Edge of Honor (11 page)

The radar operator sitting in the darkened bunker at Crown East swore silently in Polish. The P-50 radar,
known to NATO as Barlock, was going out of calibration—again. The Polish Air Force had inherited the system from the Warsaw Pact and it was showing its age. The operator cursed the radar’s Soviet makers and manually tuned it. A blip caught his eye. Then it was gone. He retuned the radar and caught it again. He noted the azimuth and distance: 075 degrees at 150 nautical miles. He called out the target and the plotter stirred to life, angry at having her sleep disturbed. She plotted the target on the Plexiglas situation board at the back of the room.

“An airliner taking off out of Minsk,” the young woman muttered.

“It’s tracking toward us. I don’t have a flight plan and there is no radar transponder. It should be squawking a code.”

The girl shrugged. “Russian maintenance.” They had heard all the rumors about the deplorable state of Russian aircraft.

The operator studied the scope. “It’s definitely heading toward us. Still no squawk. Wake the tac officer.” The tactical-threat officer stumbled out of his cubicle and zipped up his pants. He rubbed his eyes as he looked over the radar operator’s shoulder. “I have an unknown, sir. No flight plan or IFF squawk.” Again, the operator called out the azimuth and distance for plotting as he activated the computer’s automatic tracking system. Much to his surprise, it worked and a readout appeared on the scope. “The target is still heading directly for us.” He changed the antenna into sector sweep for confirmation. “Maybe it’s an airliner headed for Warsaw with a malfunctioning transponder. You know the Russians.”

“They still act like they own the world,” the tac officer muttered. He bit his lip. It was still a bogie, an unknown target, that would penetrate Polish airspace in eighteen minutes. “Notify sector command,” he ordered, sending the problem upstairs. The radar operator made the radio call without bothering to activate the encryption circuits.

The controller at sector command answered immediately, his voice loud and clear over the clear radio channel. “A single target at that speed and altitude is no threat. It’s probably a Vnukova flight.”

“Damn,” the radar operator said. Vnukova was the call sign for Russian diplomatic aircraft with special overflight rights left over from the days of the Warsaw Pact. The name came from the airport twenty miles southwest of Moscow where the flights supposedly originated. “They’re still required to file a flight plan and be transmitting the proper IFF code for identification.”

“Their whole system is screwed up,” sector control answered. In six words, he had explained the lack of a flight plan and IFF squawk.

“Why not a Bravo?” the radar operator ventured. A Bravo was a practice scramble of fighters setting air-defense alert. “We can use the practice.”

Sector control considered it. Fuel and flying time were very costly and he’d have to justify the scramble. But the pilots did need the practice. He hit the Klaxon button. The two fighter pilots in the alert facility next to sector command were jolted out of a sound sleep and they raced for their waiting aircraft, two F-16s recently purchased from the United States.

The intelligence listening post at Brest in Belarus had monitored Polish communications for years and was still manned. The technician on duty intercepted the radio call between Crown East and sector command scrambling the F-16s and passed it on as a routine matter. Normally, it would have died in the bowels of the military command structure. But on this particular night, the system worked as designed and a green light from the Minsk control tower flashed at the Su-35s sitting alert on the ramp. Immediately, the Su-35s’ big Saturn AL-35 turbofan engines spun to life and the fighters fast-taxied for the runway. The pilots made a formation takeoff in afterburner, not because they required the extra thrust, but for the fun of it. Besides, the air force wasn’t paying for the fuel.

They needed less than 4,000 feet of runway to become airborne. They climbed to 400 feet and did a tactical split at the end of the runway, falling into an easy route formation 200 feet abreast. Both pilots slaved their autopilots to the terrain following/avoidance radar and dropped to 150 feet above the ground. Satisfied the system was working,
they accelerated to .96 Mach, 630 nautical miles per hour. They would catch the I1-76 in thirteen minutes, just before it penetrated the Polish airspace.

The two F-16s the Polish pilots were flying were not new aircraft. However, they had been completely refurbished by General Dynamics and equipped with zero-time engines before being sold to the Polish Air Force. Ultimately, the program would lead to the Poles manufacturing F-16s under a licensing agreement. But so far, the program was stalled because of American refusal to include more highly advanced avionics, or black boxes, that upgraded the F-16s’ capability. Still, the Polish pilots loved the hot performance and reliability of the jet. They only wished they had more of them and could log more flying time.

Considering they had started cold from a sound sleep, the scramble went smoothly enough. The F-16s were at the end of the runway, ready for takeoff, in nine minutes. But sector command delayed their takeoff while they tried to establish radio contact with the approaching I1-76. Lacking success, the controller finally launched the two F-16s when the I1-76 was thirty miles from the border.

The handoff to Crown East was routine and the radar operator directed the F-16s to enter a racetrack pattern fifty miles back from the border with one leg oriented toward the incoming bogie. Now three different agencies, sector command, Crown East, and civilian air-traffic control, were trying to establish radio contact with the oncoming I1-76. There was still no response and the tac officer in the bunker passed control over to his weapons officer, the radar controller in charge of directing the actual intercept. Like many officers in the Polish Air Force, she was young and new at her job. And this was her first live intercept. The I1-76 penetrated Polish airspace.

Her voice shook as she broke the two F-16s out of orbit. “Archer One and Two, you have a bogie at zero-seven-zero degrees, forty-five nautical miles. Fly vector zero-seven-zero. Visually ID and report only. Weapons safe.”

