Edge of Honor (33 page)

The man’s reactions were quick and sure, the result of years of training and conditioning. He whirled on Duncan as his left arm came around in a sweeping motion. His right foot was a blur as he aimed a kick at Duncan. Normally, it would have been all over. But adrenaline was still pumping through the American and he stepped back, rattlesnake quick, avoiding the kick. The man was almost as quick and his knife was out, a blur coming at Duncan.

Duncan shot him in the stomach.

The single shot echoed over the compound and into the trees. The loud shriek of a mortar round echoed back. Duncan grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him toward the command post. The mortar round tore into the first barracks and exploded, sending a bright pulse of light over the compound. In that split second more than forty cadets were framed, some running for the armory, others away. Round after round pounded the compound, killing and wounding cadets caught in the open. Duncan was also caught in the open and he rolled under the body he was dragging, the only protection available. Shrapnel tore into the dead body, but he was safe.

As quickly as it started, the barrage stopped. Shrieks of pain and cries for help shattered the sudden silence. Duncan knew what was coming next and scrambled to his feet. He was a mess, caked with blood-soaked dirt but unhurt. He dragged the body the last few feet to the command post and banged on the steel door. “I’ve got one of the bastards!” he yelled in English.

Duncan’s adrenaline rush crashed just as men dashed from the nearby trees, firing on the run. The distinctive rattle of AK-47s filled the air, filling him with terror. Duncan fell to the ground and fumbled with the AK-47 still strapped to the dead parachutist’s side. The buckles were unfamiliar and it took a moment to free the weapon. He worked furiously as a sapper reached the door of the command post, unaware that Duncan was only a few feet away. The sapper planted an explosive charge against the door as Duncan came to his feet and charged the AK-47. He squeezed off a short burst and cut the sapper down before he could set the detonator.

Duncan fell to the ground and rolled into a deep shadow as more men charged into the compound. But it was only a matter of moments before one of the attackers spotted him through night-vision goggles. He was as good as dead and knew it. An uncontrollable rage claimed him. He came to his feet and emptied the AK-47. He slapped another clip into the weapon and kept firing. He never saw the grenade rolling across the ground toward him.

Duncan’s fire had delayed the attackers long enough for six cadets to move into position and block the attackers from moving past the command post. For a few moments, the firefight hinged on the low concrete structure and the attackers were unable to move past it. Finally, another sapper reached the door and set the detonator. A cadet poked his submachine gun around the corner and cut him down before he could retreat to safety. A blast knocked the heavy door off its hinges and an assault team of four men rushed inside the darkened bunker.

But the command post was empty. The commander of the SPS had ordered its evacuation through an escape hatch in the rear wall. Contrary to popular belief, night-vision goggles do not work in total darkness and the four
men were essentially blind. One of them lifted his goggles and flicked on a flashlight. He saw the escape hatch in time to see four grenades tumble out. The last thing he heard before the explosion was the hatch clanging shut.

Flames from the burning barracks cast an eerie light over the compound as the firefight dissolved into chaos. There was no coordination, just pockets of resistance fighting for their lives. Suddenly, a helicopter flew across the compound at full speed. It made no attempt to slow or turn. But it was enough.

A series of frantic radio calls demanded to know if there were more helicopters inbound. Lacking an answer, an assault team trying to flank the command post withdrew to the trees. In itself, it was a trickle. But the team next in line stopped advancing, made a radio call, and finding they were on the flank, decided to withdraw. That was when the SPS commander ordered a counterattack by the twelve cadets on the opposite side of the compound. The trickle turned into a stream and the attackers were in full retreat, rushing for the trees.

Part of the equation for genius in military leadership is knowing when to exploit an advantage, willingness to sacrifice lives, and having the force of personality to make it happen. The commander of the SPS keyed his radio and calmly ordered his cadets to counterattack, driving the last of the invaders into the trees. The fighting was hand-to-hand and vicious as the cadets avenged their fallen comrades. Finally, they broke through to the fields on the other side of the trees.

Another part of the equation is knowing when to stop. The commander listened as the gunfire withered away. Satisfied he had a defensible perimeter, he ordered the cadets to stand and hold. The battle was over.

