She closed the door and sat down by the phone. After thinking for a few moments, she picked it up and called Dennis. “Is it set up?” She listened for a few moments and said, “I’ll be right down.” She walked to the window and looked out over the park as images of Pontowski kept demanding her attention. “Only daydreams,” she murmured to herself. She walked out into the hall.
Behind her, the Secret Service agent on duty spoke into his radio. “Magic is moving.” In the Secret Service command post directly below the Oval Office, the lighted panel traced her steps as she rode the elevator to the basement and headed for a small staff break room not far from the kitchen.
Dennis was waiting for her. “He’s on his way.” Turner nodded and stepped inside. On one table was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a tumbler of water, a bowl of peanuts, some glasses, and a root beer. She sat down and poured herself a drink from the bottle of root beer.
“This will do fine,” she told Dennis. “We used to meet late at night in party headquarters in Sacramento. I’d cry a lot, he’d drink, and we’d talk.” For a moment, she was back in California, a freshman state senator, in over her head, and very alone.
“Madame President,” Shaw said from the doorway. He smiled when he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He knew what she was doing. “Just like old times.” He sat down and poured himself a drink. Then he grabbed a handful of peanuts and munched a mouthful. He glanced over his shoulder at Dennis who was sitting beside the closed door. His presence announced the rules had changed. “Patrick,” she began, her voice friendly and relaxed, “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week. I like your approach.”
Instinctively, Shaw sensed it was truth-to-tell time or he would end up back in some California city running elections for a desperate mayor or wanna-be assemblyman. “Madame President, it was what you needed to hear.” All traces of his Southern accent were gone. “To make it work, I’ll need to set up a war room similar to Clinton’s and make the appropriate noises. I’ll put a stable of tame reporters together and leak stories about how you have to keep me in check. The bastards will be so busy looking over their shoulders at me that you can scamper in home free.”
“What about finances?”
“I’ll set up a committee to reelect the president and then disappear into the background. But I can still open doors, twist arms, and crack heads. All behind the scenes, naturally.”
“Naturally. And the money?”
“All of it goes through the committee. I’ll have a screening process in place to make sure it’s clean and then promptly reported. Clean as a hound’s tooth.”
“My role in all this?”
“You never get involved with the filthy stuff.” He leaned forward, rolled the glass between his big hands, and stepped through a time warp. They were back in Sacramento and he was the master lecturing an eager student on the game. “Some bastard or foreign country will make a run at you and try to buy influence with a gawd-awful campaign contribution. I’ll try to catch ’em, but one might get through. That’s when plausible denial is everything. You’ve got to keep it at arm’s length so you can sacrifice the subordinate who got too eager, or careless, overstepped the bounds, and got caught. It’s the same dealing with the CIA and intelligence.”
“Patrick, you do know what will happen after the election?” Her voice was soft and full of concern.
Shaw’s face broke into a big smile. She was still the perfect student. “In this business, usin’ people is like eatin’ a good T-bone steak; you gnaw the bone, suck the marrow out, and throw what’s left to your dog.” He would have to make a very public exit from public life. Then after the proper amount of time had passed, he would be back, the privileged friend and advisor with direct access to the president. But this time he had it wrong.
Brussels
They were as mismatched a pair as ever walked the halls of NATO. Mazie was doll-like while the tall and rangy Bender towered over most of the bureaucrats who made a career working for the political arm of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Mazie recognized the symptoms immediately: empty offices, too many casual conversations, and people wandering the halls. “This place needs a swift kick in the ass,” she muttered to herself.
“My sentiments exactly,” Bender replied in a low voice. As outsiders, they saw what the bureaucrats refused to acknowledge: NATO was an alliance that had lost its mission. Yet, it kept rolling along because of its own mass, a juggernaut without a compass. “The real action is at SHAPE where the working troops are.” SHAPE, Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, was the military arm of NATO headquartered near Mons, thirty miles southwest of Brussels. “This is where the pretty people do their thing.”
She looked at him and laughed, her voice a tinkling bell in the staid corridors of the formal and sterile building. “Who would’ve ever thought—the Frump, here with the pretty people.” Bender arched an eyebrow, not understanding. “When I worked for Bill Carroll, they called me the Frump.” William Gibbons Carroll was a former national security advisor who had died of ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease.
“You, frumpy?”
“I was a little butterball.”
“Sometimes, people get hung up on images.”
“For a woman, it’s everything. It’s really stupid.”
An aide held the door open and they entered a private study. The two Russians waiting for them stood; one was a civilian, the other a three-star general. “Robert,” the general colonel said, “it has been a long time.” The two men shook hands. They had met when both were lieutenant colonels observing each other’s military exercises during the Cold War. “Minister Rodonov, may I present Mrs. Mazana Hazelton and Gen. Robert Bender.”
Vitaly Rodonov extended his hand and held Mazie’s longer than protocol required. “So charming,” he murmured in English.
“She is not window dressing,” the general colonel warned in Russian. Russian military intelligence had a full file on her, most of it wrong.
“In the White House, they call me the Dragon Lady,” Mazie replied in the same language.
