Firebreak (20 page)

“Damn it, closer!” Furry yelled. “We simulate turning on the TEWS and burn eyeballs out.” Another peacetime restriction kept them from turning on the active electronic countermeasures in the Tactical Electronic Warfare System to jam radars. On exercises like this aid on Ahlhorn, they could only use the TEWS to warn them about electronic threats. Matt continued to press the attack run. “Locked,” Furry announced, triumph in that simple word. “Cleared-to-pickle.”

Matt lifted the jet to five hundred feet. The TEWS exploded in sound, warning them of multiple simulated SAM launches—all at them. “Bomb gone,” Matt said. In real life, they would have felt the bomb separate from the aircraft. Matt dropped back onto the deck and headed to the northwest while the other F-15s ran in from separate headings.

The F-4s that had been scrambled into a HICAP to defend Ahlhorn were entering the engagement, trying to nail the F-15s as they left the target area. Matt had rejoined his wingman and both pilots configured their systems for an air-to-air engagement. The F-15s that had been delivering bombs a moment ago were now ready for an air-to-air engagement, and there was no better weapons system for killing other fighters than the Eagle.

Matt’s instructions to the aircrews for getting out of the target area had been simple, “We’re not going there to defend anybody, so don’t stick around to fight. Pull your fangs in when a bandit bounces you. Sort ‘em out for one head-on missile attack and simulate a Fox One shot before the merge. Unload and stroke the throttles—blow on through ‘em and keep heading for home. The next element behind you has a contract to do the same thing. The Rules of Engagement say the bad guys have to honor our missile shots and take evasive action. They’re going to be up to their earholes and assholes just getting out of the way of our missiles while we get the hell out of Dodge.”

And that’s what happened as pair after pair of F-15s came at the defenders. Tail-end Charlie was flown by Colonel Mike Martin, the wing’s new DO, the deputy commander for operations, a large and profane man with the personality of a gorilla in heat. He was upset because the Luftwaffe and Dutch had played by the Rules of Engagement and were making like dead men. More fighters were being scrambled out of both Jever and Leeuwarden, but they would be too late to engage the retreating F-15s. He snorted in frustration because he wanted to “kill” something or somebody. Then he gave a begrudging “Shit hot.” He was looking forward to the debrief of the mission because Matt’s plan had worked as advertised and violated Furry’s “rule” that a plan is only good for the first thirty seconds of combat.

“Hey, Matt,” a voice shouted when he and Furry walked out of the mission debriefing in the squadron. “We really knocked their dicks in the dirt on this one!” A chorus of good-natured shouts and obscene comments rained down on diem. Another voice shouted, “The beer light’s on in the lounge!” and the crowd moved in that direction. Furry gave Matt a friendly push and told him to get busy with the important things: “Drinking and bullshitting with the troops.”

Matt stood for a moment, realizing he was part of the squadron and that he had earned it on his own. No, he told himself, that’s not entirely true. He had earned it because Ambler Furry had encouraged him to keep trying and had kept faith in him when everyone else was dumping in his face. “Amb, why did you want to be my backseater?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Furry deadpanned at him, “I’m probably suffering from a bad case of the stupids.” Then he relented. “I guess I saw a lot of Jack Locke in you. I flew another attack on Ahlhorn that he had planned. This one was better.” He grinned at his pilot. “Come on, let’s get to the serious stuff.” He shoved Matt toward the lounge and the beer.

The wind gusted through the cracks in the door and sent waves of dust across the floor. Shoshana had tried to stuff the cracks with rolled-up newspapers, but nothing seemed to block the relentless wind. “I hate the wind,” she told Avidar. The man only responded with a weak smile. “Where are you?” she mumbled to herself, wishing Habish would return. He had left them in the small one-room hovel on the outskirts of Kirkuk over twenty-four hours ago.

“He’ll be back,” Avidar said. She sat on the floor next to him and felt his forehead. The fever was building again. The antibiotics Habish had found after they had reached Kirkuk had broken Avidar’s raging temperature but they needed more now. “Don’t even think about it,” Avidar cautioned. “No doctors.”

