Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  A fire-warning light flashed at Bender. “Left engine,” he said, more to himself as he pulled the left-engine control lever to the off position. He didn’t realize he was shouting. The pilot’s hand moved toward a T-handle on the top of the instrument panel. Then it fell away as he passed out. But it was enough.

  Bender pulled the handle and felt it go into a detent. He twisted and pulled again, firing the halon fire extinguisher. The fire light went out. “I need help,” he shouted. A man appeared behind him. “Help me with the pilot.” He released the pilot’s safety harness while he flew the aircraft with his right hand. Together, they managed to drag the unconscious pilot out of his seat. Bender slid into the pilot’s seat, aware that his left hand and arm were covered with blood. He pulled the pilot’s headset on and hit the radio transmit button on the yoke. “Mayday, Mayday.”

  A cool voice answered him. “Aircraft calling Gdańsk, please identify yourself.”

  “This is Falcon One with an emergency. We have been hit by two missiles. Left engine out, pilots incapacitated. President Lezno is on board, condition unknown.”

  “Identify yourself and say the condition of the president,” Gdańsk answered.

  Bender silently cursed the controller. He was concentrating on the wrong things and would have to be told what to do, the one thing Bender did not have time for. “I’m declaring an emergency and want a discrete frequency for vectors to the nearest airport. Scramble the crash crews and clear all airspace.” He ignored the controllers repeated request for identification and concentrated on flying the aircraft. He scanned the flight and engine instruments to see if everything agreed. It did. He checked the hydraulic pressure. It was slowly bleeding down. “How long?” he wondered aloud. And what systems would he lose? He slowed the aircraft and ran a controllability check. The jet responded as it should.

  To be on the safe side, he reduced airspeed even more and lowered the gear. Three lights flashed green on the instrument panel as the gear clunked down. He turned in his seat and yelled. “Everyone strap in!” The controls started to feel heavy and he knew he didn’t have much more time. “Gdańsk approach, I have a field in sight. It is to the west of town with a long west-to-east runway. I am losing my hydraulic pressure and am landing. Clear all traffic and request tower frequency.”

  “Falcon One,” the Gdańsk controller answered. “Do not land without proper identification. I repeat, do not land.”

  Bender shouted, “Fuck you in the heart, buddy!” He punched at the radio, finding the frequency for Guard, the universal emergency channel. “Airport west of Gdańsk, this is Falcon One with an emergency, left engine out and losing hydraulic pressure. I am five miles for a straight-in landing”—he checked his compass—“on Runway one-one. President Lezno is on board. Scramble emergency vehicles.”

  A different voice answered. “Rebiechowo Tower has you in sight. Wind is easterly at seven kilometers. You are cleared to land. Emergency vehicles are scrambled.”

  Bender worked to control his voice. “Rog Rebiechowo.” Fly the airplane! he yelled to himself. He checked his airspeed. “Too slow.” He pushed the right throttle full forward. But the controls were growing more stiff. “Rebiechowo, I’m experiencing control problems.” He looked out the left-side windscreen. Too many trees. If it had been open farmland, he would have sucked up the landing gear and made a controlled crash landing. But the trees were growing heavier as he approached the field.

  “There,” the man said, swinging the Gremlin onto the approaching airplane. He sighted the missile, laying the crosshairs on the nose.

  “Wait,” his partner said. “He’s low and slow. Take an aft shot.”

  “He’ll be over the approach lights,” the shooter replied.

  “He may crash,” his partner said. “Better for us.”

  The flight controls were heavy as Bender crossed the approached lights, still thirty feet in the air. He fought for directional control but the stricken airplane yawed into the dead left engine. He stomped the right rudder, hard. Slowly, the aircraft responded and straightened out as he lined up for touchdown.

  He never saw the missile streaking after the aircraft, homing on its one good engine.

  The White House

  “Madame President.” The woman’s voice was not loud but urgent. Maddy Turner fought against it, not wanting to wake up. “Madame President, we have a situation that needs your attention.”

  She came awake. It was Laura, her maid. “What time is it?”

  “Just after four in the morning.”

  Turner sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a robe. “Why are you here so early?”

  “I have the morning shift this week,” Laura said. “A message came in. The night duty officer is outside and Mr. Parrish is on his way. He should be here in ten or twelve minutes.”

  Still groggy, Turner stepped into her slippers. Laura handed her a hairbrush and she brushed her hair back with a few quick strokes. She stood and walked into her private office in the residence. The duty officer was standing, a worried look on his face as he nervously fingered a message. “The president of Poland was killed early this morning,” he said.

  “Adam Lezno is dead?” Turner said, coming fully awake.

  “Yes, ma’am. His plane crashed while attempting an emergency landing at Gdańsk.” Turner took a deep breath and gave a little nod. The duty officer plunged ahead. “Madame President, apparently Ambassador Bender was at the controls.” Turner stared at him. “Everyone perished in the crash.”

  Madeline O’Keith Turner folded her arms around herself and hung her head as she rocked back and forth. For a moment, the duty officer was afraid she would collapse. But her head came up and her voice was icy calm as tears streaked her face. “What happened?”