Rodonov smiled and laughed. “I like you already.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” Bender said.
She gave him a sweet smile. “A little.”
With the introductions over, they sat down. Mazie went right to the heart of the problem and talked about the drugs coming out of Russia and what was happening in Poland. “The problem is that Mikhail Vashin is using diplomatic flights to transport drugs in huge quantities.”
Rodonov managed to look only mildly embarrassed. “The system is very complicated at the present time.”
Mazie understood perfectly. Rodonov could not control what was happening. “Without the proper constraints,” she said, “NATO may be forced to cancel your landing rights.”
Rodonov had not survived the upheavals in Russia by being slow or stupid and he instinctively sensed when he had an ally. “Such a development would embarrass my office.”
Mazie reached out and touched his hand, astounded by his candor. If NATO canceled Russia’s landing rights, he would be blamed and removed from office, maybe even feetfirst. “That is not our intention,” she said.
“Perhaps there is a middle ground,” Bender said. “It is our interpretation that diplomatic protection only extends to the aircraft itself and the crew.”
Rodonov nodded. Whatever was on the aircraft was fair game once it was unloaded. “We may have an understanding here.” He visibly relaxed. Now he could return to Moscow and claim a victory. Even Vashin should be pleased.
Now it was time for the Americans to reciprocate. “We are fairly certain, as you are probably aware,” Mazie said, “that Vashin has ordered your assassination.” She handed him a list of the men who were contracted to take him out. “I hope this is helpful.”
“We would appreciate,” Bender said, “knowing in advance what flights Vashin is using.”
“All of them?” the three-star general asked.
/> Bender was dumbfounded. The problem was much worse than anyone suspected. “It would be helpful if we knew when the flights were scheduled.”
Rodonov glanced at the general colonel. “As you know, Peter Davydovich commands Transport Aviation.” He didn’t add that was why the general was at the meeting. “I’m confident that certain protocols regarding notification can be established, which,” he added, deadpan, “do not violate our treaty rights. Why don’t you work them out while Mrs. Hazelton and I discuss other matters?”
Bender and the general withdrew to an inside office, leaving them alone. Again, Mazie came right to the problem. “Are you aware that Vashin was in Bonn last Saturday and reached an understanding with Herbert von Lubeck?”
“I didn’t know they had met,” Rodonov replied.
“Apparently, they agreed on ‘areas of interest’ in Poland; Germany in the west, Russia in the east.”
Rodonov allowed the worry he felt to show. “Please assure your president that neither I, nor, for that matter, anyone on the Security Council, wishes to change the status quo in Poland. But please remember our history. We cannot allow a remilitarized German presence on our borders.”
“I’ll tell her,” Mazie promised.
“Tea?” Bender asked, remembering the time he and the general colonel worked together.
“How can you drink that piss you Americans call tea?”
Bender laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit. How’s your family? I remember your daughter. She was just an infant. What a beautiful baby. She must be, what? Seventeen now? Do you still call her Little Dove?”
THIRTEEN
Minsk, Belarus
The weather was unusually clear for mid-November when the Ilyushin I1-76 passed over Minsk. The city lights twinkled in the early dark as its citizens finished work and streamed into the streets, some to relax and enjoy the weekend, but most to work their second job. Few looked up at the sound of the descending military transport aircraft. But a taxi driver duly noted its time of arrival and made a phone call. Within minutes, the information was passed to the third floor of the American embassy in Warsaw.
The Il-76 was cleared for a straight-in landing at Machulische, the old Soviet air base ten miles south of the city. A follow-me truck escorted it to the parking ramp that had once been occupied by an air regiment of MiG-23 Floggers. Now only the blackened scorch marks left by exhaust plumes of jet engines were left, marching in rows of exclamation marks. A procession of three trucks and a bus packed with soldiers made its way out of the shadows and stopped behind the Il-76. A line of young women carrying their luggage filed off the aircraft and were told to wait under the wing.
There was no delay in loading the aircraft as the men went about their duties in a well-rehearsed drill. No sooner was the cargo onboard than the bus pulled up and let the soldiers off. They trooped aboard the aircraft, lugging their weapons and equipment with them while the women climbed on the bus. The pilots started engines and the big plane taxied for the runway. But this time, the tower read a clearance for them to proceed as filed to Modlin Air Base in Poland. Four Sukhoi Su-35 fighters taxied out of nearby bunkers and awaited their turn to take the active. The tower cleared the Il-76 for takeoff and the four Su-35s rolled onto the runway. Three minutes later they took off in twenty-second intervals, chasing the big cargo plane.
The radar operator at Crown East, the Polish radar early-warning and ground-controlled intercept site outside Bialystok, Poland, started tracking the Il-76 the moment it climbed through 4,000 feet. He dutifully noted that its radar transponder was squawking the correct code for a diplomatic overflight. But it did not have a flight plan. He spoke to the tactical-threat officer who immediately called sector command.
“We have a target tracking inbound from Minsk,” the tac officer said. “It’s squawking the correct IFF code for a diplomatic flight, but I don’t have a flight plan.”
On cue, a voice with a heavy Russian accent came over the radio. “Crown East, this is Vnukova inbound for Modlin Air Base.”
