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the stoop.
    “Look,” Little Matt said, pointing in excitement. Zeth Trogger had left the lockers and desks in inspection order.
    “She’s still a bitch,” Brian muttered.
    Williams Gateway, Arizona
    The blue-and-white T-34 Mentor descended to 4,000 feet as Pontowski followed the published arrival procedures for landing at the air show. He peered into the morning haze and tried to find the distinctive landmarks that pointed to Williams, the old Air Force pilot-training base that had been closed and turned over for civilian use. A tinge of nostalgia tugged at him, for, in many ways, this was a homecoming. He wished Little Matt was with him in the backseat of the T-34 but Saturday on Labor Day was just another duty weekend and Monday a normal class day at NMMI.
    Pontowski had been born at Williams AFB when his father was a second lieutenant in pilot training. Twenty-two years later, after Pontowski had graduated from the Air Force Academy, he had returned to Williams also as a second lieutenant for pilot training. Now the old memories flooded back as he approached the airport. I must be getting sentimental in my old age , he thought. He shook his head. Pay attention to business and fly the airplane .
    He overflew the published checkpoint and made the required radio call. “Willie Tower, Mentor Three-Four-One-Five ten miles southeast for landing.” Ahead of him he could see a double string of airplanes lined up for landing. But the airport was still lost in the haze.
    “Mentor One-Five,” the tower replied, “you’re number four for runway three-zero right following a Cessna. Report field in sight. Maintain spacing.”
    As the arrival procedures dictated, he did not acknowledge the instructions. There were too many aircraft arriving at the same time and the frequency was jammed with radio calls. Ahead of him, he could see the Cessna he was to follow and he slowed to 100 knots, the published approach speed. The Cessna pilot was a professional and was at the same airspeed. Now the triple parallel runways emerged from the haze and he could see the built-up area and parking ramp on the southwest side of the field. Suddenly, a bright red Marchetti 260 zoomed up in front of him and shot through his altitude. The pilot rolled ninety-degrees as he bled off his excessive airspeed and pulleddown into the landing flow of traffic, less than 200 feet in front of Pontowski. But he had lost too much airspeed in the maneuver and was twenty knots slower than Pontowski.
    Pontowski’s reaction was automatic, honed by years of flying. He rolled to the right, pulled the Mentor’s nose up, and firewalled the throttle. He cleared the Marchetti’s tail by less than fifty feet. It was a classic near miss in the landing pattern caused by a jerk who thought he was too good a pilot for the rules to apply to him. “Willie Tower,” Pontowski radioed, “Mentor One-Five breaking out of traffic to the north. Will reenter.” The heavy radio transmissions prevented him from explaining why. He was too seasoned a pilot to get angry in the air and would sort it out on the ground.
    Fortunately, there was a professional in the control tower. “Aircraft cutting off the Mentor, say intentions.”
    A cool voice came over the radio. “Marchetti Whiskey Romeo Two”—the next two numbers were garbled “——landing Williams for the air show. Ah, I do need to get on the ground.”
    “Are you declaring an emergency?” the tower asked.
    “Not at this time,” the Marchetti pilot replied. He had told the tower that he had a problem that needed taking care of but not severe enough to declare an emergency.
    “You’re cleared to land runway three-zero right following the Cessna. Call tower on a land line when you’re on the ground.” The controller wasn’t done with the incident.
    This time the pilot’s response was not so cool. “Rog on the phone call.” Then, “Sorry ’bout that, Mentor.”
    Pontowski snorted in disgust. If the Marchetti had a