They were waiting by the refreshment stand. “Well,” Waldo asked, “any luck?”
“I’m not on her list.”
Ewa felt like singing.
“So what now?” Waldo asked.
“As long as we’re out here, it’s time you met some jet jocks. You’ll like Emil.”
“A chance to fly, I hope.”
Waldo’s chance to fly came ten days later when the weather finally decided to cooperate. Emil joined Pontowski in the briefing room and waited as the rest of the squadron filed in to listen to Waldo’s first mission brief. Emil kept looking at the pudgy Waldo, not really believing what he was seeing. “He’s a strange one,” Emil finally allowed.
Pontowski chuckled to himself. Too many others had made the mistake of misreading George Walderman. “He’s not what he seems,” Pontowski explained. “He’s prematurely gray and that pudgy body of his can take some Gs.”
When the room was packed and the video camera on, Waldo started his briefing. “There’re two types of aircraft in this world, fighters and targets. Today, I’m going to show you how to avoid being a target. Every mission starts here in the briefing room and ends in the briefing room. So today, I’ll go through the whole process with General Pontowski and Emil. Everything will be on videotape. Come back here after we’ve landed and watch how we all get better. Okay, today I’ll be leading a two-ship with Emil on my wing as the student. General Pontowski will be in Emil’s backseat as an instructor pilot.” Waldo turned to the chalkboard behind him and outlined the mission step by step.
Crown Central, the Ground Controlled Intercept radar site forty miles east of Poznan, cleared the two fighters into the training area. “We’ll warm up with some G-awareness exercises,” Waldo radioed, following the exact order of events he had briefed on the ground. “In-place ninety-degree turn to the right, NOW.”
Emil wracked his aircraft into a tight turn. “Hold a constant five Gs,” Pontowski said from the backseat. They rolled out and did it again. “This time,” Pontowski said, “try to hold it without looking at the G meter.” Emil strained against the Gs and managed a decent constant G turn. “Not bad,” Pontowski said.
“In-place one eighty to the left,” Waldo ordered. Again, the two aircraft turned in place.
“Hold a constant seven Gs in a 180 turn,” Pontowski told Emil. “Keep your airspeed near the top of your corner velocity, 440 knots top.”
The GCI controller at Crown Central came on the radio. “Waldo flight, can you accept tasking?”
Waldo didn’t hesitate. “That’s affirmative.”
“We have an inbound target from the east without a clearance.”
Pontowski keyed his radio. “Crown Central, this is Waldo Two, is it a Vnukova flight?” Vnukova was the call sign for Russian diplomatic flights.
“It is possible,” the GCI controller answered. “But we are painting multiple targets.”
“We’ll take a look,” Waldo replied. “We’re LOX sweet, twenty minutes play time, guns only.” He had just told the controller they had plenty of oxygen, twenty minutes’ worth of fuel to use, and were armed only with the M61 20mm cannon. In combat, the 20mm Gatling gun was a fearsome weapon. Now it was the controller’s job to make the best use of it. He gave them an easterly heading to fly and handed them off to Crown East who would run the actual intercept.
“Waldo’s fangs are out,” Pontowski told Emil. “Are you up to it? I can take it from back here.”
Emil gave the right answer. “No problem, I’ve got it.”
“Go tactical,” Waldo ordered.
“Fly line abreast, 5,000 feet apart,” Pontowski said. “You should be able to make out if he’s a fighter, maybe pick up his planform in a turn.” Emil did as directed.
An American voice came on the radio. “Waldo Flight, you’re paired against one, maybe three targets, visually identify and report only. Snap vector zero-eight-zero for ninety-five nautical miles.” As one, the two F-16s turned to 080 degrees. The target was ninety-five miles on their nose.
Waldo played with his APG-68 radar trying for an early detection. His radarscope strobed. “Waldo is being jammed,” he radioed, his voice amazingly cool. “Crown East, vectors and range only.” Waldo was taking over the intercept and only wanted the bearing and range to the target. “Bossman, radar standby, weapons cold.”
“Emil’s got it,” Pontowski replied.
