The SPS commander arrived in his Humvee in time for the first head count. He spoke into the radio. “All secure. Sixty-seven in the bag.”
“What do we do with them?” Duncan asked.
“Call the police.”
“What’s the charge?”
The commander was perplexed. He had assumed the cleanup would be a problem for the morgue and street sweepers. “They’re Russians,” he finally said.
NINETEEN
Camp David, Maryland
Shaw guffawed loudly, making Maura uncomfortable. She moved away from the TV set and the small group watching the videotape with her daughter. Noreen could deflate you with two words, Maura told herself. She missed Noreen Coker. The tall black congresswoman from Los Angeles had been a vital member of Maddy’s Kitchen Cabinet and her unfailing good humor and common sense had helped avoid many partisan potholes on the political road to success. And in Maura’s eyes, Patrick Flannery Shaw was the biggest pit in the pavement.
Can anyone replace Noreen? Maura thought. She knew how her daughter needed people as a sounding board and how vital a close circle of friends was to her. At least it won’t be Shaw. An image of Matt Pontowski flashed in the back of her mind. But he was leaving for Poland. She smothered her distaste for Shaw by falling back on the social amenities and freshening their coffee.
“Mizz President,” Shaw managed to say between bouts of laughter, “this may be Warsaw’s funniest home video.” He especially enjoyed the last scenes. But Maura failed to see the humor of a man writhing on the ground in pain and holding on to his foot. Then the scene shifted to the inside of Exclusive Studios where four partially nude women were kicking at a man rolling around on the floor. He couldn’t decide what needed the most protection, his head or his crotch. The women had no trouble making a decision and worked on both ends. “Smack-dab between the old uprights,” Shaw observed in response to one well-aimed kick.
Maura deliberately spilled some hot coffee in his lap. “Oh, I am sorry. I hope it didn’t hurt.” She dropped a large napkin on his huge stomach.
“What would Noreen say?” Vice President Sam Kennett asked, ignoring Shaw’s discomfort.
Gwen Anderson laughed. “It’s all in the follow-through, girl!” The secretary of health and human services was enjoying herself. “Why don’t we release this to the media?”
Shaw finished dabbing at his pants and fixed Anderson with his I-can’t-believe-you-said-that look. But he sugar-coated his words. “We might want to hold off on that one for a while, Mizz Anderson.” His Southern accent was thick and honey-sweet. “We need a bogeyman to scare Mr. and Mrs. Joe Voter, not make ’em laugh.”
“One of your famous aphorisms?” Anderson scoffed. She doubted that he knew what an aphorism was.
Shaw did. His answer was instinctive, honed by years of dealing with politicians. He became very serious. “Never diminish your enemy because it diminishes you.”
“Why not release the part showing the prisoners being rounded up and loaded on trucks?” Kennett said. “It’s a graphic statement that our foreign-aid program is working.”
Shaw shook his head. “Better to show peace and prosperity in our time. We might want to do some ‘before and after’ sound bites for TV later on. But for now, stick to domestic issues.”
Turner held out her cup for a refill. Shaw moved back when Maura passed too close with a full carafe. “It might help with the speech,” Turner said, referring to her State of the Union Address that was less than three weeks away.
Gwen Anderson agreed, anxious to recover what she may have lost in the exchange with Shaw. “It’s a good chance to sample voter response on that issue.”
“We know how the voters feel on foreign aid,” Shaw muttered. “They don’t like it. At best, it’s a nonissue. Let it lie.”
Turner made her decision. “We’ll release a clip like Sam said and see how it flies.” Gwen Anderson swelled with satisfaction and Shaw knew better than to press his case after the president had made up her mind.
“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Turner said. “When should I announce my candidacy?”
“You have two choices,” Shaw said. “Announce before the State of the Union and go in as the grand hero. Or, save it until afterward and keep them on pins and needles. Believe me, they won’t miss a word you say.” He chuckled. “Guaranteed to keep them awake.”
