Edge of Honor (36 page)

“Don’t be cute,” Riley muttered. “We can’t trust half the players the way things are.”

“So why me?”

“Because the Poles trust you. It sends the message that we’re behind them.”

“Behind them on what?”

There was no answer from Riley.

Over Ohio

Maddy Turner studied the first photos of the damage caused by the spring storm that was lashing at the Pacific Northwest. She had never seen such devastation and was flying out to view the damage and marshal the government’s relief efforts. Nothing in her experience galvanized the bureaucracy more than a few well-placed presidential questions after a personal visit. Richard Parrish handed her the latest weather report. “The meteorologists are talking about the storm door being wide open. Another big
weather cell should hit early next week and there’s more behind it.”

She studied the satellite printout. Another major storm was forming over the central Pacific and a bigger one was building farther to the west. She leaned back and gazed out the window of Air Force One. They were headed west and chasing the setting sun. Golden hues laced the evening sky, turning ever darker into shades of red. Streaks of blue split the clouds like a master artist’s brush strokes. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful here,” she murmured.

The phone beside her seat buzzed and she picked it up. It was Brian. “Mom, I got troubles.” She tensed, expecting the worst. She relaxed as Brian told her the story of Zeth’s revenge on Pelton and how Matt was involved.

“Did you or Matt know that she was going to do it?”

“Naw. But we saw it. Mom, they’re gonna kick her out.”

“There’s not much I can do.”

“Can you talk to General McMasters?”

The Pacific Northwest is drowning and he’s worried about this?
she fumed to herself.
Well, at least he’s thinking about someone else for a change
. “I’ll have my staff check into it.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He broke the connection.

Maddy stared out the window.
He’s turning into a young man and I’m missing it
. She felt the tears start to form, but just as quickly, they were gone. She had important work to do. “Please have Mazie and Gary come in,” she told Parrish. Within moments, the national security advisor and DCI were sitting down next to her. “Richard,” Turner said, “we need some privacy.” Her chief of staff quickly left, closing the door behind him.

“This storm,” Turner said, “is going to occupy a great deal of time in the coming weeks. However, I want to stay on track with the Germans.”

“I’m meeting with Herbert von Lubeck in Bonn this coming Tuesday, April fifteenth,” Mazie told her. “All off the record and very unofficial.”

The DCI frowned. “I’m not very hopeful. I don’t see us bluffing the Germans on this one. We’ve got to bring something to the table.”

Turner stared at him. “It’s not too late to cancel. I’m willing to consider other suggestions.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, a sure sign it was time to move on to the next subject.

“Sorry, Madame President,” the DCI said. “We just don’t have a lot of options on this one.” He shuffled through his notes. “I have one more item, a request from the Poles. Most unusual. They’re asking for some very specific help in dealing with the Russian problem.”

“Do what you can but I don’t want an Iran-Contra affair haunting us like it did poor President Reagan.”

“I see no problems at this point,” Mazie assured her. “There are a few other items that you should be aware of.” She quickly ran down her list, bringing Turner up to date. Then they were finished and gone. The meeting had taken less than ten minutes.

Joe Litton stuck his head in the door. “More photos from Oregon,” he said. “It’s getting worse.”

Turner bent over the coffee table in front of her and thumbed through the photos. She shook her head. “And the worst is still to come.”

Outside, Mazie huddled with the DCI in a corner. “How close are the Poles to acting?” she asked.

The DCI shook his head. “I don’t know. They seem serious enough. I wish I knew what they were up to.”

“The right something might get the Germans’ attention. You must have a source inside the Polish government?”

“I’ll try to find out what’s brewing,” the DCI promised.

Mazie’s head jerked up when she saw Patrick Shaw walk past. “I didn’t know he was onboard.” They watched suspiciously as he entered the president’s stateroom.

“Mizz President,” Shaw said, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. She looked up at him and he slouched into a chair. “I’ve been working with Stammerville and Holt about announcing your reelection. They’ve come up with a new strategy.” He paused, carefully selecting the right words.

“What is it?” Turner asked impatiently.

Shaw took a deep breath. “You don’t. Instead, you go
silent and get drafted. Popular demand for you to run again.”

“Is that a chance we want to take?”

“No chance about it. We’ll organize it at the grass roots level and when the news is breaking our way, a huge clamor and gnashing of teeth will arise from the multitudes demanding you lead them out of the wilderness. The bandwagon will roll right out of the heart of America and over anyone who gets in the way.”

