Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  PART ONE

  ONE

  Warrensburg, Missouri

  The phone call came just after four in the morning. At first, Matt Pontowski ignored it and buried his head deeper in the pillow. Most likely, it was for Sam and she would answer it. But Samantha Darnell wasn’t there. The phone rang a fourth time and he rolled over, reaching for the offending instrument. “Pontowski,” he muttered. He never used his rank, brigadier general, when answering the phone.

  “General Pontowski, would you please hold for the superintendent of NMMI.” It was a male voice he did not recognize and suddenly, he was fully awake. The empty feeling left in Sam’s wake was engulfed by a rogue wave of panic.

  He clenched the telephone as he waited and the grisly images that haunt parents when their children are away from home came out of the shadowy recesses of his subconscious. Little Matt is just sick, he told himself. But would the superintendent of New Mexico Military Institute personally call for that? Probably not. It had to be bad news, very bad. Get a grip! he raged to himself. You’re obsessing.

  The male voice was back. “I apologize for the delay, but the general is still on the other line. He’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Pontowski grunted an answer. Years of flying and commanding the 442nd Fighter Wing, an Air Force Reserve outfit of A-10 Warthogs, had conditioned him to be calm and in control at all times, regardless of the circumstances. He fought the urge to shout “Is my son okay?” Instead, he waited. Why did he ever let his only son, his living link to Shoshana, go off to the military academy known simply as the Hill?

  “General Pontowski,” the superintendent finally said, his voice carefully modulated and carrying weight, “John McMasters here. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I was talking to the White House. Your son was in a fight with Brian Turner. No one was really hurt.” The superintendent paused to let his words sink in. Like every parent with a son or daughter at NMMI, Pontowski knew that Brian Turner, the son of the forty-fourth president of the United States, had enrolled in NMMI in the same ninth-grade class as Little Matt.

  Pontowski shook his head in disbelief. Then it hit him. Brian Turner was a strapping fourteen-year-old with at least six inches and forty pounds on Little Matt. It was with good reason his son carried his nickname and rumor had it that Brian Turner was a spoiled bully.

  “Little Matt in a fight?” Pontowski finally replied. “That’s hard to believe. How badly was he hurt?” A vision of Little Matt with a bloody nose and his face streaked with tears flashed in front of him. The poor kid was probably terrified.

  McMasters didn’t answer for a moment and Pontowski’s fears started to rise, only to be submerged by a deep anger. Had Brian Turner mauled his son? Or had the Secret Service gotten involved and done something stupid? “For the record,” McMasters said, “Mr. Pontowski beat the living hell out of Mr. Turner who is now in the infirmary.”

  The White House

  Maura O’Keith entered her daughter’s bedroom just after seven o’clock in the morning. Madeline O’Keith Turner was sitting at the small table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, still wrapped in an oversized white terry-cloth robe, her brown eyes bright and clear. “You’re up early,” Maddy Turner said, a gentle smile on her face. Maura was not at her best in the morning, while it was Maddy’s favorite part of the day.

  Automatically, Maura pulled a hairbrush from her ever-present handbag and stood behind her daughter. She started to stroke Maddy’s dark brown hair, evaluating the stylist’s work from the day before. Maura had been a hairdresser most of her adult life and liked the way the stylist was highlighting her daughter’s hair with an auburn tint and covering up the gray hair that was beginning to streak back from her forehead. “The superintendent at NMMI telephoned early this morning. I took the call. It was nothing serious so I didn’t wake you.”

  “What’s Brian been up to now?” Maddy asked, recalling her meeting with General McMasters. “I was hoping he’d stay out of trouble a little longer.” NMMI did not tolerate problem students.

  “He was in a fight with another cadet. He got roughed up a bit and he’s in the infirmary. The doctor says he’s fine.”

  “What the hell was the Secret Service doing? It’s their job to protect him. Was it hazing? General McMasters assured me there is no hazing at NMMI.”

  Maura recognized the signs. Like most mothers, Maddy was overprotective of her son. She brushed her daughter’s hair harder. “There was no hazing and Brian started the fight.”

