Edge of Honor (41 page)

Vashin saw the two smoke trails etching the sky as the missiles came directly at him. An image of the archangel Michael launching thunderbolts flashed in his mind’s eye. Then he shouted at the pilots, his voice cracking with anger. He wanted to kill them because they were so helpless. It came to him in a flash. “Geraldine!” he shouted. “You cunt!”

His fury grew into a satanic rage, consuming him with hate, as the first missile closed. “It’s not my time!”

But it was.

Pontowski climbed at mil power and headed to the west. He was alone in the sky and desperately low on fuel. He hit the navigation button on the multifunctional display and called up the nearest friendly airfield where an F-16 could land. Rzeszów flashed on the screen, 450 nautical miles away. He leveled off at 40,000 feet, read the distance to go, and checked the fuel gauge again: 3,200 pounds of fuel remaining. He wasn’t going to make it. Maybe, and with a lot of luck, he could make it to Poland.

He unclipped his oxygen mask and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. The aftershock hit him and he ached with weariness, sick of it all. “You did good,” he murmured, recalling Emil’s face.

New Mexico

“He’s just standing there,” Brian whispered. “Like he’s got all the time in the world.”

“He’s testing us to see if we’ll shoot at him,” Zeth said. “By now, he probably figures we don’t have a gun.”

“The fucker’s wrong,” Brian growled, raising the Glock Sanford had given him.

Matt saw a shadow move on the opposite bank. “Look,” he whispered. It was Sanford. They watched as the Secret Service agent raised his automatic in a two-handed stance to shoot the man in the back. But nothing happened. Sanford disappeared into the shadows.

“His gun must’ve jammed,” Zeth whispered.

“I’m coming across,” the man shouted. He started to walk across the bridge which was now out of the water.

A shadow materialized on the far side of the bridge, gliding up behind the man. “Chuck,” Zeth whispered.

Sanford was behind him and threw a carotid hold around the man’s neck, cutting off the blood supply to the man’s brain. Normally, he would have been unconscious in five to ten seconds. But Sanford slipped on the wet boards and the men crashed to the deck. Brian stood up to get a clear shot but the men were on each other, gouging and tearing at the other’s eyes and throat.

Matt jumped into the driver’s seat of the truck and switched on the headlights to give Brian more light. He started the engine. Brian tried to get off a clean shot but Sanford was in the way. The man kicked at Sanford’s knee and the agent went down. Brian fired and missed. The man kicked Sanford in the head and knelt down behind him, pulling him up by his shirt as a shield. A knife flicked open in his hand. He held the blade to Sanford’s neck.

“Throw the gun in the river!” he yelled at Brian.

Sanford’s forefinger moved in a tight circle, the signal to start engines. Then he pointed at the truck and beckoned them forward. Matt understood immediately. “Brian, do it,” he ordered. Matt slipped the truck into gear.

Brian heaved the gun into the water just as Matt stepped on the accelerator. The truck leaped ahead and onto the
bridge. The man’s head jerked in surprise as Sanford kicked free and rolled off the side of the bridge. Matt mashed the accelerator. The man stood up, an automatic in his hands, and fired three shots into the oncoming truck. Matt slipped as low as he could behind the steering wheel and held it steady.

The front bumper of the truck caught the man head-on and smashed him against the grille of his car. His scream shattered the dark night.

Over the Ukraine

The altimeter read 12,000 feet when the F-16’s engine flamed out for fuel starvation. Pontowski automatically checked his position: nine miles short of the Polish border. He allowed a tight smile. The Viper had a one-to-one glide ratio and for every 1,000 feet of altitude lost in a descent, it traveled one mile forward. With a little luck, he’d cross the border with 3,000 feet to spare. But that was cutting it close.

