Twenty minutes after takeoff, he found the missing two F-16s circling at 24,000 feet. He called for a fuel check and groaned inwardly. The backseat in his D model F-16 replaced the forward fuselage fuel tank and he took off with 1,400 pounds less fuel than the other three jets. Yet, his number two and three wingman had less fuel than he did! For a fighter jock, running out of fuel was one of the cardinal sins. He made another note to talk about fuel management and throttle technique in the debrief.
Emil’s warning about doing too much on the first mission echoed in his mind. He had to slow down. Once he had them flying straight and level in a reasonable wingtip formation, he practiced formation turns. The first one was a fiasco, the second one better, the third perfect. He made a note for the debrief.
Then he moved them out into a line-abreast formation with the second element 4,000 feet to his left and his wingman 500 feet off his right wing. Then he worked them through a classic fluid-four turn where they turned ninety degrees and still came out in the same formation. It would have been perfect except they lost number four. Again, Emil got on the radio and had approach control vector them for a rejoin. By now they were getting good at rejoining and Pontowski had their measure. They were fast learners and good pilots who suffered from lack of flying time and aggressive training. He would talk about it in the debrief. He went into an extended trail formation with the second element three miles behind him. He turned to the right, pleased that his wingman was now welded in position on his right wing. The second element closed for a turning rejoin and moved smoothly into formation.
Pontowski called for a fuel check; it was time to head for the barn. He called approach control and broke the flight up, sending three and four home first. He called his wingman. “Okay partner, how are you on overhead recoveries?”
“It’s not allowed,” Emil said from the backseat.
“It is now,” Pontowski replied. He briefed his wingman on exactly how to fly the traditional recovery flown by fighters returning from combat.
Most of the squadron’s pilots were standing outside the operations building and saw the two F-16s as they approached from the southwest. Pontowski locked their airspeed at 300 knots and their altitude 1,500 feet above the ground. When they were over the approach end of the runway, he keyed his radio. “In the break.” He wracked the jet into a turn and peeled off to the left. He aligned the missile rail on his left wingtip with the runway for offset. Five seconds later, his wingman did the same. “Watch your spacing,” he radioed, cautioning his wingman as he bled off airspeed. Then, “Gear down.” His left hand flicked out and hit the gear lever, dropping the gear and the flaperons.
When he was abeam the touchdown point, he circled to land. The airspeed bled off nicely as he came down final. He kissed the concrete at exactly 140 knots. Good landings in the F-16 were easy, but great landings were a gift from God. “How’s he doing?” Pontowski asked Emil.
Emil twisted around in his seat to watch the other F-16 land. “Perfect.”
“Well, at least one thing went right today.” He turned off the runway and waited for his wingman. They taxied to the squadron area as a team and parked. On cue, their canopies came up together and he cut the engine. “Cheated death again,” he told Emil.
Twenty minutes later, the two pilots walked into the briefing room expecting to see the other three pilots. The room was deserted. “Where did they go?”
Emil looked embarrassed. “We never debrief.” He started to explain, but his voice trailed off.
“They’re not used to criticism,” Pontowski said. “Emil, the debrief is the most important part of the mission. That’s where we all learn from our mistakes and how not to make them again.”
It was after six in the evening when Pontowski returned to the embassy. He walked down the deserted hall to his offices and, as expected, found the two officers who worked for him still there. They briefed him on the message traffic that had to go out, he signed the releases, and sent them home to their families. Then he took off his coat and worked through the folder on his desk detailing a training package for the Polish Air Force. It was a good proposal but it didn’t feel right, not after that afternoon’s flight.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He fished the videocassette from the mission out of his briefcase and popped it into his VCR. The familiar picture recorded through the F-16’s head-up display appeared on the TV screen and his voice was loud and clear over the radio. Again, his frustration built as the mission unfolded. They’re decent enough pilots, he reasoned. He glanced at the training proposal and knew it was all wrong. He threw the folder against the wall in frustration and its pages fluttered across the floor. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the strain from the mission demanding its price. He dozed.
“General,” Ewa said, “would you like some coffee or tea?” His eyes snapped open. She was standing in front of his desk holding the offending folder, all neatly arranged and in order. She tilted her head, waiting for an answer.
“Please sit down,” he said, motioning to a chair. “I’ve got a problem. The folder you’re holding is a training proposal for your air force. It’s a good plan, but for some reason, I know it won’t work.”
She scanned the folder and then read a few pages. “Whoever wrote this doesn’t understand Poles.”
He sensed she was right. “So what do I do?”
“You need to talk to my mother.” Without waiting for a reply, she picked up his phone and dialed a number. She spoke briefly in Polish and turned to him. “Have you ever had pierogi with a good Polish beer?” He shook his head.
Dr. Elzbieta Pawlik pushed through the door of the crowded pub and spoke to a heavyset man behind the counter. He looked around and led them to a table with three empty seats. The young couple scooted to one end and went on talking and smoking as if they weren’t there. “So, what don’t you understand about us?” the doctor asked, coming directly to the point. The couple next to them fell silent, obviously listening for Pontowski’s answer.
“I guess the Polish character is totally beyond me.”
“That’s because we’re a mixed people, speaking a Slavic language, with a European culture. Look at the people around you. Most of them are very young. But never forget they were all born in the Soviet dark ages.” A waitress brought a platter of pierogi and a pitcher of beer. Elzbieta pointed to one. “Try that one.”
Pontowski bit into it and found it delicious. “It reminds me of a Cornish pasty.”
“It should remind you of Poland,” the doctor said. “That is why you don’t understand us. We are a hard-headed people, Matt Pontowski, and learn by example. Your name, what do you Americans say? has weight here. We want to trust you because of who you are. Try not to disappoint us.” She took a healthy drink of beer. “We have been occupied so often and for so long that we distrust words. Authority. Foreigners.”
The young man sitting next to Pontowski snorted. “Especially Russians.”
“My father,” his girlfriend said, “hates all Germans and Russians.”
“So given a chance,” Elzbieta asked, “which would he kill first?”
“Germans,” a man at the next table called.
“Why?” Elzbieta asked.
“Duty before pleasure,” another man shouted.
Elzbieta fixed Pontowski with a hard stare. “Now you are talking to Poles. Are you listening?” She stood and left.
The girl leaned across the table. “Are you the grandson of President Pontowski?”
Pontowski gave her his best grin. “Guilty as charged.”