place at the wrong time.”
Pontowski frowned. He understood the factors that could destabilize a region only too well. “Not good,” he allowed. “Do we have any counters on the table?”
“We might be able to get something going in Eastern Europe—if we can discourage them from going with WSS.”
“Any ideas how?” Pontowski asked. Bender shook his head. “Well,” Pontowski continued, “let’s go listen to WSS’s pitch. You gotta know the opposition.” They entered the building and found seats at the back of the room where WSS was presenting its program.
Sammy Beason was on the stage, still wearing his flashy red flying suit. He started the program by welcoming them all to “the finest and most versatile pilot-training program in the world” and turned it over to his experts. Pontowski was impressed with the Madison Avenue presentation. Finally, it was question-and-answer time and Beason was back on the stage. “In the final analysis,” he concluded, “our program is the best in the world because of our pilots.” He introduced four men in the front row who stood up as he called their names. They were the same four pilots who had flown the Marchettis in an aerial display on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. The crowd had roared its approval, especially at the inverted bomb burst that climaxed the show. The last pilot to stand was an Iraqi, Johar Adwan.
“I’ll be damned,” Pontowski muttered under his breath. He listened as Beason claimed the pilots were typical of WSS’s staff. Pontowski allowed a tight smile when Beason claimed they were acknowledged as the world’s “four top guns.”
“Hey, Joe,” Pontowski called to the Iraqi, Johar Adwan. “I heard you gave it up after I shot you down.”
Every head in the room turned to Pontowski. Johar Adwan, went rigid, then a big smile spread across his face. “Matt Pontowski,” he said. “Always the big mouth. You got lucky that day.”
“Yeah,” Pontowski conceded, “you’re right. It wasn’t a fair fight, two vee one.” He paused. “Say, what happened to your wingman after I stuffed him?” Every pilot in the room caught it. It had been Pontowski against Johar and his wingman and Pontowski had won.
“The planes were unequal,” Johar allowed, still smiling. “If we were evenly matched…”
Bender interrupted. “Mr. Beason, you can settle this argument. Maybe a little ACT? Johar against Matt in your Marchettis.” ACT was air combat training, basic dog-fighting where two of the same type aircraft went one-on-one.
Beason jumped in front of Johar for damage control. He had heard of Pontowski and didn’t want to take any chances. If there was going to be a demonstration withpotential buyers looking on, he wanted the results carefully orchestrated in advance. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the airspace.” He shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “The FAA.” The Federal Aviation Agency controlled the use of airspace in the United States and was dedicated to flying safety.
Bender stifled a smile. “The box is still activated,” he said. The box was a small piece of the sky over Williams’s triple runways that the FAA had designated for acrobatics and aerial demonstrations at the air show. The show’s air boss in the tower controlled the box and the pilots and owners of performing aircraft assumed all the risk.
“I don’t see how,” Beason stammered.
“According to your brochure, your Marchettis are configured with HUDs”—head up displays—“that have airborne video recorders to tape this type of training. We can all watch it from the ground and then review the tapes afterward in the debrief.” Bender smiled at Johar. “I assume we’re dealing with professionals here.”
“Sounds good to me,” Pontowski said. “I don’t mind taking an observer along in the left seat.” The Marchetti was a two-place, side-by-side trainer where the passenger or instructor sat in the left seat. Half the men in the room were
Pontowski frowned. He understood the factors that could destabilize a region only too well. “Not good,” he allowed. “Do we have any counters on the table?”
“We might be able to get something going in Eastern Europe—if we can discourage them from going with WSS.”
“Any ideas how?” Pontowski asked. Bender shook his head. “Well,” Pontowski continued, “let’s go listen to WSS’s pitch. You gotta know the opposition.” They entered the building and found seats at the back of the room where WSS was presenting its program.
Sammy Beason was on the stage, still wearing his flashy red flying suit. He started the program by welcoming them all to “the finest and most versatile pilot-training program in the world” and turned it over to his experts. Pontowski was impressed with the Madison Avenue presentation. Finally, it was question-and-answer time and Beason was back on the stage. “In the final analysis,” he concluded, “our program is the best in the world because of our pilots.” He introduced four men in the front row who stood up as he called their names. They were the same four pilots who had flown the Marchettis in an aerial display on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. The crowd had roared its approval, especially at the inverted bomb burst that climaxed the show. The last pilot to stand was an Iraqi, Johar Adwan.
“I’ll be damned,” Pontowski muttered under his breath. He listened as Beason claimed the pilots were typical of WSS’s staff. Pontowski allowed a tight smile when Beason claimed they were acknowledged as the world’s “four top guns.”
“Hey, Joe,” Pontowski called to the Iraqi, Johar Adwan. “I heard you gave it up after I shot you down.”
Every head in the room turned to Pontowski. Johar Adwan, went rigid, then a big smile spread across his face. “Matt Pontowski,” he said. “Always the big mouth. You got lucky that day.”
“Yeah,” Pontowski conceded, “you’re right. It wasn’t a fair fight, two vee one.” He paused. “Say, what happened to your wingman after I stuffed him?” Every pilot in the room caught it. It had been Pontowski against Johar and his wingman and Pontowski had won.
“The planes were unequal,” Johar allowed, still smiling. “If we were evenly matched…”
Bender interrupted. “Mr. Beason, you can settle this argument. Maybe a little ACT? Johar against Matt in your Marchettis.” ACT was air combat training, basic dog-fighting where two of the same type aircraft went one-on-one.
Beason jumped in front of Johar for damage control. He had heard of Pontowski and didn’t want to take any chances. If there was going to be a demonstration withpotential buyers looking on, he wanted the results carefully orchestrated in advance. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the airspace.” He shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “The FAA.” The Federal Aviation Agency controlled the use of airspace in the United States and was dedicated to flying safety.
Bender stifled a smile. “The box is still activated,” he said. The box was a small piece of the sky over Williams’s triple runways that the FAA had designated for acrobatics and aerial demonstrations at the air show. The show’s air boss in the tower controlled the box and the pilots and owners of performing aircraft assumed all the risk.
“I don’t see how,” Beason stammered.
“According to your brochure, your Marchettis are configured with HUDs”—head up displays—“that have airborne video recorders to tape this type of training. We can all watch it from the ground and then review the tapes afterward in the debrief.” Bender smiled at Johar. “I assume we’re dealing with professionals here.”
“Sounds good to me,” Pontowski said. “I don’t mind taking an observer along in the left seat.” The Marchetti was a two-place, side-by-side trainer where the passenger or instructor sat in the left seat. Half the men in the room were
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