“Weapons cold, radar standby,” Emil radioed. His voice was high pitched and nervous. Not a good start.
“Hook-ID,” Waldo said, calling for the tactic they would use. “Emil is the hook, Waldo the ID.” On cue, Waldo nosed over and dove for the deck, racing ahead of them. He disappeared through the cloud deck below them.
“I’ll talk you through it,” Pontowski said. “Hold your altitude and airspeed. Waldo’s going for the deck. If this were the real thing, you’d arm your missiles now.” At fifteen miles, Pontowski told Emil to turn right for displacement. “You need room to turn into the target. It’s a standard stern conversion where you hook around behind the target.” Again, Emil did as he was told. But now his breath came in short, deep, rapid bursts. “Control your breathing,” Pontowski said, “or you’ll hyperventilate.”
Emil answered with short, very deep breaths. “I’m trying.”
“Wait for the radio call from Waldo. It’s his job to identify them as friendly or hostile. If this were the real thing, you’d be in position to fire. Today, you’re only going to get the target’s tail number. Do not get within one mile of the target unless you have Waldo in sight.”
While Emil and Pontowski hooked around behind the target, Waldo was down on the deck, his airspeed meter bouncing off Mach 1.6. When Crown East called the range at four miles, Waldo pulled his nose up and firewalled the throttle. “Waldo’s shooting the moon,” Pontowski told Emil. “Keep your turn coming. Do you see the Flankers?” But Emil didn’t respond. “Emil!” The pilot’s head slumped sideways, unconscious from hyperventilation.
Waldo was going straight up and the target was on his nose. He punched through a cloud deck and saw the Ilyushin-76. “Target is friendly,” he radioed. “Repeat, friendly.” Then, “Two chicks in trail! Flankers, Flankers. I have Emil in sight.” He passed behind the Flankers escorting the Ilyushin, still going straight up.
At the same time, the two Flankers saw Pontowski’s aircraft and turned toward it. “I’ve got it!” Pontowski shouted, taking control of the aircraft from the rear seat. He jerked the F-16’s nose around, loading the jet with nine Gs. He grunted hard, fighting the G forces. A loud chirping buzz in his headset warned him that one of the Flankers had locked him up on radar for a missile shot. What unfolded next occurred at a speed that defied normal senses. When Pontowski judged they were in range of an infrared missile, he pulled the throttle full aft to reduce the heat signature an infrared-guided missile needed to guide on. At the same time he hit the flare button on the throttle. A burst of four flares popped out behind the F-16 to capture any heat-seeking missile’s guidance head.
Waldo ruddered his jet over on top in time to see one of the Flankers and Pontowski’s F-16 come together in the merge in what looked like a head-on collision. Automatically, he keyed his radio and yelled, “Break left! Take it down!” He snorted in satisfaction as Pontowski’s F-16 did exactly that. The other Flanker rolled as its nose sliced toward the ground to follow Pontowski into the dive. “Shit hot!” Waldo roared over the radio. They had set up a perfect sandwich to have the Flanker for lunch. “Pitch back now!” Waldo ordered.
“Pitching back,” Pontowski shouted, pulling on his control stick, bringing his F-16’s nose up and onto the Flanker that was now heading down but still above him. Then Waldo blasted through, splitting the air between the two Flankers. Immediately, Waldo pitched back into the lead Flanker, the one not engaging Pontowski.
Nothing in the experience of the two Flanker pilots had prepared them for such a close engagement so aggressively executed. A flurry of Russian was exch
anged over the radio and, as one, they turned to the east and headed back for the border, trying to act as friendly as possible.
Emil was conscious, his breathing normal. “What happened?”
Pontowski peeled his face mask back and wiped the sweat away with the back of his glove. “Just doing a Hook-ID,” he replied, trying to sound bored and nonchalant.
“Fuel check,” Waldo radioed. His fuel was low and he suspected Pontowski’s was probably lower. He was right and it was time to head home.
