He set the coffee pot brewing and opened his bulging briefcase. The top document was titled Sexual Harassment in the Armed Services and the Role of the Wing Commander. ‘Whatever happened to fly and fight,’ he mumbled to himself.
‘Nothing,’ Cyrus Piccard said as he joined Pontowski at the table, ‘smells better than freshly brewed coffee in the morning.’
‘I hope I didn’t wake you up,’ Pontowski said, rising to get the old man a mug.
‘No, not at all,’ Piccard replied. He waited for Pontowski to sit down. ‘How are the briefings progressing?’ he ventured, wanting to talk.
‘Boring,’ Pontowski answered, ‘but necessary.’ He ran through the list of topics they were covering. ‘Running a fighter wing is more like running a business these days.’
It was the opening Piccard had been waiting for. ‘But a commander has to be,’ he said, sipping his coffee, ‘shall we say, more attuned to political nuances than your average businessman.’
My God, Pontowski thought, he works just like Granddad did when he wanted to tell me something. ‘True,’ he said, carrying the conversation in the same direction. ‘Both the brigadiers going through this dog and pony show with me are political animals of the first order.’
Piccard studied Matt’s profile, struck by the similarity to his famous grandparent. Matthew Zachary Pontowski, better known as Zack to his friends, was the first American of Polish descent to be elected President of the United States and Piccard had served him faithfully as Secretary of State. Like his grandfather, Matthew Zachary Pontowski III carried all the trademarks of his clan: tall and lean, bright blue eyes, a shock of barely controlled light-brown hair, and an aquiline nose. And like his father and grandfather, Matt was a fighter pilot. Eagles, Piccard thought, the Pontowskis are a clan of eagles.
The old man looked into his coffee cup and decided it was time to see if this eagle could fly in the hostile skies of Washington. ‘You have a political enemy.’ He waited for Pontowski’s reaction, hoping it would be restrained and measured. He got silence.
‘I’ve heard the rumors,’ he said finally. ‘Ann Nevers.’
Piccard was impressed. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘The esteemed congresswoman from the state of California.’ Piccard and Nevers were sworn political enemies. Not only did they disagree on every major foreign policy issue, they personally detested each other.
Pontowski shook his head. ‘What did I do? Piss in her beer?’
‘The Honorable Ann Nevers,’ Piccard replied, falling into the rolling tones of one of his long speeches, ‘almost lost an election because of your success in the China affair.’ He was complimenting the younger man on his role in destroying a vicious warlord and helping China avert a civil war. ‘In this town, it is a capital offense, punishable by death, to cause a senator or representative to lose an election.’
‘How could a successful foreign policy cause her to lose an election?’ Pontowski asked.
‘She was looking for an issue to ride to an easy reelection,’ Piccard replied, ‘and saw our involvement on the mainland of China as the perfect opportunity to raise the specter of another Vietnam.’ He paused for effect, ever the orator. ‘It was in very bad taste for you to have won.’ Piccard’s eyes sparkled as he talked and gained momentum.
Age had not diminished his mental powers, only the physical strength to contend with the contrary and shortsighted individuals who did not see the world in the same light as he did. His political enemies hated him because events proved him right time and time again and all were glad to see him retire to his beloved home and rose garden in Fredericksburg. But he and his wife were alone, without children, and Piccard wanted to groom a successor to continue in his path, to follow the obligation for service that he felt so deeply. His choice was sitting across the table.
Like his father and grandfather before him, Pontowski had the required charm and intelligence with the same, vital ingredient of charisma. Jessica Piccard had a simple explanation: it was in the genes. But Matt Pontowski needed time. He always had. His early days as a fighter pilot had been marked by a wild, unruly streak and only the leadership of Jack Locke, one of the finest fighter pilots ever to fly a high-performance jet, saved him from himself. With maturity came responsibility and Pontowski discovered he had that rarest of qualities, the ability to lead. Men and women willingly followed him into combat.
Unfortunately, at least from a political standpoint, Pontowski had not married well. He had married a raven-haired, beautiful, native-born Israeli — a Sabra. But Shoshana had been a perfect wife for Matt. She had anchored him to reality and given him a son, Little Matt. Then tragedy had struck when she was killed by assassins hired to get at Pontowski through his family.
