Wings of Honor

HONOR.

CHAPTER I

The quality of the box matters little. Success depends upon the man who sits in it.

— Baron Manfred von Richthofen

The green forest stretched for miles and at this altitude seemed more like a long, green shag carpet than a thick mass of branches and leaves. In the distance, he could see a few scattered fields that stood out from the dense woods like long, flat rocks resting on that green carpet. He scanned the horizon for movement but could only see miles of blue sky, punctuated here and there by small banks of peaceful looking clouds. After he reached the desired altitude, he eased the throttle back slightly to maintain level flight and to tone down the roar of the engine. As the raucous engine calmed down, the song of the wind whistling around the wires and through the cockpit became more noticeable. It was a song he knew would always be with him, even after he stopped flying, became stranded on the ground. There was no music more meaningful or beautiful to him. It was the song of freedom, of courage—of power. He put the Fokker Dr. I into a gentle bank to starboard, and the triplane responded obediently and began to glide to the right. After the plane had gracefully made a balanced 90° turn, he brought it to level flight and smiled contentedly. What a glorious day, he thought, lush forest, blue skies. Somewhere out in those picturesque skies flew an opponent—he hoped a worthy one. He scanned that sky again for signs of activity and instinctively wrapped his hand around the grip of the stick so that his fingers rested on the two levers that controlled the twin Spandaus. Even with his leather gloves on he could feel the contours and ribbed surfaces of the stick and levers. They felt natural. Like the countryside. He sighed, then slowly began to sing a song he remembered from childhood.

Die Luft ist kühl und dunkel, und traurig fliesst der Rhein...

The Fokker disappeared into a small bank of clouds.

Mark Gleeson studied the low altitude en route chart in his lap. He reached up to the radio and set the frequency, then took the mike off its holder.

Hickory Flight Service Station, this is Cherokee November niner, zero, eight, six, golf. Please open flight plan at zero, eight, thirty hours.

Roger eight, six, golf. Have a pleasant flight.

Thank you. Eight, six, golf out.

After reaching 5,000, he trimmed the plane and relaxed. ETA to Fayetteville was in about forty minutes, and at this early hour all he really needed to watch for were low flying military craft out of Ft. Bragg. Opening his vent, the cool morning air rushed into the cockpit and around his head. Better than caffeine, he thought. If his business at the courthouse went as smoothly as the wind outside the cockpit, he calculated he’d be back in the air within three hours. He checked the nav radios to be sure he was still on course, then reached for his briefcase. As he glanced over the itinerary his secretary had prepared for him, he thanked himself for buying this new Piper Cherokee instead of Ben’s old Cessna. This was so easy, almost easier than driving that Japanese car he got a year ago. It was just a matter of remembering a few things, checking instruments, and every now and then looking out the window to make sure no one else was about to run into him.

Like driving a bus, he said to himself, repeating a line he had read in an airline pilot’s magazine.

Twenty minutes out, he throttled back to begin a gradual approach to Fayetteville as per approach control’s instructions. At 4,000 he went through some harmless, wispy clouds. Nothing serious had been mentioned in the weather advisory, so these were just something forming from yesterday’s rain, he guessed. He came out of them at 3,000 and was joined by a vintage plane off his starboard wing. Reflexively, he grabbed the controls to avoid the collision he thought inevitable, then relaxed as he realized the other plane safely paralleled his own flight.

Crazy old bastard, he said, hoping the other pilot could read his lips from this distance.

He was surprised to see that it was an old Fokker triplane, and not the biplane he had first imagined. Probably some nut from the Confederate Air Force out reliving past glories, Mark thought. He checked his instruments again, saw that he still flew on course with no red lights, then looked more closely at the replica. He had never seen one except in an airplane history book. Curiously, it was painted black. For some reason, he had always assumed that anyone who restored one of those babies would want to paint it red to resemble the Red Baron’s plane. The pilot of the triplane saluted, then began a turn to the right. Mark breathed a sigh of relief, never feeling too safe with another plane closer than a hundred feet. Too many stories in the paper about near misses to relax with another plane off his wing, he thought.

Only a short few moments later he noticed he had a new problem. A slight pinging noise came from somewhere in the plane, and he checked his instruments to be sure it wasn’t the engine. Suddenly, the plane shuddered violently.

What the hell’s going on! he asked the plane.