By the time they landed, every pilot in the air regiment had heard about the engagement. It was standing room only when Waldo led Pontowski and Emil into the briefing room. Waldo’s face was etched with the imprint of his oxygen mask and his flight suit white with dried sweat. “This is not going to be a pretty debrief,” he began. “In a Hook-ID, you have a contract with me to not engage unless we have each other in sight. Otherwise, it’s turn and run away. Did you see me before engaging?” Pontowski shook his head. “Then we fucked up, big time.” The room was shocked into silence. Pontowski nodded in acknowledgment and made a note on his kneeboard.
The Poles listened in amazement as the two Americans dissected the mission, telling each other what they had done wrong and how to avoid making the same mistake again. The debrief lasted longer than the flight and, afterward, Emil waited to speak to Pontowski in private. “Thank you for not mentioning that I passed out from hyperventilation.”
Pontowski slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good pilot. We’ll work on it.” Emil nodded, ready to follow Pontowski anywhere and determined to prove himself.
TWENTY-FOUR
Outside Moscow
Vashin’s fascination burned the moment he entered the command post. He had never suspected such a structure existed and the long underground corridors showed none of the decay afflicting the rest of the Russian military. He told the driver of the electrified golf cart whisking him to the operations center to slow so he could take it all in. The respect paid by the officers who recognized him was exactly right; an unsmiling face, an inquisitive look, followed by a little nod. The cart stopped in front of a heavy blast door that led to the ops center.
“So, this is where we conduct a war,” Vashin said, still not truly believing he had reached the heart of the Russian military.
The general major, a one-star, escorting Vashin turned him over to the general colonel, a three-star, who would take him inside. Vashin almost laughed when he saw the old-fashioned Plexiglas wallboards where sergeants still posted information in grease pencil. His own Action Room buried in the basement of Vashin Towers made this look like a throwback to the Cold War. The three-star led him to a traditional map table that was surrounded by more generals.
A trim colonel stood on the opposite side of the map table with a big screen behind him. “Good morning, Mr. Vashin. I will be briefing the raid on the headquarters of the Polish SPS. Please interrupt if you have any questions.” The distinctive emblem of the SPS flashed on the screen. “The double fishhook on the tail of the P has a special significance,” the briefer said. “It was the symbol of Fighting Poland, the Polish resistance in the Great War.”
Vashin snorted. “A foolishness we’ll soon end.” The generals surrounding him all nodded in agreement.
A map of Poland flashed on the screen and highlighted the location of the target near Kutno, seventy miles west of Warsaw. “We are employing unconventional forces which will be parachuted in,” the briefer said. “If you will direct your attention to the large scale chart in front of you, I will point out the objectives and outline the plan of attack.”
Vashin leaned over the map table and he felt himself come alive. This was his destiny, the master planner controlling events, deciding who would live and die. A feeling of absolute power surged through him. Now he appreciated why the ops center continued to use old-fashioned ways of command. The map table, the chart, the pieces moving on the board were tangible, not images on a computer screen. He moved around the table as the briefing unfolded and looked at the map from every angle. Yes! This was the only way to run a military operation. He made a suggestion about the placement of a blocking force.
The generals discussed it briefly and their doubts turned to acceptance. The change was made and Vashin shifted his position, still listening to the colonel giving the briefing.
He had never been more alive.
The battered Lada crunched down the narrow lane, its half-bald tires slipping on the ice and snow. Large, well-kept dachas, country residences of the rich and powerful, were hidden in the trees. Since there were no addresses or signs, the driver carefully counted the houses, finally arriving at the desired number. He turned off the lane and parked. General Colonel Peter Prudnokov was waiting for him. “You’re a wanted man,” Prudnokov said. The driver got out of the car and removed the wiper blades. Even in dacha country, theft was a major problem. He put the blades in the pocket of his overcoat.
“Please,” Prudnokov said, motioning toward his dacha set back in the trees. “I hardly recognized you.”
Tom Johnson bore little resemblance to the man he was three weeks ago. He had lost weight and the buffalo-like bulge on the back of his neck had almost disappeared. His hair was much longer and dyed a dingy brown. Even his walk was different. Yet his clothes fitted him perfectly and he could blend in with any crowd on a Moscow street.
