“Do you think we can do it?” Little Matt wondered.
“What about biology?” Brian asked.
“Hit the books,” Zeth told him, pulling the letter out of the printer. “It’s high speed next week. Don’t get stuck with a D.” A “D” was a demerit that could get them walking a tour over the weekend and restricted to post. “Don’t blow this one,” she cautioned, wishing she could go with them.
NINE
Pontowski let the scenery wash over him as he drove west out of Roswell Friday afternoon. Like all aviators, he checked the sky and found the far horizon. It was a gorgeous fall day in the high desert, perfect for flying. For once, he was content to be earthbound. Behind him, Little Matt and Brian joked and exchanged good-natured insults, happy to escape NMMI for the weekend. Zeth Trogger sat in the front seat beside him, looking wistfully out the window, not joining in the banter.
The desert scrub gave way to low trees and more grass as they entered the Hondo Valley. Now the landscape conjured up an image from an earlier time. So much like Israel, he thought, yet so different. Suddenly, two F-16 Vipers flying low-level crossed the road in front of them at 1,000 feet above the ground. Once clear of the road, the pilots slammed the jets back down to 300 feet and disappeared over a low hill. Now the memories were back, bursting through the floodgates of time.
He was back in the cockpit of an F-15E flying low over the desert terrain of the Golan Heights. Then he was challenging Iraqi SAMs and two Su-27 Flankers. Ambler Furry was in his backseat, his voice a cool fountain in the heat of combat. Pontowski laughed to himself as Furry’s words echoed in his memory. “Shit-oh-dear. We ain’t got no right wing.” Furry had even managed to keep a semblance of control during the midair collision with Johar Adwan when they had lost their right wing. Somehow, Pontowski recovered the F-15 Eagle and made aviation history. Then he was on the beach near Haifa with Shoshana as they made their peace.
But like the land around him, it was different now. Time had tamed the raging torrent of loss and regret. All that remained was a gentle current of remembrance. The pain of Shoshana’s death was gone.
“Dad,” Little Matt said, breaking his reverie, “were those F-16s?”
“That’s right. Did you see the CC on the tails? They were out of Cannon Air Force Base, the 27th Fighter Wing.”
“You could tell all that?” Brian asked. The boys started talking again, full of themselves and the day.
Pontowski glanced in the rearview mirror. Because of the unusually warm weather, the boys were still wearing their class-A summer uniforms with short-sleeved white shirts and dress-blue trousers. His son’s voice was familiar but resonated with a newfound confidence he had never heard before. Matt’s growing up fast, Pontowski thought, unconsciously dropping the “Little.” A twinge of sadness poked at him; his son was changing and he was missing it. Still, he liked what he was hearing, the give-and-take of boys growing to manhood. He glanced at Zeth Trogger who was sitting in the front seat beside him. “Are they always like this?” he asked.
“Unfortunately,” she replied. She gave him an encouraging smile. “They’ll grow out of it.”
“Grow out of what?” Brian asked.
“Sounding off like an idiot,” Zeth shot back. Brian grumbled an answer under his breath and the boys shut up. “That’s better,” Zeth said. “General Pontowski, I want to thank you for inviting me to come.”
“Mrs. McMasters suggested it,” Pontowski said. “It sounded like a good idea to me.” He smiled. When Lenora McMasters decided on something she was a bulldog. Why send two cadets when three would give NMMI more of a presence in the national media?
Zeth looked out the window at the river. “That’s the Rio Hondo. You’ll see a sign on your left in about five miles.” She paused. “I know a back way to the ranch. It’s cool.”
“Are you from around here?” Pontowski asked.
“I grew up here. My folks own the ranch next to the Escalantes. They live in Santa Fe now. They don’t come here much now but I love it.”
“Did you know Amadis Escalante.”
“Yes, sir.” She pointed to a dirt road on the left. “Turn here.”
Pontowski slowed and turned on his blinker to warn the black sport utility vehicle behind them that he was turning. The personal radio the Secret Service had given him buzzed. As expected, the agent following them wanted to know about the change in route. He handed the radio to Zeth. “You tell them where we’re going.” She took the phone and talked to the agent. Pontowski listened and followed the route she described. They crossed the river on a low wooden bridge and followed a dirt road that led to an unused polo field. A tractor was mowing the weeds as the president’s arrival party prepared a landing pad for her helicopter. They came to a dilapidated corral and stables where a horse pranced along the fence, greeting them. A roadblock was next and Pontowski rolled to a stop.
A tall, heavily built man with dark hair approached the car. “General Pontowski, I’m Special Agent Sanford with the Secret Service.”
Brian leaned forward, a rare smile on his face. “Do you remember me, Mr. Sanford?”
Sanford returned Brian’s smile. At the White House, Brian had always called him by his first name, Chuck. He stuck a massive hand through the window and they shook hands. “How could I forget? It’s good to see you. How’s it going?”
“All right, I guess. Any chance we can shoot some hoops?”
“You got it.”
Sanford turned to Pontowski. “General, the compound is already sealed. You need to give us a heads-up call before anyone leaves. Otherwise, we’ll stay out of your way.” He smiled at Zeth. “Miss Trogger?” She nodded in answer. “We need a photograph so everyone will know who you are. Security.” He held up a Polaroid camera. “It would be better if you were standing.”
She frowned. “I look terrible in pictures.”
“That’s why they call her the Trog,” Brian said.
Zeth looked uncomfortable as she got out of the car. Away from the comforting routine of NMMI, she was very unsure of herself. Like the boys she was wearing a summer class-A uniform with pants. As usual her hair was pulled back into a tight braid and she looked quite severe. Sanford snapped a photo, quickly took a second, and she got back into the car.
“When does my mom get here?” Brian asked.
“Later this evening,” Sanford answered. “So you got plenty of time to settle in and look around.”
“Can we go for a horseback ride?” Zeth asked. “We can ride over to my folks’ ranch. The ride is really cool.” Brian and Little Matt chimed in with enthusiasm.
“Sure,” Sanford said. “I’ll tell the stables to expect you.” He stood back and waved them through. “Park on this side of the compound. We want to keep the cars out of sight.”
The Escalante ranchstead was controlled chaos as they parked and walked into the family compound. Secret Service and communications specialists were everywhere, preparing for Turner’s arrival. Pontowski estimated there were at least forty people scurrying around. The compound itself was a cluster of adobe buildings with tile roofs arranged in a U shape. It was not the product of an architect or some master plan. Instead, the Escalante family had added buildings and rooms as needed over the years. At the back, buildings either touched or were connected by an adobe wall, presenting a fortresslike effect to the outside. But inside, the rooms and buildings all opened onto a well-tended flower garden and expanse of grass. A trellis-covered brick walkway tied everything together.