Iron Gate Page 9

  Pontowski stared at his desk for a moment. He picked up a glass paperweight and threw it across the room.

  Chapter 5

  Monday, December 22

  Washington, D.C.

  *

  The doorman on duty at the Villiard Hotel frowned when the battered old Volvo pulled up and stopped. The car was not up to the Villiard standard and the assistant manager would have more than a small piece of his skin if he didn’t send the driver packing. It was his job to man the front line and sort the elite from the tourists and unwanted intruders so the hotel could provide the nation’s power brokers with a haven for behind-the-scenes dickering, influence peddling, and if need be, fornicating. Common knowledge held that more deals were wheeled, dealed, and rolled over the American electorate in the Villiard than in the Capitol.

  Sam Darnell hopped out of the car and flashed her press card. ‘Don’t park it,’ she said. ‘I’ll only be a moment. Have you seen Elizabeth Gordon?’

  The doorman gave an audible sigh. ‘I believe Miss Gordon is with Senator Lucknow’s assistant, Jeff Bissell.’

  Shacked up for a matinee, Sam thought. The photographer liked Liz Gordon and accepted her for what she was, but she worried about Gordon’s casual approach to sex. ‘We’ve got to move on a hot story.’ The doorman understood and picked up the phone at his station, spoke to the operator, and handed her the receiver. ‘Liz,’ Sam said, ‘the White House has announced we are sending a UN peacekeeping team into South Africa. Congress is going to spit bullets on this one and Ann Nevers wants to talk to you. I’m out front. Hurry.’ She handed the phone back to the doorman. Thanks, I owe you.’ He nodded. It was the way backs were scratched in Washington, D.C.

  Elizabeth Gordon made her exit fifteen minutes later and, while her clothes were neat and tidy, her face was flushed. The doorman held the Volvo’s door open for her and was glad to see them drive away. Gordon flipped the sun shade down and checked the vanity mirror. ‘Your makeup case is on the back seat,’ Sam told her. ‘You and Jeff sharing confidences or is the relationship on again?’

  ‘A little of both,’ Gordon allowed. ‘There is a stirring of congressional support for supporting the UN in Africa.’

  Congresswoman Ann Nevers was waiting for them in her office in the House of Representatives Office Building. Her view of the Capitol was mute testimony to her political clout and ability to switch party affiliations at the right time. She was almost six feet tall and slightly hunch-shouldered. Her dark hair was attractively streaked with gray and her brown eyes were clear and alert. She could have been a model in her youth and was still pretty. But the years of fighting political games had hardened her attitude and with it, her face. She offered them coffee or tea and sat with them on a sofa.

  ‘I want to spend my remaining years in Congress addressing the problems facing our country,’ she began, ‘problems we need to solve now.’ She stood and paced the antique Persian carpet in front of her over-large desk. ‘You know the list. But our attention is deliberately being diverted away by the policies of the current administration. No doubt you’ve heard the President is committing our troops to serve under a UN commander in South Africa?’

  Gordon nodded. ‘I thought the National Security Revitalization Act specifically prohibited that without congressional approval.’

  ‘That was our intention when Congress passed the Act,’ Nevers replied. ‘But there is a clause in the Emergency War Powers Act of 1965 that allows the President to act unilaterally without the consent of Congress, if Congress is not in session. That clause was never repealed and he’s using it.’ More pacing, her anger in full flow. ‘This is a middle-aged male thing, you know, a typical macho reaction to male menopause ... a testosterone hot flush.’

  ‘Then you believe the United States should not try to stop the spreading violence in South Africa?’ Gordon said.

  Nevers stared at her for a moment as she considered her answer. Liz Gordon was not living up to her reputation as a mindless pretty face. ‘Not with a military presence. We learned that lesson in Somalia. As I have often said before, military actions are a smoke screen to divert the public’s attention from problems here. We will hold these new interventionists accountable. Did you know that Zack Pontowski’s grandson has been chosen to command the U.S. contingent?’

