Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  “I do have something in mind,” Cagliari said. “But if we opt to use it, it will have to be transferred to the normal chain of command. We can’t afford another Iran-contra affair.”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” Pontowski said. “But we do that at the last possible moment.” He brought the meeting to an end. “Do I have time for a walkabout?”

  Cox stood up. “Yes, sir. You’re free for the next thirty minutes. Who’s the lucky target for today?”

  Pontowski smiled and led them out the door. “Guess.” He headed for the Office of the Budget.

  Navarre Sound, near Hurlburt Field, Florida

  Gillespie sat at the Pagoda’s bar taking in the sunset. He took a long pull at his beer and drained it, appreciating how peaceful it was; the quiet waters of Navarre Sound, a lone sailboat silhouetted by the setting sun. Will I be doing this again? he thought, pondering the orders that had come that were sending them to train with Delta Force. The Beezer’s curt remark that “we might be doing some Chiang chopping” had sobered the captain and E-Squared hadn’t helped with his observation that “he’ll be expecting us this time.” An F-15C cut across the sky, bringing him back to the moment as the old longing came back. “That’s what I should be doing,” he muttered to himself.

  “Doing what?” Mike the bartender said, automatically drawing another beer for him.

  “Flying those.” Gillespie nodded toward the F-15. “I’m not cut out to be a rotorhead.”

  Another voice interrupted their conversation. “I didn’t know you flew helicopters?” It was Allison, the beautifully stacked volleyball team captain who headed Allison’s Amazons. Both men turned and smiled at her, pleased by her unexpected appearance. As usual, Gillespie’s stomach did a quick two-step and he could feel the makings of an erection. She gave her hair a well-practiced toss and moved against the bar, deliberately brushing a breast against Gillespie’s arm. “I was married to a fighter pilot once,” she said.

  Allison’s closeness left Gillespie gasping for words. “I didn’t know you’d been married,” Mike the bartender said, breaking the silence. What’s the matter with you Gill? he thought. You should be jumping on her like a bear on honey. She’s sending signals. Your tongue got stiff all of a sudden?

  “Actually, twice,” Allison told them. “My second husband was also in the Air Force but he flew B-Fifty-twos. They both were first-class dorks.” She gave Gillespie a thoughtful look. “They both claimed that only pree-verts flew helicopters.”

  Gillespie managed a smile. “Oh, I hope so,” he finally managed.

  Allison gave her heavy mane of hair another toss and bestowed a smile on him. “You seem different lately,” she said.

  Mike the bartender found an excuse to leave. “Hey, would you mind watching the bar until I get back?” He headed for the office. I’ll be damned, he thought, the bimbo noticed. A few of the more astute volleyball leaguers had mentioned a subtle change that had come over Gillespie since his return from Thailand and Mike had heard some rumors about the little captain having balls that he needed a wheelbarrow to carry around.

  “How come so serious today?” Allison asked.

  “The Air Force…. You know…the usual thing,” he answered, trying to make light of it. He sensed that a serious conversation was not the best way to keep Allison engaged. It was out of the question, he reasoned, to tell her about the orders that detailed him to train with Delta Force and how he was worried. She wouldn’t understand, he decided. He was wrong.

  “Yes, I do know,” she said, suddenly wanting to cuddle and stroke him. “Dinner?” she offered. “My place?” He nodded, and as soon as Mike returned, they left.

  Donna Bertino was driving off the bridge that spanned Navarre Sound when she saw Allison’s flashy Mustang convertible pull away from the Pagoda with Gillespie in the passenger seat. Her pretty mouth pulled into a thoughtful pout. She decided she wasn’t in any hurry to get home and pulled into the parking lot. Maybe Mike the bartender could tell her what was going on.

  “Sock time,” Allison murmured as she rolled over Gillespie and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Sock time?” he asked and stroked her bare back. Allison turned and glanced over her shoulder as she fumbled for her high-heeled slippers. Then she leaned into his touch, pressing the smooth warmth of her body into the palm of his hand. She pulled back and walked away as his eyes followed her across the room, taking in every detail of her naked body. The high heels made her legs look even longer, more delicious, and he could feel the start of a fresh erection.