“Sir,” a cadet said, “we found Mr. Duncan.” The young man led the commander to the side of the command post. The fragmentation grenade had turned the body into a bloody pulp, almost unrecognizable. The cadet threw up. The commander waited patiently, remembering his first firefight. “The American did well. Look.” He counted the
bodies. “He gave us warning and killed seven of our enemies. The man was a friend.”

The commander looked at the burning barracks and the carnage around him. Half of his cadets had been killed or wounded. The body count for the attackers stood at twenty-six and was going higher. “This is not a victory, only a warning.” He pulled out his cell phone and called Jerzy Fedor. They had to talk immediately.

Outside Moscow

The commander’s balcony overlooking the operations center appealed to Vashin’s pleasure in heights and gave him the overview he craved. Yet, it was not so far removed to put him out of touch. The trim army colonel took the main stage, holding a long, old-fashioned wooden pointer. He jabbed at the large scale chart of the SPS compound on the sliding wallboard directly behind him.

“Our forces have successfully withdrawn as planned. The trucks are now en route to Belarus and should cross the border at first light. The border guards have been bribed and there will be no trouble.”

Vashin liked the colonel’s optimism. He reached for the microphone clipped to the side of his seat. “Casualties?” he asked. His voice echoed over the operations center with a tinny, harsh sound.

The colonel shrugged. “Does it matter? We achieved our objective. The SPS no longer exists as a functional unit.”

Vashin accepted the colonel’s logic and stood to leave. The generals rose as one, a fraction of a second behind him. The constant deference they paid Vashin, their total subservience, were survival techniques born of desperation when Stalin ruled, refined under Khrushchev, institutionalized during Brezhnev’s regime, and almost forgotten when Gorbachev tried to reform the system. Instinctively, the generals saw in Vashin a new Stalin and reverted to the submissiveness that had worked so well in the past. “Your
positioning of the blocking force was masterful,” one of them said. “They were able to stop a counterattack which saved the operation. You are to be commended, sir.” The other generals nodded in unison.

Vashin acknowledged their praise and left. The generals were silent until the door closed behind him. As one, they sat down and the real briefing began. The generals would willingly lie and deceive their political masters, but not themselves. The colonel dropped his long wooden pointer and slid the wallboard back. A large, computer-driven display appeared with video images. The colonel now flashed a laser pointer at the screen. “We lost the element of surprise when one of our men landed inside the compound. Since most of the force was in position, the commander opted to initiate the attack. In retrospect, that was a mistake and the commander will be disciplined. The SPS had been warned and was waiting. The Poles were so confident that they used cadets. For them, it was a training exercise. Nevertheless, our men were still able to inflict considerable damage before withdrawing.”

“Casualties?” a gruff voice asked.

This time the colonel answered. “We inserted ninety-four and left forty-one behind on withdrawal. Most of those are presumed dead.”

The image on the screen changed and a late-breaking CNN story appeared. A news team was at a border crossing between Poland and Belarus where a large group of men were being off-loaded from trucks. Many were wounded and bandaged. The on-scene reporter sorted through a large stack of weapons, describing their make, origin, and use. Most of the generals spoke English and did not need an interpreter. “An unmitigated disaster,” one of them muttered.

“Without doubt,” a two-star replied. “But is it for us to tell him?”

“Not me,” a three-star said. “He sent my wife a new car. A Mercedes-Benz. My daughter loves it.”

“He knows where we live,” the two-star said.

Geraldine Blake arrived at her office next to Vashin’s penthouse at the usual time. Normally, she had one or two
hours to finalize the day’s schedule and only saw Vashin after the girl who shared his bed left. But this morning she was surprised to hear the television tuned to an English-language station.
Most unusual
, she thought, since Vashin’s English was very limited. She listened. It was an English-language edition of CNN and the late-breaking story of the capture of a large force of escaping Russian terrorists on the Polish border was getting full coverage.
This will be a problem
, she thought.

She checked her appearance in the mirror and picked up her slim leather notebook. She walked through the door. The TV was on but Vashin was not paying attention. He sat on a couch thumbing through the big picture albums that detailed the life of Madeline Turner, his nemesis. Lately, he had become obsessed and the albums were updated daily. He closed the books and walked to the big window overlooking Moscow.