Frantically, he scanned the panel again, hoping for any clue as to why this was happening. The answer came instantly. An explosion of glass came from behind him, and he looked down in shock to see pieces of his back window strewn across his legs. Mark turned to look out the jagged window, and his eyes widened in terror as he saw the black triplane not more than 50 feet behind his tail. In the next second, he saw white flashes coming from the demonic black plane, and in another, saw the bullets smash into the fuselage of his plane. One bullet ricocheted off the thin metal and shattered what was left of the window. He screamed and lunged for the microphone. In all of his training, he had never been taught how to react to bullets penetrating the thin skin of the plane, and he shrieked into the mike the only words he could think of.

Help me!

Unidentified plane needing assistance, please identify, Fayetteville Approach Control answered.

Mark tried to catch his breath and composure, but couldn’t respond to the tower’s call before the Fokker’s next deadly barrage of bullets slammed into the non-combat plane. They easily tore through the light aluminum around the cockpit and the cotton padding of the seat. One bullet exploded through Mark’s right shoulder, forcing him forward to the left. A heartbeat later, another round ricocheted off the door’s handle, penetrated his left temple, and forced him back to the right. The plane had already begun to go out of control due to the bullets that ripped through the elevators and ailerons, but when he jolted to the right, his lifeless left arm hit the control wheel and forced it to the right. The bullet-ridden craft began to stall out, then went into a sharp spin to the right, its occupant no longer able to be shocked at the deadly, rapid descent and the looming green countryside.

The pilot of the Fokker watched unemotionally as the crippled plane plummeted to the earth. Watched as the plane no longer under the control of the Bernoulli principle—its ability to achieve lift gone—fell toward a large brown stone on a green shag carpet. The plane crashed violently into a deserted field, bursting into flames as the fuel was ignited by sparks from metal hitting metal and earth. He circled the field once, making sure that no life came out of the burning hulk, then aimed the triplane for a small bank of clouds in the west.

Too easy, he said to himself. No challenge.

The Fokker disappeared into the fluffy bank of clouds long before the farmer investigating the loud crash would even think of looking to the sky. And when he did, it was only to look at that serene, blue heaven, and wonder why man was not content to stay where he belonged. On God’s green earth.

If there had been a bed in the room instead of the desk, and if the cleanup crew had used a mediciny deodorizer instead of the lemon scent, visitors would swear this was a hospital room. Antiseptically clean. Precision orderliness. The picture of the L1011 by the door hung exactly six feet from the floor, its vertical sides precisely perpendicular to the floor. The small stack of papers on the right-hand corner of the walnut-grain desk sat exactly one inch from both edges of the desk; the papers stacked evenly one atop the other. The three-paneled, hinged picture frame on the left corner, with the well-groomed, smiling wife and two boys, stood geometrically balanced so that the two edges of the desk’s corner and the base of the center panel formed a perfect isosceles triangle. At the center of the desk, six inches from the front edge, sat the gold-plated nameplate with Dallas Wright etched on both of its upright surfaces.

The door of the office suddenly swung open and banged against one of the straight back chairs along the wall. A man wearing a dark suit and tie, carrying a black briefcase and a neatly folded newspaper, walked briskly to the desk, set the briefcase down on the floor, then slammed the paper on the desk. He pushed a button on the small intercom to the right of the chair and leaned over.

"Mrs. Browning, please get the Post’s sports editor on the line."

Yes, Mr. Wright.

Dallas Wright unbuttoned his jacket, picked up the stack of papers from the desk, re-straightened them by tapping them on the smooth surface, then placed the papers in the exact place they had been originally.

Mr. Henson on line one, sir.

Thank you, Mrs. Browning, he said to the intercom as he picked up the phone.

Henson! What kind of sports page are you putting out anyway? Dallas asked, picking up the newspaper.

Uh, what’s the problem this time, Mr. Wright?

Do you even look at the things you put in this rag? Dallas hit the edge of the desk with the offending publication. Boddicker has an ERA of .270, not .273. Lowenstein is batting .250 and Ripken has 112 at bats, not 105!"

Well, Mr. Wright, you see, we get our statistics from the wire service, so they may not always be as up-to-date as yours.

This is the local team, man! I would expect that a local newspaper would take enough interest in the hometown team to keep its stats up-to-date!

He slammed the receiver onto the cradle.

Sports editor, he said, shaking his head.