  ‘Is that bad?’ Gordon answered. ‘I don’t know too much about him but it was my understanding that he did a good job in China.’

  ‘Good job?’ Nevers replied, her voice carefully modulated with the right amount of disbelief. ‘He’s the next thing to a mercenary. We’ll never see true progress in this country until the Pontowskis are controlled.’ More pacing. ‘This is so obvious, using the Pontowski name to develop political support in Congress. Carroll is behind this, I just know it.’

  Gordon and Sam exchanged glances. Nevers’s hostility toward Carroll was well-known and Gordon sensed an opening, ‘It sounds like you’re playing the local macho game,’ she ventured, hoping for an unconscious slip of the tongue.

  But Nevers had fielded too many questions from journalists to be trapped. ‘What game is that?’ she asked.

  ‘In this town,’ Gordon answered, ‘you are defined by your enemies and respected only for the number of people you’ve ruined.’

  Nevers smiled. ‘Don’t be silly, of course not.’ But Gordon had struck home for Nevers savored that aspect of political power. ‘Liz,’ she said, her voice full of concern, ‘we’ve got to stop the Pontowskis and the Carrolls. They represent all that is wrong with our system.’ She stopped, sensing she had made her case. The interview was at an end and Nevers escorted them out.

  In the hall, Gordon said, ‘She has a good point.’

  ‘It was spin control,’ Sam replied. ‘She’s using you.’

  The reporter nodded. ‘And she was too long on generalities and too short on facts. Why all the animosity towards Pontowski? See what you can find out about him.’

  *

  Monday, December 22

  The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

  *

  When Pontowski arrived at the Pentagon, he was immediately escorted to the NMCC, the National Military Command Center, where the generals only asked two questions: When would the 442nd be ready to deploy? And what did he need to make it happen? In short order, he found himself in the command section of E-ring and then in room 3E880, the office of the Secretary of Defense. The man who greeted him, Doctor John Weaver Elkins, was slender, mild-mannered, and looked more like a librarian than one of the most powerful members of the President’s cabinet.

  ‘Matt,’ Elkins said, ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’ He motioned for Pontowski to sit down. ‘I understand you and Bill Carroll are old friends.’ Carroll was sitting in a comfortable leather chair near the windows that overlooked the Potomac River. Elkins sat down in his own chair and folded his hands. ‘In a few minutes, we’re going into a press conference to introduce you as the commander of the Americans being sent to South Africa. Expect to be hit with some pretty tough questions.’

  ‘Like legal justification?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘We’ve prepared a position paper on that,’ Elkins answered, handing him a copy to read. ‘Under the Emergency War Powers Act, the President can commit our troops up to ninety days. We expect Congress to hit us with a barrage of committee hearings when they reconvene. Being a critic is much easier, and safer, than being in the arena making things happen.’

  ‘Congress may use its powers under the National Security Revitalization Act to pull you out eventually,’ Carroll added. ‘But as long as Congress is not in session, the President is free to act. That’s why he’s moving fast to protect our national interests.’

  ‘And just what are our national interests in South Africa?’ Pontowski asked. ‘A severe shortage of diamonds?’

  Elkins laughed. ‘He’s got you, Bill.’

  Carroll hated what he had to do next. It had been decided by the President not to reveal the real reason for
United States involvement and it fell to Carroll to create a believable lie. ‘We’re repaying our European allies for the support they’ve given us in past operations. They hold a few markers from the Gulf War, Somalia and Haiti, and it’s payback time. We are supporting their interests, not defending ours.’ Pontowski understood quid pro quo and while this did seem weak, it was legal. And serving as a peacekeeper was ethical.

  ‘Matt,’ Elkins explained, ‘you will be the senior U.S. military officer in country. However, you will fall under a French General, Charles de Royer, who has been appointed the commander of all UN forces in South Africa. One of your primary duties is to create a command relationship with the UN where an American is not the head honcho. This may be the most important thing you accomplish. Unfortunately, we have very few hard and fast guidelines for you.’