He wired the airspeed at 210 knots and scanned the cockpit to make sure everything was securely stowed. A loose pen or checklist could play havoc. He locked his shoulder harness and watched the altimeter unwind. He ran the tally. Assuming Waldo got them all back, it was his and Emil’s F-16s for the Tupolev and four Flankers. And Emil for Vashin. He had to believe it was a good exchange.

The altimeter passed 3,000 feet and he glanced outside. He was above a low cloud deck and couldn’t see the ground. An abandoned airfield or a stretch of road would have been tempting. He waited for a moment and when the altimeter touched 2,500 feet, approximately 2,000 feet above the ground, placed his feet against the rudder pedals, pushed into the back of the seat, pulled in his elbows and reached for the ejection handle between his legs.

He pulled the handle straight up.

New Mexico

Chuck Sanford sat alone in the front seat as he drove slowly down the highway toward Roswell. Wind and rain pounded at him through the shattered windshield and he shivered. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his precious cargo. Brian, Matt, and Zeth were very quiet. “How’s the hand?” he shouted over the wind noise.

“Hurt’s like hell,” Zeth answered. “But I can move my fingers.”

“That’s good,” Sanford said, certain she was going to be okay. But Matt was another story. “Matt, how you doing?” No answer. Sanford wanted to stop the truck and cradle the boy to him, comforting and reassuring him. But that wasn’t possible. “I gotta tell you, that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“No kidding!” Brian said. “I saw it. I couldn’t have done that, not with a guy shooting at me like that.”

Sanford pitched his voice just right. “You saved my life, Matt. I owe you big time.”

“Come here,” Zeth said, putting her good arm around Matt and gathering him to her.

“Hey,” Brian said, “no fraternization.”

“Get your body over here,” Zeth said. “I’m cold. You two Rats gotta be good for something.” Sanford smiled at the commotion going on in the backseat.

“I got an idea,” Brian said. “My mom’s house is close to the beach. Maybe we can do some serious surfing over vacation.”

“I’ve never surfed,” Matt said, coming out of his silence.

“Nothing to it,” Brian assured him. “Maybe we can get your dad to fly out. That’d be fun. How about it, Trog? You wanta do it?”

“My dad can teach you to fly,” Matt said, increasing the offer.

“I’ll think about it,” Zeth replied.

Sanford listened to them chatter away, plotting their vacation. “Hey, Maggot,” Brian said. “Do you think my mom and your dad would like to see each other again?”

Zeth laughed. “You better believe it.”

“That would be okay,” Matt said.

Sanford relaxed. They were going to be fine. All of them.

The Western White House, California

Maddy Turner’s simple request to return to Washington, D.C., as soon as possible set an incredible chain of events in motion. The Secret Service was alerted, the Federal Aviation Agency started to reserve airspace for the flight, and maintenance crews at Vandenberg Air Force Base inspected Air Force One with infinite care, preparing it for flight. However, the flight crew remained undisturbed so they would be fully rested and fresh in the morning. The White House communications section was in overdrive as it prepared to switch its focus from the West Coast to Air Force One and finally to the White House. And the list went on and on.

Joe Litton, Maddy’s press secretary, took a devilish delight in rousing the press corps that traveled with the president with the news. He rationalized that if he was up and working at four in the morning, so should they.

In the midst of all this activity, the Western White House was an oasis of calm purpose. The president was dressed for travel and sitting in her makeshift office in the family room. She showed no fatigue from being up most of the night and was busily at work. Her staff was fully reconciled to her workaholic ways, certain they could sleep most of the way to Washington.

Nancy Bender, Maddy’s new personal assistant, was with her, reconciling her personal schedule. When they finished, Nancy stood to leave. “Madame President, please have the duty officer call me the next time you wake early.”

“Nancy, you’re five months pregnant. I’m not a slave driver.”

Nancy smiled. “Yes, you are. But I knew that when I took this job. When I can’t do it, I’ll tell you.”

“I do worry about you.”

“Thank you, Madame President. But I’m fine.” And she was.

