Edge of Honor (31 page)

He turned to face CNC-TV News’s star reporter. He and Liz went back to the peacekeeping mission in South Africa and, at best, an uneasy truce existed between them. He gave her his lopsided grin. “I’m with Foreign Military Sales in the embassy,” he told her.

“One of Bender’s boys,” she replied. “I hear you have a history with the new ambassador.”

Pontowski was noncommittal. “We’ve met. Any buzz on why Maddy selected him?”

“Conventional wisdom’s that she’s about to announce her bid for reelection and needs to mend fences with Senator Leland. Daniel Beason is one of Leland’s major campaign backers, a real rainmaker. Voilà, instant ambassadorship and obligation paid.” Liz paused for a moment, hoping there was an exchange of information in the works.

A quid pro quo was in order and Pontowski considered his answer. “The situation over here requires…”

Liz’s director rushed up, breaking into the conversation. “We’ve got a one-on-one with Richard Parrish. But it’s got to go
now
.” An exclusive interview with the president’s chief of staff pushed Pontowski off Liz’s radarscope and she turned to go.

“Can I tag along?” Pontowski asked. Liz shrugged in response. He took it for a yes and followed them into a temporary studio where Parrish was waiting. A White House staff member stopped him.

“I’m sorry, General Pontowski, but you’re not on my list.”

Pontowski arched an eyebrow as if to say, “Do you know who I really am?” But it didn’t work. He was up against the hard reality of politics. Power was measured by money, access, and information. At best, he only had the latter and long experience had taught him he was up against a stone wall. Unless Maddy asked to see him, he wasn’t going anywhere. He called his office to see if there were any messages. There weren’t. He gave up and wandered back to the VIP area to find Waldo and Ewa.

They were waiting by the refreshment stand. “Well,” Waldo asked, “any luck?”

“I’m not on her list.”

Ewa felt like singing.

“So what now?” Waldo asked.

“As long as we’re out here, it’s time you met some jet jocks. You’ll like Emil.”

“A chance to fly, I hope.”

Waldo’s chance to fly came ten days later when the weather finally decided to cooperate. Emil joined Pontowski in the briefing room and waited as the rest of the squadron filed in to listen to Waldo’s first mission brief. Emil kept looking at the pudgy Waldo, not really believing what he was seeing. “He’s a strange one,” Emil finally allowed.

Pontowski chuckled to himself. Too many others had made the mistake of misreading George Walderman. “He’s not what he seems,” Pontowski explained. “He’s
prematurely gray and that pudgy body of his can take some
G
s.”

When the room was packed and the video camera on, Waldo started his briefing. “There’re two types of aircraft in this world, fighters and targets. Today, I’m going to show you how to avoid being a target. Every mission starts here in the briefing room and ends in the briefing room. So today, I’ll go through the whole process with General Pontowski and Emil. Everything will be on videotape. Come back here after we’ve landed and watch how we all get better. Okay, today I’ll be leading a two-ship with Emil on my wing as the student. General Pontowski will be in Emil’s backseat as an instructor pilot.” Waldo turned to the chalkboard behind him and outlined the mission step by step.

Crown Central, the Ground Controlled Intercept radar site forty miles east of Poznan, cleared the two fighters into the training area. “We’ll warm up with some
G
-awareness exercises,” Waldo radioed, following the exact order of events he had briefed on the ground. “In-place ninety-degree turn to the right, NOW.”

Emil wracked his aircraft into a tight turn. “Hold a constant five
G
s,” Pontowski said from the backseat. They rolled out and did it again. “This time,” Pontowski said, “try to hold it without looking at the
G
meter.” Emil strained against the
G
s and managed a decent constant
G
turn. “Not bad,” Pontowski said.

“In-place one eighty to the left,” Waldo ordered. Again, the two aircraft turned in place.

“Hold a constant seven
G
s in a 180 turn,” Pontowski told Emil. “Keep your airspeed near the top of your corner velocity, 440 knots top.”

The GCI controller at Crown Central came on the radio. “Waldo flight, can you accept tasking?”

Waldo didn’t hesitate. “That’s affirmative.”

“We have an inbound target from the east without a clearance.”

Pontowski keyed his radio. “Crown Central, this is Waldo Two, is it a Vnukova flight?” Vnukova was the call sign for Russian diplomatic flights.

“It is possible,” the GCI controller answered. “But we are painting multiple targets.”

