“Thank you. I will.”
Pontowski took the stairs to the second floor, thankful for the exercise. It helped relieve the grief boiling inside him. At the head of the stairs, he almost collided with the middle-aged woman from the communications section in the basement. She was hurrying down the hall like an officious mouse, anxious to deliver the morning’s cables. For a moment she stood there, not moving. Then the folders slipped slowly from her arms and scattered on the floor. “Are you okay, Ms. Belfort?” he asked.
She bent over and scooped up the folders. Pontowski stooped to help her. “No, I am not okay,” she announced, her voice firm. They stood together. She looked at him, her chin shaking. “He knew my name.”
“That was the general,” Pontowski murmured.
They stood there for a moment, silent. “They only kill the good ones,” she said. Then she was gone, scurrying down the hall.
The protocol officer was waiting for him outside his office. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Then, she too rushed away. Pontowski stood there, deeply moved by the emotional reaction of the staff to Bender’s death.
Winslow James beckoned to him from across the room. “What was that all about?” James asked.
“She’s upset.”
“Of course she is,” James replied, giving Pontowski a patronizing look. “But we all have a great deal of work to do, especially now. We must not be distracted from our duties.” He spun around and walked into his office as Pontowski fought the urge to strangle him.
Behind him a voice said, “James is a raving asshole.” Pontowski turned, surprised to see it was Peter Duncan. “Yes,” Duncan said, “I’ve been drinking. It’s the time-honored way the Irish mourn a friend’s death.” Automatically, their right hands clasped in friendship. “He was a fine man, none better.”
“Most assuredly,” Pontowski replied, sounding exactly like Robert Bender. I will remember, he promised himself.
The White House
Joe Litton grinned like the Cheshire cat and almost purred in satisfaction. “The reviews are in, Madame President, your State of the Union Address was a hit. All told, a most positive reaction. But a few of the reporters are asking for clarification on one minor point.” Litton managed to look apologetic. “When you said, ‘I will do whatever is necessary to bring these criminals to account,’ did you mean ‘to justice?’”
“That’s our goal,” Turner replied. “But we have to work with other countries and their idea of justice may not be the same as ours.” The answer satisfied Litton and he hurried back to his office to feed the hungry lions waiting for him.
“A thankless job,” Parrish muttered under his breath. He checked the day’s schedule and wished she would replace Dennis or detail someone else to manage the daily schedule. “A full day, Madame President.” He handed her the list and unconsciously stepped back. He felt he had to give her room.
She scanned the agenda, automatically balancing each item against the long list of issues, concerns, and problems she carried around in her mind. It was a list she constantly shifted and ranked, working on whatever needed the most attention but never forgetting what was in the background. She hesitated when she saw Sen. John Leland’s name on the afternoon schedule. “What does he want?”
“I only talked to his staff. He’d like to discuss General Bender’s replacement.”
Turner stood up, anger flaring. It was such a rare display that Parrish took another step backward. “My God! The man’s not even buried yet.”
“Leland’s concerned about Poland, Madame President.”
Turner paced in front of her desk as she cycled through her mental action list. Poland was definitely in the top ten and moving up. Soon it would challenge the problem of when to announce she was running for a second term. As always, she mentally circled the problem, always looking at it from different angles. Slowly, she drew Poland into sharper focus. She shifted the counters on her mental abacus and came up with a new priority. But an image of Nancy Bender hovered in the background, demanding a claim. “Have Mazie and Stephan at the meeting,” Turner said.
Parrish made a note to have the national security advisor and the secretary of state in attendance.
“Richard, as long as Mazie and Stephan will be here, make some time after Leland leaves for us to meet with Mr. Durant.” She thought for a moment. “Have Sam and the DCI join us.” Parrish added the other two members of the National Security Advisory Group to his list. He knew what the topic was.
Senator John Leland was all white hair, jowly cheeks, and old-fashioned charm when he entered the Oval Office. “Madame President, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Turner extended her hand and they sat on one of the couches in front of her desk. Leland nodded at Mazie and the secretary of state. “Mrs. Hazelton, Stephan, good to see you again.” Besides being charming, the senator was an accomplished liar. He barely tolerated Stephan Serick and hated Mazie with every ounce of passion in his political soul.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries and Leland complimented Turner on her State of the Union Address. “Most moving, Madame President. I agree with your concern over the growing instability in Eastern Europe. We must not desert our friends in that part of the world, especially Poland.” The discussion was low-keyed as Leland made a case for appointing a new ambassador. “We need to reaffirm our commitment to the Polish people during this difficult time.”
“It’s a question of finding the right person,” Serick said.
“I’m quite sure there are many names we would find mutually agreeable,” Leland replied. “I’ll have my staff send over a short list of possible nominees my committee would consider favorably.” He paused. “Madame President, may we speak in private?”
Turner hesitated. Without a witness, Leland would interpret whatever was said to his advantage. “It would clear up many misunderstandings,” he urged.
Against her better judgment, she agreed. When they were alone, Leland said coldly, “Madame President, I am told that our government exchanged a Russian criminal in one of our prisons for a nuclear weapon.”