Parrish was next. “The latest weather report,” he said, handing it to her. “The storm’s finally breaking up. We should have some good weather for the next seven or eight days.”

“It’s about time. Have FEMA be ready with a full assessment when we get back to Washington. I want to brief key members of Congress on the situation and our relief efforts. And I’ll need to speak to the country.”

Parrish made the appropriate notes. “Mazie’s in the command post reviewing the latest message traffic from the Sit Room.”

“Show her right in when she’s ready.” Maddy leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. “Any news on Brian?”

“I’ll check,” Parrish said.

“Am I becoming obsessive?”

“He is your son. I’d be bouncing off the walls if my kid was missing.”

“He’s not exactly missing, just out of contact.”

Parrish hurried out to check the hot line the communications section was keeping open to NMMI.

Maddy let her mind wander for a few moments. Brian was there, so much a part of her life. At times, his image and Sarah’s joined. Her beautiful children whom she loved more than life itself. Then another image appeared—Matt Pontowski. She opened her eyes. Mazie was poised in the doorway, immaculately dressed and all business.

“Good morning, Madame President.” She sat down and handed Maddy the PDB. “This just came in. Vashin is the lead topic.”

For once, Maddy did not read it. “Did they get him?”

“The Poles shot down the airliner he was supposed to be on. His death hasn’t been confirmed yet. There is bad news. Two of the Polish aircraft are missing.” She paused. “You did know Matt Pontowski led the mission?” A short nod answered her. “One of them is his aircraft.”

“Is he dead?”

“I was with him in China. The man’s a survivor.”

The images came flooding back and Maddy was with
him in his room at the Escalante family ranch looking at the portrait. Their lips brushed. She forced the memories back into their carefully guarded niches. She was still the president. “Tell me as soon as you learn anything.”

“I imagine,” Mazie continued, “the Germans will reconsider their position in Poland and be very anxious to get on board now.”

“Tell von Lubeck they missed the boat.”

Mazie allowed a little smile. “That will turn up the heat.”

“Indeed,” Maddy answered, steel in her voice.

“That’s all I have, Madame President. But there’s one thing I’ve always wondered about. What was it that put you onto Vashin so quickly?”

“It was the heads, remember? It was such a bizarre gesture. It told me everything about him. I couldn’t ignore it.”

Again, Maddy leaned back into the couch and closed her eyes. The waiting was unbearable. Mazie didn’t move. Then she reached out and gently touched the president’s hand. “They’ll be okay,” she predicted. Their hands clasped and for a few moments, the two women sat there, alone, as the world swirled around them.

The phone buzzed and Mazie picked it up. She listened and, without a word, handed it to Maddy. Brian’s voice came on the line, full of life. “Mom!” Maddy had to pull away, his voice was so loud. “You can’t believe what happened!” He was bubbling with excitement.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

“Naw. A little scraped up, maybe.” He started to babble again, eager to tell her the whole story.

A duty officer from the mobile command post came to the door and motioned to Mazie. He handed her a message and left. Mazie quickly read it and passed it to Maddy. It was from Poland. Maddy’s spirits soared. “Brian, slow down. I can hardly understand a word you’re saying.”

“Mom, are you crying?”

Moscow

The door clanged open and light streamed into the small, dank cell. Geraldine shielded her eyes from the blinding glare, barely able to see the two hulking silhouettes standing in the doorway. She fought for control of her bowels. The old Soviet system might have been dead and buried for more than a decade, but this was still the dreaded Lubyanka, once the home of the KGB and now the headquarters of the Federal Counter-Intelligence Service. “Miss Blake,” one of the shadows said, “please come with us.” She followed them into the corridor, surprised at how clean and bright it was. They led her to a shower room where a woman handed her fresh clothes from her apartment.

“Please hurry,” the woman said, pointing to a shower. “President Rodonov is waiting.”