“It was a fiasco,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, “but I don’t know what happened.” It was a gentle rebuke that she could not help him if she was kept in the dark.

Vashin stared into the mist swirling around the Towers, his hands clasped behind his back. “We are losing Poland.” He spun around and glared at her.

“Why? I thought the Polish Mafia was under your thumb and you were in control there.”

“I was until the Americans started helping them. This Special Public Services of the Poles, it’s a front for the CIA. I can sense it in my bones. That’s why I had to eliminate them. The generals told me the operation was a success. Why did they lie to me?”

He’s obsessing
, Geraldine thought.
He knows the CIA has nothing to do with the SPS
. She fought for time. “Maybe the generals thought the operation was a success. CNN reported that one of the Americans helping the Poles, a Peter Duncan, was killed in the attack. According to our sources, Duncan was in Poland with the U.S. Defense Security Assistance Agency administering the security package negotiated by the last ambassador. With Bender dead, the new ambassador might scale back their aid. That
only leaves one person in Poland still working with the Poles.”

“Yes, I know. Pontowski.
Her
boyfriend, the grandson of a president. I can’t touch him.”

“Under the circumstances, a very wise decision.” She gracefully rose and walked to the window. She touched his shoulder. “Mikhail, what would Peter the Great do?” As she said it, the mist parted and the sun broke the eastern horizon far to the south.

He turned to her, his face glowing as if he had seen a vision. “You’re right. I must look to Russia.” He pointed to the sun. “The sun is breaking over the south.”

“The south?” she asked, not understanding.

“The Ukraine is Russia’s granary. It’s vital to the Russian empire, our survival. The German minister I met in Bonn, von Lubeck, used a word, a very good word.
Anschluss
.” He paused, striking a pose. “I want to see the Pole. Get him here and tell him to bring the money that was stolen from me.”

“Certainly, Mikhail.” She turned to leave.

“And,” he said, halting her, “call a full council of the
vor
for next week.”

Geraldine panicked. To gather the heads of all the families that made up the
vor
took several weeks, maybe months, to arrange. Egos had to be stroked, cease-fires between feuding families negotiated, security arranged. An arbitrary summons on such short notice was out of bounds, even for Vashin. “That will be difficult.”

Vashin glared at her, knowing she was right. “As soon as possible then.”

She gave him a radiant smile for his understanding. She turned and left. Vashin watched her go, his eyes narrowing. “Can I really trust you?” he muttered. Since Johnson’s disappearance, he was obsessed with his security. Twice, he almost purged the ranks of the
vor
in a bloodbath that would have rivaled Stalin’s purges. But common sense had prevailed before he gave the order. He forced himself to be rational and returned to the couch to watch TV. His English was much better than Geraldine suspected and it was clear the attack on the SPS had been a disaster. “There is always a price to pay,” he said to
no one. He flipped open one of the albums, fully aware that Maddy Turner was beyond his reach. His eyes narrowed when he saw a photo of Brian, Zeth, and Matt in their uniforms. He closed the book and walked back to the window to bathe in the new sunrise.

Warsaw

The wind lashed at Pontowski when he got out of his car. He glanced at the sky as traces of sleet stung his face. For once, the weather matched his mood, solemn and gray. He looked around to see if anyone else from the embassy had come to the airport for the ceremony. He was alone. He jerked at the belt of his uniform’s overcoat and jammed his hat down more tightly against the wind.

Across the parking ramp, he could see the gray outline of the Air Force C-17 that would carry the mortal remains of Peter Duncan home.

An officer and a cadet from the SPS met him at the gate. They were wearing black combat fatigues with their winter field jackets. The cadet held the gate open and the officer saluted. Without a word, the three men walked across the tarmac toward the small group of people huddled under the tail of the waiting aircraft. Pontowski was surprised to see Evan Riley, the CIA’s chief of station, standing beside Jerzy Fedor.

They exchanged greetings and waited as the SPS marched onto the ramp. The commander of the SPS led them, his measured pace matching the somber occasion. The SPS was not an organization given to drill and ceremonies and their ranks and cadence were far from perfect. But the numerous head bandages and arm slings were ample tribute to who and what they were. The commander brought them to a halt behind the C-17 and ordered them to split into two ranks, forming a corridor to the aircraft. An honor guard bearing the Polish flag flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the SPS standard led a black hearse across the ramp.