  She paused and looked at him. A slight smile played across her mouth when she saw the renewed interest in the lower regions of his body. “Keep that thought coming,” she said. She rummaged through a drawer, finding what she wanted.

  Gillespie half-faked a groan. “Have mercy. I don’t think I’m up for four times in one night.” He was a little sore.

  She held up a pair of the long white tube socks she wore with her running shoes and studied his crotch. “You’re up to it.” She ambled back to the bed, casually swinging a sock in each hand. She stepped out of her shoes with a fluid motion and rolled over him into the bed, rubbing her breasts against his chest and drawing a leg over his crotch. “I think,” she nipped at his right ear with her teeth, “that you’re part goat. Are you rotorheads really pree-verts?”

  Allison dropped the socks across his chest and lay on her back, bent the knee closest to him, and drew her left leg up, her foot brushing against his thigh. She reached down with her left hand and drew her fingernails over his stomach before she stroked his erection. Then she grabbed her foot. “Tie me up,” she whispered, her voice suddenly low and very husky. He fumbled with a sock and tied a loose knot, binding her ankle and wrist together. He was excited by her rapid breathing and trembling breasts. “Tighter,” she urged. “Now the other.” He lay across her and tied her right ankle to her wrist. Allison gave a little twist and wiggled under him, clamping him with her inner thighs, holding him tight. “Now!” she urged, thrusting her hips against his, making him enter her. “Yes!” she shouted, threshing about under him, not letting him go. She pressed her mouth against his neck and her thighs beat at him. “HELP ME!” She sank her teeth into his neck, drawing blood.

  “What is the matter with you,” Donna Bertino mumbled. Normally, she had no trouble falling asleep but an inner need was tormenting her, not letting her escape images of Allison and Gillespie making love. Out of frustration, she threw herself out of the bed and walked out onto the balcony of her condominium. The cool night breeze moving in off the Gulf of Mexico washed over her. “Quit being a silly cow,” she scolded herself. “He’s just another man out chasing poontang.” But Donna was too honest with herself to let it go. She was more than passingly interested in one Captain S. Gerald Gillespie and she did not like Allison infringing on her territory. But what could she do? Allison had the stuff Playboy centerfolds were made of and the disposition of a porn star. “And men are so damn stupid,” she announced to herself. She gazed up into the clear night and plotted her strategy, hoping that they were at least practicing safe sex. With her mind made up, she went to bed and immediately went to sleep.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  The doubting ate at Mackay, consuming his self-confidence, making him question even the reason he was sitting in Delta Force’s conference room. He willed himself to stop obsessing and concentrate on what Colonel Robert Trimler was saying. The words were right, but Trimler’s southern accent had stirred deep-seated feelings and old fears. Listen to the man! he reprimanded himself. Everything the colonel was saying indicated that he had bought into the operation. So why the doubts? Why couldn’t he accept the man for what he was? A competent and professional officer in command of Delta Force. Come on, Mackay told himself, old prejudices die hard, so spike this one in the heart.

  But it was hard.

  “Your timing couldn’t be better,” Trimler told him. “B Squadron’s CO is being reassigned so it wil
l be a simple matter for you to take his place and we can fit ISA into your squadron. No problems.” He turned to his CSM, Victor Kamigami. “You’ve been working with them, Sergeant Major. How are they stacking up?”

  “They are an extremely professional group of shooters,” Kamigami said. “They are showing us action and maneuver in the Shooting House that make us look like amateurs. And they do things with C Four that I’ve never seen. They can blow the front end of a car over a building without two teenagers copulating in the backseat missing a stroke.” His face was expressionless and brown eyes passive. “But they can’t hump Alice the Wart worth shit.”

  “The sergeant major does have a way with words,” Trimler told Mackay. “But I have learned to listen to him.” Mackay found the soft humor in his voice reassuring and he started to relax. “I take it they didn’t keep up on one of your fun runs,” Trimler observed. The daily five-mile march that Kamigami led with full gear and the heavy rucksacks called Alice the Wart had become the common denominator for determining if a Delta commando was in shape. The troops referred to it as “K’s fun run in the sun” and the ISA shooters had failed miserably, not even finishing.

