Edge of Honor

by Richard Herman

  “Mikhail Andreyevich,” Kraiko began, “let me welcome you and your compatriots.” As titular head of the Russian government, Kraiko could still be counted on to perform with some dignity.

  “Give the president a drink,” Rodonov said. “It will help his backbone.” Every eye was on him. “We know why we are here.”

  “Ah,” Kraiko said, trying to regain control. “The incident in Poland last night.”

  “It was an ambush,” Rodonov said, “arranged behind our backs. It was the senseless act of criminals to protect a cargo of drugs and whores.”

  Kraiko tried to put the best face on it. “Our military transport aircraft are guaranteed the right of transit by treaty, much like the allies enjoyed with the Berlin corridor during the Cold War. The Poles tried to deny us that right last night. What happened was…”

  Rodonov interrupted him. “Murder. Unfortunately, we are involved.”

  “You are involved,” Vashin said, “in the rebirth of our country. Soon, Russia will reclaim its rightful place in the world.” Loud applause, mostly from the Mafiya side of the table, echoed over his head.

  “Why Poland?” Rodonov demanded.

  “Poland is our gateway to Western Europe.”

  “For what?” Rodonov demanded. “Your drugs?”

  Kraiko was sweating. “Poland has access to the West we lack. We must be able to move through Poland into Europe without interference.”

  “And you do this by antagonizing the Poles?” Rodonov replied.

  “We spoke to them in a way they understand,” Vashin replied.

  “I repeat, why Poland?”

  Vashin stared at Rodonov. Few people dared to question him like this. “Because Poland is part of Russia. It is our natural buffer against the West.”

  Rodonov interrupted him. “This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth.”

  Vashin spoke with a calm he didn’t feel. “An independent Poland is an insult to Russia. Stalin knew how to deal with that abortion.”

  “Ni pizdi,” Rodonov muttered. It was a fine Russian phrase that roughly translated into “don’t bullshit me.” He slapped his hands on the table. “Why Poland?”

  The men sitting on Rodonov’s side of the table had the same question. They were masters of reality, or at least what was real in Russia, and it was time for Vashin to take off the gloves. He did. “I want to make Poland the central distribution point for the world’s narcotic industry. That requires total freedom to move our products without interference or monitoring of any kind.” The men listened in silence as Vashin outlined his plan. It was criminal activity on an industrial scale that required a union of legitimate government and organized crime. If it worked as Vashin promised, it would bring a river of money and wealth flooding into Russia, changing the balance of economic power in Europe and Asia.

  “And if the Poles object, what then?” Rodonov asked.

  “Our brothers in the Polish Mafia will prevent that. They are presenting Adam Lezno and the Polish government with other problems to occupy their time. Soon the Poles will turn to us, more than willing to exchange their lust for freedom for security.” Heads nodded in agreement around the table. Poland would become a tool for rebuilding the Russian empire.

  “Poland is only the first step,” Vashin promised. “Follow me and the future is ours.” Only Rodonov did not join the heavy applause that echoed over the room.

  The meeting was over and Yaponets escorted Vashin to his waiting car. “Rodonov is a problem,” Yaponets said.

  “Sew him up,” Vashin muttered.

  “And Kraiko?”

  “Not yet. He can still be of some use.”

  The Hill

  Brian threw down his pencil in disgust. He hated writing book reports. He glanced at his watch, 9:33. Where was Little Matt? Night study hall was over and he should have been back from the library. He wandered out onto the stoop and joined two other rats who were looking over the rail. There was a commotion in one corner of the quadrangle below them. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “They got Little Matt,” one of the Rats answered. “Someone said they’re going to chair him.”

  “Oh, shit,” Brian muttered, wishing he hadn’t bragged during a bullshit session on the stoop about seeing Zeth and Rick Pelton, the regiment’s XO, sucking tongues in the library. He turned and ran for the stairs.

  But two upperclassmen were waiting for him. “Go back to your room,” one of them ordered.

  “I’m going to the TLA,” Brian said. The TLA was the Tactical Leadership Advisor, the adult officer responsible for each troop.

  “You ain’t got a problem for the TLA. Your Rat buddy does.” They backed him slowly along the stoop and into his room. “Next time, keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.” They glared at him menacingly. “This involves Pontowski, not you, so keep the fuckin’ Secret Service out of this. Got it?”

  “I got it,” Brian promised. He slammed the door behind him and flopped down on his bunk. “Fuckin’ bastards,” he muttered. He renewed his promise to leave NMMI as soon as possible. He would do it over Family Weekend during the last weekend of September when he saw his mother. Nine days, he thought, starting a countdown calendar. He came to his feet. “Ah, shit,” he moaned. He might be leaving but Little Matt liked NMMI and wanted to stay. Now Little Matt was in trouble because he had shot his mouth off. Tough shit, he told himself. It’s a free country and I can say what I want. “Ah, no,” he moaned to himself. He had to do something, anything. But he didn’t want Little Matt to get in more trouble. The cadets outside might keep him from reporting to the TLA what was happening, but they couldn’t keep him off the phone. He dialed Zeth’s number, hoping the telephones had been turned back on after night study hall. They had.

