “But in my country it is different. Here, a man must show his wealth and how much he cares for you. Come, we’re going to buy you many clothes and Is’al is going to pay for it all!” They laughed like conspirators and hurried to the waiting car, the aunt still in tow.

  Nadya’s chaperone was asleep, snoring loudly by the time they reached their first stop. They left her in the car and went into a boutique that would have done a Parisian couturier proud. The two women who ran the shop chased everyone else out and fawned over Nadya. Within minutes, Shoshana was in a back room trying on the many dresses Nadya had thrown at her. Shoshana appraised herself in the mirror, decided she liked one, and went out to show Nadya. But she couldn’t find the girl. Suddenly, the women did not speak English at all. Puzzled, Shoshana went back to the fitting room. She heard a low moan from a room down the hall and walked back, checking to be sure she was alone and careful not to make any noise. The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open to see inside. Nadya was locked in an embrace with a young man, her skirt up around her hips and her panties on the floor.

  Terminally frustrated was the only way to describe Matt. Locke had promised him that he would become the best civil engineer in USAFE, United States Air Force in Europe, and he was determined to prove his squadron commander wrong. But not being able to fly was what hurt the worst, for Locke had grounded him during his forty-five-day confinement to base. He had reluctantly “accepted” the Article 15 Locke had “offered” him after talking to a lawyer. The lawyer had reviewed his case and simply said that he would rather represent the Air Force in Matt’s upcoming court-martial. He got the idea that Locke was serious.

  On the first day after the Article 15 had been administered, Matt had shown up in the squadron building at exactly 7:30 in the morning in a clean flight suit. He dropped in on mission briefings and listened to what the crews were planning for their flight. But he had to stop that, for it was a form of pure torture that was pushing him into a pit of despair. Then he hung around the scheduling desk drinking coffee and watched the crews go out to fly. That made him feel worse. At the end of the first day, his flight suit was still clean.

  The routine repeated itself for two more days and Matt slipped deeper into a sour funk, wallowing in self-pity. On Thursday, Locke stopped him in the hall and asked for a “How goes it” on the self-help project.

  “Sir,” Matt admitted sourly, “I haven’t got a clue.”

  “That’s a true statement,” Locke said, looking around the squadron. Nothing had been done for three days. “It’s going to be a long forty-two days.” He walked away. Matt’s first thought was to strangle Locke, but instead late that afternoon, he found himself knocking at Locke’s office door, determined to restate his case and at least get back on flying status.

  “Damn it, Colonel Locke,” he protested. “Rumor around the squadron has it that you raised all sorts of hell when you were a lieutenant. Why are you coming down so hard on me now?”

  Locke motioned for him to sit down. For a moment, he looked into his own past and a sadness came over him. “Because I was going down the same road you’re on right now.” Matt started to interrupt, his case made. Locke held a hand up. “But the best officer who ever strapped on an F-Four saved me from myself by letting me sweat out a pretrial investigation for a court-martial. He knew I was going to get out of it because of a technicality—but I didn’t. One other thing; I deserved to be court-martialed. I was guilty.” He let it sink in. “That officer was Muddy Waters.”

  Silence hung in the room. Waters was one of the Air Force’s legends, the man who had taken the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing into combat in the Persian Gulf and died getting them out. Now Locke’s squadron was part of the 45th.

  Locke leaned forward over his desk. “Waters taught me the meaning of leadership. Without leadership, a fighter puke isn’t
worth shit. And the key is a sense of responsibility—I didn’t have it then—and you don’t have it now.” The silence came down hard.

  “Sir,” Matt finally said, “may I ask you a question about Waters?” He had overhead the old heads BS in the bar and every now and then, the legend of Muddy Waters would come up. “Did he really give you his call sign just before he bought it?”

  Locke stared at him—hard. The memories were painful. “Yeah. He made me Wolf Zero-One just before he was killed surrendering the base.” Another long pause. “He gave me the responsibility of bringing the Forty-fifth home. I did.”

  “It was different then,” Matt protested. “The Mideast is all sorted out now. I’ll never fight a war—”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Something turned inside Matt. Locke followed Waters into hell and came out forever changed. Long ago, Matt Pontowski had admitted to himself that Locke was probably the best pilot he would ever meet. And now he knew that Locke was a true rarity—a leader. “Sir, I want to be a leader, but what in the hell can a lieutenant do?”

  “Leadership for a lieutenant means doing the best job you can and taking care of your people.”

  “And who do I take care of?” Matt asked, bitterness in his voice.

  “Your backseater. Don’t kill him. I happen to like Haney.”

  “And not me.”

  “There’s nothing to like. Sure, you’re a charmer and the ladies think you’re God’s gift to studdom, but there’s nothing to you.”

  Locke’s hard words cut into him. A hard resolve came over him to prove Locke dead wrong. “Colonel, about this self-help project, I don’t even know where to start.”