“I know, I know,” Shoshana told him, her frustration building. “The risk is too great.” She bathed his forehead with a damp cloth and offered him water. “You saved Gad in Baghdad, you saved me at the roadblock, and now we can’t do anything for you. If I was a nurse, at least—”

“But you’re not.” He squeezed her hand. “We all knew the risks before we started.”

Shoshana tried to keep him warm as his fever surged and he slipped into unconsciousness. “Damn you, Habish!” she raged. “Where are you!” Tears streaked down her cheeks and she wanted to do something, anything to save this quiet man with the soft brown eyes. In her despair, she started to pray, something she hadn’t done for years. “I can’t even do that right,” she told herself.

She sat with him until he died.

The makeshift shroud Shoshana was sewing together was almost finished when Habish came through the door. “You’re too late,” she said, not taking her eyes from her work. He knelt beside Avidar’s body, no emotion on his face. “Well, say something, you bastard!” She was standing, shaking with anger.

“We need to leave.”

Rage crashed through her, driving her anger and frustration before it like a windstorm. “Do we throw him in a ditch like those two soldiers? Or do we just leave him here for the rats to eat? Goddamn you, Habish. He saved our lives and I can never repay that. At least I can bury him.”

“Shoshana …” He wanted to reach out and touch her, to tell her of his grief and sorrow. But he had to continue with what had begun in Tel Aviv when he started on this operation. And then against his better judgment, he gave in. “We’ll bury him.” He rose and brushed past her. “Stay here,” he commanded and disappeared out the door.

He returned an hour later and without saying a word, picked up the body. He laid it gently in the rear of the truck and drove to a cemetery. Again, he carried the body and laid it gently beside an open grave.

“Why in a Muslim cemetery?” Shoshana asked.

Habish looked at her in disbelief. “Where else? Avidar was a Druze.”

“He wasn’t Jewish?” She was shocked by the revelation.

“Why do you think he spoke Arabic so well and blended in like he did?” Habish was slightly irritated. “He was not an
aqil,
one of the ‘initiated’ into the mysteries of their religion.”

“I didn’t know we could trust any Arabs.”

“Muslims consider the Druze heretics and hate them as much as they do Jews. Avidar’s people gave their loyalty to Israel in turn for protection. You need to know more about your own country.” His voice hardened. “His loyalty speaks for itself.”

She helped him lower the body into the grave and cover it with dirt. When they were finished, she knelt beside the grave and rocked back and forth in her grief. Slowly, the Hebrew words came as she rocked,
“Shma Yisrael
… In the beginning God created …” Habish’s hand clamped down hard on her shoulder, stopping her. She looked around and saw a man in a white turban and long flowing black robes standing behind them—a mullah.

Zack stood in the doorway of his wife’s bedroom, not wanting to disturb the moment. He was vaguely aware of the young, dark-suited Secret Service agent in the far corner of the main hall who was trying to blend in with the woodwork. They do try to give me space, he thought. But a President is never really alone. Zack accepted the inevitability of what that meant and knew the young agent would breathe easier if he went inside and closed the door behind him. I’ll wait, he decided. They don’t need me right now.

Sitting on the edge of his grandmother’s bed, Matt was gently holding her hand in his and speaking softly. His voice had changed, not so strident and young. “I’m okay now, Grandmother. A good friend helped me get through … my wizzo.”

A good friend? Pontowski thought. His wizzo? Before it had always been the girl of the moment whom Matt had talked about when bringing Tosh up to date on his private life. And he’s wearing his class A uniform. He had never done that before and had always been in a hurry to get into civvies. My God, he does look like his father …

The image of Matt’s father was now painted in large brushstrokes across Zack’s memory. You were on the way when Zack Junior was your age, he thought.

“No.” Matt smiled at his grandmother and answered another question. “There’s no one special right now.”