Instinctively, Piccard had recast the dice and liked what he saw. Matt Pontowski had the lineage, the charisma, the ability, to win election to high office. The tragedy of his wife’s death would do him no harm either, the old man recognized. But Piccard also knew that Pontowski had to move beyond his sorrow, marry again, and make the commitment to enter public life.
Piccard finished pontificating on foreign policy and Pontowski freshened the old statesman’s coffee. ‘There is a role in all this for you,’ Piccard concluded.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, pulling into himself and thinking of his promise to Little Matt.
Piccard nodded, his eyes closed. ‘Family obligations cut deep,’ he said. ‘Perhaps being true to yourself is the greatest gift you can give to your son.’
‘Flying and a challenge are what it’s all about.’ He stared out the window at the breaking dawn. ‘God, I dearly love it when ...’ His words trailed off and for a brief moment he was back in the cockpit, caught up in the pure exhilaration and joy of flying. ‘I’ll give it one more try. But if I have to choose between Little Matt and the Air Force ... well ... that decision is already made. Besides, I’m sick and tired of all this political horseshit.’
Piccard probed a little deeper. ‘What can you tell me about your wing?’
‘It’s a Reserve outfit, the 442nd,’ Pontowski replied. ‘I assume command August eighteenth.’
‘What do you do?’ Piccard asked.
‘We’re a fighter wing flying A-10s. The Warthog was designed for close air support and killing tanks, so that’s what we train for. But there’s an interesting sidebar in our marching orders. We’re to prepare for “intervention in support of international organizations”.’
Piccard filed the last away for future reference. ‘Where did you say your wing is located?’ he asked.
‘Whiteman Air Force Base,’ Pontowski answered. ‘Knob Noster, Missouri.’
‘Ah,’ Piccard said, ‘the heartland of America. A good place to hide.’ Until you are ready to prove who you really are, he mentally added.
Pontowski looked at the old man, not sure if he liked the idea of hiding.
*
Thursday, August 21
Alexandria, Virginia
*
‘Bill, wake up,’ Mary Carroll urged. She glanced at the clock and frowned — the memories always came out of their carefully guarded niches when his defenses were the lowest. Her husband moaned and turned over, on the edge of sleep. ‘Bill, wake up.’ This time, her command penetrated his subconscious and his eyes came open.
‘Don’t turn on the light,’ he mumbled.
She reached over and touched his face; he was drenched in sweat. ‘Was it Rwanda?’
‘No,’ he replied, half asleep. ‘Somalia.’
‘Why can’t you shake this?’ she asked. ‘You never had trouble handling combat.’
‘The shrink says it’s because I had been trained and was expecting it. Nothing prepared me for the misery of those relief camps.’
‘But you kept going back.’
‘Someone had to. No one else was willing to get out of their office and see it for themselves.’
‘It’s not your job and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So go back to sleep.’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s almost light. I think I’ll go for a run.’ He turned on the light.
Within moments after the lights in the Carroll house came on, the house across the street was alive with activity. The Secret Service agent on duty woke the other two agents and told them William Gibbons Carroll was awake. ‘Is he going for a run?’ Wayne Adams asked. The agent shrugged. He didn’t know.
‘I hope not,’ his junior partner, Chuck Stanford, groaned.
‘Get your ass out of bed,’ Adams growled. ‘This is cushy duty.’
‘Nothing is cushy at five o’clock in the morning,’ Stanford grumbled. ‘Besides, this won’t get us promoted.’ The phone rang. It was Carroll saying he was going for a run in about fifteen minutes. ‘Shit,’ Stanford mumbled, pulling on his sweats. Adams ignored Stanford and got ready for a run through the middle-class neighborhood where Carroll lived. The two agents were waiting on the sidewalk when he came outside.
Carroll was a slender, dark-complexioned man of medium height. Dressed in warmups, he could have been a businessman, dentist, or high school coach in his mid-thirties running for exercise. Actually, he was forty-four years old and ran because it gave him a sense of inner calm and a chance to think.
