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?”
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.”
“The key is good soil and land,” von Lubeck said. “Without it, nothing can grow to its proper size.”