That was as close as Tosh will come to asking about your love life, Pontowski thought. She wants a great-grandchild, hopefully a boy, to carry on the Pontowski name. Pontowski… a good Polish name that could trace its lineage back to a king. No doubt on the wrong side of the bedsheets, if the truth be known. The Pontowskis always were a lusty lot. Damn it, Matt, get with the program. You’re the last of the line, almost the same age as your father when he was killed in Vietnam.

“Will you make the Air Force a career now?” Tosh asked.

“Probably. I seem to have my act together now and …”

It is true, you do have your act together. Thanks to the Air Force. But at what a price. They tell me Locke was one of the finest officers they had, a superb pilot, a leader, a future general. Must we waste our best men? I’ve got to change that. Is there a price for Matt to pay?

“And, well”—Matt hesitated looking for the right words—“I’m good at it. I can fly the beast.” He was serious now. “And I love the challenge. When I’m flying, I’m alive.”

Now you understand yourself. Is that the beginning of discipline? Oh yes, I know about being alive, when food tastes better, love is sweeter. Someday I’ll have to sit down with you and talk about the Big One, World War Two, when I was flying Mosquitoes for the RAF and met your grandmother. You can do both—be a pilot and a husband. Be honest, you want a great-grandson as badly as Tosh.

“Zack”—Tosh looked around her grandson—“come in and quit ignoring your family.”

Zachary Matthew Pontowski, the President of the United States, savored the moment and felt a rare warmth work through him. I suppose, he thought, that each of us in only given a few limited moments of happiness and contentment in this life. Are they the same? The secret isn’t to wish for more of those moments but to know when you’re having one.

He walked through the door and closed it behind him.

“Oh, this is nice,” the girl said as she looked around the elegant apartment that Fraser kept at the Watergate complex for such occasions. They had met at a dinner party that evening and after a show of interest on his part, the girl had easily gravitated into his circle. No one had objected, for Tara Tyndle was young, extremely well-endowed and gorgeous, and could carry on an intelligent conversation. She shook out her blond hair when Fraser took her wrap, creating the effect she wanted.

“I’m glad you like it. Drink?”

“Please. White wine.” She walked around the room and touched the stereo. She gave him a look and arched an eyebrow. He nodded and she turned the stereo on. She knew exactly where to find the FM station she wanted. “I used to dance to music like this,” she told him.

“I didn’t know you’re a dancer. Ballet?”

“Was a dancer. I gave it up. I assure you, this is not music for ballet.” She could tell he was interested.

“That’s too bad, I’d of like to seen you dance.”

“It’s not too late.” She shook her head again, threw her hair to one side, and arched the same eyebrow. Fraser liked the way she communicated with him and again nodded.

Tara smiled and started to move with the music. She walked across the floor with the same sure step of a showgirl on a runway at a casino in Atlantic City or Las Vegas. Then she was behind his favorite chair, patting the high back for him to sit down. He did and she moved out in front. Now she was rubbing the sides of her hips, pulling her dress up her thighs. With an easy, practiced motion, she pulled the dress over her head and threw it aside, again shaking her hair out. Her movements slowed with the music as she teased him, slowly taking her bra off. Then her back was to him and she bent over, pulling her panties down, looking back at him. Slowly, she moved toward him and straddled his left leg, moving with the music.

Fraser’s pager buzzed at him and she backed away, her sensuous movements blending with the music. She kicked off her high heels. He fumbled at the pager and glanced at the call number. “Goddamn it! What does that bitch want now!” B. J. Allison’s phone number was flashing at him. He fought to control his breathing. When he was in control, he jabbed at the buttons of the phone next to him. His voice was pleasant and showed no traces of what he felt. “B.J., you do work late. How do you expect an old fart like me to keep up with you?” He listened. “Yes, of course. No … I don’t mind coming. right over. You called at a good time. I’m free.”

The girl moved to the hall closet, took out his topcoat, and held it demurely in front of her. She was still moving to the music, swaying back and forth behind his topcoat. “Must you go?” she asked. He grunted and disappeared out the door. Tara walked back into the room and methodically searched it for bugs and a hidden VCR. It was clean. She sat down in Fraser’s chair and crossed her long bare legs as she dialed a number. “Hello. Yes, it worked.” She gave a low laugh, “Oh, yes. He’s definitely interested but I won’t be here when he gets back.” She hung up and rapidly dressed. Just before she left, she scribbled her phone number for him to call.