“We did,” Turner said, her voice flat and noncommittal.
“Then I assume the other part is true.” No answer from Turner. “The weapon we received in return for setting this criminal free was a fake.”
“Actually,” Turner said evenly, “it was a training device. Perfect in all respects but one.”
“Regardless, Madame President, we were snookered. That misguided venture embarrassed our country and weakened our position in Eastern Europe. You should have consulted me first. I would have cautioned you against such a rash move. However, I’m confident this can remain between just you and me.”
“I see,” Turner said. It was a simple enough deal: in exchange for his silence, she must nominate the ambassador he wanted.
Nelson Durant felt the tension the moment he was wheeled into the president’s private study off the Oval Office. He immediately made the connection to Senator Leland whom he had seen leaving as he entered the White House. Maddy Turner stood to greet him warmly and motioned him to a place next to her chair. The four members of her National Security Advisory Group looked at him hopefully. “I wish my investigation had something positive to report,” he began. “Unfortunately, we are running into too many stone walls. But we are finding some cracks.”
“You have no idea who was behind the attempt on the president’s life?” Mazie said.
“I didn’t say that. We know who did it: three crazies from the California militia. It’s just a matter of time until we find them. We also know the missile and payoff money came from the Russian Mafiya. Our problem is that we don’t have hard evidence.”
“Is there any connection to the Lezno and Bender assassinations?” Vice President Kennett asked.
“It all goes to the same source,” Durant replied. “Again, proving it is another matter.”
The DCI coughed for attention. “We know who’s behind this—Mikhail Vashin. He’s n
othing but a vicious street thug gone national. Expect more of the same.”
Turner folded her hands on her desk, her face a mask. “I’m willing to consider other options.”
Mazie chose her words carefully. “Sanctioned covert operations are out of the question.” Everyone in the room knew she meant assassinations.
“Why?”
“It’s a moral question. We simply don’t do it.”
Again, the DCI coughed for attention. “There’s a very practical reason. They tried it on you and look at the reaction. Do we want to risk getting into the same pickle? I think not.”
Turner leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I agree with everything you’ve said. So continue with the investigation for now.” She looked around the room. “Anything else?” The meeting was over.
Outside in the main hallway, Mazie asked the DCI to come to her corner office. Once the door was closed, she said, “I’m worried.”
“That she’ll authorize me to go after Vashin?”
“That she’s even considering it.”
“No one kills an American ambassador and gets away with it,” the DCI replied.
“So what are our options?”
“We don’t have many. Congress has seen to that.”
“So you’re telling me there is nothing more we can do.”
“I didn’t say that. Through its oversight function, Congress sets the bounds for intelligence, especially covert operations. However, they haven’t etched a hard line in concrete but rather laid down a broad chalk line. My shoes are white with dust from standing on that line. There are things I can get away with, but the president cannot.”
Mazie drew into herself. Am I reading the signs right? Maddy wants us to do something, but what? No matter what we do, plausible denial must be the rule.
“This is a tough one,” the DCI said, thinking the same thing.
“If she brings it up again,” Mazie said, “we’ll have to do something.”
For the first time since Mazie had known him, the DCI smiled. “I’ll work on it.”
The Hill
It was Monday afternoon between the end of classes and supper roll call when a cadet had some time of his own. The time was even sweeter because they did not have to form up to march to supper. Brian almost ran back to their room to change into his gym clothes, looking forward to some time on the basketball court in the Godfrey Athletic Center. Lately, the coach had been talking to him about trying out for the team and some of the older cadets were actually treating him as a species of subhuman, a big improvement over his Rat status.
But before he climbed the stairs to the second stoop, Matt corralled him. “We gotta talk to the Trog.”
“Gimme a break. What’s she want now?”
“She maxed a chemistry test.”
“This is a problem?”
“The teacher says she cheated. No one’s ever maxed it before.”
Brian was dumbfounded. “The Trog, cheatin’? You gotta be kiddin’.” Matt only shook his head. “Come on, we gotta find her,” Brian said, the basketball game totally forgotten.
They finally found her on the parade field. She was running lap after lap, pushing herself to exhaustion. The regimental XO, Rick Pelton, was running with her and on the next lap, he shot them a worried look. “Zeth,” he called, pulling up beside the boys, “I need a break.” Zeth ignored them and continued to run. Pelton bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Wow, is she mad.”
“Is she okay?” Matt asked.
Pelton shook his head. “She’s talking about resigning.”
“That’s dumb,” Brian said. “She loves this place.” He pulled into himself and, for the first time in his life, thought hard about helping another person. “We need to talk to the dean and tell him that Maggot tutored her.”
“Who’s gonna believe a Rat can do that for Third Class chemistry?”
Matt squared his shoulders. “Gimme a chance and I’ll convince ’em.”
“He’ll need proof he did it,” Pelton said.
“Ah, shit,” Matt said, sounding like Brian. “How we gonna get proof?”