“We’ll take a look,” Waldo replied. “We’re LOX sweet, twenty minutes play time, guns only.” He had just told the controller they had plenty of oxygen, twenty minutes’ worth of fuel to use, and were armed only with the M61 20mm cannon. In combat, the 20mm Gatling gun was a fearsome weapon. Now it was the controller’s job to make the best use of it. He gave them an easterly heading to fly and handed them off to Crown East who would run the actual intercept.

“Waldo’s fangs are out,” Pontowski told Emil. “Are you up to it? I can take it from back here.”

Emil gave the right answer. “No problem, I’ve got it.”

“Go tactical,” Waldo ordered.

“Fly line abreast, 5,000 feet apart,” Pontowski said. “You should be able to make out if he’s a fighter, maybe pick up his planform in a turn.” Emil did as directed.

An American voice came on the radio. “Waldo Flight, you’re paired against one, maybe three targets, visually identify and report only. Snap vector zero-eight-zero for ninety-five nautical miles.” As one, the two F-16s turned to 080 degrees. The target was ninety-five miles on their nose.

Waldo played with his APG-68 radar trying for an early detection. His radarscope strobed. “Waldo is being jammed,” he radioed, his voice amazingly cool. “Crown East, vectors and range only.” Waldo was taking over the intercept and only wanted the bearing and range to the target. “Bossman, radar standby, weapons cold.”

“Emil’s got it,” Pontowski replied.

“Weapons cold, radar standby,” Emil radioed. His voice was high pitched and nervous. Not a good start.

“Hook-ID,” Waldo said, calling for the tactic they would use. “Emil is the hook, Waldo the ID.” On cue, Waldo nosed over and dove for the deck, racing ahead of them. He disappeared through the cloud deck below them.

“I’ll talk you through it,” Pontowski said. “Hold your altitude and airspeed. Waldo’s going for the deck. If this were the real thing, you’d arm your missiles now.” At fifteen miles, Pontowski told Emil to turn right for dis
placement. “You need room to turn into the target. It’s a standard stern conversion where you hook around behind the target.” Again, Emil did as he was told. But now his breath came in short, deep, rapid bursts. “Control your breathing,” Pontowski said, “or you’ll hyperventilate.”

Emil answered with short, very deep breaths. “I’m trying.”

“Wait for the radio call from Waldo. It’s his job to identify them as friendly or hostile. If this were the real thing, you’d be in position to fire. Today, you’re only going to get the target’s tail number. Do not get within one mile of the target unless you have Waldo in sight.”

While Emil and Pontowski hooked around behind the target, Waldo was down on the deck, his airspeed meter bouncing off Mach 1.6. When Crown East called the range at four miles, Waldo pulled his nose up and firewalled the throttle. “Waldo’s shooting the moon,” Pontowski told Emil. “Keep your turn coming. Do you see the Flankers?” But Emil didn’t respond. “Emil!” The pilot’s head slumped sideways, unconscious from hyperventilation.

Waldo was going straight up and the target was on his nose. He punched through a cloud deck and saw the Ilyushin-76. “Target is friendly,” he radioed. “Repeat, friendly.” Then, “Two chicks in trail! Flankers, Flankers. I have Emil in sight.” He passed behind the Flankers escorting the Ilyushin, still going straight up.

At the same time, the two Flankers saw Pontowski’s aircraft and turned toward it. “I’ve got it!” Pontowski shouted, taking control of the aircraft from the rear seat. He jerked the F-16’s nose around, loading the jet with nine
G
s. He grunted hard, fighting the
G
forces. A loud chirping buzz in his headset warned him that one of the Flankers had locked him up on radar for a missile shot. What unfolded next occurred at a speed that defied normal senses. When Pontowski judged they were in range of an infrared missile, he pulled the throttle full aft to reduce the heat signature an infrared-guided missile needed to guide on. At the same time he hit the flare button on the throttle. A burst of four flares popped out behind the F-16 to capture any heat-seeking missile’s guidance head.

Waldo ruddered his jet over on top in time to see one
of the Flankers and Pontowski’s F-16 come together in the merge in what looked like a head-on collision. Automatically, he keyed his radio and yelled, “Break left! Take it down!” He snorted in satisfaction as Pontowski’s F-16 did exactly that. The other Flanker rolled as its nose sliced toward the ground to follow Pontowski into the dive. “Shit hot!” Waldo roared over the radio. They had set up a perfect sandwich to have the Flanker for lunch. “Pitch back now!” Waldo ordered.

“Pitching back,” Pontowski shouted, pulling on his control stick, bringing his F-16’s nose up and onto the Flanker that was now heading down but still above him. Then Waldo blasted through, splitting the air between the two Flankers. Immediately, Waldo pitched back into the lead Flanker, the one not engaging Pontowski.