The radar controller’s fingers flew over his controls patching the radio frequency onto the communications net before he acknowledged the call. “Vnukova aircraft calling Crown East, be advised we do not have a flight plan on your flight. Do not penetrate Polish airspace without clearance.”
“Crown East, be advised a flight plan is not required.” The pilot’s tone mimicked the controller’s. “We are under treaty clearance.”
The tac officer spoke to sector command over a discreet land line. “I don’t like this, sir. It is similar to September eighteenth.” The Poles referred to the loss of their two F-16s by the date of the incident.
The silence from sector control was painful. Finally, “Standby. Keep monitoring their track while I contact headquarters.”
“Good luck,” the radar controller muttered to the tac officer. “They’ve all gone home for the weekend.” He fine-tuned the old P-50 Barlock radar. Something was wrong. The return was far too strong for an Il-76 at that distance. He called the tac officer over. “Sir, I think we’re dealing with two aircraft flying in formation.”
“What game are the stupid Russkies playing now?” the young man said. He keyed his microphone and relayed the radar controller’s suspicions to sector command.
“I have no response from headquarters,” sector answered.
“We need a decision,” the tac officer said.
Again, the silence was painful. “I do not have enough information,” sector said. “You are authorized to respond as the situation warrants.” Sector command had just bailed out.
The young tac officer did not hesitate. “Scramble alert”
“Scrambling now,” sector command said. He hit the Klaxon button, relieved that a subordinate unit had made the decision for him. In a nearby bunker, two pilots raced for their aircraft and clambered up the boarding ladders. The doors clanked open as each pilot settled into his seat and turned on the battery for radios and engine start. But only the lead aircraft cranked to life. The second aircraft had a dead battery. The pilot gave his lead a helpless look as a crew chief ran for the auxiliary power unit. But it was missing. In disgust, the lead pilot taxied alone and raced for the end of the runway. He was airborne two minutes later.
The climb-out and handoff to Crown East was routine and within minutes, the F-16 pilot was vectored onto the Il-76. He got his first radar paint at sixty nautical miles and locked on. Almost immediately, his radar broke lock and started to strobe. But for a fraction of a second, the F-16’s antijam circuits burned through the strobing. Then the strobing was back. But in that brief quarter-second, the pilot saw five distinct radar returns clustered in a tight vee formation. What he didn’t see were two of the radar returns peeling off and heading for him.
The loss of the two F-16s had been much discussed among the Polish pilots and each had come to his own conclusions about what to do if they were caught in a similar situation. The Polish pilot immediately turned his radar to standby and let Crown East run the intercept. His eyes kept dancing back to his radar-warning receiver. The chirping tone in his headset warned him of a hostile attack radar but there was no symbol on the scope. The pilot was not a coward nor was he a fool. It was time to run for cover. He stroked the afterburner and did a split-S for the ground. The split-S is an inverted half-loop and the F-16 pulled six Gs at the bottom as the pilot pulled out. He kept the throttle in full afterburner as he raced for home.
The maneuver saved his life and the two Su-35s that had been converging on him broke off their attack run and rejoined on the I1-76 which was in a descent for landing at Modlin Air-Base outside Warsaw. The Il-76 called the tower for landing clearance.
“Vnukova aircraft calling Modlin,” the tower replied. “Be advised the runway is closed.”
“Modlin tower, be advised we are on a diplomatic clearance and will be landing in six minutes.”
“Do not attempt a landing. There is a vehicle on the runway.”
“
Please clear the runway,” the Ilyushin pilot replied. Two of the Su-35s raced ahead in tight formation. They made no attempt to configure for landing and flew down the runway at five hundred feet. At midfield they pulled up and stroked their afterburners. They went through the Mach going straight up and the characteristic double-boom shock wave shook the tower and the small truck parked on the runway. The truck driver got the message and quickly drove onto the grass, clearing the runway. The truck mired down in the soft earth but the driver was a very focused man. He bolted out of the Cab and kept running, leaving the engine running.
The Il-76 pilot shaded his landing to the opposite side of the runway and his left wingtip missed the truck by thirty feet. The big cargo plane taxied to parking and shut down engines. The ramp at the back of the aircraft lowered and soldiers streamed out. They ran into position, establishing a defensive cordon around the aircraft. They waited.
Almost immediately, a lone black Mercedes-Benz drove up and a lean and ravaged-looking figure emerged from the backseat. It was Jerzy Fedor from the Council of Ministers. He walked up to the soldiers as bolts slammed home, charging the weapons. He spoke to the first man he approached. “Let me speak to the officer in charge.”
The Russian colonel who stepped out of the shadows was relieved to see Fedor. Now they could play out their respective roles and follow the script “My government,” the colonel said, “must protest at this crude attempt to deny our landing rights as established by treaty.”
“We,” Fedor said, speaking in Russian, “are only following the treaty to the letter. Of course, you have the right of landing and transit However, we must insist on inspecting all cargo and passengers to insure you are in compliance with the treaty agreements.”
“And who will perform this inspection?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Edge of Honor Page 19