  A new doubt started to gnaw at Mackay. Success depended on the team being able to make long marches through jungle. “I’ll have to sort that one out when we reach Entebbe,” he told the men. Entebbe was the name they had given their training site.

  “The First SOW is airlifting us there tomorrow to start training,” Trimler said. “Sergeant Villaneuva jumped at the chance to volunteer and I’m quite sure the CSM would be more than willing to help you whip our friends from ISA into shape.”

  “That would be appreciated, sir,” Mackay replied, “and there’s more help on the way.”

  Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

  The medical officer of the day bolted out of the elevator as soon as the doors had cracked open wide enough to let him escape. He scurried down the corridor, looking for Edith Washington, the big black woman who served as the head nurse on the floor. He reached the nurses station, puffing heavily, all too aware that he needed to get into better shape. “First time you’ve had the duty when the President has been on the floor?” Washington asked. She knew the answer. The young doctor nodded, still working to catch his breath. He had never been on duty when President Pontowski had been to Bethesda Naval Hospital and, even if he had, the senior members of the staff who looked after the President and his family would have shuffled him off into a corner. “Relax,” Washington told him. “Just be available if he wants to talk before Captain Smithson gets here. He’s been called and is on his way but I doubt if he’ll get here before the President.” The nurse gave a tight smile as she thought about Smithson, the pompous Navy doctor who served as the President’s personal physician. Smithson hated it when Pontowski dropped in on short notice to visit his wife. Personally, Washington would have preferred the young MOD as her own doctor.

  “Is Mrs. Pontowski awake?” the doctor asked.

  “She was asleep when I last checked with Margaret.” Edith Washington glanced at the wall clock—it was 10:34 P.M. She ran her floor with military precision. “That was four minutes ago. Here”—she handed him Tosh Pontowski’s file—“review this while I see if there’s been any change.” She hurried off to talk to the duty nurse sitting in Tosh’s room.

  The doctor appreciated the trust. Like everyone on the staff, he knew that the President’s wife was being treated for lupus and was in serious condition, but only the few doctors and nurses who were directly concerned with her care ever saw her files. When the nurse came back, the doctor handed her the thick folder. “Does the President know how bad she is?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what Captain Smithson has told him,” she answered, “but I suspect he knows.” She took a deep breath and looked at the doctor. They both knew that Tosh was near death. “He comes every chance he can get and sits with her, even if she’s asleep.”

  Three Secret Service agents stepped out of the elevator and scanned the hall. One spoke into his radio while the others opened doors and checked the rooms. One of the agents assigned to the floor appeared and the four talked quietly. The first agent spoke into his radio again and a few moments later, the elevator door opened and Pontowski walked out. He headed directly for the nurses station. “Hello, Edith,” he said to the nurse. “How’s Tosh tonight?”

  “Resting comfortably, Mr. President,” Washington said, heaving her bulk out of her chair. She was almost as tall as Pontowski.

  Pontowski nodded and walked into his wife’s room. “Hello, Margaret,” he said to the on-duty nurse. “Mind if I sit in your chair?” The nurse rose and left, understanding the President wanted to be alone with his wife. She closed the door behind her. Pontowski sat down and buried his head in his hands. After a few moments, he lifted his head and relaxed back into the chair.

  He ran the day’s events through his mind, sifting the wheat from the chaff, focusing on the major problems, forcing them into perspective. Then he relaxed, able to renew his strength for what the next day held. Tosh, he thought, I don’t know if I can do it without you. They won’t tell me how long we have. Oh, I know that young doctor out there would if I asked him a direct question; so would Edith, but that wouldn’t be fair to them.

  The President sat there, hoping he would have another chance to tell his wife how much he loved her. He knew it wasn’t necessary, but he wanted that chance. He had only known one other woman in his entire life and he had loved her as much as he loved his wife. Tosh also knew that. It amused him to think of the opportunities that had come his way to sleep with other, equally beautiful and worldly women…. They seemed to come with the territory…. But only two…the most important two…and he had no regrets.