Six pallbearers from the SPS were waiting for the flag-draped casket. They raised it to their shoulders and, in
perfect step, moved slowly toward the aircraft. The standard of the SPS lowered in tribute as they pass. The SPS came to attention and the commander shouted a command. They saluted together. Pontowski came to attention and held his salute as the pallbearers carried the casket into the aircraft.

“He was a friend,” Fedor murmured. “Like the general.”

The commander barked an order and the SPS marched off the field. Pontowski turned to leave. “We need to talk,” Fedor said. “The three of us.”

The three men sat in Fedor’s limousine and sipped hot coffee, glad to be out of the biting wind. “The wind always blows coldest from Russia,” Fedor said.

“Are we talking about the weather?” Riley asked.

Fedor’s smile reminded Pontowski of a grinning skull. “Of course,” Fedor replied.

“Are we going to spend all day talking around it?” Pontowski asked.

A heavy silence ruled the car for a few moments. “We are receiving mixed signals from your government,” Fedor said.

“That’s the nature of the beast,” Riley replied.

“We want to resolve the Vashin problem,” Fedor said. “Can you help us?”

“No help here,” Pontowski said. “I’m cooling my heels pending a formal investigation. I can’t even go into my office.”

Fedor nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

“Now who told you that?” Riley asked, always hoping for a lucky hit. Fedor looked surprised, as if they were discussing common knowledge. The CIA agent conceded the point. “You can’t blame me for trying.” He thought for a moment. “Let me run your request by my people. I’ll get back to you.”

The meeting was over and Pontowski reached for the door handle. “General Pontowski,” Fedor said, “my government would be most appreciative if you would visit your ancestor’s cottage. Tourism, you know.”

“Was this your idea?” Pontowski asked.

“Of course not. Perhaps in two weeks?”

“Sure, why not?”

“We’ll be in touch,” Fedor replied.

Pontowski watched as the limousine sped off, Riley still inside. He walked back to his car and drove to his apartment in Wilanów where, much to his surprise, Riley was waiting for him. “What the hell is going down?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Riley answered.

“Do you trust that son of a bitch?”

“
Of course not
,” Riley said, mimicking Fedor.

“So why are you here?”

“Instincts. This is one ride we don’t want to miss. Until I find out exactly what we’re looking at, I’d like for you to hang around for as long as possible.”

“Why?”

“The Poles don’t trust anyone, with good reason. But your name carries weight and if they think you’re involved—well, let’s just say that gives me leverage.”

“So I’m a pawn.”

Riley scowled. “More like a poker chip.” His face turned to granite and his voice grew hard. “First the General and now Duncan. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to even the score.”

“Count me in.”

Washington, D.C.

For the first time since his prostate operation, Shaw was turgid and erect. He closed his eyes and stroked the girl’s blond hair as she worked her Saturday-night miracle. Or was it the penile implant? “You can’t keep a good man down,” he muttered.

She felt his scrotum, her fingers gently prodding. “Is this how it works?” She gave the pump embedded next to his testicles a little squeeze. The cylinder in his penis grew harder.

“Whoa, easy,” he said, not sure how much it could be pumped. She licked at him and gave another squeeze. Now he was fully erect and hurting.

“What would happen if I kept pumping?” She was a professional who enjoyed her work—when it put her in control.

He felt her fingers start to contract and his pulse raced. “I don’t even want to think about it.” She gave a playful squeeze and he sucked in his breath. “For God’s sake, if it pops…” The phone rang, claiming his attention. He picked it up. “Shaw.” He listened for a moment while the girl played with him. “Certainly, Mizz President.” The girl looked up at him and found the release cap on top of the pump. “I’ll be right there.”

The girl squeezed the release cap and the pressure bled off.

Suddenly, Shaw was very limp and totally uninterested. “What’s the matter, Hon? You look worried.”

The uniformed Secret Service guard on duty at the entrance to the West Basement checked Shaw’s identification and noted the time in his visitor’s log. Shaw took the first right, walked down a few steps and passed the White House Mess. Farther down the hall, he turned into the small break room where Maddy Turner was waiting. He had never seen her so tired and haggard. Judging by the way her clothes were hanging, she had lost weight.