Free Call to Duty by Richard Herman Page A

they descended the stairs to the Situation Room in the basement.
    “The good senator from California,” Cox answered, the implied contempt in his words not lost on Pontowski, “is going to make political hay out of this if he can.”
    A Marine guard held open the door to the Situation Room for them to enter. Inside, four men and a woman were clustered around one end of the table while another young staffer tacked up the last of a series of eighteen- by twenty-four-inch sheets of paper on one wall that outlined the current situation. “Mazie,” Pontowski said to the young woman, “sometimes I think you live here.”
    Mazie Kamigami smiled at him, her round oriental face full of warmth. “Mr. Cagliari does let me go home occasionally,” she replied. The rumpled, professorial-looking man sitting next to her was Michael Cagliari, the national security adviser. He only shook his head and muttered in his beard. Mazie Kamigami was the most aggressive and brightest member of the National Security Council staff and cut a swath across the highly compartmentalized NSC. Whenever a crisis broke, she always appeared in the center of things, working eighty and ninety hours a week, limitless energy flowing out of her squat, round body. She was Cagliari’s most valuable assistant.
    “We were just told,” Michael Cagliari said, “that a U.S. Army exchange officer was with the SAS team. No name yet.”
    “Find out who he is and get him here,” Pontowski said. “Also keep Senator Courtland posted on all new developments.” Mazie shot a worried glance at her boss, Cagliari. Pontowski caught it. “I know,” the President said, “that could be a problem. But we’ve got to work with the senator on this one.”
    “Sir,” Mazie said, not afraid to voice an opinion, “Senator Courtland chases reporters down the street throwing classified and sensitive information at them. He’s more like a geyser than a leak. Reporters call him Old Faithful—good for an outburst every hour.”
    “The stakes are different this time,” Cagliari said.
    “I hope so,” Pontowski said as he left, Cox in tow.
     
    Senator William Douglas Courtland was buoyant with anticipation when he entered his offices and called for his two most trusted assistants, George Rivera and Tina Stanley, to join him. The man and woman who entered his private office could have blended with the thousands of other men and women who prowled the halls of the Capitol in search of power and status. However, this pair were credited as being the most skilled and unscrupulous operators in Washington, D.C. Courtland paced the floor in his eagerness. “I’ve got that dumb Polack in the White House backed into a corner,” he told them. The senator recounted the situation and laid out his strategy.
    The man and woman sat impassively, waiting for Courtland to issue their marching orders. “George, I want you to wring every contact you’ve got in the CIA dry. Call in every marker that’s owed you. I want the raw stuff and I don’t give a damn about verification or authenticity. Dig it out. Tina, suck whatever cock you have to in the NSC and do the same.” Neither said a word. “I want this to be the screwup of the century,” Courtland said, his face stone hard.
    The two exchanged glances. “We can make that happen,” George Rivera assured him. Tina Stanley nodded in agreement.
     
    “The press conference has been set up for two o’clock this afternoon,” Leo Cox told Pontowski. The two men were sitting in the Oval Office going over the day’s revised schedule with the press secretary.
    “We expect most of the questions will be about the kidnapping,” Henry Gilman, the press secretary said.
    “Any feel of the mood of the press corps?” Cox asked.
    “Still digging for angles,” Gilman said. “Right now they are neutral and waiting to see what develops.”
    “Good,” Pontowski said. “Leo, have the Vice President cover the luncheon with the delegates from the