Firebreak (18 page)

Like most Air Force reports, the details and meat of the accident board’s findings were in the appendix. She flipped to the back and ferreted out details. The descriptions under the Cause of Death section brought tears to her eyes and she thought about the one man other than Zack Pontowski she had ever loved. Tom Dennison had been a Navy fighter pilot who had found a watery grave while making a night carrier landing in heavy weather. She remembered the way he had laughed when he told her, “Peacetime readiness inspections are like mess-hall cuisine—a contradiction in terms. No combat-ready unit ever passed an inspection.”

“Well, I know two people who should see this,” she told her cat. Then she thought about Fraser. “Perhaps, I should drop in on Mrs. Pontowski.” Caesar purred his approval.

Ambler Furry wandered through the squadron looking for Matt. He finally found his pilot alone in the Intelligence section, his head buried in a report on the combat capabilities of the new Soviet fighter, the Su-27 Flanker. “The squadron still avoiding you?” Furry asked and flopped his bulk down on the couch beside him.

“Yeah, like the plague.” Rather than talk about that, Matt changed the subject. “You know, the Intel weinies say I’m the first one in the squadron to read this.” He waved the report at Furry.

“It does get your attention, doesn’t it. Whatcha think?”

“It’s getting tough out there. Better than the MiG-Twenty-nine Fulcrum. I think they’ve finally got a counter to the Eagle.”

“Probably,” Furry allowed, “but they won’t use it right. To match us, they’ve got to train like we do and that means their pilots would have to learn to think for themselves. There’s no way the commissars will chance that. Hell, independent judgment goes against their basic doctrine and scares the hell out ‘em.”

“They can’t be that stupid,” Matt said.

“Well, they have been so far. Kinda encouraging, isn’t it?” Matt agreed with him. “Speaking of encouraging, I think you should read this.” Furry pulled a folded copy of the accident report out of a leg pocket on his flight suit and threw it at Matt. He sat and waited while the pilot read it. When Matt looked up, Furry was smiling.

“Shit hot!” Matt shouted. The report completely cleared him and laid the blame squarely on pilot error when Colonel Raider took unauthorized control of Locke’s aircraft. The bitterness that had soured Matt’s existence shattered as the self-doubts that had driven him to the edge of despair evaporated. He had not been responsible for the accident and there it was for all the world to see.

“Kinda encouraging, isn’t it?” Furry allowed. He got up to leave. “I’ll leave that copy for the squadron to read. Looks like you’re home free.”

For a moment, Matt was at a loss for words. “I think I’ll take some leave now and go home. My grandmother’s not well …”

“Can you hold off on that for a few days?” Furry asked. “We need to rub a few assholes in the dirt on an exercise we got coming up.” A wicked look crossed the wizzo’s face.

“I can do that.”

Furry grunted and turned to leave.

“Amb,” Matt said. “Thanks.”

“I’m so glad you came.” Tosh Pontowski smiled from her bed. She was sitting up and feeling much better. The surge of hope Melissa felt when she saw how much the President’s wife had improved brightened her smile. “Don’t be fooled,” Tosh told her. “This damn disease comes and goes. Right now it’s in remission.” She patted the bed beside her, wanting Melissa to sit close. The last thing the President’s wife wanted was sympathy. She considered her fight against lupus, which means “wolf” in Latin, her own personal battle.

The two women were old friends and for a few minutes talked and laughed about day-to-day life around the White House. Melissa could see Tosh grow tired as they talked and fought back her tears, thinking how unfair it was that such a vibrant woman who had given so much was being ravished by lupus. “I heard some good news about Matt,” Melissa said. She could see Tosh brighten. “The Air Force cleared him of the accident. A friend sent me a copy of the accident report. She thought we’d like to know right away. She said otherwise it would be weeks before we heard.” Both women knew that the Pentagon would “officially” release the report only after several layers of military bureaucracy had “chopped” on it. In the process of gaining each office’s approval, it would be heavily edited.

Tears glistened in Tosh’s eyes. “That is good news. I would like to see him.”

“I can arrange that,” Melissa offered.

“No, please don’t. He is on his own.” Then another thought surfaced. Like her husband, Tosh Pontowski was a political animal and, even now, could not put her restless mind at ease. “Does Tom Fraser know about the report? That you’re here?” Melissa shook her head no to both questions. “Please don’t tell him. I would like to tell Zack.” She sank back into her pillows. “I know Tom is an excellent chief of staff … but for some reason … I just don’t like him. I’m being silly, I suppose.”