  Which means that I have to play it by ear, Pontowski thought, and get hung out to dry if anything goes wrong. ‘Like in China?’ he asked.

  ‘Like in China,’ Carroll conceded.

  ‘What about the CIA?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘They have a presence in South Africa,’ Carroll answered.

  ‘Will they be mounting any covert operations?’

  ‘The agency is out of the covert operations business,’ Elkins answered.

  ‘Right,’ Pontowski deadpanned. Elkins did not respond. It was time for the press conference and he led the way to the auditorium used for press briefings.

  Every seat was taken and Elizabeth Gordon was sitting in the front row, her long legs stretched out and carefully crossed for maximum exposure. She thumbed through the notes on Pontowski Sam had passed to her moments before. She was surprised Sam had dug up so much information on such short notice and key phrases leaped out: hell raiser ... party boy and woman chaser as a young lieutenant ... always in trouble ... almost kicked out of the Air Force ... saved by intervention from White House.

  A typical fighter pilot, Gordon thought. She scribbled ‘political influence’ in her notebook. Then she read the rest. As a captain, Pontowski had been involved in a midair collision where three men had been killed. No other information was available. Gordon wrote ‘cover-up?’ in her notebook. She searched the room for Sam and mouthed the words: ‘Good work.’ The photographer had maneuvered for a position against a side wall to give Gordon the benefit of the best light.

  Elkins took the podium and surveyed the crowd. ‘It must be a slow news day,’ he said. Laughter rippled around the room as he turned to business. ‘You have all read the position paper on the President’s power to act, so why don’t we get right to the questions?’

  He was bombarded with a flurry of questions that indicated most of the reporters had not read the position paper and Pontowski admired the easy way Elkins handled them. He was friendly, but with just enough reserve to warn the reporters he did not tolerate fools. Finally, he said, ‘Why don’t I turn this over to the two experts I brought with me, the National Security Advisor and the man who will be leading the peacekeeping contingent, Colonel Matthew Pontowski.’ He motioned Carroll and Pontowski to the podium.

  The room erupted as the reporters shouted for attention, demanding to be recognized. Carroll ended the shouting by pointing to a man sitting near one of the boom mikes. ‘Are there plans to send more than just a single wing?’ the reporter asked. ‘Is the CIA involved? Have you established a definite time limit? Is this an open-ended commitment?’

  ‘I’m glad you only asked one question,’ Carroll replied, causing a few chuckles. ‘We have made it very clear to the UN that this is not an open-ended commitment but we have not established a firm time limit as of yet. To do so would be premature. As of now, we intend to send a composite group made up of A-10s from the 442nd Fighter Wing from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri and C-130s from the 314th Airlift Wing at Little Rock Air Force Base in Arkansas. We can expand or contract their mission as circumstances warrant.’

  I wonder what those ‘circumstances’ are? Pontowski thought. He mulled it over and missed Elizabeth Gordon’s question which was directed at him. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Would you please repeat your question?’

  ‘I asked,’ Gordon replied, certain she had thrown him a curve because of his hesitation, ‘if you were selected to lead the American contingent because of your political connections?’ She deliberately recrossed her legs, letting her skirt ride higher, pushing the limits of journalistic propriety. I hope Sam is catching this, she thought. Show the public what you are.

  Pontowski drilled her with a hard look. From the recesses of his memory, he dragged up her name, recalling her coverage of the Persian Gulf War. He was all too aware of the movement of her legs and the expanse of thigh she was showing. An inner alarm sounded, warning him not to dismiss her as a bimbo but treat her as a dangerous opponent who used sex as a weapon.

  His voice was measured and calm when he answered. ‘Miss Gordon,’ he said, ‘there is no way I can answer that with a ten-second sound bite. It is true that many of my family and friends are active in politics, I can’t deny that. But I hope that my past record speaks for itself and is sufficient justification for my selection. Also, my wing, the 442nd, has an outstanding record and they have earned the right to this assignment.’