Nothing in the experience of the two Flanker pilots had prepared them for such a close engagement so aggressively executed. A flurry of Russian was exchanged over the radio and, as one, they turned to the east and headed back for the border, trying to act as friendly as possible.

Emil was conscious, his breathing normal. “What happened?”

Pontowski peeled his face mask back and wiped the sweat away with the back of his glove. “Just doing a Hook-ID,” he replied, trying to sound bored and nonchalant.

“Fuel check,” Waldo radioed. His fuel was low and he suspected Pontowski’s was probably lower. He was right and it was time to head home.

By the time they landed, every pilot in the air regiment had heard about the engagement. It was standing room only when Waldo led Pontowski and Emil into the briefing room. Waldo’s face was etched with the imprint of his oxygen mask and his flight suit white with dried sweat. “This is not going to be a pretty debrief,” he began. “In a Hook-ID, you have a contract with me to not engage unless we have each other in sight. Otherwise, it’s turn and run away. Did you see me before engaging?” Pontowski shook his head. “Then we fucked up, big time.” The
room was shocked into silence. Pontowski nodded in acknowledgment and made a note on his kneeboard.

The Poles listened in amazement as the two Americans dissected the mission, telling each other what they had done wrong and how to avoid making the same mistake again. The debrief lasted longer than the flight and, afterward, Emil waited to speak to Pontowski in private. “Thank you for not mentioning that I passed out from hyperventilation.”

Pontowski slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good pilot. We’ll work on it.” Emil nodded, ready to follow Pontowski anywhere and determined to prove himself.

Outside Moscow

Vashin’s fascination burned the moment he entered the command post. He had never suspected such a structure existed and the long underground corridors showed none of the decay afflicting the rest of the Russian military. He told the driver of the electrified golf cart whisking him to the operations center to slow so he could take it all in. The respect paid by the officers who recognized him was exactly right; an unsmiling face, an inquisitive look, followed by a little nod. The cart stopped in front of a heavy blast door that led to the ops center.

“So, this is where we conduct a war,” Vashin said, still not truly believing he had reached the heart of the Russian military.

The general major, a one-star, escorting Vashin turned him over to the general colonel, a three-star, who would take him inside. Vashin almost laughed when he saw the old-fashioned Plexiglas wallboards where sergeants still posted information in grease pencil. His own Action Room buried in the basement of Vashin Towers made this look like a throwback to the Cold War. The three-star led him to a traditional map table that was surrounded by more generals.

A trim colonel stood on the opposite side of the map table with a big screen behind him. “Good morning, Mr. Vashin. I will be briefing the raid on the headquarters of the Polish SPS. Please interrupt if you have any questions.” The distinctive emblem of the SPS flashed on the
screen. “The double fishhook on the tail of the
P
has a special significance,” the briefer said. “It was the symbol of Fighting Poland, the Polish resistance in the Great War.”

Vashin snorted. “A foolishness we’ll soon end.” The generals surrounding him all nodded in agreement.

A map of Poland flashed on the screen and highlighted the location of the target near Kutno, seventy miles west of Warsaw. “We are employing unconventional forces which will be parachuted in,” the briefer said. “If you will direct your attention to the large scale chart in front of you, I will point out the objectives and outline the plan of attack.”

Vashin leaned over the map table and he felt himself come alive. This was his destiny, the master planner controlling events, deciding who would live and die. A feeling of absolute power surged through him. Now he appreciated why the ops center continued to use old-fashioned ways of command. The map table, the chart, the pieces moving on the board were tangible, not images on a computer screen. He moved around the table as the briefing unfolded and looked at the map from every angle. Yes! This was the only way to run a military operation. He made a suggestion about the placement of a blocking force.

The generals discussed it briefly and their doubts turned to acceptance. The change was made and Vashin shifted his position, still listening to the colonel giving the briefing.

He had never been more alive.

The battered Lada crunched down the narrow lane, its half-bald tires slipping on the ice and snow. Large, well-kept dachas, country residences of the rich and powerful, were hidden in the trees. Since there were no addresses or signs, the driver carefully counted the houses, finally arriving at the desired number. He turned off the lane and parked. General Colonel Peter Prudnokov was waiting for him. “You’re a wanted man,” Prudnokov said. The driver got out of the car and removed the wiper blades. Even in dacha country, theft was a major problem. He put the blades in the pocket of his overcoat.

“Please,” Prudnokov said, motioning toward his dacha set back in the trees. “I hardly recognized you.”