  Zeth answered on the first ring. “Some upperclassmen grabbed Maggot,” he said, using his nickname for Little Matt. “Someone said they’re going to chair him. I didn’t see which way they took him.”

  “They used to do it in the Box,” Zeth said. The Box was the quadrangle in the center of Hagerman. “But that’s too risky now. It will get them dismissed big time. They’re probably in the Tunnels where you duked it out.”

  “What are they going to do to him?” Brian asked.

  “Put a bag over his head,” Zeth answered, “strip him naked, tie him to a chair and spray him with shaving cream.”

  “Can they get away with that?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Zeth answered. She broke the connection, grabbed her flashlight, and ran for the back of the museum next door to Hagerman Barracks. She skidded down the steps and banged on the door to the Tunnels. “Open up, you freak’n assholes!” she yelled. Nothing. She shone her flashlight on the door. The recently installed lock-and-bolt system, thanks to the Secret Service, would defy a safecracker. “Where did they take him?” she wondered to herself. Then it came to her. She raced for the parade field. She had to hurry. Time was running out before the bugle sounded call to quarters. Ahead of her, on the far side of the parade field, she saw a cluster of dark figures lugging something up to the reviewing stand.

  A cadet stepped out of the shadows and stopped her. “Leave it alone,” he warned her.

  “No way,” she growled.

  “Forget it, Zeth,” the cadet said. “Pontowski has the smallest pecker I’ve ever seen on a rat.”

  “You an expert on rat penises now?” She barged past and ran across the field. Ahead, the shadowy backs of cadets formed a wall. She put on a burst of speed. “Hey!” she yelled. One of the upperclassmen turned in time to take the full blow of her running block. He fell over as she crashed into the circle, fully expecting to see Little Matt strapped naked to a chair. She had arrived in time and Little Matt was okay. But she was furious. “You sons of bitches!” she screamed.

  “Hey, Zeth,” one of the cadets said, trying to soothe her, “we’re not going to hurt him.”

  “Damn right you’re not,” she shouted. The cadet put a hand on her shoulder and tried to p
ull her out of the circle. It was a mistake. She rounded on him and threw a punch directly into his chest. Zeth was a conditioned athlete, big for a woman her age, and not afraid of any man at NMMI. Her fist was doubled into a hard knot and she punched like a man, straight from the shoulder, putting her weight behind the blow. She hit him in the sternum and knocked the wind out of him. He went down, gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come.

  “Who’s going to give him mouth-to-mouth?” she challenged. She advanced on the closest cadet. “How about you? You going to put a liplock on him. Save your buddy?” The other cadets stared at her, their eyes wide as she challenged them. “Afraid to kiss a guy?” she shouted. She snorted and bent over the prostrate cadet. She grabbed his jaw and jerked his mouth open before blowing a big puff of air into his lungs. It worked and he gasped for air.

  She stood up. “Which one of you dumb shits thought this one up?”

  “This is none of your business,” the ringleader said. “Drop it. Quit playing mother hen.”

  “I’m taking care of my troops, asshole!” She advanced on the speaker, her right hand knotted in a fist.

  “She’s crazy,” another cadet said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” They all took it as good advice and ran toward Hagerman.

  “Do it again,” she yelled, “and I’ll cut your balls off!” She turned to Little Matt. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “Who do I tell?”

  “The TLA,” she answered. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t. Not if you want to stay here. This is serious and the commandant will kick the assholes out. But you’ll be blamed for it. Find another way to even the score.”

  The two undercover Secret Service agents posing as track coaches and living in the top-floor apartment of the north tower of Hagerman Barracks had recorded the entire incident through a night-vision scope. “Should we tell the superintendent?” one asked.

  “Nah,” the other replied. “Brian wasn’t involved and she stopped it before they got started.” He thought for a moment. “I wish Brian would grow up and think about his buddies for a change.”

  The other agent agreed. “He’s a spoiled bastard.”

  The White House

  Madeline Turner relaxed into her chair and sipped the freshly brewed tea she loved. The cup in her hand was a beautiful and delicate creation that was being called the “Turner Collection.” Is that what I’ll be remembered for? she wondered. It was a quiet moment in her day and she savored the serenity of her private study. Unlike the Oval Office next door, this retreat had become her place.

  She glanced at the grandmother clock in the corner. It was time to end her day. She leaned forward and set her cup down before resting her elbows on her desk. She clasped her hands together and considered what she was going to do. The silence around her was punctuated by an occasional sound, little more than a murmur in the background of the real world outside. She lived in a confined world where every word she uttered, every move she made, every hand she reached out for, was considered the people’s business. Yet, in the end, it always came down to this: she was alone.

  The intercom buzzed. “The Senate just approved Bender,” Parrish said. “They’re on their way back.”

  “Please show them right in,” she replied, breaking the connection. She had a few more moments to herself. She focused her thinking on the problem at hand, determined to move it to a back burner so she could move on to other issues. Her decision made, she thought about Brian’s phone call. I’m not going to let him quit, she thought. Not yet.