  A movement caught his attention. “Zack,” Tosh said, reaching out to hold his hand, “go home and let those poor people get some rest.”

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  1943

  RAF Fairlop, Essex, England

  “Warts on a bullfrog’s ass,” Zack mumbled to himself, dropping the newspaper he had been reading onto the table in front of him. He glanced around the reading room of the officers mess on RAF Fairlop, the base ten miles northeast of London where the Lysander had dropped him and Willi two days ago. He wondered when she would reappear.

  “Sir?” the mess steward asked, not able to decipher the American’s words.

  “Oh, sorry,” Zack answered. “Just feeling useless, hanging around like this.”

  The steward sympathized with him. The young flying officer had been cooling his heels for two days, waiting for a summons that had not come. Speculation around the mess had it that he was in some sort of trouble, up on a charge or awaiting a court-martial. Personally, the steward suspected that he was at RAF Fairlop for another reason, for while the American was anxious, he was not worried. The steward had long recognized the different mental states fighter pilots were subject to. Over the past two years he had seen a succession of squadrons rotate through Fairlop and had become very adept at gauging their moods. This particular officer, he judged, was quietly competent and not the type to get into trouble. “Lovely day outside,” the steward told him, calculating that a walk and some fresh air would do the man good.

  Zack took the hint and walked out of the two story redbrick building that served as the officers mess. He ambled by the sports field and headed for the main hangars. There, he walked through a hangar and studied the sleek fighter aircraft undergoing repairs or inspections. The 239 Squadron was flying the new Mustang, recently delivered from the States. “A real beauty, sir,” a voice said behind him. The flight sergeant in charge of the hangar was standing there.

  “I’d love to try one out,” Zack said.

  “You’ll be Mr. Pontowski, yes?” the sergeant asked. It amazed Zack how everyone on base seemed to know who he was. He nodded a reply. “I don’t think the CO would be too keen on that,” the sergeant said, “but
why don’t you see how it fits.” He motioned toward an open cockpit. Zack climbed over the left wing and settled into the cockpit. The flight sergeant was right behind him. “Do you fly fighters?”

  “Mosquitoes.” Zack studied the controls and instruments, liking the cockpit layout.

  “Ah. Same engine, you know.”

  “I’ve heard she’s fast,” Zack said.

  “Faster than a Spitty and she has a decent range. The chaps are giving the Luftwaffe some nasty surprises.” For a few moments, Zack sat there, feeling pride in what his countrymen had built. The cockpit was nicely finished and functional. He tested the canopy and it slid smoothly back and forth onto the fuselage. The early Mustang did not have the clear bubble canopy that became one of its trademarks, but had a raised spine, much like the Spitfire. “The hood doesn’t jam like on the Spitty,” the sergeant explained. “An excellent machine.”

  “I’ve heard some of the pilots talk,” Zack told him. “They seem to really like it.” He heaved himself out of the cockpit. “Thanks for the tour, Flight. I hope you won’t take offense, but I think I’ll stick with the Mossie.”

  The sergeant escorted Zack out of the hangar and studied the pilot’s back as he headed for the perimeter road that surrounded the huge triangular patch of grass that served as the runway. “Is that the Yank?” a fitter asked the flight sergeant.

  The sergeant nodded an answer. “A decent type,” he allowed. “All right,” he bellowed, “get the finger out! We’ve got work to do.”

  Zack walked briskly around the perimeter, enjoying the light exercise. He paused for a few moments when he reached the southwestern end of the new concrete strip that stretched for four thousand feet parallel to the hangars. He watched as three of the new North American Mustangs taxied out and ran up, not using the concrete runway but taking off across the grass instead. Old habits die hard, he thought as the three made a formation takeoff, but that’s the English. He watched with a professional interest as the three aircraft lifted smoothly into the air and then moved closer together, collapsing their formation into a tight vic. I guess they want to impress the locals, he laughed to himself. At least they no longer engage in that formation like they did in the Battle of Britain. He wondered why the British had been so slow to change tactics when it must have been painfully obvious that what they were doing wasn’t working.