on their feet, eager to volunteer. Afraid that someone important would want to fly with Johar in the Marchetti, Beason said he would fly with the Iraqi. Beason’s face paled when he saw the cold look in Pontowski’s eyes.
Two hours later, Beason was on the edge of panic as Johar taxied his red Marchetti to the active runway. “Do not worry, Mr. Beason,” the Iraqi said. “Pontowski may be good but I seriously doubt if he is proficient in the Marchetti. I am.” Beason felt an overpowering need to urinate when Pontowski moved into position off the left wing, his side of the aircraft, for the taxi out.
The tower cleared them onto the runway. “You are cleared into the air-show box, ground to five thousand feet. Maneuver parallel to and over the runways. Reposition over the open area northeast of the box.” It was a reminder to stay over open areas and keep the nose of the aircraft pointed away from any buildings or people. It was a constraint Pontowski could live with.
“Now we get to go fly and fight,” Pontowski told his passenger, a Polish Air Force officer named Emil with an unpronounceable last name. As briefed, he taxied into position on the right of the Marchetti. Johar Adwan would lead the takeoff, which was exactly what Pontowski wanted. Johar was sitting in the right seat of his Marchetti and glanced at Beason in his left seat. He then made a circular motion with his forefinger to run the engines up. Pontowski shoved his throttle full forward and rode the brakes. Johar tilted his head back and then dropped his chin, the signal to release brakes. The two aircraft moved in unison down the runway, rapidly gaining speed.
They lifted off together. Pontowski snapped the gear handle up and mentally counted to ten, the time it took for the gear to retract. Johar was a fraction of a second slower. Pontowski felt his gear lock at the count of nine. He immediately jerked his aircraft forty-five degrees to the right, pulling four G s. He leveled off less than fifty feet above the ground and turned back to the original heading to keep Johar in sight. “Fight’s on,” he radioed. The maneuver had given him nose-tail separation from Johar. His reflexes were still rattlesnake quick and he turned back into Johar, crossing behind and accelerating. They were at midfield. As Pontowski expected, Johar lost sight of him and pulled up. Pontowski rolled out at Johar’s six o’clock and followed him in the climb. He was in the saddle, a perfect position to employ an aircraft’s cannon. “Guns, guns, guns,” he radioed, pulling the trigger on the stick. But there was no gunfire, only a laser beam illuminating the spot on Johar’s aircraft where the bullets would have hit. The fight was over and it was all recorded on the videotape. Pontowski hit the radio transmit button. “Splash one Marchetti.”
“ Fantastique! ” Emil shouted.
But Johar had other ideas. He leveled off at a thousand feet and accelerated straight ahead, gaining speed to separate and reengage. But Pontowski nosed over and dived under him, using gravity to help him accelerate. He rapidly closed on the Iraqi who was now directly above him. Johar snap rolled to the right and saw Pontowski still beneath him. The Iraqi pulled on the stick and started a loop.
“An Immelmann ain’t gonna save your ass,” Pontowski grunted, fighting the G s as he followed the Iraqi. He slipped his aircraft to the left, falling into Johar’s eight o’clock, the side of the aircraft Beason was sitting on and in Johar’s blind spot. “Betcha can’t do a belly check in a loop.” Again, Johar had lost sight of Pontowski. “He knows we’re here,” Pontowski explained to Emil, “but he can’t resist a peek to be sure. Watch.”
As expected, Johar flew a half-loop and rolled upright the moment he reached the top of the loop. Again, Johar snap-rolled. Pontowski rolled with him, still camped at his eight o’clock.
“Where is he?” Johar shouted over the intercom.
Two hours later, Beason was on the edge of panic as Johar taxied his red Marchetti to the active runway. “Do not worry, Mr. Beason,” the Iraqi said. “Pontowski may be good but I seriously doubt if he is proficient in the Marchetti. I am.” Beason felt an overpowering need to urinate when Pontowski moved into position off the left wing, his side of the aircraft, for the taxi out.
The tower cleared them onto the runway. “You are cleared into the air-show box, ground to five thousand feet. Maneuver parallel to and over the runways. Reposition over the open area northeast of the box.” It was a reminder to stay over open areas and keep the nose of the aircraft pointed away from any buildings or people. It was a constraint Pontowski could live with.
“Now we get to go fly and fight,” Pontowski told his passenger, a Polish Air Force officer named Emil with an unpronounceable last name. As briefed, he taxied into position on the right of the Marchetti. Johar Adwan would lead the takeoff, which was exactly what Pontowski wanted. Johar was sitting in the right seat of his Marchetti and glanced at Beason in his left seat. He then made a circular motion with his forefinger to run the engines up. Pontowski shoved his throttle full forward and rode the brakes. Johar tilted his head back and then dropped his chin, the signal to release brakes. The two aircraft moved in unison down the runway, rapidly gaining speed.
They lifted off together. Pontowski snapped the gear handle up and mentally counted to ten, the time it took for the gear to retract. Johar was a fraction of a second slower. Pontowski felt his gear lock at the count of nine. He immediately jerked his aircraft forty-five degrees to the right, pulling four G s. He leveled off less than fifty feet above the ground and turned back to the original heading to keep Johar in sight. “Fight’s on,” he radioed. The maneuver had given him nose-tail separation from Johar. His reflexes were still rattlesnake quick and he turned back into Johar, crossing behind and accelerating. They were at midfield. As Pontowski expected, Johar lost sight of him and pulled up. Pontowski rolled out at Johar’s six o’clock and followed him in the climb. He was in the saddle, a perfect position to employ an aircraft’s cannon. “Guns, guns, guns,” he radioed, pulling the trigger on the stick. But there was no gunfire, only a laser beam illuminating the spot on Johar’s aircraft where the bullets would have hit. The fight was over and it was all recorded on the videotape. Pontowski hit the radio transmit button. “Splash one Marchetti.”
“ Fantastique! ” Emil shouted.
But Johar had other ideas. He leveled off at a thousand feet and accelerated straight ahead, gaining speed to separate and reengage. But Pontowski nosed over and dived under him, using gravity to help him accelerate. He rapidly closed on the Iraqi who was now directly above him. Johar snap rolled to the right and saw Pontowski still beneath him. The Iraqi pulled on the stick and started a loop.
“An Immelmann ain’t gonna save your ass,” Pontowski grunted, fighting the G s as he followed the Iraqi. He slipped his aircraft to the left, falling into Johar’s eight o’clock, the side of the aircraft Beason was sitting on and in Johar’s blind spot. “Betcha can’t do a belly check in a loop.” Again, Johar had lost sight of Pontowski. “He knows we’re here,” Pontowski explained to Emil, “but he can’t resist a peek to be sure. Watch.”
As expected, Johar flew a half-loop and rolled upright the moment he reached the top of the loop. Again, Johar snap-rolled. Pontowski rolled with him, still camped at his eight o’clock.
“Where is he?” Johar shouted over the intercom.
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