  You opened the subject, Gordon thought, so here it comes. ‘Speaking of past records, Colonel Pontowski, you were in a midair collision in which three other men were killed and you were the only survivor. The cause of the accident was never made public and has led to charges of a cover-up.’

  ‘I lost two good friends in that accident,’ Pontowski said, his voice not betraying his anger. ‘It is still a very painful memory. As to the charges you mentioned, this is the first I’ve heard of them. I requested the accident report be released under the Freedom of Information Act and the Air Force granted my request three years ago. Please read the report and I’ll be glad to answer any questions you might have. But let’s stick to facts, Miss Gordon. We owe the American public that courtesy.’

  Liz Gordon felt her face flush. ‘It’s my business to deal in facts,’ she shot back. From the look on his face, she knew she had made a mistake, a very bad mistake. Pontowski had set her up.

  His voice was bland. ‘As I recall, during the Persian Gulf War, you reported B-52 bombers were launched from the aircraft carrier America.’ A few of the reporters guffawed at the thought of the huge Air Force bombers operating off a Navy carrier. ‘That must have gotten the Navy’s attention,’ he said, an amused look on his face. The laughter grew louder.

  Gordon dropped her gaze and said nothing, letting the questioning pass to another reporter. She wrote ‘Bastard’ in her notebook and stewed until the briefing was over. Outside the auditorium, she stormed down the hall. The bastard, she raged to herself, that conceited, egotistical son of a bitch! Who does he think he is?

  ‘Liz.’ Sam called. The photographer ran after Gordon, slowed by her camera and tripod. ‘Slow down.’

  ‘I’m going to nail that son of a bitch’s hide to the wall,’ she snapped.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Sam said. After you’ve calmed down, she added to herself.

  ‘He insulted me,’ Gordon said, ‘and every reporter in there.’

  The egoism driving Gordon’s words angered Sam and she decided it was time to explain a few facts of life to the reporter. ‘Pontowski is one self-assured SOB for good reason,’ she said calmly. ‘So if you want a piece of his hide on the wall, you had better have all your facts nailed down before you go after him. You made a mistake in there.’

  ‘I made a mistake! You were the one who found out about the midair collision.’

  ‘I never said anything about a cover-up,’ Sam retorted. ‘That was your idea.’

  ‘He made a fool out of me! Are you defending him?’

  ‘No,’ Sam replied, ‘but you brought it on yourself.’

  ‘You’re fired!’ Gordon shouted.

  Sam tilted her head to one side and stared at Gordon. ‘Liz, you went
after Pontowski because you listened to Nevers and lost your objectivity. You know better than to trust a politician. Don’t you think it’s time your brain kicked in?’ She spun around and walked away.

  Gordon felt like crying. She had blown it again and the only one telling her the truth was Sam Darnell. ‘Sam, I’m sorry,’ she called. Sam stopped and waited. ‘I’m in trouble here and I don’t know what to do.’ Tears were running down her cheeks as she walked back to Sam.

  ‘It’s time to go, Liz.’

  *

  ‘You were pretty rough on Liz Gordon,’ Carroll said when they returned to Elkins’s office.

  ‘I wasn’t about to let her run over me,’ Pontowski replied.

  ‘It’s a sad fact of life,’ Elkins said, ‘that the media and the military will never get along. The military distrusts the press and unfortunately, too many reporters think their words come directly from God on an ecclesiastical hot line.’

  Carroll looked worried. ‘Matt, you’re playing a different game now. You’ve got to be constantly looking over your shoulder and checking your backside because everything, and I mean every word, every action you take, has political fallout.’

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ Pontowski said. ‘I hope this doesn’t turn into a goat rope. If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to my wing. Any idea when we might get the execute order?’

  ‘Soon,’ Elkins said. ‘Probably within seventy-eight hours.’

  ‘Can you hold off until after Christmas?’

  ‘We can try,’ Elkins replied. ‘But we’ve got to move fast before Congress reconvenes. They will take the peacekeeping option off the table.’

  What are the other options? Pontowski wondered.