“President Rodonov?” Geraldine asked. “Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense?” The woman nodded and handed her a bar of soap and a towel. Geraldine dropped the gray prison dress she had worn since being arrested and stepped into the shower. The hot water coursed over her and, slowly, her mind started to function. She wasn’t dead yet.

Rodonov placed his tea cup down when Geraldine joined him, her hair still wet from the shower. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her clothes were perfectly arranged and she still carried herself like a queen, a far cry from the West Acton railroad estate in London where she grew up. He motioned her to a chair. “Vashin is dead.”

She nodded at the obvious. Rodonov had used the time since his reprieve wisely. Sooner or later, Vashin would have ordered his execution and it was a matter of who could strike first. “Who killed him?”

“The Poles shot down his aircraft.”

“And you let them?”

“Let’s say we encouraged them. Of course, we had to defend his aircraft in case he survived.” He sipped at his tea. “The loss of a Tupolev and four escort fighters was a small price to pay to save Russia.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You know more about the
vor
and the Mafiya than any other person, yet you are not one of them. I want you to work as my special assistant.”

The offer was obvious. She was the ultimate insider and what she knew would be critical in any fight against the
vor
and the Mafiya. And it would keep her alive. “If I refuse?”

Rodonov shrugged and looked at his feet, toward the cells in the basement. She understood. “Aren’t you worried that I work for the CIA?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffed. “Johnson works for the CIA. Marshal Prudnokov developed that connection for us.”

“Another promotion? I didn’t know commanding Transport Aviation could be so rewarding.”

“The rewards of success are great,” Rodonov reminded her.

“Since Mikhail is dead and there is no question as to my loyalty…”

Rodonov interrupted her. “We know you work for the British.”

“MI6 does pay well,” she murmured.

“We pay better.”

“I do hope so,” she replied, sealing the deal.

Warsaw

The doctor bent Matt Pontowski’s right leg and prodded the muscle. Pontowski groaned loudly, the pain intense. “Very good,” the doctor said, obviously proud of his
handiwork. “You were lucky we saved your life, much less the leg.” His fingers felt the kneecap. “You Americans have done wonders with artificial joints. But I’m afraid you’ll never fly again.”

“Maybe not a jet,” Pontowski said, gritting his teeth. What should have been a routine ejection from the F-16 had turned into a disaster. His jet had flamed out from fuel starvation thirty miles short of the airfield and he had punched out under ideal conditions. But he had not separated cleanly from the seat and had landed unconscious. The parachute shrouds had twisted around his leg and the inflated canopy had dragged him into a fence where he had almost bled to death before a farmer rescued him. Somewhere, he had shattered his kneecap, probably on landing.

“Please see your own physician when you’re in America,” the doctor said, dismissing him.

Pontowski thanked him and said good-bye to his nurses, who seemed both sad and happy to see him go. He limped out of the hospital and into a bright spring day. He stood in the sunlight, glorying in the moment. It was good to be alive.
Matt’s vacation starts in three weeks
, he thought.
Plenty of time to get home
.

A silver-gray Mercedes-Benz sedan pulled up and Jerzy Fedor stepped out. “May I offer you a ride?”

“Why?”

“I would like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping us.”

Pontowski felt the anger boil to the surface. This was the man he had been warned repeatedly not to trust. “What’s your game, Mr. Fedor?”

Fedor smiled, his cadaverous face for once full of life and warmth. “The game we Poles have played for centuries: survival. Think of it as all ends against the middle.”

“And I was one of the ends.”

“Actually, a means to achieve an end.” He could tell Pontowski didn’t understand. “It’s difficult to explain. The Polish heart has always needed men we can believe in if we are going to act. Look at our recent history; Kosciuszko, our poets…”

Pontowski interrupted him. “Like Adam Mickiewicz.”

“And our composers like Chopin. Men of action like Josef Pilsudski. Men of God like Archbishop Stefan Wyszyński and Karol Wojtyla. They give us focus. Yet, sometimes, we are our own worst enemies when we follow the wrong star.”

