“Our vacation is almost over,” she said and drew a fingernail down his chest and scratched his stomach. “I’m going to miss you very, very much.”
“Rose,” he said, still at the beginning. “I don’t want this to end. Please, will you marry me?”
She wanted to cry but there it was. “Oh yes.” Tears filled her eyes. “No, I can’t.”
“Why not? I love you.” He was pleading.
“Oh, Is’al, you know how I feel about you”—she stroked his cheek and laid her breasts against him—“but there are so many problems.” He started to protest but she hushed him. “There is your religion and, well, I’m really nothing. I don’t speak your language and must learn it first.” Now she was rubbing his crotch and drawing her fingernails along his erection. “And this is very important, Is’al. I will only marry you if your family approves.”
“They will love you,” he promised. She stopped him from talking with a kiss and they made love again, but she had to use the last of the ice.
Afterward, they lay together. Then: “Please come with me to Baghdad and meet my family.”
5
It was a retake of the same scene Matt had starred in the last time he had seen his squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Locke. Only this time, the setting was different. Instead of standing in Locke’s Spartan office at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, he was at RAF Stonewood in England and the office was a shambles. The noise and activity of a tactical fighter squadron settling into his new home was a constant distraction. Matt wondered how long Locke would keep him standing at attention before chewing him out. Come on, he thought, get it over with. Just what the hell can you do to me? I was only eight days late and what the hell, no one needed me for anything.
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.