Melissa shook her head no again. “At times, he can be a real …” she didn’t finish the thought. “He is an excellent administrator, the best I’ve ever met. He works hard, very hard.” Both women understood how the chief of staff lightened the load of the President. “I’m worse than you—I don’t trust him. He wants something.” The younger woman had confirmed Tosh’s suspicions and she wanted to hear more. “Lately, B. J. Allison has been telephoning him a lot. Fraser’s driver told me he drove him to her town house at three o’clock the other morning.”

A rueful smile played across Tosh’s lips. “I wish it had been for something illicit. But not with that old biddy. Do you know she still works until three or four in the morning?”

“Well,” Melissa said, “rumor has it that was when she always did her best work—especially when she was younger.”

“Come now,” Tosh replied, “we mustn’t speak poorly of our elders.” Her eyes sparkled. “Especially one who is eighty-six years old.” They both laughed. Now the President’s wife grew serious. “I cannot fathom how anyone can be so greedy and grasping.” She reached out and held Melissa’s hand. “She sold her soul years ago to rise to the top of the oil industry and will do anything to protect her ties to the Middle East. I just know she wants to influence Zack’s Middle Eastern policy. That must be the reason for her interest in Fraser.” She fell silent, thinking. “Now what in the world does she have on Fraser?”

The twin five-year-old girls, Megan and Naomi, burst into the room and threw themselves onto Furry’s lap, each demanding a good-night kiss and hug before their mother hustled them upstairs to bed. A warm feeling came over Matt while he watched Ambler and his wife go through the nightly routine. He had seen it before and envied his backseater’s domestic life. Furry caught the bemused look on Matt’s face after the two little girls he called his Heckle and Jeckle scampered out of the room. “Why don’t I look forward to when they discover boys?” he asked.

“No problem,” Matt replied. “Just buy a pair of matched shotguns and make sure every lusty stud that comes around sees ‘em.”

“Ironic, isn’t it,” Furry said. “In the not too distant future, I’m going to be discouraging boys from doing the same thing I was trying to do to some father’s little girl when I was sixteen. One of the joys of being a parent, I guess.”

“Well, at least you know the opposition,” Matt said.

“Not fair,” Furry laughed. “Throwing one of my own ‘rules’ back at me.”

“It does apply,” Matt replied, “I was thinking about that when I saw the operations order for Gunslinger Four.” Gunslinger IV was the name of a NATO exercise their wing had been tasked to participate in.

“I was talking to Colonel Martin about that today,” Furry told him. Matt shook his head at the mention of the wing’s new deputy for operations. He didn’t like the man. “He wants your squadron to plan our tactics,” Furry continued. “I suggested that you do it since you just got checked out as a flight lead.”

“You must have slipped a cog,” Matt protested. “I’m not ready for that.”

“You are and Martin bought it.”

“Thanks for the favor.” Sarcasm laced Matt’s words.

“Hell, I didn’t invite you over to eat my grub and guzzle my booze for nothing. We need to talk about it.”

“Amb, let one of the old heads take it. I haven’t got a clue.”

“I remember when Jack Locke said the same thing.” Furry waited while Matt wrestled with his emotions at the mention of Locke. “Muddy Waters—”

“Why does his name keep coming up?” Matt interrupted.

“Because Waters was a rare bird. He could lead men in combat and they would follow. He didn’t let Locke off the hook and it paid off when the ragheads were pounding the hell out of us at Ras Assanya. Jack was the guy who planned the defense of the base.” For the next hour, Furry retold the story of how the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing had gotten involved in the first Persian Gulf war and had to fight its way out. Matt listened, absorbing the lessons that Furry had learned the hard way. “Then it was Locke who helped plan the rescue of the men who were left behind and captured. Locke picked up where Waters left off.”

A shattering pain beat at the pilot’s defenses. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Matt, I’m not like Waters or Locke. It’s just not in me. For that matter, I only know one person who is.” He paused. “You.”

Matt stared at his backseater and his pain yielded to disbelief. He didn’t believe what Furry had said. “That’s bullshit.”

“Nope. Fact. Time you proved it.”

Matt stood up and paced the floor. “What the hell is this? Some type of buck-the-kid-up session?”

“It’s what the Air Force is all about,” the major told him, not about to let the pilot off the hook. “We take our losses, learn from our mistakes, and get on with the job. Now it’s your turn.”

“Amb, I can’t do it.”

“You’ll never know until you try.”

“Look, it’s late and I got to go,” Matt said. Furry nodded and walked him to the door. His wife joined them as they stood talking and hugged him good-bye. They watched Matt retreat down the walk before closing the door.

“You really upset him,” she said. “Can he handle it?”

“Yeah,” Furry answered, “he can handle it. But he doesn’t know it yet.”

