“How much flying time do your pilots get?”
The brigadier hesitated. “Fifty-five to sixty hours a year.”
Pontowski was shocked. A fighter pilot had to fly five times that much to maintain minimum combat proficiency. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to fly in the backseat with a pilot who was, at best, marginally proficient in basic flying skills. “I would consider it an honor to fly in the front seat. Of course, with an instructor pilot in the back.”
“Of course,” the brigadier replied. He was not a happy man and spoke to his aide in Polish. “Arrange for General Pontowski to fly as pilot. I want our best instructor to go with him.”
It was a long drive from the barracks to the far side of the airport where flight operations were hangared. Pontowski felt better when they drove up. He knew a fighter squadron when he saw one. “Matt!” a voice boomed when he got out of the car. It was Emil, the Polish officer with the unpronounceable last name who had flown with him at the air show when Danny Beason had crashed. “No crashes today!”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Good. I’m flying on your wing as number two.” He escorted Pontowski into the locker room where they changed into their flight suits.
The IP, instructor pilot, flying with Pontowski briefed the mission while the two pilots jotted down notes on their kneeboards. The flight was little more than a familiarization ride in the jet and was totally undemanding. Afterward, the IP asked Pontowski about the squadron patch above his right chest pocket. “The 303rd is an A-10 squadron?” he asked.
“It’s a reserve outfit at Whiteman Air Force Base. I was the squadron commander for a while.”
The IP studied the patch. “A most unusual coincidence. In the Battle of Britain, the 303rd was a Royal Air Force squadron made up of Polish pilots. They flew Hurricanes.”
“My grandfather flew with the RAF in the big one.”
The IP nodded. “Yes, I know. He flew Mosquitoes.”
The patch was on Velcro and Pontowski pulled it off. He handed it to the IP. “As a souvenir of this flight.”
Pontowski preflighted the F-16 with the crew chief. The jet was in pristine condition and glowed with tender loving care. But he sensed something was wrong. “Don’t your pilots preflight their own aircraft?” The crew chief shook his head. “Ah, I see. It’s the way we do things. Flights can be very demanding.” The crew chief was not convinced. “Have you ever been up for a ride?”
“It is not allowed.”
“Maybe I can change that. Then you’d know why it’s best to double- and triple-check everything.” The resistance he felt coming from the sergeant melted away.
Within moments, he was sitting in the front seat of the cockpit, his hands running through the familiar checklist. The crew chief helped him strap in and pulled the boarding ladder away. Engine start and taxi went smoothly and within minutes they were at the end of the runway waiting for clearance to takeoff. Pontowski was surprised there was no quick-check crew waiting for them to do a final inspection for leaks, loose panels, or cut tires before they took the runway. At the last minute, the IP changed the takeoff and called for instrument departures. Pontowski shook his head in disapproval. The weather was improving and more than adequate for a formation or twenty-second in-trail takeoffs. Weather was always a problem in Europe and a fighter jock had to learn how to handle it or he would spend most of his days on the ground. Also, an instrument departure would burn a lot of fuel before they joined up. He made another note.
The takeoff and climb-out were routine as the two fighters followed radar vectors and were passed over to Crown East, the GCI site near Bialystok. The GCI controller separated them and set them up sixty miles apart. When they were headed directly at each other, the controller identified Emil as the target and Pontowski as the interceptor. Pontowski cringed when he realized it was going to be a simple stern conversion where the controller gave him vectors that hooked him around into Emil’s six o’clock. It was enough to bore a man silly and even the controller did not sound enthused. On the fourth setup when Pontowski was the target for the second time, he realized they were accomplishing nothing. “We’re boring holes in the sky and my attitude,” he told the instructor pilot in the backseat. “Emil needs practice playing with an aware bandit.”
“What’s an aware bandit?” the pilot asked.
“It means the guy you’re trying to hose out of the sky knows you’re on him and has a clue. Let me put my nose on Emil and see what he does.”
“What should he do?” the pilot asked. The fact they were having such a leisurely conversation revealed how relaxed the mission was.
“Take over the intercept and use the vertical to maneuver into weapons-firing parameters.”
The pilot was shocked. “It’s not allowed.”
Pontowski gritted his teeth as Emil swung around in a level turn to his six o’clock position, still following the vectors from the GCI site. He was frustrated because a pilot with the F-16’s radar and black boxes could run a better intercept than any ground controller. This was not his idea of how to fly and fight.
He felt a sense of relief when the IP called Crown East for vectors back to Okecie for landing. They had been airborne forty minutes and accomplished nothing in the way of training. “Fuel is a consideration,” the IP explained. Pontowski made another note.
Approach control split them up for radar vectors to an Instrument Landing System final, an approach the airlines preferred. Since Pontowski had more fuel remaining than Emil, he landed last. The weather was still improving and the field was bathed in sunlight with fifteen miles visibility. “Okecie Tower,” Pontowski radioed, “request an overhead recovery.” An overhead recovery was the standard circling approach fighters flew returning from combat.
Before the IP could object, the tower called, “That approach is not allowed.” Pontowski made another note and made a straight-in landing. The crew chief marshaled them into parking and chocked the wheels. Pontowski climbed out and collected his thoughts as they walked in for the debrief. Tact and diplomacy were high on his agenda. But there was no debrief. He made another note.
In the locker room, Emil motioned for Pontowski to wait until the IP had changed and left. “Polish pilots don’t like to hear criticism,” he said.
“Is that the reason you don’t debrief?” A nod from Emil confirmed his suspicions. “But that’s when you learn from your mistakes.”
“I would never criticize you,” Emil confessed.
“Then you’re not doing your job.”
“It was not a very demanding mission,” Emil said.
Pontowski thought for a moment. How do I tell them the truth and still keep the doors open? “At least I learned something.” The eager look on Emil’s face demanded he say more. “You’re a good pilot and can fly the jet. Now we have to get you enough fuel and flying time to learn how to fight the F-16.”
“To fly and fight,” Emil repeated. “I remember you saying that before we took off at the air show.”
Pontowski’s face was deadly serious. “That’s what this business is all about.”