“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.”
“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.
“What lovely cuff links,” Nancy said, instantly regretting the breach of protocol.
“Ah,” Fedor replied, “a family heirloom. For me, amber is like Poland, very old but warm and alive to the touch.” He fixed her with an intense gaze. “We Poles are incurable romantics. Where else could you find a political party like the PPPP with the goal of having lively political discussions in pubs serving good beer.”
James interrupted them, trying to get the reception back on track. “General Bender, your car is waiting.”
Bender introduced himself to a few more people before allowing James to escort him and Nancy outside. “Please join us,” he said. James closed his door and hustled around to the other side, motioning to his wife to follow them. Inside, Bender turned to business. “I want a staff meeting in one hour,” he said.
James started to protest but the look on Bender’s face warned him it would be fruitless. “Of course, sir.” He made a mental note to call his superior at the Eastern Europe desk in Washington right after the meeting.
The number of people waiting for Bender in his office on the second floor of the embassy was much smaller than he expected. “Please get the defense attaché,” he said, “and the CIA station chief.” The staff exchanged nervous glances as James made the phone calls. Within moments, the two men were in the room and James introduced them. “Please bear with me during these first few weeks,” Bender began, “while I learn exactly what you all do and how you do it. You need to know three things about the way I do business. First, if I ask you about something that is not in your area, I expect you to refer me to the right person and stay involved. Second, it’s okay to disagree with me. But have your act together when you do. Third, I don’t like surprises and I got one on the flight into Warsaw. We were escorted by two F-16s out of Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany. I was not told about it in advance.”
“Sir,” the attaché said, “the escort was my idea. As you are probably aware, two Polish F-16s on an air-defense mission were shot down four weeks ago. It was a routine intercept of a cargo plane. We suspect the Russians did it, but we don’t know why or how.”