The next morning, Matt walked into Wing Intelligence and asked to see the operations order for Gunslinger IV. After wading through the dull document, he had one of the sergeants pin a large-scale chart of the exercise area up on a wall in the mission planning room and cover it with acetate. Then he sharpened a grease pencil and pulled a chair up in front. He straddled the chair backward, his arms resting on the back and looked at the chart, determined to make something happen.

“It’s our hands,” Shoshana said.

“What about them?” Habish replied as he fought the steering wheel and guided the truck along the rutted track that passed for a road. He tried to pick out the smoothest path, aware that every bump and jolt hurt Avidar.

“They’re not hard and calloused like my father’s. He grew up on a kibbutz and still goes there for vacations.”

“So some people have funny ideas about vacations,” Habish countered. “We need to find a place to spend the night.”

“Our hands are too soft and clean. If we hit a roadblock, someone might notice.”

“That’s why we’re on these back roads—to avoid roadblocks.” The trail in front of them split and Habish stopped the truck. Shoshana automatically picked up the compass and one of Avidar’s maps and got out of the truck. In Iraq, only the military and intelligence agencies were given accurate maps. But in the early days of the operation, Avidar had replaced the hard disk in his computer with a spare one he had brought in with him as a “repairman.” The disk contained a cartographic data base and he was able to make maps that rivaled anything the Iraqis had. The map Shoshana and Habish were using included the web of dirt roads and tracks that crisscrossed Iraq and allowed them to avoid using the main highway from Baghdad to Kirkuk. But they had paid a price; it had taken them forty-eight hours to cover 125 miles and they still had 60 miles more to go.

Shoshana took a compass reading, oriented the map, and looked around to see if she could find a recognizable landmark for a bearing. Habish bent over the map and pointed to a spot north of the city of Tuz Khurmatu. “We should be about here.” She agreed and climbed into the rear of the truck to check on Avidar. He was shivering, bathed in sweat and half conscious.

“Please,” she whispered, “not this.” She felt his forehead and almost panicked. He was burning with fever. “Gad! Avidar’s fever is up.”

“Bathe his head in water,” Habish called from under the truck. He was rubbing his hands in the grease and dirt on the truck’s differential. Within moments, he was bending over her shoulder. “See if you can get four aspirins down him,” he said. She rummaged in the makeshift first aid kit and wished they had decent medical supplies. Not that it would do much good, she thought, I’m worthless when it comes to this. She shook four aspirins into her hand and held them to Avidar’s mouth. “No, you fool,” Habish said. “He’ll choke. Crush them and dissolve them in water. Get him to sip the water.” He climbed back into the cab and started the engine, pressing toward Kirkuk.

An hour later, they ran into their first roadblock. The two soldiers were surprised to see the truck grinding along the little used road and hurried to throw their rifles over their shoulders and block the road. Both were trying to act bored and dangerous. Habish took in the poor condition of their rifles and shabby appearance with a practiced eye. “Roadblock,” he warned Shoshana.

The soldiers waved the truck to a stop and ordered Habish to get out. While the older of the two examined the tattered identification booklets Habish produced, the other stuck his head into the truck. A half sneer crossed his face when he saw only Shoshana. She had hidden Avidar under a blanket and behind some baskets. “Get out,” he ordered and unlimbered his rifle.

Shoshana understood the simple command in Arabic and got out. “Your name,” he barked. Fear paralyzed Shoshana. She understood what he had said but could not remember the name Avidar had given her on the false ID he had made at the safe house.

“Her name is Zanab,” Habish answered.

The soldier shoved Shoshana toward Habish. “I asked her, pig-face.” He jabbed the butt of his rifle into Habish’s stomach and took a great deal of satisfaction in watching him crumble to the ground. Then he kicked viciously at Habish and forced him to roll under the truck.

“Farmers,” the older soldier laughed, “care more about their goats than their wives. Leave him while we see what we have here.” He grabbed Shoshana’s shawl and ripped it away. “Very pretty for a farmer’s wife.”

“Too good for a farmer is you ask me.” The leer that crossed the teenager’s face hardened and aged him. “Make her undress.” They both laughed. Shoshana did not understand what they had said and stood silently, determined not to say a word. The older of the two drew his bayonet and used it to poke at her clothes. He pulled the loose-fitting dress away from her body with the point and then shoved the bayonet through the fabric, ripping it away. “You’re using the wrong bayonet!” the teenager laughed.

“Be patient,” the soldier said and methodically cut the rest of her clothes away. When he was finished, both men were absolutely silent astounded at their good luck.