“By announcing later,” Kennett said, “it will keep them focused on your speech. They all know you’re running. The question is, on what issues? They’ll be looking for every clue they can find.”
The discussion went around the room and Turner decided to announce after the speech. “I’m going ahead with an independent commission to investigate combat readiness.”
Anderson’s head came up, instantly alert. “Why? We’ve never been more prepared militarily.”
“Then why are people getting out of the services in record numbers?” Kennett asked.
Anderson leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “Maddy, don’t do it. The Neanderthals in the Pentagon will use it to reopen the issue of women in combat. We’ve come too far to lose what we’ve attained. Our military has never been more combat ready because we’re using the best of our people.”
At first, Shaw only listened, trying to think of a way to dissuade Turner. Combat readiness was not a bone he wanted to gnaw on during an election campaign. But more worrisome was the tone in Anderson’s voice and what she was saying. He was in the presence of a true believer and Gwen Anderson had an agenda beyond her allegiance to Maddy Turner. But how far beyond? “Madame President,” he finally said, “I think Mizz Anderson is right. This would be counterproductive until after the election.”
“And even then,” Anderson snapped.
“Gwen,” Maddy said, soothing her friend, “I know how you feel about women in the military. But what I want is an honest appraisal of our state of combat readiness. That’s why I want you to head the commission. I know you’ll be fair.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” Anderson replied. “I’ll be glad to do it.”
Shaw’s chin dropped to his chest. Maddy Turner had made two mistakes in less than ten minutes.
Warsaw
The young man at the immigration counter barely glanced at Pontowski’s official passport before stamping it. Then he did a classic double take and rechecked the identification page. His eyes opened wide and he stood to hand the passport back. “Welcome to Poland, General Pontowski.” Pontowski gave a little nod and headed for the baggage carousels. The young man watched him leave and picked up his phone.
The carousel cranked to life and baggage appeared on the moving ramp. His two suitcases and his old parachute bag came through the opening, but before they reached him, two brown-uniformed guards snatched them-up and walked toward him. They set the bags down and came to attention, their eyes fixed on his face. “Welcome to Poland, General Pontowski.” He heard his name murmured in whispers behind him as passengers waiting for their bags flowed toward his carousel, anxious to get a look. “Customs is this way,” one of the guards said, picking up the parachute bag. The crowd parted, opening a corridor to customs.
Every customs agent on duty was lined up behind one counter while more security guards cleared a path. The agent-in-charge glanced at the name tags on the bags and checked them through. “Welcome to Poland, General Pontowski.” The five words of greeting were becoming a chant. Scattered applause followed him as he went through the double exit doors into the main terminal, his two baggage carriers in tow.
The big surprise was holding a neatly lettered sign with his name. Ewa Pawlik smiled at him. WELCOME TO POLAND, GENERAL PONTOWSKI. She stepped forward and extended her hand as she introduced herself. Pontowski’s first impression was of a young woman in her midtwenties, on the heavy side, with soft brown hair that cascaded to her shoulders in gentle waves. Her doe-shaped hazel eyes held him for a moment and he was certain, without doubt, that she was the most beautiful wo
man he had ever met.
Smile, he told himself. He muttered some words, hoping he didn’t sound like a complete idiot, as they shook hands.
“Mr. James asked me to meet you,” she said. “He’s the deputy charge of mission. An embassy car is outside. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he followed her out. Again, scattered applause echoed over him.
“I don’t understand,” he said. She held the car’s rear door open as the driver opened the trunk for his bags. “You’d think I was a celebrity.” She walked around and got in the front passenger’s seat. The two guards who carried his bags stood at attention and saluted as they drove away.
She turned in the seat and faced him, her look matter-of-fact. “Your grandfather was extremely popular and is revered by many of our people.”
Pontowski gave her his lopsided grin. “Local boy makes good.”
