“General,” Burke sputtered, “I simply refuse to accept your conclusion that the Egyptians are going to enter the war.”
“Mr. Burke,” Cox said, his cadaverous face making his words more ominous, “I want to agree with you, but that contradicts what we’re seeing and hearing.” Cox then proceeded to swamp him with facts, all tied together and supporting his analysis. “The only response then available to the Israelis,” he concluded, “will be to escalate—”
“Damn it, General”—Burke was losing his temper—“and just how will they do that if they’re getting their butts kicked like you’re saying?”
Cox bowed his head before he raised his eyes and drilled the DCI. “They’ll go nuclear, sir.” Burke sank back into his chair and a heavy silence came down. They all believed him.
“We must stop that from happening,” Pontowski said, breaking the silence. “How do we do it?” For the next twenty minutes, the options open to the United States were examined.
Finally, Pontowski leaned forward and started giving orders. There was steel in his voice that most members of the NSC had never heard before. “I want immediate action on three fronts, diplomatic, logistical, and military. State”—he gave the secretary of state a hard look—“press for a ceasefire on all fronts. The Hot Line to the Kremlin is still down and their ambassador recalled. But there has got to be a channel open somewhere. Find it. I don’t care who you have to talk to. Logistics, get whatever the Israelis need to them — now. Put the Rapid Deployment Force on alert. If I have to, I will unilaterally reinforce the peacekeeping troops in the Sinai and force the Egyptians to attack through us. Call the Egyptian ambassador in.”
Pontowski stood. “When I say immediate action, I mean within the hour, not this afternoon.” He moved toward the door. “General Cox, would you please join me?” Outside, the two men walked slowly down the hall. “Leo, how good are your sources?”
Cox hesitated before answering. He knew the President was moving fast, based on the facts he had presented. “Sir, there is always ‘noise’ in intelligence: the information that doesn’t fit, the deliberate misleads the opposition plugs into the system. Most of the time, the very mass of information we deal with is the ‘noise’ that masks the true picture. But the reports we’re getting from our military attachés and observers inside both Israel and Egypt all support what satellite and aerial reconnaissance is telling us — the Israelis are losing and will go nuclear if Egypt comes into the war.”
“How reliable are the attachés and observers?”
“Very,” Cox answered. “One of the reports was from Captain Pontowski.”
“Where’s Matt now?”
“Out of Israel, sir. Back with his unit in England.”
“I’d like to see his report.” The relief in Pontowski’s voice was obvious.
“I’ll get it to you within the hour.”
Pontowski stopped before entering his office. “What happened to Bill Carroll?”
Cox allowed a smile to crack his grim face. “We restored his security clearance, gave him a letter of reprimand for an unauthorized contact with a foreign government, and sent him to an operational unit. He asked to go back to his old wing, the Forty-fifth.”
“He’s a good man,” Pontowski said. “I’m glad you protected him.”
The general could only stare at his commander in chief. My, God! he thought, he figured it out. He knows that I used Carroll to short-circuit the CIA and get the intelligence I thought was critical to him.
“Mr. President”—it was Fraser—“the Egyptian ambassador will be here in two hours.”
“Thanks, Tom. That’s fine.” Pontowski held open die door to his office and motioned Cox inside for privacy. “Leo, there’s something I need you to do right now. Do you know Egypt’s air attaché?”
The two pilots stood at attention in front of General Mana’s desk. They were surprised that the general was wearing a flight suit, even though it had obviously been tailored for him. The general’s aide minced in and handed him a folder. The general smiled at the twenty-year-old lieutenant colonel, thanking him. Johar and Samir kept their eyes rooted on a spot above the general’s head.
Mana thumbed through the folder, throwing pictures of two crashed F-16s onto his desk, in front of the two pilots. “By not following orders,” Mana said, “you two denied me the kills that were rightfully mine. Please explain yourselves.”
“Sir”—it was Johar—“I’m not sure we can. Everything happened so fast and, and we were just there. “ Samir nodded vigorously in agreement. “The only way I can explain what happened is that”—he was thinking furiously, knowing Mana could be very dangerous and they were, after all, nobodies—“that your aggressive airmanship drove the F-Sixteens right into our feces. It was night, you knew that the Israelis would turn away from us, back towards you … But it was all very confused and we managed to get off two missiles. The shots were … pure luck.” He had almost said “The shots were golden BBs” but that would have been too much of an Americanism and a mistake.
Mana rolled a letter opener between his thumb and forefinger, examining its blade. “It is encouraging that you understand what happened. But it does not change the result.” He drove the tip of the letter opener deep into his desk. “Those were my kills.”
“Yes, sir,” Johar said. “We know that.” Samir nodded vigorously.
“Then you will understand why I am receiving the credit for them. Please, this was not my idea. The other pilots who were there are insisting on it.”
“That is how it should be,” Johar agreed with Samir, who was still nodding.
Mana smiled. “There will be reporters and TV cameras on base today to report my victory to our people. I think it would be wise if you two were not here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Johar said, “for your understanding.”
“Dismissed.”
The two pilots beat a hasty retreat. Outside the headquarters building, they glanced at each other, an unspoken comment that they had been lucky. But that was life in Iraq’s air force.
The Egyptian ambassador was the model of diplomatic propriety. His distinguished reputation, polished appearance, carefully tailored dark suit, and expensive hand-tooled leather briefcase all marked him as a member in good standing of the Washington diplomatic corps. Pontowski stood and extended his hand when Matsom Hamoud al-Dasud was ushered into his office. “Mr. President,” Dasud murmured. He was acutely aware that they were alone with no interpreters. Normal diplomatic protocol required translators even though his mastery of English was well known. It was his first danger signal.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Pontowski said, his face dead serious. “Thank you for coming on such sort notice, but a critical problem has arisen.”
“We are aware of the situation and my government has told me to be at your service.” For the next few minutes, the two men exchanged formal courtesies as they sparred.
When they had reached the appropriate moment, Pontowski came to the purpose of the hastily called meeting. “Mr. Ambassador, it is my intention to reinforce the UN peacekeeping forces in the Sinai while my ambassador to the United Nations pursues a cease-fire in the Israeli-Syrian war.”
Dasud’s right eyebrow arched. “That is not necessary. The intentions of my country remain as before, committed to peace and regional prosperity.”