Shoshana stood there and looked away from the man standing in front of her as he shucked off his equipment and pulled his pants down. She had thought about the possibility of rape before. She could feel the Iraqi’s heavy breath on her as he fumbled at the combo pen between her breasts. With a vicious jerk he ripped the tube free and threw it at the other soldier. “Probably money,” he said and turned his full attention back to Shoshana.

The words of one of her instructors in training came back. “Give them what they want, anything. If they want your money, give it to them. If they want your clothes, take them off. Give them your body. Give them your dignity. But if there is one thing you cannot give them, then you must either kill them or be killed.” The soldier pushed her to the ground and forced her legs apart. She looked at Habish lying under the truck. He was staring at the soldier holding the combo pen—the one thing they could not give them.

The soldier slapped her hard and threw his weight on her, pinning her down. His head jerked around when he heard a loud
phut.
Shoshana bucked, threw the man off, and rolled free. Avidar was standing over the crumpled body of the young soldier and aiming a pistol at the half-naked man.

“No!” Habish shouted. He rolled out from under the truck and stood up. He took the Walther from Avidar and shoved the muzzle under the soldier’s chin, barraging him with questions in Arabic.

Avidar collapsed to the ground and Shoshana ran to him, not caring that she was naked. He was jerking convulsively and consumed with fever. She dragged him back into the truck and wrapped him in a blanket. In desperation, she wrapped another blanket around both of them, hoping her body heat would help. Slowly, the tremors wracking his body slowed, then stopped. His breathing was almost normal when she heard the Walther’s distinctive
phut
from outside.

Then Habish was standing at the rear of the truck. “I need your help. We need to make it look like these two deserted and took off.” He turned away and went to work while Shoshana found another dress to wear. Not exactly like a farmer’s wife, she thought, but close enough. She jumped out of the truck and found him digging a shallow grave.

“Maybe we ought to bury the bodies away from here,” she suggested. Habish nodded and within minutes, they had buried the soldiers’ equipment and loaded the two bodies into the rear of the truck and were moving again. “We need to get Avidar to a doctor. I think his wound is infected.”

Habish concentrated on driving and did not answer. He stopped the truck in the middle of an open area and told her to look for a dip or gully in the ground that could not be seen from the road. “They won’t stop and search an obvious open area,” he told her. Sixty meters from the truck, Shoshana found a slight depression, little more than a dent in the ground. She lay down in it and called for Habish. “Where are you?” he answered. When she stood up, he waved his approval. Within minutes, they had buried the soldiers and were driving away. “Always remember,” he said, “the best place to hide is like that. Here,” he handed her the combo pen, “hide this.”

She opened the front of her dress and shoved the tube between her breasts. “That won’t work,” she said to herself. “Stop the truck.”

She jumped out and ran around to the rear, reached under and rolled the tube over the differential, smearing it with grease and dirt. Then she climbed back into the cab and dropped it on the floorboards at their feet. Habish nodded in approval. “We still need to find a doctor.” She wouldn’t let it go.

“The guard,” Habish said, “told me that the army has thrown up roadblocks all over the place in the last two days. They were told to stop and check everyone. Anyone who looked the least suspicious or foreign is to be detained.”

“What do we do now?” Shoshana could feel the panic in her building.

“The obvious. We get on the main road and look like everyone else.”

“We’ll run into another roadblock.”

“That’s true,” he conceded. “But we’ll be just another truck of farmers in a long line of trucks. Maybe the soldiers won’t be so interested in rape if we’re in a crowd.”

“They’ll see Avidar and—”

“We tell them up front that he’s sick—delirious and violent—and we’re taking him to a doctor. If they get too curious, I’ll tell them that he was bitten by a mad dog. They won’t mess with a case of rabies.”

Shoshana brightened, feeling more confident. “Maybe we can get directions to a doctor at a roadblock.” Habish didn’t answer and they drove in silence until they joined the main road and fell in behind a string of trucks moving toward Kirkuk.

Of all things available to Zack Pontowski, privacy was the hardest to come by and he was enjoying the unscheduled break in the clay’s schedule. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his fingers interlaced across his stomach, for all appearances asleep. It was the picture of an old man dozing on a park bench. But he was working. He sorted through the jumble of facts, opinions, and guesses that were piling up around the events taking place in Russia and the Middle East, evaluating them with his own set of mental filters and prisms.

Pontowski had a view of the world created by long and hard experience and knew better than to try to interpret events by holding them up against a fixed belief of what should be. That was a sure formula for failure. Instead of lamenting about the perversity of a world that did not match the vision of a true believer, he relished the challenge of creating a foreign policy, a course of action for his country, that was as clever, varied, and devious as the world itself.