The two men stomped into the dacha and removed their heavy boots and coats. The slight bulge under Johnson’s arm was ample warning that he was armed. “I’m not going to give you up to Vashin,” Prudnokov said. He had read all the signs correctly and there was little doubt that Johnson was a foreign agent. But while Prudnokov suspected Johnson worked for the CIA, he couldn’t be sure. Unfortunately, common wisdom in Moscow held that it wasn’t good for one’s health to cross the CIA.
“I appreciate that,” Johnson said. “You wanted me to find out who was responsible for your daughter’s death.”
Prudnokov only stared at the American. There would be a price to pay for the information. He nodded. “It was Vashin,” Johnson said. “He pushed her down an elevator shaft.”
“Personally?” Prudnokov asked.
Johnson shook his head. “A torpedo. But Vashin ordered it and watched.”
“What is the price?” Prudnokov asked.
“Vashin’s flight schedule, drugs, whores. The whole nine yards.”
Warsaw
Pontowski and Peter Duncan drew their fair share of telling looks and hushed words when they entered the VIP lounge at Okecie airport for the ceremonies welcoming the arrival of the new ambassador. More than a few people turned away and engaged in private conversations, not wanting to be seen talking to them, at least not in public. “I think,” Pontowski said, “that we’re in the leper colony.”
“Not we,” Duncan replied. “The rumor mill around the embassy has it that you’re persona non grata.”
“Shows I’m doing my job right.”
Duncan saw the sumptuous buffet and laid on his thickest Irish accent. “The lads have done themselves proud. Only the best for the new ambassador.” They moved off to one corner and talked quietly while Winslow James and his wife scurried around, tending to last-minute preparations.
“How are things with the SPS?” Pontowski asked.
“Going very well. They’re expanding their training and rolled up two drug rings last week.”
“I didn’t hear about that.”
“Few have,” Duncan said. “The Ministry of Justice wants to keep it quiet for now. Speaking of the devil himself, here comes Jerzy.” Jerzy Fedor was walking toward them, a glass of champagne in his hand.
“What exactly does Fedor do?” Pontowski asked.
“I’m not sure. He seems to know everyone.”
“A most excellent champagne,” Fedor said. He lowered his voice. “I’ve heard a terrible rumor that you were involved in the death of the new ambassador’s son.”
“We were flying an aerial demonstr
ation when he crashed,” Pontowski said.
“You make it sound so routine.”
“I’m sorry it happened, but he knew the risks.”
Fedor allowed a nod and sipped his champagne. “We’re going to miss the general.” He turned and wandered away.
“Our boy knows more than he’s letting on,” Duncan muttered.
The protocol officer beckoned to them. “The aircraft has arrived. Please join the welcoming party to receive Ambassador and Mrs. Beason.” No formal introductions were planned and Pontowski and Duncan joined the two lines of people forming a corridor for the Beasons to pass through. After a few minutes delay, the door leading from the jetway swung open and the new ambassador stepped into the lounge. On cue, Winslow James and his wife moved forward, welcoming them to Poland. Mrs. Winslow handed Mrs. Beason a bouquet of flowers and a few words were exchanged. James made a gracious gesture at the welcoming party and escorted Beason toward the door and the waiting limousine.
Applause broke out as the Beasons made their way out. Beason’s eyes narrowed into narrow slits when he saw Pontowski. His body tensed and then he moved on. “Have Pontowski in my office first thing tomorrow morning,” he told James.
“Protocol can be a bitch,” Duncan murmured. They waited until the crowd thinned before leaving. “I take it your bags are packed?” he said wryly to Pontowski.
The “tomorrow morning” turned into five days and it was Tuesday before Pontowski was finally summoned to Beason’s office. Winslow James closed the door behind them and moved off to one side, looking very uncomfortable. “Pontowski,” Beason began, “you’re trouble. Before I left the States, I read a report about you flying a combat mission for the Poles. We do not provide mercenaries for foreign countries.”
“I was flying a training mission negotiated under our Defense Security Assistance program.”
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