Everything about Carroll was extraordinary; he was a brilliant linguist, foreign affairs analyst, and the most decorated non-flying officer in the history of the Air Force. He had seen action on the ground and earned his medals the hard way — by being shot at. Eventually, he had been promoted to the rank of major general, the youngest two star since World War II.
The current President had recognized Carroll’s ability to accurately interpret the intentions of foreign governments and had taken him into his inner circle as his National Security Advisor. Because he was close to the President, Carroll fell under the protective umbrella of the Secret Service. It never occurred to his neighbors that they were now living in one of the safest suburbs of Washington D.C.
The three men went through their warm-up and stretching routine and then, without a word, started to run. From the very first, Carroll set a blistering pace, running five-minute miles. The two agents were hard pressed to keep up with him but were determined to stay abreast. Their job demanded it. They had finished their third mile when Carroll’s right leg gave out and he stumbled, falling to the ground. Within seconds, the backup van following them was on the scene and the National Security Advisor was bundled inside. The agent-in-charge wanted to take him to Bethesda Naval Hospital but Carroll insisted they drop him off at his home.
Mary Carroll saw the van pull up and was waiting at the front door. Adams and Stanford helped Carroll into the kitchen and hovered over him while Mary cleaned and bandaged his scrapes. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘I stumbled,’ he replied. ‘That’s all.’
A worried look crossed her face. ‘Your right leg?’ she asked.
‘It’s nothing,’ Carroll answered.
After the two agents had left, Mary leaned against the counter and folded her arms. ‘Bill, that’s the third time. Something is wrong.’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he groused. ‘I’m just tired.’
Mary stared at him. They had married shortly after Carroll had rescued her from an Iranian prison and had a strong marriage, anchored in middle-class suburbia with two healthy children. ‘Bill, something is wrong,’ she repeated. ‘Go see a doctor.’
Chapter 2
Friday, October 24
Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri
*
Matt Pontowski glanced at the Army officers sitting beside him at the head table. The farewell banquet at the officers’ club was dragging and, like him, they were bored. He scanned the other tables, looking for telltale signs of trouble among his pilots. He didn’t need a wine-soaked roll being launched across the room with a loud shout of ‘Incoming!’ He allowed himself an inner smile, thinking how it would break the tedium of the speeches that marked the end of the joint exercise his wing had been conducting with the Army.
He shifted his attention to the speaker, the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Gregory Hanson. ‘... excellent results,’ Hanson was saying. ‘... The 442nd has proven the A-10 is the aircraft the Army needs for forward air control.’
The joint exercise had gone well, Pontowski told himself, thanks to one pilot. Dwight ‘Maggot’ Stuart had performed a minor miracle in integrating the A-10 and the Army as a team, streamlining tactics and communications into a system that worked well under stress. Automatically, Pontowski looked for Maggot.
He was sitting quietly at a side table, bored as all the others. The pilot was average-looking; normal height, dark hair, and close-set blue eyes. But Pontowski knew what lurked below that bland exterior — a wild man who took it as a personal challenge to preserve the mystique of the fighter pilot. Maggot was a throwback to an earlier age when fighter pilots were expected to be all balls and no forehead.
Unfortunately, senior officers in the Air Force no longer tolerated Maggot’s type of behavior, even though the same senior officers had led the pack in their younger days. Pontowski stifled a sigh — times had changed. Too bad, he thought, because Maggot was the consummate fighter pilot. To Pontowski’s way of thinking, Maggot’s attitude on the ground was related to his success as a fighter pilot in the air. The act of moving the gear handle to the up position on takeoff never changed a pussy cat into a tiger.
‘Colonel Pontowski,’ the speaker, Lieutenant Colonel Hanson, said, bringing Pontowski back to the moment. ‘My officers, to the man and woman’ — Hanson was very correct — ‘would like to thank you and the men and women of your wing for making this exercise such a success.’ A few more words and he was finished.
Pontowski stood at the podium and closed the banquet as quickly as decorum allowed. The colors were retired and the group dismissed. Pontowski was immediately surrounded by senior officers, all wanting personally to congratulate him. He was used to it. Many officers on the make wanted to ingratiate themselves in the hope that knowing the grandson of a former President would advance their own careers.
