Edge of Honor by Richard Herman Read Free Book Online

real problem the pilot should have been talking to approach control and been well clear of the heavy traffic landing for the air show. Pontowski downgraded his opinion of the pilot to flaming asshole and didn’t bother to respond. But another voice did. “The butthead needs to take a leak.”
    Pontowski couldn’t help himself. “Rog on the leaking rectum.”
     
    The air show was well organized and Pontowski was quickly marshaled into a parking spot beside six otherT-34s after he landed. The old Air Force trainers were in the row next to the military displays that were a featured part of the weekend, much like the air shows at Paris or Farnborough. He shut down as the other T-34 pilots wandered over to greet him. They had all met before. He climbed over the canopy rail and stood on the wing as he slid the canopy closed. Two rows down, in the midst of the military hardware, he could see four bright red Marchettis. Even on the ground, the little Italian trainer looked like a hot rod. One of the aerial demonstration teams , he decided. His eyes narrowed. He hoped the show’s air boss was having severe doubts about one of their pilots.
    “Hey, Matt,” one of the Mentor pilots called, “what the hell happened out there? That son of a bitch almost nailed you.”
    “He came damn close,” Pontowski answered. “Claimed he had an emergency.”
    “His only emergency,” another pilot said, “was taking a piss. Never saw anyone get out of a plane so fast after landing. He relieved himself right on the ramp.”
    Pontowski shook his head. “Suspicions confirmed.” They shook hands all around, old friends bound by a common interest in T-34s.
    “Are you going to file a near miss?” the first pilot asked.
    Pontowski thought about it for a moment. “The tower’s on top of it. But I do need to talk to him.” He walked across the ramp, slowed by the large crowd of spectators already at the air show before the heat grew too intense. He made a mental note to cover the Plexiglas of the Mentor’s tandem cockpit before it got too hot.
    A pudgy, fair-haired man in his early thirties was talking to a mixed crowd of civilians and foreign military officers about the Marchettis. He was wearing a tight red Nomex flying suit festooned with patches on the shoulders and chest. A gold name tag identified the wearer as SAMMY BEASON . Pontowski wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing it.
    “Quite an outfit,” a voice said behind him. Pontowski turned to the speaker, a tall, slender man with white hair.“Bob Bender,” the man said, a broad smile on his face and his hand outstretched. “Aren’t you Matt Pontowski?”
    Pontowski immediately recognized the four-star general. “Guilty, sir.” Even in civilian clothes, Robert Bender was all military, hard lines, and unbending attitude. The general was a legend in the Air Force: a former Thunderbird solo pilot, a fighter jock who had flown every high-performance jet in the inventory and shot down two Iraqi MiGs in the Gulf War. Recently, he had commanded Air Combat Command and was now the vice chief of staff of the Air Force, rumored to be in line for chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. But there was more. He was a commander men and women trusted and would follow willingly into combat, even at the risk of death.
    They shook hands. “What brings you here?” Pontowski asked.
    Bender shook his head. “That gentleman.” He was looking directly at the Marchetti pilot.
    “I need to explain a few things to him,” Pontowski said.
    “I’d rather you didn’t,” the general said. Pontowski waited for an explanation. “He claims he had an intermittent electrical malfunction,” Bender added.
    “That can’t be duplicated on the ground. Who is he anyway?”
    “Sammy Beason controls an airline, a basketball team, and who knows what else. He got them when his father retired. Unfortunately, he’s also the CEO of World Security Systems.”
    Pontowski was beginning to get a clue. World