  “With who? Was some upperclassman harassing him because he’s my son?”

  Maura brushed a little harder, trying to get Maddy’s attention. “It was another freshman like him.”

  “Some hulking Cro-Magnon recruited to play football?”

  “No. The other cadet was much smaller. They call him Little Matt.” She could tell from the way Maddy’s shoulders slumped that she would listen now. The older woman dropped into the chair beside her daughter. She eyed the flaky croissants on the table. “I’ve got to go on a diet,” she moaned.

  Maddy laughed at the way her mother changed subjects, putting her at ease. “If you can’t be happy with your weight at sixty-nine, when can you?”

  “It’s easy for you to say. You haven’t gained a pound in ten years.”

  It was true, Maddy Turner still had a trim figure. But in private moments in front of her bathroom mirror, she hated the middle-age sag that was assaulting parts of her body. Madeline O’Keith Turner sighed and faced the truth. “Brian’s a bully, isn’t he?” No answer from Maura. “Should we leave him at NMMI?”

  “If we can.”

  Maddy shook her head. “I can’t break away every time he gets into trouble.” She looked at her mother. “Can you fly to New Mexico and sort it out?”

  Maura nodded. “I’ll take Sarah with me.” Sarah was Maddy’s eleven-year-old daughter, a happy, uncomplicated little girl who hadn’t discovered boys—yet.

  “You knew I’d ask, didn’t you?”

  Again, Maura nodded. “I asked Richard to arrange it.” Richard Parrish was Maddy’s efficient chief of staff. “We’re leaving this morning.”

  Maddy stood up. Her day had started. “Thanks, Mother.”

  At exactly eight o’clock, Turner left the second-floor residence of the White House and made her way down the hall, heading for the West Wing. Because it was summer, she was wearing an off-white linen business suit with a simple light-blue blouse. As always, her hemline ended six inches above the floor. Turner had made it the accepted style and certain fashion mavens had predicted that if she ever raised her hemline, the world would turn upside down at the sight of presidential legs. Her makeup was undetectable and perfect, highlighting her high cheekbones. She wore little jewelry, only small earrings and the delicate and intricate gold chain that had become her trademark necklace. Her husband had bought it for her on their honeymoon in Greece and she was never seen without it.

  Her daily commute to work was a well-rehearsed drill as Richard Parrish and her personal assistant, a quiet, handsome young man named Dennis flanked her. Dennis slouched along, never taking notes or consulting a calendar. He had a photographic, computer-like mind that never failed him. But each evening, after escorting Turner back to the residence, he would update the computer on his desk—just in case. Besides being discreet and totally dedicated to Turner, hidden underneath his bland surface was the personality of a pit bull.

  Parrish was talking. “The attorney general is very worried and wants to act now.”

  “Frank is always worried,” Turner replied. “He sees a crisis around every corner and a conspirator behind every tree.”

  “Sometimes he’s right,” Parrish told her. “I asked Mazie to join us.” Mazana Kamigami Hazelton was Turner’s national security advisor. Better known as Mazie to her friends, the petite and beautiful Japanese-American from Hawaii was commonly referred to as “the Dragon Lady” in the halls and offices of Congress.

  “Mazie will keep him honest,”
Turner said.

  “Keep the attorney general honest,” Dennis intoned, entering it in his mental computer.

  “Delete that,” Turner ordered. Dennis did. He opened the door to the Oval Office and President Madeline Turner entered the arena.

  Until she retreated to the residence in fourteen hours, she would seldom be alone. Every minute was scheduled. Before lunch, she would hold a policy review meeting, a staff meeting, and a cabinet meeting. In between, a succession of two groups and three individuals would troop through the Oval Office for a brief introduction to the president. The morning would climax with a press conference which always took longer than scheduled. After lunching with three federal judges and six members of Congress, she would spend thirty minutes in the Rose Garden for photo opportunities with various visiting dignitaries, swim forty laps in the pool, meet with her National Security Advisory Group, meet eight more people in the Oval Office, and spend time with her chief of staff and his assistants planning future trips and events. Then she would change into formal attire to speak at a “Save the Children” banquet. She would finally return to the White House at 10:00 P.M. But her day was not finished. She always read for another two hours before retiring. And sometime in between, she would have to call Maura and her son.