Brian almost shouted. “I got it. I was with you most of the time and the Secret Service saw us. I bet they even got a log.” Brian and Matt followed Pelton into the TLA’s office where Chuck Sanford, the lead Secret Service agent, worked.
“Pelton’s okay,” Brian allowed.
“Yeah,” Matt muttered, not so sure he shared Brian’s opinion. But he couldn’t say why.
Warsaw
The telephone call from the brigadier general commanding the 1st Air Regiment came on the last Wednesday in January, exactly two weeks after Pontowski’s flight with Emil. The brigadier was ecstatic; his regiment had received a trainload of JP-8 jet fuel from NATO and for the first time, his fuel dump was full. “And there’s more on the way,” he said. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Pontowski replied.
“Now I have two problems,” the brigadier said. “How to use it effectively and how to keep it from being stolen.”
“I’ve got the man you need to speak to. His name is Peter Duncan and he’s a security expert.” A meeting was quickly arranged and Pontowski thought that was the end of it.
Then, very hesitantly, “My pilots have much to learn. Perhaps you would like to fly with them again?”
“I’d love to. Any time. All we need is good flying weather.”
“If you are available today, we currently have ten miles visibility, broken overcast, clear on top.”
Pontowski felt the old itch and, suddenly, the day got much better.
Pontowski stood in front of the scheduling board in the squadron and tried to pronounce the names of the three pilots who would be flying on his wing. He had serious misgivings about leading a four-ship training mission so early on. But he liked the aggressive spirit behind the idea. “I won’t be flying with you today,” Emil said, obviously disappointed. “My brigadier wants to expose as many pilots as possible to your style of flying.”
“How about scheduling me in a D model and you fly in the pit? That way I’ve got an interpreter and someone who knows the local area.” Emil readily agreed and it was easily arranged. They walked into a small briefing room where the three nervous pilots were standing behind their chairs.
“Sit down and relax,” Pontowski said. He started a standard briefing by listing the sequence of events on the chalkboard. “Since the weather is cooperating, we’ll do a formation takeoff in pairs with twenty-second spacing between elements.” From the worried looks on their faces, he sensed it was wrong, too aggressive. Or perhaps they didn’t trust him. He changed his mind. “Make that single-ship takeoffs with twenty-second spacing. I’ll turn out to the left and hold 350 knots. Join up in fingertip formation, with number two on my right wing.”
“That means I’ll have to cut you off on the inside of your turn and then cross underneath,” his wingman said.
“That’s correct,” Pontowski replied. “Take your time, I’ll give you plenty of throttle. When three and four have joined on my left, I’ll use our radar to clear the airspace and find a break in the clouds to punch through on top.”
The three pilots scribbled furiously as he covered the details of each event. When he was finished he quickly recapped what they would be doing. Finally, they stepped to the waiting aircraft. Emil was quiet as they walked up to the two-place F-16. “Perhaps,” he hedged, “we’re doing too much for the first mission?”
“Then we’ll play it by ear,” Pontowski said.
He found out exactly what Emil meant on takeoff. As briefed, he turned out to the left, carving a graceful arc around the southern part of Warsaw. It took his wingman almost three minutes to cut him off, cross under, and move into place on his right wing. By then, he couldn’t find his second element of two aircraft and wondered where they had gone. He called approach control on the radio and asked for radar vectors for a rejoin. But the ground controller was confused
. Finally, Emil had to tell approach control exactly what they wanted him to do. From the tone of Emil’s voice and the brisk flurry of Polish, Pontowski was sure most of the adjectives Emil was using would never be found in a Polish/English dictionary. He made a mental note for the debrief.
Twenty minutes after takeoff, he found the missing two F-16s circling at 24,000 feet. He called for a fuel check and groaned inwardly. The backseat in his D model F-16 replaced the forward fuselage fuel tank and he took off with 1,400 pounds less fuel than the other three jets. Yet, his number two and three wingman had less fuel than he did! For a fighter jock, running out of fuel was one of the cardinal sins. He made another note to talk about fuel management and throttle technique in the debrief.
Emil’s warning about doing too much on the first mission echoed in his mind. He had to slow down. Once he had them flying straight and level in a reasonable wingtip formation, he practiced formation turns. The first one was a fiasco, the second one better, the third perfect. He made a note for the debrief.
Then he moved them out into a line-abreast formation with the second element 4,000 feet to his left and his wingman 500 feet off his right wing. Then he worked them through a classic fluid-four turn where they turned ninety degrees and still came out in the same formation. It would have been perfect except they lost number four. Again, Emil got on the radio and had approach control vector them for a rejoin. By now they were getting good at rejoining and Pontowski had their measure. They were fast learners and good pilots who suffered from lack of flying time and aggressive training. He would talk about it in the debrief. He went into an extended trail formation with the second element three miles behind him. He turned to the right, pleased that his wingman was now welded in position on his right wing. The second element closed for a turning rejoin and moved smoothly into formation.
Pontowski called for a fuel check; it was time to head for the barn. He called approach control and broke the flight up, sending three and four home first. He called his wingman. “Okay partner, how are you on overhead recoveries?”
Edge of Honor Page 31