  A polite knock on the door rechanneled her attention as Richard Parrish held the door for Sam Kennett to enter. Mazie and Bender followed him in. As usual, Parrish settled into a corner chair, at the meeting but not part of it. What he had to say would come later when he was alone with the president. “Well done,” Turner said. “That was the fastest confirmation vote we’ve had.”

  A rueful look spread across the vice president’s face. “We paid a price for it. Leland’s on a slow boil and the pressure is building.”

  “Is he going to be a problem?” Bender asked.

  “Not for you,” Kennett answered. “For us. Leland considers the appointment of ambassadors his personal bailiwick, regardless of what the Constitution says.”

  “The good senator,” Turner said, “doesn’t have to live with the consequences of what he does. We do. Robert, I’m worried that Poland is destabilizing and Russia is a major player.”

  “And has delusions of empire,” Mazie added.

  “When we were in Poland on vacation,” Kennett said, “I got the impression of a country on the edge. Everyone was worried about crime and the Russians. Unfortunately, the secretary of state has a different interpretation.”

  “That’s why Stephan is not here,” Turner replied.

  “In Serick’s defense,” Mazie said, “the exact contours of the problem are still emerging. We simply don’t know who is doing what to whom. He’s also worried about the Germans and, to be perfectly honest, so am I.”

  Turner nodded. Mazie was one of her most valued counselors because she was not afraid to disagree. Turner steepled her fingers and studied them. “I will not see Poland partitioned a fifth time, not in my presidency.”

  “Madame President,” Kennett said, “I don’t think we have to worry about that. This is the twenty-first century.”

  “I hope you’re right. Robert, find out what is going on over there. I want to know where we can help and what we can offer them to stabilize the situation. I want to put some counters on the table.”

  Bender was stunned. These were explicit marching orders and his spirits soared. He was done with the endless meetings, the talking, the political give-and-take that marked life in Washington. He was returning to the danger zone where the action was. He was back on the wire! Then reality came crashing down. He was still an ambassador reporting to the secretary of state. Everything he said or did would be filtered through the bureaucracy of the State Department. Hard experience had taught him that bureaucracies were immovable objects with a life of their own, resistant to change. “One of the best fighter pilots who ever strapped on a jet always said that when things go wrong, get aggressive. I don’t think the State Department is quite ready for that approach to foreign policy.”

  “There will be resistance,” Mazie said, thinking about her husband who was a comer at State. “We need to set up a separate reporting channel so we know what you are telling State.”

  “That’s easily arranged,” Parrish said. “But Serick will be furious if he learns about it.”

  Turner drummed her fingers on her desk. The meeting was about over. “I want results. We are not going to be caught with our options down. Mazie, open up a back channel to Robert and stay on top of the situation.” She looked around the room. “Anything else?” Head shakes answered her and the meeting was over.

  As usual, Parrish stayed behind to confirm the next day’s schedule. “I think Robert understands what I want,” she said.

  “He does,” Parrish assured her. “Did you see how he came alive? He’s an old warhorse. Sound the bugle and he charges. But I’m worried that he might overstep his bounds. That could cause problems with Leland.”

  “Not to worry,” Turner said. “Robert has a wonderful sense of presence.” Her personal assistant came through the door. “Ah, Dennis. We’re about finished here.” It was a gentle reprimand that he was late.

  “My apologies, Ma’am,” Dennis said. “I was talking to the Secret Service. They’re wondering if Brian is coming home.”

  Turner sank into her chair. “No. I want him to stay at least until the end of the semester unless there are other problems.”

  “His roommate is having some problems with a First Classman.”

  “Why?” Turner asked.

  “The lead agent isn’t sure. But apparently it’s resolved now.”

  “Did the Secret Service tell General McMasters?”

  “No. Per your instructions they on
ly go to the superintendent if it concerns Brian. Otherwise, they go with the flow and don’t interfere. The agent has good words about the place and is going to enroll his daughter.”

  “That’s quite a recommendation,” Turner said, feeling better about her decision to keep Brian at NMMI. “See if he can find out exactly what the problem was.” She thought for a moment. “What’s the schedule for Maura and Sarah?” Dennis rattled off times and arrangements from memory. “I wish I could go,” Turner said. “I wanted to pin on his cadet boards.”

  SEVEN

  Detroit

  The motorcade moved with majestic dignity through the heart of the city. Inside the president’s limousine, Turner’s advisor on domestic affairs kept up a running commentary on what she was seeing. It was urban renewal on a scale not attempted in fifty years and the rusting city had undergone a turnaround, coming alive with promise and hope. The advisor assured her it was only the beginning and much remained to be done. But by attending the dedication ceremony that launched the second, and most critical, phase of the program, the president was ensuring the support the city needed.

  “And it melds perfectly with your address in Chicago to the National Association of Investment Bankers,” Richard Parrish, added.

  Turner suppressed a twinge of regret. She would have preferred being at NMMI with her family. She focused on a large block of dilapidated buildings. A cyclone fence with razor wire on top surrounded the burnt-out, rat-infested complex. It was an eyesore of monumental proportions. “Who does that belong to?” she asked.