  All told, an easy day.

  The three men who made up Turner’s Policy Review Committee and Mazie Hazelton were waiting for her. Since the attorney general had asked for the meeting, he sat on the end of the couch closest to Turner’s rocking chair. He nervously fingered his notes as she sat down. Madeline Turner was famous, or infamous, depending on the point of view, for galloping through meetings.

  The attorney general cleared his throat and began. “Special Services claims Yaponets is a bigger problem in prison than on the outside,” he said. Special Services was the Department of Justice’s spy system inside the federal prison system and Yaponets, Russian for Japanese, was a senior godfather from eastern Russia and the leading member of the Russian Mafiya currently in an American jail. He was a burly, sixty-four-year-old man and anything but Japanese.

  “What’s the problem?” Turner asked.

  “He’s organizing crime on the outside from the inside,” the attorney general answered. “He’s using our prisons as a command center, a recruiting ground, and as a graduate school for criminals.”

  “Isolate him,” Turner said. “Take his telephone away. Throw him in solitary.”

  “We would if we could,” the attorney general said. “But the ACLU and prisoners-rights organizations would be on our case in a flash. Not to mention some of the highest-priced legal assassins in the country.” Silence. A fact of life in the United States was that ROC, or Russian organized crime, had bought access into every aspect of American life through large charitable donations, political campaign contributions, and astronomical retainer fees paid to some of the craftiest lawyers in the United States.

  “What happened to deportation?” the president asked.

  “That’s what I was going to recommend,” the attorney general replied.

  Now it was Richard Parrish’s turn. As Turner’s chief of staff and primary political advisor, he was always looking for hazards. “That’s political suicide. Senator Leland will beat us silly claiming we’re soft on crime and that we caved in to ROC.”

  “So by being tough on crime and throwing the bastards in jail,” the attorney general added, “we actually help ROC achieve its ends.”

  “It makes you long for the Cosa Nostra, doesn’t it?” Sam Kennett, the vice president, said. “At least the ‘men of honor’ were American.”

  “And not too bright,” the attorney general said.

  “Don’t sell them short,” Mazie Kamigami Hazelton said. She sat motionless in her chair, a petite beauty whose dainty feet didn’t quite reach the floor. Her words were so soft and low that it was hard to hear her. But they all fell silent when she spoke. “I agree with DOJ.” The attorney general beamed. Too often, the national security advisor was on the other side of the fence from the Department of Justice and time had a perverse way of proving her right. “We need to export our problems, not warehouse them. Exchange him.”

  “For who?” This from the attorney general.

  “Not for a who,” Mazie said. “For a what.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Turner asked.

  “Exchange him for a nuke,” Mazie answered.

  The Hill

  The immaculately restored blue-and-white T-34 Mentor approached from the north. It was flying at exactly 500 feet above the ground and 140 knots indicated airspeed as it crossed the green fairways of New Mexico Military Institute’s golf course. Pontowski rocked the wings of the old Air Force trainer he and Little Matt had lovingly rebuilt as he pulled up and headed for the airport to the south of town. The few golfers, all alumni and their guests, looked up. “Jet jockeys,” one of the golfers muttered, ignoring the fact the T-34 had a propeller.

  In his office on the second floor of Lusk Hall, Lt. Gen. (USAF ret) John McMasters sat at his desk and shook his head. “That will be Matt Pontowski,” he told the commandant who stood at the big windows overlooking the NMMI’s campus. “He likes to make an entrance.”

  “Nice airplane,” the commandant replied. “But he looked kind of low. Do you want to report him for buzzing?”

  “Matt Pontowski knows the limits,” McMasters replied. “He was at the minimums.”

  “Still,” the commandant persisted, “it might be setting a bad example for the cadets. And what will the Secret Service say?” With Brian Turner on campus, the concerns of the Secret Service were a fact of life.