“You make it sound so cynical.”

“It solves a lot of problems.”

“Like the fact I’m a woman.”

“And a widow,” he added. He took a deep breath. “And Pontowski.”

She was irritated. “I wasn’t aware he was a problem.”

Shaw hung his head and tried to act contrite. “He’s not right for you, Mizz President. He’s got a history.”

“That was a long time ago, Patrick.”

He dropped the folder he was carrying onto the coffee table. “These were taken in Poland ten days ago. He was out discovering his roots.”

Maddy looked through the photos, seeing the one Shaw had carefully buried, enough to be hidden, but where she would definitely find it. Pontowski was standing in the door of his family’s cottage gazing out. Ewa was looking up at him, her eyes glowing, her face bright. “A beautiful girl. Who is she?”

“His interpreter, Ewa Pawlik. She works at the embassy.”

“Are they close?” Maddy asked.

“Look at her face. That tells me everything I need to know.”

“Fire her.”

“We can’t do that.” The president’s frown demanded an explanation. “Hell, Mizz President, everyone screws the Polish.”

Warsaw

“Please review this,” Winslow James said, “check the concur box, and sign at the bottom.” He handed Pontowski the completed report of investigation with Ambassador Beason’s letter of transmittal on top.

Pontowski gritted his teeth as he read. “You want me to agree to this?” James nodded. “That means I accept Beason’s so-called corrective actions?” Again the diplomatic nod. “Did you bother to read the report?”

“Of course I read it.”

“Then how do you get from a report which clears Waldo and me of doing anything wrong to Beason’s cover letter?” Pontowski flipped to the letter and read aloud. “‘You are hereby reprimanded for acting in a manner that brought great discredit to the United States, this legation, and yourself.’” He threw the report at James. “Shove this next to your favorite hemorrhoid. The one you think with.”

Nothing in James’s career had prepared him for this. Years of experience in the foreign service had conditioned him not to make waves, to speak in a low voice, and to pass the buck. Becoming aggressive when faced with a problem simply was not done. And no one spoke to a deputy charge of mission like that. “Please remember I represent the president of the United States.”

“I’m sure you do.”

James grimaced, trying to regain his composure. “Your attitude is totally uncalled for. However, you must re
spond, in writing, to close this investigation.” Pontowski grabbed the report and lined out the concur block. At the bottom he scribbled
NOTED
and placed his initials next to it. James shook his head in nervous disbelief. No one ever mutilated an official document like that. James stood up. “Please wait here.” He almost ran out of his office, reminding Pontowski of an officious mouse as he scurried across the Red Room to Beason’s office. He was back in a few moments, his face two shades of pale lighter. “The ambassador will see you immediately.” Pontowski followed him on the return journey. The two secretaries watched them in silence.

“Don’t sit down,” Daniel Beason muttered. He looked up and tapped the report on his desk. “I’m sick and tired of you flyboys who think the rules don’t apply to you.”

“What exactly are the rules when somebody wants to shoot you down?”

“That is not my concern here,” Beason snapped. “Because of political influence, you are beyond my control.” He handed Pontowski the official cable from the State Department detaching him to the Polish Air Force as a civilian training officer. “Let me make this perfectly clear. You get into trouble and this embassy will take no action to save your worthless skin. You are on your own and will receive no help from this government. Further, I am holding conversations with the Polish government to have you declared persona non grata.”

“Is that all, sir?” Pontowski asked. Without waiting for an answer, he executed a perfect about-face and walked out. Gathering up his raincoat and briefcase, he headed for the elevator. He punched the button to descend to the lobby and was surprised when the car rose to the third floor. Evan Riley was waiting for him when the doors opened.

“I heard,” was all Riley said, leading the way to his office.

“You don’t miss much.”

“When are you moving over to the Polish Air Force?”

“Soon as I can get out of here.”

“Good. We’ll be in contact as fast as we have any significant intelligence that needs to be passed on.”

“You called me here to tell me that?”

Riley shook his head. “And to warn you about Jerzy Fedor. Don’t trust him. Also, you need to spend a few minutes with my operations officer.”

The “few minutes” Riley mentioned turned into three hours as the station’s ops officer provided Pontowski with dead drops, passwords, and telephone numbers linking him with cutouts. The exposure to basic tradecraft gave meaning to what it meant to be out in “the cold.” Finally, he was finished and able to drive to the squadron at Okecie.