Ewa was not amused. “He was the first president of the United States of Polish descent. My mother still has a picture of him in her surgery. It is next to Karol Wojtyla.”
“Hanging next to the pope. Gramps would be impressed.”
“My mother always hoped he would visit Poland,” she said.
“He wanted to.”
“That is the story of Poland. So many wanted to, but when history is written, they did nothing.”
There was no admonishment in her voice, only the dull recitation of fact. Pontowski wanted to explain why his grandfather never visited the land of his ancestors, but he didn’t know the reason. He changed the subject. “Your English is perfect.”
Again, the serious look. “I learned from my grandmother. She was born and raised in Chicago.” She spoke to the driver in Polish and he turned down a side street, taking a back way to the embassy. “Traffic is very heavy,” she explained.
“Warsaw reminds me of New York,” Pontowski said. “Without the skyscrapers.” She didn’t answer and they rode in silence to the embassy. The gate guard waved them to a stop and a security team checked the car for a bomb. The driver pulled ahead and stopped at the side entrance.
A Marine guard opened Pontowski’s door and came to attention, snapping a perfect salute. “Good morning, General Pontowski. Welcome to Poland.”
Pontowski returned the salute and followed Ewa inside. “Does everyone know who I am?”
“You look very much like your grandfather.”
Bender was waiting for Pontowski in his office with Peter Duncan, Evan Riley, and Winslow James. “Welcome to Poland,” Bender said.
Pontowski laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that today.”
Bender sat down and steepled his fingers. “I’m not surprised. The Pontowski name carries weight over here.”
“Is that why you asked me to head the ODC?” ODC was the legation’s Office of Defense Cooperation.
“Partly. Peter, why don’t you fill Matt in?”
Duncan cleared his throat and explained what they had accomplished with SPS. “It turns out the Poles are capable of taking care of themselves. But they do need help in certain areas.”
“Like current intelligence,” Riley added.
“In the case of the Polish Air Force,” Bender said, “we want to enable them to control their own airspace, which the Russians apparently consider their private preserve. But we are not sure exactly what they need or how receptive they will be to our suggestions.”
“Your name,” Winslow James added, “will overcome a great deal of resistance.”
“We have discovered,” Riley said, “that Russian organized crime is a bit arthritic and doesn’t respond quickly. We’re on a roll right now and want to keep up the momentum.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Pontowski said. “If I read you right, the SPS was a force in being and only needed good intelligence. It won’t be so simple with their air force.”
“For now,” Bender said, “get settled in. We’ll talk more on Thursday when you’re over jet lag and have been briefed on the situation.”
Winslow James checked his notes. “I have a series of briefings set for Wednesday morning. I’ve also detailed Miss Pawlik as your translator and assistant. She’ll help you as needed.”
“A lovely girl,” Duncan added wistfully.
“Matt, we need to speak privately,” Bender said, dismissing the other three men. He waited until they left and the door was closed. “You should fit in well here. Duncan has done wonders and will help you in anyway he can.”
“What about the CIA?”
Bender grew thoughtful. “Riley has been very cooperative, but I sense that can change in a heartbeat. Be careful how you handle the staff. The foreign service is very touchy about the way they do business and anything moving faster than a snail upsets them. James is coming around but he can still get fussy.” He thought for a moment. “Matt, there is something we must get straight.” He paused, searching for the right words.
“What’s that, sir?”
Bender came right to the point. “Your relationship with President Turner.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
“The papers and the wires are full of it. Please remember, you’re still in the Air Force. I will not have an officer working for me sleeping with a superior officer who, in this case, is his commander in chief.”
“Sir, I am a subordinate officer and respect your position. But I don’t think this is any of your business.”
The two men looked at each other. Both wanted to avoid a confrontation but they had to clear the air. “Matt, it’s called fraternization.” Bender stood and paced the carpet. “We have to set the example or the troops won’t follow. I’ve seen the havoc a pretty private or cute second lieutenant can play with good order and discipline.” He shook his head. “But sex seems to overpower everything and it always gets us in the end.”