  “The details are still coming in, but apparently President Lezno’s aircraft was hit with two missiles. The pilots were killed and General Bender tried to save the aircraft. They crashed on landing.”

  “Has Mrs. Bender been told?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I’ll have an answer in a few minutes.”

  The president’s words were cold steel and the orders came fast. “Tell Richard to meet me in my study. Activate the situation room, and call Mrs. Hazelton. I want to meet with the National Security Advisory Group and anyone else she deems necessary.” She walked to her bedroom door and stopped. Without looking at him, she asked, “Do they know what kind of missiles?”

  “No, ma’am. Not yet.”

  “Thank you, Den…” She almost said Dennis.

  “It’s William, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, William.” She walked through the door, her eyes dry and the tears góne.

  The president of the United States walked into her private study next to the Oval Office twenty-five minutes later. She was dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit, her hair pulled back. Richard Parrish was waiting for her as Felipe, her favorite steward, hovered in the background. “Coffee and toast will be fine, Felipe.” She sat down behind her desk. “Any more news?”

  “Yes, ma’am. CNN, Fox, and CNC-TV have video coverage.” He turned on the TV and selected CNC-TV News.

  They watched in silence as Liz Gordon’s face appeared on the screen. Her voice was solemn as she related what was known about the crash. She turned to the screen behind her. “This footage was shot from the control tower as President Lezno’s plane attempted to land.” Turner’s face was frozen as the scene unfolded. The jet was touching down as it fireballed, cartwheeling down the runway, strewing wreckage in its path. Finally, it came to rest upside down as crash trucks converged on it. Men reached the fuselage but flames drove them back. The scene ended as the plane exploded, sending a pillar of smoke and fire into the clear morning air. “No one,” Gordon concluded, “survived the holocaust.”

  “My God,” Parrish whispered. “He almost made it.”

  Felipe entered with a tray and served coffee. “Madame President,” Parrish said, “I know General Bender was a good fr
iend, maybe you should…”

  She interrupted him. “He was more than a friend, Richard.” Her mind cast a long look into the recent past. “During the Okinawan crisis, he stood by me. When we were on the brink, he was a rock. I sent him into China and would have sacrificed him…” Her voice cracked. Then she was back in control.

  “Madame President, I was going to suggest that you mention him in the State of the Union tonight.”

  Turner looked at her best advisor. “Were you afraid I would postpone it?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.” The phone rang and he answered. “It’s Mrs. Bender.”

  Madeline Turner picked up the phone. “Nancy, I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

  Parrish heard the anguish in her voice and left, closing the door behind him. Mazie Hazelton was waiting for him in his office. “How’s she doing?” the national security advisor asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her like this.”

  Madeline Turner hated the situation room with its austere walls and military atmosphere. She preferred the light and openness of the West Wing with its bustling activity and often joked that she was going to turn the situation room into an arboretum. But on this day, Wednesday, the twenty-second of January, less than twelve hours before her State of the Union Address, the situation room was a perfect reflection of her will and determination.

  Mazie Hazelton entered the room ahead of the president. “Gentlemen, the president.” The seven men were already standing and came to attention as Turner took her seat.

  “Please be seated,” Turner said. All but one sat down. She leaned back in her chair and nodded at the director of central intelligence who was still standing. He pressed a button and the large video screen opposite Turner came to life as he recounted in measured tones the assassination of the president of Poland and all on board his aircraft.

  “We now have a copy of the audiotape recorded by Gdańsk Approach and the control tower,” the DCI said. He jabbed at a button and they heard Bender’s voice declare a Mayday and describe the emergency.

  “He’s a cool one,” Gen. Wayne Charles, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, murmured. He allowed a slight grimace when Bender shouted the grandfather of obscenities at the controller when he was told not to land.

  The door opened and a man in a wheelchair was wheeled in. The DCI stopped the audio playback and said, “Madame President, I don’t believe you’ve ever met Nelson Durant. Mr. Durant is leading the investigation into the attempted assassination on your life.”

  “Please forgive me for being late,” Durant said. “But sometimes this gets in the way.” His reference to the wheelchair was a cover for his poor state of health.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Turner replied.

  The DCI restarted the audiotape and they heard Bender tell the tower he was experiencing control problems and might have to land short of the field. His words were still measured but the strain was obvious. “That was the last transmission,” the DCI said. “However, we have recovered the crash recorder and it is being flown to the States for analysis.”

  A frame froze on the screen showing the aircraft just as it touched down. The DCI used his laser pointer to highlight a small streak of flame a few yards behind the plane. “This,” he said, “is a surface-to-air missile homing on the functioning engine. That is what destroyed the aircraft.”

  “Who did this?” Turner demanded.

  “I can address that issue,” Nelson Durant said. “On the face of it, a dissident group of Polish right-wing radicals. They hated Lezno and considered him a traitor. They’re so far to the right that they consider the Ku Klux Klan a leftist organization.”

  “Then Robert was killed,” Turner said, “because he just happened to be traveling with President Lezno at the wrong time.”