It was now a different organization, full of hustle and purpose. The walls were freshly painted and the floors were clean. But more important, the pilots were in offices and briefing rooms hitting the books and “hangar flying” missions. Pontowski walked past an exercise room where two pilots were working on weight machines strengthening their neck muscles. He found Waldo in a briefing room finishing a training report from a mission. A very unhappy young pilot sat at the table with him. “Don’t get discouraged,” Waldo told him. “You’re doing much better than I did at this stage.” He handed the pilot his training folder and the young man beat a hasty retreat.

“Welcome to the real world,” Waldo deadpanned.

“It looks like they’re getting serious about flying the Viper.”

“Believe it,” Waldo said. “You prepared for a shocker?” He led Pontowski through a guarded door and into the mission planning section. Emil and the squadron commander were huddled with a civilian over the chart table.

“I believe you know Jerzy Fedor,” Emil said.

Pontowski and Fedor shook hands. “What brings you here?” Pontowski asked.

“Yalta,” Fedor replied. He pointed at the chart, showing Pontowski a target complex on the Black Sea. A black line connected it to Rzeszów, an air base in southern Poland. “We have some accounts to settle with the man who killed President Lezno and General Bender.”

Automatically, Pontowski measured the distance; 640 nautical miles. “That’s a bit far to haul bombs without refueling,” Pontowski said.

“Can it be done?” Emil asked.

“With the right profile and some careful planning.”

“Will you help us with tactics?” Emil asked.

“Tell me the threat,” Pontowski replied, “and I’ll tell you the tactics.”

The Hill

McMasters stood and walked to the center window of his office. For a moment, he fixed his gaze on the bronze statue of the rearing bronco, NMMI’s symbol and mascot. Behind the statue, cadets hurried through the Sally Port into Hagerman Barracks, anxious to get out of the rain. For the superintendent, the Sally Port was the true symbol of the institute, not the bucking bronco. “What a stupid teenage thing,” he said to the commandant who was standing beside his desk. Colonel Day didn’t answer. He knew how McMasters worked and his need to verbalize his decisions. “I suppose there is a rough justice here,” McMasters continued. “I wish we could ignore it.”

“But we can’t,” Colonel Day said. “It’s a pretty clearcut case of assault.”

McMasters nodded in agreement. “And in front of the entire Corps. Miss Trogger does pick her moments.”

“She’s never been a retiring wallflower,” Day added.

“Is Pelton going to prefer charges?”

“So far, he hasn’t,” Day replied. “I think he’s waiting to see what you do with her appeal.”

McMasters stifled a sigh. He knew what he had to do. “I could overlook a fight, even one between a boy and a girl. But I cannot tolerate an assault.” He returned to his desk and buzzed his secretary. “Please send Miss Trogger in.”

Zeth marched through the door and reported in. She stood at attention in front of the superintendent’s desk, her eyes focused on the wall behind him. She was very aware of the commandant standing on her right as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She chanced a sideways glance. Day was a very unhappy man. His decision to suspend her had not been easy.

“I don’t have many options here,” McMasters said.

“Miss Trogger’s past record has been exemplary,” Colonel Day said. “And she has taken full responsibility for her actions.”

“That’s commendable,” McMasters said. “Unfortunately, my hands are tied in cases of assault.” He tried one last gambit, searching for any excuse. “Did you know you were committing an act of assault on Mr. Pelton’s person before you did it?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

“But you went ahead anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Zeth said. She almost said Pelton had assaulted her reputation. But she knew that wasn’t an excuse.

“I have no choice,” McMasters said. “I must deny your appeal. You are to clear your room and be off campus as soon as possible, no later than by call to quarters tonight. If your parents can’t pick you up, we will provide a hotel room and meals until you can arrange transportation home.”

“I can hook a ride to my folks’ ranch in the Hondo Valley,” she said. “It’s not far.”

He looked at her sadly. “I can’t tell you how much I hate doing this.”

Zeth came to attention. “I understand perfectly, sir.”

McMasters thought for a moment. “I know you want to attend the Air Force Academy. It will be my privilege to write a letter of recommendation, should you decide to apply.”
And speak to a few old friends
, he mentally added.

“Thank you, sir.” She threw him a perfect salute. He returned it. The two men watched her leave.

Colonel Day said, “She’s too good for you zoomies. West Point needs cadets like her.”

“Hands off,” McMasters ordered.

“May the best service win.”