“Weapons safe,” Archer One replied, making sure his master arm switch was in the off position. He broke out
of orbit and set his airspeed at .85 Mach, 510 nautical miles per hour.

“I have contact, on the nose, at forty miles,” Archer Two called over the radio. His pulse-Doppler radar had easily found the I1-76 and he locked it up. Almost immediately, the APG-68 radar broke lock. “Negative lock,” he radioed. He tried again with the same results. Then he remembered to check his radar-warning receiver to see if he was being jammed. There was no symbol on the warning display, only a chirping tone in his headset. He disregarded it.

Archer One also had the I1-76 on his radar and was experiencing the same problem. Then it hit him. Their radars were interfering with each other. “Turn your radar to standby,” he ordered, keeping his own radar in 120-degree, four-bar scan. Now he tried to lock up the target. Nothing. The weapons officer at Crown East continued to direct them into the intercept, giving them headings to set up a stern conversion.

The two Su-35s were still on the deck, directly underneath and at cospeed with the I1-76. Their radars detected the two oncoming F-16s and their wingtip jammer pods successfully jammed the F-16s’ radar, hiding their presence and denying the F-16s a radar lock-on. Automatically, the fire control system in the lead Su-35 sorted the threat and assigned targets to the R-77 missiles carried on the fuselage underneath the intakes. The R-77 was the most advanced air-to-air missile in the Russian inventory and nicknamed the “AMRAAMSKI” as it was comparable to the United States’ highly advanced AMRAAM, or Advanced Medium-range Air-to-Air Missile. When the data had been downlinked, an in-range marker flashed on the aircraft’s wide-angle HUD. The pilot hit the pickle button on his stick and two missiles leaped off the rails. Now they waited.

Archer One, the lead F-16 pilot, kept scanning the night sky outside. “Do you have a visual?” he radioed.

“No visual,” came the answer.

“The bogie is at your two o’clock, ten miles, slightly
high,” the weapons controller at Crown East radioed. “Fly zero-three-zero.” She was directing them away from the I1-76 to give them turning room to convert to the bogie’s stern. The two F-16s turned to the new heading, still searching the sky for a visual contact.

“We should see his lights,” Archer Two radioed.

“Looking,” Archer One replied.

But they had never been taught how to do a proper visual scan, especially at night, and they never saw the two rocket plumbs arcing up at them from their deep four o’clock position.

“Archer One, right turn to two-five-zero,” the weapons controller radioed, turning the interceptors back into the bogie. “Target will be coming from your three o’clock to your nose, two miles, slightly high.” No answer. “Archer One, how copy?”

“What happened?” the tactical officer demanded.

“I don’t know,” the weapons controller replied. “I’ve lost all contact.” She went through the lost-communications procedures while the radar operator retuned the radar. Nothing.

“You stupid woman!” the tac officer shouted. “Two aircraft just don’t disappear.”

The radar operator’s voice came through their headsets. “The bogie is squawking now and we are in radio contact. He’s using a Vnukova call sign; a diplomatic flight. He’s calling for landing at Modlin.” Modlin was an air base twenty miles northwest of Warsaw where the Russians had landing rights.

“Has the Vnukova flight seen the F-16s?”

“He claims not,” came the answer.

“What happened?” the tac officer asked. There was no answer.

Moscow

The motorcade of two black Mercedes-Benzes sandwiching the Bentley hurtled down the center of Granovsky Street. It was a throwback to the 1970s, the heyday of Soviet rule, and policemen waved off traffic and pedestrians, clearing the way to the Kremlin’s Borovitsky Gate. The barrier at the gate was raised and one of the three guards managed to wave them through, not bothering to salute. The motorcade drew to a halt in front of the Red Steps and Mikhail Vashin climbed out of the Bentley. He stood in the cool morning air, savoring the moment. Deep in his soul, his peasant heritage told him that fall was in the air and to prepare for winter. But his days in the cold were over. The spring of Mikhail Vashin was about to begin.

He climbed the steps and entered the building. Viktor Kraiko, the president of the Russian Federation, and Yaponets were waiting to escort him. “The guards at the gate,” Vashin said to Kraiko. “Sloppy. Fix it.”

“He can’t,” Yaponets said. “But I can.”

Vashin grunted. Yaponets got things done, often with a mere word or look of disapproval. He was a man with authority, a trait Russians understood instinctively. Vashin handed his overcoat to Kraiko who passed it on to an aide. “Tell me, Viktor Ivanovich, who controls the Security Council today?”

“I do,” Kraiko answered, trying to sound confident.
Russian politics were a shifting quagmire of quicksand that changed with each tide.

“The meeting will go smoothly?”

“Rodonov will be difficult. He has questions about last night.”

Vashin snorted again. Vitaly Rodonov was the minister of defense and the last stumbling block in his way. So far, Kraiko’s advice to avoid a direct confrontation with Rodonov had been sound. But that time had ended.

Two guards opened the doors to the ornate conference room where the Soviet politburo once met. The men waiting inside were silent as Kraiko took his seat at the head of the table. The meeting supposedly was Kraiko’s idea. But they all knew the truth of it. Kraiko played his role to the hilt and motioned Vashin to the podium at the bottom of the table. Arranged on Vashin’s right were the most powerful leaders of Russian organized crime. On his left were the same men of the Security Council who had attended Boris Bakatina’s funeral. But this time, the minister of defense was present, completing their number.

“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 be
hind 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 pull 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.”