He went to the window, opened the blinds and stared at the traffic on Independence Avenue. At this height, the cars seemed to travel quietly and orderly, and Dallas smiled appreciatively. He took his suit jacket off, hung it on the coat rack in the corner and sat down behind his desk. Reaching under the desk, he pulled out a small suitcase, tested its weight to be sure no one had taken anything out, then put it back. From the bottom drawer, he pulled out a thick file and placed it and a file from the briefcase on the green desk pad in front of him. Slowly, he began to leaf through the two files, neatly stacking each paper he took out into one of three piles he made in the middle of his desk.

An hour later, he was still engrossed in his reports when Operation Chief John Fischer silently walked into the office. He smiled when he saw that Dallas hadn’t noticed his entrance, and quietly walked to the front of the busy man’s desk. Fischer stood patiently for about 10 seconds before Dallas looked up, and after showing mild surprise, smiled at his boss.

I get the feeling that one of these days we’ll have to use a crowbar to pry you off that desk to get you to go home, Fischer said.

Well, if you’d stop being so sneaky, you wouldn’t always catch me with my nose glued to these reports.

It’s the job of all NTSB investigators to be sneaky. Sneaky, devoted and thorough.

You left off crazy, obsessed and squinty-eyed, Dallas replied

Better qualities don’t need to be mentioned. So, how’s Cheryl these days? Dorothy says she hasn’t seen her in a while.

Oh, she went to her mom’s with the kids, Dallas said softly.

You should ‘uv gone with her, you could use a break.

Heh. Sure, and as soon as I got there some 707 would drop down and I’d have to run. No, if I’m going to have a vacation ruined, I’d rather be at some exotic spot.

Say, wasn’t she at her mother’s earlier this month? Fischer inquired.

Yes. Beats a psychiatrist, I guess.

Problems? Fischer asked sympathetically.

Nothing more than what we all have to face. So what’s the real reason you came in? You usually don’t barge into here until lunch.

Fischer took a deep breath, nodded his head, then pulled a chair up close to Dallas’ desk and sat down. He looked out the window and cleared his throat. Dallas knew this routine. Fischer was the greatest at analyzing a speck of paint from a charred fuselage or grilling a shy witness, but was always lost when it came to reprimands. In all the years they had known each other, Dallas could only remember one wrist slapping that John had initiated himself. All the others were just passed along from higher up. And each time, the quick-witted man was at a loss for words.

Um, I assume you remember the chairman’s speech at the congressional hearing two weeks ago?

Yes, quite clearly.

The NTSB has always had running feuds with the FAA about this and that, and one of the things the chief was trying to do with that speech was to placate a few of the biggies from the FAA, Fischer continued.

By saying that we had no qualms with the ATC’s? No problem here on that. I’m sure their training and time loads are adequate, Dallas said, pursing his lips.

What I’m getting at, maybe in a too roundabout way, is that we need to tone down our criticism of the ATC’s unless they are blatantly at fault.

John...

So let’s get to the meat of the matter. The Newark 727 case.

I didn’t blame the ATC, Dallas shrugged.

Hard to tell from the report.

I just stated the facts. You know as well as I do that the ARTS III can tell altitude as well as distance. He did not ask the pilot about his altitude loss, Dallas stressed.

He was worried about separation.

Which I stated in the report. But even he admitted it wasn’t that busy of a night. He could have asked the pilot about his altitude.

It did not cause, or could not have prevented the crash, Fischer said firmly.

Which I stated in the report! But he DID neglect his responsibility, Dallas replied forcefully.

The point is, he was not the cause of the damn accident!

Dallas sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Did the chairman sign the report?

What were his options? Do you expect him to initiate a new investigation? Get someone else to write a new report?

Did I break the rules? Dallas asked more belligerently than questioningly.

Of course not. It’s just that, well, you should ‘uv used your head. Why couldn’t you have played down the ATC? It wouldn’t have changed the accident or the report.

Dallas stood up, walked to the window and played mindlessly with the blind’s string. I thought our job was to dig out everything that is involved in a crash?

It is, but that doesn’t mean you have to trumpet everything you dig up as if it were a major element! And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you step on your fellow investigators’ toes to report findings.

Dallas turned and faced his boss. We are investigators. Truth seekers. We must report every fact we find—no matter whose feelings it hurts.

Damn it, Dallas, idealism went out the window with the Carter administration. This is 1985. Don’t forget that even though we must project a clean, upright image to the public, we are bureaucrats. We do not trample on other bureaucrats’ egos to get the job done.