Pontowski laughed. “That’s where it’s supposed to get us. Don’t worry, sir. Maddy Turner understands the game better than any of us. Nothing untoward has happened, or will, as long as she’s president.”
Bender relaxed. “I hope I can count on that.”
“You can, sir.”
The rest of the week rushed by, filled with briefings and the normal routine of settling in. Thanks to Ewa, he found an apartment in Wilanów, not too far from the ambassador’s compound and the American School. He was shocked at the rent but Ewa assured him his station allowance would cover it. He ordered a car through Foreign and Diplomatic Sales and settled into his office. The two lieutenant colonels, one Air Force and one Army, who worked for him were eager overachievers anxious to prove themselves. Consequently, there was little for him to do other than signing the voluminous amounts of paperwork that appeared, as if by magic, on his desk every day.
Problems started when he asked to visit a Polish fighter squadron. The air attaché, an Air Force colonel, disapproved his request saying such a visit was outside the Office of Defense Cooperation’s area of responsibility. Pontowski was about to march into the colonel’s office for a quick head-knocking session when Ewa stopped him. “Let me speak to his secretary first,” she said. She bought some flowers on her lunch break and, later that afternoon, the request was approved.
“What would I do without you?” Pontowski asked.
“You wouldn’t see the Polish Air Force,” she replied.
The traffic on the road leading to Okecie Airport slowed and came to a halt. Pontowski shifted his weight and looked out the car window. Three tour buses were unloading what looked like Russian soldiers in front of a huge monument on the other side of the street. Ewa followed his gaze. “That’s a monument to the Russian soldiers who were killed liberating Poland from the Germans in World War II. They remember.”
“Is that all the Russians did for Poland?”
She shrugged. “They built the Palace of Culture and Science as a gift to the Polish people.”
Pontowski twisted around in his seat. The ugly brown building dominated Warsaw’s skyline. “It’s a monstrosity.”
“It�
��s useful,” she replied, “and it serves as a reminder.” The traffic started to move and a few minutes later, the staff car pulled into the barracks next to the airport. Pontowski buttoned the coat to his uniform, adjusted his scarf, and belted his topcoat. First impressions were everything.
A Polish brigadier general and two other officers saluted when he entered the building. “Welcome to the 1st Air Regiment,” the brigadier said. They shook hands. “We were the first to fly the F-16 and like to think we are the premier air defense unit in our Air Force. We are at your service.” They talked while a staff sergeant got his parachute bag out of the car’s trunk. “I see you brought your flying gear,” the brigadier said nervously. “Perhaps we can accommodate you with a flight in our D model if the weather cooperates.” He sounded hopeful that it would not. As expected, the Polish Air Force had put its best foot forward for Pontowski’s visit, wanting to impress him. But he knew what to look for. The office equipment was old, the building needed repair, and no flights were posted on the scheduling boards.
“How much flying time do your pilots get?”
The brigadier hesitated. “Fifty-five to sixty hours a year.”
Pontowski was shocked. A fighter pilot had to fly five times that much to maintain minimum combat proficiency. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to fly in the backseat with a pilot who was, at best, marginally proficient in basic flying skills. “I would consider it an honor to fly in the front seat. Of course, with an instructor pilot in the back.”
“Of course,” the brigadier replied. He was not a happy man and spoke to his aide in Polish. “Arrange for General Pontowski to fly as pilot. I want our best instructor to go with him.”
It was a long drive from the barracks to the far side of the airport where flight operations were hangared. Pontowski felt better when they drove up. He knew a fighter squadron when he saw one. “Matt!” a voice boomed when he got out of the car. It was Emil, the Polish officer with the unpronounceable last name who had flown with him at the air show when Danny Beason had crashed. “No crashes today!”
Edge of Honor Page 28