  “Apparently so,” Durant replied. “We do have communications intercepts that indicate the missiles were supplied by the Polish Mafia.”

  “Which is logical,” the DCI said. “The Polish Mafia will sell anything to anyone.”

  “But what is interesting,” Durant added, “is who is financing this group of Polish right-wing nuts. It’s a long trail that goes through Germany, to the United States…”

  “To who?” Turner snapped, interrupting him.

  “A militia group in Arizona,” Durant said. “We were looking at them because we thought they might have something to do with the attempt on your life. Three days ago, we monitored a telephone conversation between the militia’s commander and an old prison buddy. But the phone call didn’t make much sense until the next day when the militia transferred a large amount of money from its account in an offshore bank in the Bahamas to another account in the same bank, which happens to belong to the Polish Mafia. Two hours later, the missiles were delivered to the nutcases in Poland. We believe it was the payment for the missiles.”

  “Where did the militia get the money in the first place?” Mazie asked.

  “We don’t know. But the old prison buddy who made the phone call was the cellmate of one of Yaponets’s stooges when he was in prison.”

  Turner stood and paced back and forth, her face a grim mask. “So I can assume that Russian organized crime is behind this. Can you prove it?”

  Durant shrugged. “Enough to convict anyone in a court of law? Probably not.”

  “How deep does this go?”

  “We’re still digging.”

  Turner stopped pacing and faced her advisors. There would be no diplomatic or legal solution. “I need your honest opinion. Is there any doubt who’s responsible for General Bender’s murder?”

  The doors to the chamber of the House of Representatives swung wide and the Doorkeeper of the House stepped through. “Mr. Speaker,” he intoned, his voice carrying over the large assembly, “the president of the United States.” The Supreme Court justices, senators, representatives, all the collected heads of the United States government, came to their feet as Madeline Turner entered. She walked down the aisle with measured solemnity carrying a thin leather folder in the crook of her left arm. The applause that greeted her was not of the countryfair or conquering-hero variety but rather, subdued and respectful. Every man and woman knew of the tragedy in Poland and the bond between this president and her general.

  Senator John Leland was mindful to join the applause when the TV cameras were trained on him. But even so, it was a hollow gesture. The phone call from Dan Beason that morning had reminded him all too clearly that there was an outstanding debt and that payment was due. Leland fancied himself a philosopher and believed that vengeance was a dish best served cold. But it was all too apparent that Dan Beason still burned with revenge for the death of his son.

  Leland watched the president’s progress, gauging the temper of his colleagues. It was time to set matters straight.

  People extended their hands as she made her way to the rostrum, wanting to touch hands and share the moment. General Wayne Charles, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, took her hand in his, gently touching in greeting. “He was the best we had,” Charles said. She moved on. She opened the folder, handed the Speaker a copy of the speech, and stepped to the podium. Her voice was calm and measured as she read the opening words. Then she paused and looked up.

  “Early this morning, I was awakened with the news that the president of Poland had been killed in a plane crash. With him, was my good friend and United States ambassador to Poland, Gen. Robert Bender. You have all heard the details and know the tragedy that has been inflicted upon one of our best allies. In so many ways, it was a blow against all that is good and decent in our world. We will consult with our friends and allies to discover who is responsible. But let me assure you, the American people, and, yes, the world, that I will do whatever is necessary to bring these criminals to account.”

  Only Leland and the small group around him remained seated as the chamber came to its feet and applause echoed over her. She waited patiently for it to subside before continuing. Lelan
d followed her speech on the printed copy Turner’s staff had given him as a courtesy moments before he entered the chamber. He circled those proposals that were dead in the water before they ever reached the Senate. Finally, he turned to the last page. His head jerked up when the words on the page in front of him did not match what he was hearing.

  “My fellow citizens, the Constitution requires that from time to time I report to Congress on the state of the union. I can say without hesitation that we are secure and confident, ready to meet the challenges facing us in this new century. We are a united people and, if I may borrow from Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, the mystic cords binding the union together are strong because of Americans like Robert Bender.”

  She bowed her head as if in prayer and waited, taking the beat from those in front of her. And only when the chamber rose as one and thundered their approval with applause, did she look up. Leland joined in the tribute, assuming he was in the presence of an astute politician milking the moment for all it was worth, letting words substitute for action.

  PART THREE

  TWENTY-ONE

  Warsaw

  The Marine corporal standing guard at the front entrance to the embassy opened the door for Pontowski and came to attention. Pontowski was certain the young Marine was more rigid than normal, if such a condition were possible. “Good morning, Corporal Kincaid,” Pontowski said.

  “Good morning, sir,” Kincaid replied. There was a slight crack in his voice. Then he did the unthinkable. “Sir, a moment?”

  “Certainly,” Pontowski replied, puzzled by the breach in protocol.

  Kincaid stared over Pontowski’s right shoulder. He gulped. “I, er, we shall miss the general. Please extend our condolences to Mrs. Bender.” The young corporal looked Pontowski directly in the face, tears in his eyes.