The two became quiet again and Dallas moved back to his chair and sat down. He picked up the stack of papers on the right corner of his desk, straightened them out again, then put them back in the exact same place.

So you want me to stop being so thorough?

No, all I want you to do is take it easy. Don’t push so hard when you don’t need to.

You mean, don’t push so hard when it might bother someone higher up.

Fischer stood up, put his hands in his pockets and looked unemotionally at Dallas. Just play it smart, Dallas. If you feel obligated to put something down that might piss someone off, let me know first.

No pissing.

Fischer smiled and walked to the door. See you at lunch?

Only if I’m buying. And hey, Dallas said as Fischer got to the doorway, Thanks for watching out for me.

With all the goddamn tail gunners around here, somebody has to.

He closed the door gently as Dallas picked up the report he had been reading earlier.

He watched unemotionally as the burning Citabria gained more and more speed and spun uncontrollably toward the ground.

Ah, must have been using that cheap fuel, eh guy? he said, as he began to circle back toward the fiery piece of falling metal. Must not have known that it ignites easily.

The plane crashed into a small patch of trees, and a gigantic fireball rose to the sky as the remaining fuel ignited. He swooped in low over the burning trees looking for life—although he would have been shocked if the pilot had lived long enough to experience the impact. Surprisingly, people already ran from a nearby house to the growing fire. He throttled back just enough to keep the engine going and made a gentle turn to the left, the opposite direction of the rescuers. With luck, no one had seen him, and with the engine idling this low they wouldn’t be able to guess where he was just in case they HAD caught a glimpse. He knew he could glide quite a distance before having to worry about hitting the trees, but he never felt safe this close to the ground. It was how Richthofen had got it. A ground gunner.

When his wheels were just a few feet from the tops of the trees, he decided he had flown far enough away to give it some gas and get his precious altitude back. Besides, at this angle and distance, the people on the ground by the wreckage wouldn’t be able to hear the engine cut back in. He gave it full throttle, and the plane began to lift slightly. No. Not yet, he decided. Play it safe and just maintain this altitude. He pushed the stick forward to keep the nose down and then eased back ever so slightly on the power. After crossing a field he was familiar with, he knew he had flown far enough away from the crash that if anyone saw him, they’d never suspect he had a hand in it, so he gave the engine full power again. The Dr. I rose steadily and gracefully, and he looked over his shoulder at the thin column of black smoke that reached up to the sky. A sacrifice, he thought. Yes, fitting. A sacrifice to the sky, to appease it for having to put up with an inexperienced man who dared to venture up to it.

Chapter II

Her skin was rather pale, more so than he thought normal considering the warm weather, but it was still pleasing to the touch. He ran his fingers gently over that skin, along her side, as she reached up to playfully run her fingers through his uncombed, red hair. He let his hands roam to her small, but firm breasts, and was surprised to discover that her heart was beating much faster. She closed her eyes and her breath became shorter and quicker as he kissed her nipples and softly kneaded her breasts.

So, I seem to be having an effect on you? he said, slightly amused.

She answered with a low moan and pulled him down on top of her, wrapping her legs around his waist. As he began to slowly gyrate his hips, her moaning became more intense. She wrapped her arms around his back, pressing his chest against hers, and dug her fingernails into his skin. His breathing soon matched hers as she pulled him closer still, almost as if trying to pull him through her. He was now undulating his hips rapidly, with her body responding in perfect rhythm with each thrusting stroke. Finally, she let out a soft gasp and then rolled him over onto his back while remaining astride his hips. She kissed him tenderly, then looked into his green eyes.

Yes, she said breathlessly, quite an effect.

A first, I believe.

No, no. Last time too, but I was able to hide it.

He looked up at the petite body that rested so lightly on his waist, and let his hands glide over her tight stomach and bony hips. Not much makeup this week, he thought, as he looked at the alluring face that was surrounded by short, blond locks. Looks even younger without makeup. Nineteen or twenty. He gently rolled her onto her side and got up off the bed. He looked at his watch, then put his clothes on quickly. She lay back on the bed and watched him as he buttoned his shirt.

Not getting dressed? he asked.

Think I’ll rest a bit. Don’t have ta get ta work ‘til later. Until night.

Saying I wore you down?

Sure, lover.

He laughed slightly, then slipped into a dark suit jacket. Lover? She hadn’t used that one before. Could be a problem. He pulled his wallet out and placed three twenties on the nightstand. She looked at the money, then coyly looked up to his unemotional