Fraser knew Allison was sending him a message and that he would have to cool his heels for a while longer before she made an entrance. Of course she would bubble with apologies, but the message would remain—she was angry at the way she had been treated at the White House. After all, she had only been three minutes late for the meeting, and while it was a deliberate three minutes, Fraser should have smoothed things over with the President. Her money, power, and influence demanded that. She was determined to make that point with Fraser.

“Tom, you do spoil me.” B.J. swept into the room, looking bright and cheerful for one o’clock in the morning. As always, he wondered how old she really was when he took her hand and tried to act courtly. She led him into the sitting room she used as an office and sat down. A secretary brought over a silver tea service and poured two cups. When he was finished, B.J. waved the young man and two other secretaries out of the room. “Now, Tom, we really must talk.” Fraser braced himself for a brutal session.

“Doesn’t the President know that
we
only have the best interests of our country at heart?” Her voice sounded wounded.

“No one doubts that, B.J. …”

“Then why doesn’t he show it? Oh, that man!” She stomped a small foot. “He must know we import over half our oil now and that most of it comes from the Middle East.
We”—
she kept stressing the “we”—“must do all we can to keep that oil flowing to us.”

“I assure you, the President does understand that. But—”

“There are no ‘buts,’ “ she interrupted. He could hear steel in her voice now. “The way he is encouraging the Israelis angers our other friends. Heavens, they might, if they are provoked, and who could blame them the way
he
ignores them, decide to create another oil embargo.”

“Again, I assure you—”

“Assure me of what? That he is encouraging the Israelis in their own type of imperialism? That he doesn’t care about peace in that part of the world? That he doesn’t care about the concerns of our
true
friends? That Israel dictates our foreign policy? And now this talk of a national energy policy! Why … why”—she screwed up her courage to utter the dirtiest word she knew—“it’s … it’s …
socialism!”

“He takes a broader view,” Fraser tried to explain. “He sees our national energy policy linked to the Middle East situation, the problems in the Soviet Union, our balance of trade, the budget deficit.” He regretted the last even as he said it.

“How dare he even think that
we
do not pay our fair share of taxes!” Allison believed what she was saying with all the fervor of a TV evangelist. She also believed in making a profit and knew how to turn an oil embargo to her advantage. She preferred to maintain the current way she did business importing oil, yet she did not want to be denied her profit-making options in case the Arabs decided to embargo the flow of oil. A national energy policy put too many limits on the amount of money she could make. It disturbed her that more and more senators and representatives in the U.S. Congress did not agree with her.

“B.J., please listen,” Fraser begged. “I cannot change the President’s view of the world.”

“He must be listening to someone,” she shot at him.

“Well, there is an Air Force lieutenant colonel, an expert on the Middle East, who recently came on board with the National Security Council.”

“Tom, doesn’t this remind you of that nice Marine under President Reagan? Surely, he must be telling the President the truth.”

“He sees the situation much as the President does.”

“Then get rid of him. Get someone responsible to take his place.” She pressed a button beside her chair and the young male secretary appeared almost instantaneously. “Please get Mr. Fraser’s coat,” she ordered.

After Fraser had left, Allison twiddled her fingers, thinking. The door opened and Tara Tyndle walked in. She gave the old woman a beautiful smile, poured herself a cup of tea, and sat down. “Well, Auntie?” Tara asked.

“I can’t believe how stupid
they
are.” B. J. Allison lumped anyone who disagreed with her into a pile of “theys.” “I do believe we are dealing with a hostile administration and Fraser does not have the influence with Pontowski that he led me to believe.” She continued to twiddle her fingers deep in thought. Tara waited. She recognized the signs. “Perhaps, the President needs something else to take his mind off the Middle East and his so-called national energy policy.”