The two boys stood in the doorway, watching her pack. Their hats and ponchos were still dripping from the rain. “Come on in,” she said.

“It’s my fault,” Matt said. “If I hadn’t shot off my big mouth…”

Zeth interrupted him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I can get my mom to help,” Brian offered.

“No, you won’t,” she replied. She zipped up her last
bag. “Look, I knew it was wrong and I went and did it anyway. Get this through your thick heads, I’m responsible. Now I’ve got to live with the consequences. That’s what leadership is all about. Even Colonel Day agrees with me on that one.”

“But Pelton deserved it,” Matt said. “Everyone in the Corps says so.”

“Since when has a vote determined what is right or wrong?” She picked up her bags. “Time to go.”

The Western White House, California

Maddy stood at the deck rail taking in the sunset. She was alone and savored the moment. It was her favorite time of year in San Luis Obispo when the hills were green with spring. For a moment, she was free of the Imperial City on the Potomac, with all its posturing and deception, greed and unfettered ambitions. A breeze washed over her, carrying a hint of rain, bringing her back to the moment and why she was on the West Coast.
Is it really going to get worse?
she asked herself.
I hope the meteorologists are wrong
. The irony of it struck her. The major test of her administration could be the storm building in the Pacific.

A slight shudder made her clasp her arms to her body. “Are you cold, Madame President?” It was one of the ever-present Secret Service guards. She shook her head and said no. Ever since the helicopter crash, they had been more protective and more attentive, if that were possible. It was as if they had to atone for the crash.

She wanted to do something, to meet the storm head-on. But it wasn’t going to happen. All she could do was wait and trust others to carry out her wishes.
Like tax reform
, she thought. How hard had they worked on that? Yet in the end, the bureaucrats had gone their own way and done exactly what they wanted. Her lips compressed into a narrow line. She could correct that. Or could she? Who could she trust? Images floated through her mind. It was not a big gallery and was smaller with the deletion of Dennis and Noreen Coker. How she missed those two.

Another image drifted out of her subconscious. “Ah,
Mazie,” she said to herself.
How I use you. But why do I sense you know it and don’t mind?
But the facts were clear. Mazie was up to something because of what she had said.

And there was Bender. “My brave general,” she whispered. The breeze whipped up, turning into a cold wind.

“Madame President. You might want to come inside. It’s starting to rain.” Maddy turned to her new personal assistant. It was Nancy Bender, five months pregnant and beautiful. Maddy went slowly inside to wait for the storm to arrive.

Born, Germany

Herbert von Lubeck carefully stoked the burning logs in the huge fireplace. He was a tall man and had to bend over to reach the hearth. Although it was mid-April, a winter’s cold held the continent in its grip and he wanted his guest to be comfortable. It was one of the amenities of which he was proud. He glanced at the doll-like woman cuddled up in the high wingback chair.
So different from her mother-in-law
, he thought.
Turner should have sent E.M. Hazelton if she wanted results
. He shuddered at the thought of doing business with the Bitch Queen of Capitol Hill.

“Brandy or cognac?” he asked.

“Brandy, please,” Mazie answered.

He poured her a snifter from his private reserve. It carried no label, but it was the finest brandy in the world. He handed it to her, remembering the last time he had been in this same room with Mikhail Vashin.
So different. And so much easier
.

Mazie held the snifter up and examined the golden liquid. She took a delicate taste. “Magnificent,” she murmured. She drew her legs up, cuddling into the chair and, for a brief moment, von Lubeck pictured her nude.
Concentrate!
he warned himself.
Save the distractions for later
. He fought the urge to light up a cigar.
Let the brandy do its magic
.

“E.M. tells me you like cigars,” Mazie said. “I love the smell of a good Havana.”

Von Lubeck bestowed his most charming smile on her
and reached for the humidor. “I understand the storm is causing widespread damage on your West Coast.”

“It’s the worst recorded storm in history,” Mazie said, again taking a sip. “It looks like it’s spreading inland.”

“Global warming, no doubt.”

“So the scientists claim. Which is one of the reasons I’m here.” She raised the glass and drank. “This is excellent.”

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn and von Lubeck puffed at his cigar, wanting time to think and for the brandy to give him the edge he needed. But Mazie pressed ahead, taking it away from him. “Our scientists are mostly agreed that it’s due to the greenhouse effect. Automobiles are the major source.”

Von Lubeck sighed. “Ah, the automobile. I do not see you Americans giving up your beloved cars.”