Maggot slipped out of the main ballroom and headed for the casual bar, ready for a beer. ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ he moaned to no one in particular, ‘I thought that would never end.’ The bartender saw him coming and opened a bottle. ‘Roger that,’ Maggot said, taking a long pull at the bottle, draining it. He felt better. The bartender opened another beer.
Hanson was the most persistent of the group and wouldn’t let Pontowski escape from the ballroom. Finally, he excused himself and sought refuge in the men’s room. Hanson followed him, eager to keep the conversation going. ‘Colonel,’ Pontowski said, ‘let’s go socialize with the working troops in the casual bar.’ That didn’t work either and he found himself trapped by the same group of senior officers. But this time a few wives had joined them. Now he had to be charming as well.
A voice rang out over the crowded bar, capturing everyone’s attention. ‘Bartender, a round of tequila for my friends.’ It was Maggot, and Pontowski recognized the edge of intoxication in his voice. He willed the pilot to be cool as Maggot climbed on to the bar and stood with his head against the ceiling. ‘A toast,’ he called.
‘To titanium testicles?’ a hopeful voice shouted. It was one of Pontowski’s pilots and Hanson’s frown matched those on the faces of his women officers.
‘Hey, Maaa-gut,’ another pilot called, egging him on. ‘How about a toast with social significance?’
‘Social significance?’ Maggot answered, weaving slightly on his perch. He thought for a moment while Pontowski gritted his teeth. ‘Right,’ Maggot said. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to gun smoke and pussy. One to live for, one to die for. But both smell great.’ A chorus of boos and yeahs greeted him. ‘You said “social significance”,’ he protested, climbing off the bar.
A pretty Army captain jammed a finger into Maggot’s chest, stopping him cold. ‘You ever heard of Tailhook, Captain?’ Maggot shrugged and pushed past, saying nothing. Pontows
ki took a deep breath in relief. Maggot was showing some restraint at least.
Hanson turned to Pontowski. The frown was back in place. ‘She makes a good point, Colonel.’ He squinted at Pontowski, calculating how to turn the incident to his advantage. ‘My people know better than to conduct themselves like your captain. Look, you discipline your pilot’ — he gestured at Maggot — ‘and I’ll calm my captain down. She won’t cause trouble.’ He gave a little smile. He was all good-natured friendliness now that Pontowski owed him.
Pontowski wanted to tell Hanson that Maggot had seen more combat than all of his ‘people’ put together and knew what it was like to engage tanks with the odds stacked in the enemy’s favor. Instead, he settled for a curt: ‘I’ll take care of it.’ He said good night and left the bar. Now he knew why senior officers left parties early.
*
‘Maggot stepped on it this time,’ Major Sara Leonard told Pontowski. She consulted her notes, organizing her thoughts. It was the Tuesday morning after the banquet and they were sitting in Pontowski’s office in wing headquarters, going over the action items on his calendar.
‘His toast in the officers’ club Friday night?’ Pontowski asked. Sara nodded in reply. ‘Can John handle this one?’ Lieutenant Colonel John Leonard was the commander of Maggot’s squadron, the 303rd, and Sara’s husband.
She shook her head. ‘It’s serious this time. Two of the women officers at the banquet filed a sexual harassment complaint with the IG yesterday.’
‘Damn,’ Pontowski muttered, ‘the Army strikes again.’ The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Hanson, had not made good his promise and Pontowski now had the IG, the Inspector General, on his back. Why did it have to be Maggot? he thought. But he knew the answer. ‘Why can’t he grow up?’
‘It’s the way fighter pilots are,’ Sara answered.
Pontowski picked up the phone, called the 303rd, and asked for Leonard. As Maggot’s commanding officer, Leonard had to be in the loop. The squadron duty officer told him that Lieutenant Colonel Leonard had left the squadron and was on his way to wing headquarters. Pontowski hung up and looked at Sara. Like a good executive officer, she had anticipated her commander’s needs and had called for Leonard before she raised the issue with Pontowski. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ Pontowski told her.
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