Tom Johnson bore little resemblance to the man he was three weeks ago. He had lost weight and the buffalo-like bulge on the back of his neck had almost disappeared. His hair was much longer and dyed a dingy brown. Even his walk was different. Yet his clothes fitted him perfectly and he could blend in with any crowd on a Moscow street.

The two men stomped into the dacha and removed their heavy boots and coats. The slight bulge under Johnson’s arm was ample warning that he was armed. “I’m not going to give you up to Vashin,” Prudnokov said. He had read all the signs correctly and there was little doubt that Johnson was a foreign agent. But while Prudnokov suspected Johnson worked for the CIA, he couldn’t be sure. Unfortunately, common wisdom in Moscow held that it wasn’t good for one’s health to cross the CIA.

“I appreciate that,” Johnson said. “You wanted me to find out who was responsible for your daughter’s death.”

Prudnokov only stared at the American. There would be a price to pay for the information. He nodded. “It was Vashin,” Johnson said. “He pushed her down an elevator shaft.”

“Personally?” Prudnokov asked.

Johnson shook his head. “A torpedo. But Vashin ordered it and watched.”

“What is the price?” Prudnokov asked.

“Vashin’s flight schedule, drugs, whores. The whole nine yards.”

Warsaw

Pontowski and Peter Duncan drew their fair share of telling looks and hushed words when they entered the VIP lounge at Okecie airport for the ceremonies welcoming the arrival of the new ambassador. More than a few people turned away and engaged in private conversations, not wanting to be seen talking to them, at least not in public. “I think,” Pontowski said, “that we’re in the leper colony.”

“Not
we
,” Duncan replied. “The rumor mill around the embassy has it that you’re persona non grata.”

“Shows I’m doing my job right.”

Duncan saw the sumptuous buffet and laid on his thickest Irish accent. “The lads have done themselves proud. Only the best for the new ambassador.” They moved off to one corner and talked quietly while Winslow James and his wife scurried around, tending to last-minute preparations.

“How are things with the SPS?” Pontowski asked.

“Going very well. They’re expanding their training and rolled up two drug rings last week.”

“I didn’t hear about that.”

“Few have,” Duncan said. “The Ministry of Justice wants to keep it quiet for now. Speaking of the devil himself, here comes Jerzy.” Jerzy Fedor was walking toward them, a glass of champagne in his hand.

“What exactly does Fedor do?” Pontowski asked.

“I’m not sure. He seems to know everyone.”

“A most excellent champagne,” Fedor said. He lowered his voice. “I’ve heard a terrible rumor that you were involved in the death of the new ambassador’s son.”

“We were flying an aerial demonstration when he crashed,” Pontowski said.

“You make it sound so routine.”

“I’m sorry it happened, but he knew the risks.”

Fedor allowed a nod and sipped his champagne. “We’re going to miss the general.” He turned and wandered away.

“Our boy knows more than he’s letting on,” Duncan muttered.

The protocol officer beckoned to them. “The aircraft has arrived. Please join the welcoming party to receive Ambassador and Mrs. Beason.” No formal introductions were planned and Pontowski and Duncan joined the two lines of people forming a corridor for the Beasons to pass through. After a few minutes delay, the door leading from the jetway swung open and the new ambassador stepped into the lounge. On cue, Winslow James and his wife moved forward, welcoming them to Poland. Mrs. Winslow handed Mrs. Beason a bouquet of flowers and a few words were exchanged. James made a gracious gesture at the
welcoming party and escorted Beason toward the door and the waiting limousine.

Applause broke out as the Beasons made their way out. Beason’s eyes narrowed into narrow slits when he saw Pontowski. His body tensed and then he moved on. “Have Pontowski in my office first thing tomorrow morning,” he told James.

“Protocol can be a bitch,” Duncan murmured. They waited until the crowd thinned before leaving. “I take it your bags are packed?” he said wryly to Pontowski.

The “tomorrow morning” turned into five days and it was Tuesday before Pontowski was finally summoned to Beason’s office. Winslow James closed the door behind them and moved off to one side, looking very uncomfortable. “Pontowski,” Beason began, “you’re trouble. Before I left the States, I read a report about you flying a combat mission for the Poles. We do not provide mercenaries for foreign countries.”

“I was flying a training mission negotiated under our Defense Security Assistance program.”

“Whatever. You embarrassed the United States.”

“We were cleared to intercept and identify an aircraft entering Polish airspace without a proper clearance.”

“That aircraft,” Beason snapped, “was a Russian diplomatic flight.”

“Most likely hauling drugs,” Pontowski added. “It was escorted by two fighters that committed a hostile act in Polish airspace.”

Beason glared at James. “What’s this? I hadn’t heard about any escorts or hostile acts.”