  McMasters sat back in his chair. He needed to make a point to both the cadets and the Secret Service. “Get the word out that Pontowski did it by the rules and was at the legal minimum altitude. If the minimums weren’t good enough, they wouldn’t be the minimums.” The commandant nodded and headed for the door. McMasters waited until he had left before calling his residence. His wife answered on the second ring. “That was Matt’s plane,” he told her. “I told the driver picking him up to drop him off at the quarters. He’ll probably want to change and you can soften him up before sending him over.”

  Lenora McMasters knew exactly what to do.

  Forty minutes later, a female cadet saluted Pontowski when he emerged from the car depositing him at the superintendent’s quarters. “Mrs. McMasters is waiting for you,” the cadet said as Pontowski returned the salute. Pontowski was impressed with the girl’s presence and appearance. She was neatly turned out in a Class-E BDU, battle dress uniform, with rolled-up sleeves and brightly shined boots. She was five feet six inches tall, on the husky side, and her blond hair was pulled into a tight French braid. “She’s baking cookies for the Rats,” the cadet said, a pretty smile playing with the corners of her mouth.

  Pontowski glanced at her name tag. “Thank you Miss Trogger.” She held the door for him and pointed him toward the kitchen. “Now that smells good,” he said. The cadet led the way, moving with the coordination of a well-trained athlete.

  Sarah Turner saw him first. “I hope you know how to bake cookies,” she said, taking the newcomer in. She examined him with a wisdom far beyond the average eleven-year-old and knew the single star on each shoulder meant he was a general. She put his age at about the same as her mother’s, forty-six. He was tall, a little over six feet, and his gray-green flight suit hung on his lanky frame. His hair was brown, the cowlick at the back barely controllable, and his blue eyes were set close together. She didn’t like his prominent, hawklike nose and didn’t know it was a Pontowski trademark his grandfather had made famous.

  “Sarah,” Maura O’Keith said, “be polite.” She held up her hands in resignation. They were covered in cookie dough. “Maura O’Keith. Glad to meet you.”

  Pontowski gave a low laugh and rather than attempt to shake hands, gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I never baked a cookie in my life, but I’m willing to learn.”

  Lenora M
cMasters came across the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. They embraced. “Welcome back to NMMI, Matt.”

  “Doing the cookie-lady routine,” he said, holding her at arm’s length.

  She laughed. “I have no secrets from you, do I?”

  Pontowski smiled but said nothing. Lenora McMasters was a beautiful fifty-eight-year-old who was equal parts empress dowager and mother hen. Today she was being the latter, softening the shock of military life for the new sixth class. But she was not a lady to trifle with. She and her husband made a perfect team.

  “I’m Sarah Turner,” the little girl announced.

  Pontowski turned to her and they shook hands formally. “Matt Pontowski,” he replied. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Is your son a big bully?” Sarah asked.

  “Sarah!” Maura said.

  “Actually,” Pontowski said, “he’s about your size. I don’t think he’s a bully.”

  Lenora McMasters took charge. “Matt, you probably want to shower and change. Why don’t you do that while we finish up here. Then, Zeth”—she shot a look at the cadet—“can take you all over to John’s office.”

  “Thanks,” Pontowski replied. “Save a cookie for me.”

  “The guest suite is up the stairs and straight ahead,” Lenora said. They all watched as he disappeared out the door. “We first knew Matt when he was a lieutenant,” Lenora explained.

  “What was he like then?” Maura asked.

  “A typical fighter pilot. All macho and full of himself. He cut quite a swath among the young ladies. Then he got married, thank goodness.”

  “Why, thank goodness?” Sarah asked.

  “Well,” Lenora explained, shooting another glance at the cadet, Zeth Trogger, “sometimes young women act very foolish when they get around handsome young men. Especially fighter pilots.” The McMasters were always teaching.

  “Isn’t he the grandson of President Pontowski?” Sarah asked.

  Lenora confirmed it. “Yes, he is.” Her eyes grew thoughtful. “President Matthew Zachary Pontowski. What a wonderful man. That was twenty years ago. Where does time go? I can remember the day he died in 1995 as clearly as yesterday.”