communism on Poland after the war ended. Neither found life easy in the decades that followed. Finally, after years of trying, they’d won permission to emigrate to the United States. There they had settled into a new, more prosperous life. Tad had been born in 1976, crowning the joy his parents found in their new freedom.
Neither his mother nor his father had ever forgotten their beloved Poland. And neither had ever forgotten the first source of their homeland’s misery: the Germans who’d crushed Poland, stripped her bare, and left her defenseless before the resurgent Soviets.
After much soul-searching, they’d decided to return home in 1992, bringing with them skills and financial resources desperately needed by their now free but impoverished homeland. Tad had gone with them, still more American than Polish. But now, five years later, here he was, flying jet fighters for an adoptive homeland he’d come to cherish deeply.
Poland, though free of Soviet control, was in a precarious position. Since the first months after the Warsaw Pact collapsed, Polish officers had worked to modernize their country’s armed forces, but that was next to impossible while her economy made the difficult transition to a free market. Unfortunately her strategic position made that modernization necessary — no matter how much it cost. To the east, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, and the other former Soviet Republics seemed busy with their own internal wrangles. But no Pole could doubt that there were Russians who still longed for renewed economic and military control over Eastern Europe. The Warsaw Pact might be dead, but the idea behind it could still come alive at any moment. That was especially true now that Russia was under de facto military rule.
Poland’s western border was menaced by a reunified Germany. Although the Germans also seemed more interested in their own economic problems than military expansion, there were still right-wing groups in Germany trumpeting historic claims to portions of Polish territory. And most of the former Soviet Bloc states had signed so many economic agreements with Germany and France that their industries and governments were all but run directly by Berlin and Paris. Only Poland and her southern neighbors had steadfastly refused any such relationship.
Instead they’d turned to the United States and the United Kingdom for help. And both countries had responded — moved by historic ties and a growing desire to counterbalance French and German influence in the rest of Eastern Europe. They’d provided weapons, mostly out of now-useless NATO stockpiles, and training in Western tactics. German and Russian complaints were answered by pointing to the limited, strictly defensive nature of the American and British military aid program.
The Eagle fighters Wojcik and his comrades were flying were part of that plan. Although there were newer fighters flying, the F-15 was still a formidable opponent. Tad was openly in love with his aircraft. His American birth and upbringing might have biased him, but the other Poles in the program, some with thousands of hours in Russian aircraft types, seemed equally pleased.
Before the Eagle arrived last year, the best fighter in the Polish inventory had been the MiG-29 Fulcrum. Tad had done well in primary and advanced training, quickly graduating to the MiG-29s, a choice assignment.
The Russian-built fighters were similar to the F-15 in basic layout — twin vertical tails, two engines, and armed with radar-guided missiles. The Fulcrum was smaller, though, and couldn’t carry as many weapons. Its radar was also primitive in comparison to the set in its American counterpart. The MiG did have some advantages in a dogfight, though, like the helmet-mounted sight and an infrared sensor that wouldn’t warn an enemy aircraft that it had been detected and was under attack. Still, Tad preferred the Eagle.
It was the dream of every Polish aviator to fly “the starship” — a nickname earned for the Eagle by its advanced electronics. Wojcik’s perfect American English and excellent flying skills had been his ticket into the Polish Air Force’s newest regiment.
“Five miles out.” Major Sokolowicz’s mark was all the well-trained flight needed to hear. The four fighters neatly peeled off, changing from finger-four formation into line as they began their approach to the runway.
This landing was routine, and precise. Tad congratulated himself on another successful mission. As much as he loved to fly, he never fully relaxed until he was back on the ground again.
The major’s voice filled his earphones again. “A good flight. Debrief in ten minutes.”
Tad heard the ground controller give them clearance to taxi, then followed the first two planes. Turning onto a taxiway paralleling the runway, the four planes wound their way past rows of parked aircraft bustling with mechanics, hangars, and other buildings. Luke Air Force Base was the largest fighter training center in the world. All U.S. Air Force pilots and many from America’s allies got their basic flight and air combat training high above the Arizona desert. All of the foreign pilots training in the F-15 were grouped under the 405th Tactical Training Wing. The Poles rubbed shoulders with Japanese and Saudi fighter jocks. It made for interesting conversations at the Officer’s Club.
As Tad cut his throttle and cracked the canopy, he could hear the descending whine of other jet engines spooling down. The biting, familiar smell of kerosene and hot metal filled the air.
He waited quietly while a puffing ground crewman hung an access ladder on the F-15’s cockpit edge, then gratefully unstrapped and climbed out of the cockpit and down the ladder. It felt good to stretch.
The debriefing was held under the eye of an American air force instructor, Major Kendall. His Polish was almost as bad as some of the trainees’ English, so Tad was often called in as an interpreter. Each cockpit videotape was reviewed, critiqued, and compared with scores provided by the range operators.
As the debrief ended, Tad’s mind was already far away. He had a few errands to run, then he was going to get together with Michalak, his wingman, for tomorrow’s “graduation” exercise. They had some plans to make.
The squadron’s mass briefing was held at 0700 hours, in both Polish and English, led by Major Sokolowicz. Every man sat or stood in the packed amphitheater, even the ground crews, since this was the last mission and, according to dependable rumor, a “ball-buster.” Chatter filled the air, mixed with laughter. Every pilot enjoyed ACM, or air combat maneuvering missions, and the fact that this one would be tough only whetted their appetite. Add that they were going home soon, the atmosphere was almost partylike.
The major’s run-through was quick, almost terse. The only information they’d been given was that today’s mission was to be a “maximum effort.” Simulating a fighter sweep in hostile airspace, all eight Polish pilots completing the course were to launch in two flights of four each, Blue and Green. They were to clear the way for an imaginary strike coming in behind their Eagles.
Tad sat off to one side near the front with Stefan Michalak. He wanted to hear the brief, of course, but already knew the mission plan by heart. The two lieutenants had spent half the night studying details of the range topography and going over possible tactics. They were slated to fly with Sokolowicz again, as Blue Three and Four.
Michalak, a tall, thin, black-haired pilot, waited quietly, masking nervousness with inactivity. Because of Tad’s obvious skill and his own inexperience, he was more than willing to follow the lieutenant’s lead. They were going to be taking a definite risk.
The major quickly ran through the particulars. All eight aircraft carried simulators that mimicked an AIM-9M Sidewinder and an AMRAAM, as well as telemetry pods that transmitted its position and course. The equipment would allow the ground observers to follow the fight and score kills. Backed up by HUD videotapes from both sides, a few minutes of whirling air combat could be dissected and examined in embarrassing detail.
Sokolowicz’s English was accented but understandable. “This will be a tough one,” he said. “As long as we play by the book, and remember our lessons, we will win.”
Tad nodded to himself. The major gave almost the same speech at the start of every brief. He was right, of course, but there wasn’t a lot of fire in it.
Sokolowicz glanced over at Kendall, sitting quietly in a corner of the stage. Nodding toward the American officer, he said, “Our hosts have promised to present us with a real challenge, a test to see just how much we really have learned.”
An American-accented voice in the audience muttered, “Kobiyashi Maru,” and scattered laughter filled the air. Most of the Poles, except the major, looked a little puzzled, and only Tad laughed. He suspected that Sokolowicz didn’t know anything about
Sokolowicz brushed past the remark and finished up. “Engine start in fifteen minutes.” The major finished what he was doing and strolled casually over to the end of the stage. Bending down on one knee, he spoke quietly, in Polish, with Wojcik.