James gave Pontowski a cold look. “That was forwarded through the air attaché’s report, not my cable.”

Beason drummed his fingers on his desk. “Until I can get to the bottom of this, you’re relieved of all duties.”

“I can appoint an investigation officer,” James said. “Of course, General Pontowski will be placed on an administrative hold until it’s completed.”

Beason snorted. “Do it.”

“Sir,” Pontowski asked, “what about the training pack
age we just negotiated? One pilot is already here and more are on the way.”

“Until I’m told otherwise, it will continue. But you will not be a part of it. Is that clear?”

James coughed for attention. “Mr. Ambassador, there is a related issue with the security-aid package. We are also supporting the Polish security services. Mr. Peter Duncan is in charge of that particular program.”

“I’ll talk to him later,” Beason said. He waved a hand dismissing Pontowski.

Pontowski returned to his office where Peter Duncan was waiting for him. “Well?” he asked.

“I’m relieved of all duties and on administrative hold while James conducts a formal investigation.”

“What about Waldo?”

“He can continue training the Poles until our new ambassador hears otherwise.”

“Without Bender,” Duncan said, “that won’t be long. So, what are you going to do?”

“Beats me. Maybe it’s a chance to go dig up my ancestors.”

“Talk to Ewa. She might have some ideas about sightseeing.”

The White House

The Sit Room, the informal name given to the White House Situation Room, is located in the West Basement across the hall from the White House Mess. Behind the guarded and locked door is a relatively small conference room, no more than twenty-by-thirty feet. It is sound-proofed and the walls are surrounded by computer and communication workstations and two small offices. It is always manned by a watch team of approximately five people, but that varies from day to day depending on the crisis at hand.

And Maddy Turner hated it.

She preferred open, airy rooms with windows to the world outside. The Sit Room staff tried to correct this deficiency and fresh flowers were always on the confer
ence table, unless the cranky secretary of state, Stephan Serick, was present. Then the flowers were removed in deference to Serick’s well-known explosive allergic sneezing fits that would have been funny in a lesser man. On the morning of the third Thursday in February, the flowers were gone.

Nelson Durant leaned forward in his wheelchair and studied the communications equipment in the room. He decided it was adequate but not cutting edge. He glanced through the folder in his lap one last time. His investigation into the attempted assassination of the president was complete. Maybe the FBI or CIA could find something else, but he personally doubted they would since all the key witnesses were dead. But that was the way the Russian Mafiya worked.

“You’re first on the agenda,” the NSC’s executive secretary said. He was Mazie’s most valuable assistant, in charge of the Sit Room, and responsible for moving security information and intelligence to and from the Oval Office. “But you might want to stay for more of the meeting. I think you might find it interesting.” He was really asking for Durant’s seal of approval on what would be a very technical subject.

“I won’t take long,” he assured the executive secretary. The four members of the National Security Advisory Group arrived and took their seats. The guard held the door for Turner to enter. Everyone but Durant stood. “Please forgive me for not rising,” Durant said.

Turner gave him a warm smile. Durant was growing weaker by the day and not expected to live much longer. “Nelson, there’s nothing to forgive. Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t have to.” They shook hands.

Durant gave her one of his rare smiles. She was the first president in the last thirty years he respected and liked. He handed her his report and waited. It took less than two minutes for her to read the thirty pages. She carefully closed the document and looked up.

“So, the three terrorists who fired the missile, the other material witnesses, are all dead.”

“That’s correct, Madame President. When confronted
with a problem, murder is the Russian Mafiya’s preferred solution.”

“And eleven people were killed because they got their wires crossed.”

“That is based on numerous intercepted telephone calls. Vashin wanted the president of Poland assassinated. You were
not
the target. When Vashin confronted Yaponets about the mistake, Yaponets embarrassed himself badly. The
vor
laughed about it for a week. We also know the Russian Mafiya was behind the assassination of President Lezno and Ambassador Bender.”

“Can we turn anyone in the
vor?
” Vice President Kennett asked.

Durant shook his head. “Very doubtful.”

Turner’s anger broke through. “The man’s a psychopath. Is there anything we can do?”

The DCI shot Mazie a quick look who nodded slightly in return. This was the second time Turner had asked the question. Now it was time to act. “Madame President,” the DCI replied, taking the first step of plausible denial, “I’ll talk to my operations people and review our options. In the meantime, you might want to see this.” He handed her another folder as a large computer screen next to her came to life. Turner opened the folder and blinked twice. It was the glossy black-and-white photo of Maura the British tabloid had published. But this time there was no artful blurring of the man’s huge, and very erect, penis.