“What was my role in all this?”

“As long as you were involved, we were certain the United States would not desert us.” Again, the smile. “Perhaps it’s best that you’re leaving.”

“There’s someone I want to see first.”

“Ewa Pawlik, no doubt.”

“I could have sworn she came to my room when I was still delirious.”

“Let her go. She served her purpose.”

“To keep me involved.”

“Would you have flown that mission if you had not…” Fedor let his voice trail off.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s because you have a Polish heart,” Fedor said. He extended his hand in friendship.

The White House

Patrick Flannery Shaw came through the southwest gate of the White House. An escort hurried him up West Executive Avenue and into the West Basement. The president sat in the small break room next to the mess, stirring a bowl of popcorn and talking to the on-duty chef. “Patrick,” she said, “would you like something to eat?” He shook his head and the chef left, closing the door behind them.

“Just like old times in Sacramento,” Shaw said. He sat down and poured himself a healthy shot of Jack Daniel’s. He had been expecting this conversation, but not quite under these circumstances.

“Stephan Serick wants to resign,” Maddy said.

Shaw sipped the whiskey. “I hadn’t heard.” A mental picture of the crusty secretary of state stomping down the hall with his cane played in the back of his mind. “He
got his feelings hurt over the way you handled the Germans. Tell him you need him, give him a few ego strokes, and he’ll roll over like a puppy dog.”

She stirred the popcorn with a forefinger before taking a nibble. “How much harder should I push Leland over Maura’s photo? I think he wants to declare a cease-fire.”

“It kept him preoccupied. Not a single word from the jackass about Poland.”

“Poland was a sideshow,” Maddy said.

“But it could have blown up in your face,” Shaw replied. The president turned inward, thinking. When she looked at him, Shaw’s stomach lurched. He had never seen that look before. “Mizz President, is this a come-to-Jesus meeting?”

She didn’t answer, which only made it worse. “Patrick, you gave that photo of Maura to Leland’s staff.”

Shaw gulped. His worst nightmare had just come true. “I only dangled the bait. They were so eager, they took it hook, line, and sinker. I was lucky to get my hand back.”

“Why?”

“So you’d have a damn big club to beat Leland with.”

“Have I ever played the game that way?”

Shaw was genuinely apologetic. “No, Ma’am, you haven’t.” He had to explain himself, justify his actions. “I was certain Maura could handle it, might even enjoy it. I never figured her for a heart attack. She’s so strong.”

“Indeed she is.” Silence. Then, “Why Matt? Why did you drive him away?”

Shaw heard the tone in her voice and he sighed loudly. This was his swan song, probably the last time he would ever speak to her. He lowered his head, waiting for the guillotine blade. “Look at his track record.” He snorted. “Women chase him down the street tearing their clothes off. My gawd! He’s got more temptation coming his way than half the state of Texas.”

She gave him a sad look. Shaw would never understand that passion was a law unto itself, without rhyme or reason. It was simply there, or it wasn’t, and no person could control it. “He is exciting,” she allowed.

“Mizz President, beneath that crooked grin and straight teeth is a certified aerial assassin. He may look civilized,
but he’s got a switch somewhere inside him that turns him into pure aggression. And based on what happened with Brian, his son is a chip off the old block. It’s gotta be in the genes.” He took a deep breath. “He’s all wrong for you.”

“Why?”

“Because people love scandal and Leland was going to use him as a club. He was gonna cost you the election.”

“True.”

Shaw’s mouth fell open in awe. She had used him! She had held him close enough to do the dirty work and still kept him at arm’s length. “If I’d have screwed up, you’d have nailed me to the wall.”

“In a heartbeat,” she replied, mimicking his tone.

“But you’ll never forgive me for chasing him away, will you?”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’ll find my way back to him.” She smiled. “At the right time. But in the future, he’s off-limits to you.” They sat there, still old friends. “Patrick, when
do
I announce for reelection?”