Hellfire (Sisters In Law Book 2)

by John Ellsworth

  "What is a civilian cohort?"

  The colonel took a drink of water. He pulled out an Air Force blue handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

  "A civilian cohort is what we call a civilian contractor."

  "Who was the civilian contractor on this drone strike?"

  "Blackguard."

  "What was Blackguard's role in this drone strike?"

  "They were the requestor. They wanted the strike."

  "So a military strike was made because an American civilian company requested it."

  "In a nutshell, yes."

  “Is Blackguard under the authority of the military?"

  "Nope."

  "Takes orders from the military?"

  "Nope. Other way around."

  "Blackguard gives the military orders?"

  "Blackguard requests ops. On twenty October they wanted al-Assad taken out. In my headset I received Blackguard's request and combined that with drone two's surveillance and made the decision to order the strike. That simple."

  "Was there anyone above you in this chain of command?"

  "Nope. Buck stops with me. Harry S. Truman."

  "Indeed. Colonel, I think we're done here, unless your counsel has questions."

  "No questions," said Martha J. Mattingly. "Read and sign."

  "Thank you, colonel."

  "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

  28

  It was early afternoon by the end of Colonel Martinez's deposition. They had taken a lunch break and were now ready to proceed with the deposition of the actual pilot.

  Assembled again in Conference Room A, Christine asked the court reporter to swear the deponent, which she quickly did.

  "State your name for the record, please."

  "Randall C. Cunningwood."

  "What is your occupation?"

  "I fly drones."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "The United States Air Force."

  "Rank?"

  "Lieutenant. First Lieutenant."

  "How long have you been in the military?"

  "Little over two years."

  "Did you attend college and where?"

  "University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana."

  "Major?"

  "Aeronautical engineering."

  "Are you a licensed pilot?"

  "I'm commercial licensed multi-engine. Also certified to fly the Predator."

  "That would be the Predator drone?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Tell me about the Predator."

  "Not much to tell there. I fly the MQ-9 Reaper. It's a UAV--unmanned aerial vehicle. You call them drones, we call them remote piloted vehicles or RPVs."

  "General usage?"

  "Well, the MQ-9 Reaper is the first hunter-killer designed for long endurance, high altitude surveillance."

  "Mechanics?"

  "950 horses. The original Predator had only 115. So my aircraft carries fifteen times more ordnance than your original Predator."

  "Who has it?"

  "Air Force? Well, the New York Air Guard dumped all its F-16s and migrated to the MQ-9. First full fighter squadron to do that. Then we use it out of Creech. Also used by NATO, CIA, NASA, Border Patrol, and Navy. Probably more I don't know about."

  "What does your job entail as the pilot of the Reaper?"

  "Takeoff and landings. Transition to target. Acquire target, operate weapons, surveillance--stuff like that. Plus classified stuff. Please don't ask me about that."

  "Tell me about the classified stuff."

  "Objection! Classified!" cried Martha J. Mattingly. "Don't answer, Lieutenant!"

  "Fine," said Christine, rubbing her face. "We'll take it up with the judge." She turned back to the pilot: "Does the classified information have anything to do with twenty October twenty-fourteen?"

  "Negative, ma'am."

  "Fair enough, then. We'll leave that alone for now."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  "Now, directing your attention to twenty October twenty-fourteen. Do you remember that day?"

  "No, ma'am. That would just be another workday for me."

  "Do you remember flying into Syria that day?"

  "That would be classified, ma'am. Sorry."

  "Did you fire a missile in Syria that day?"

  "Classified."

  "Did you fire the missile at Deir ez-Zor on twenty October?"

  "Classified," said attorney Mattingly of the Department of Justice. "He is under orders not to answer questions about flights into or over Syria."

  "Then we'll have to talk to the judge. This deposition is continued until I can get a ruling. And counsel, you better have a damn good reason, you and your clients, for not answering my questions. I'll be after sanctions."

  "Good on you," said Mattingly. "You rock, girl."

  "Off the record. Go f--screw yourself, Miss Mattingly."

  Christine and Ed rose up out of their chairs and indicated the others should leave. The herd mentality kicked in and no less than a dozen lawyers, all carrying bulging briefcases and CPA cases, made their way for the door.

  "See you in court," Christine called after them. "I'll tell Judge LaJordia that the Air Force has decided to classify my case so you don't have to talk about it."

  "Go for it," said Mattingly in a parting shot over her shoulder. "But I'm betting on the United States Air Force, ma'am."

  "Sons of bitches," Christine whispered to Ed. He gently reached and brushed a lock of hair back over her ear when they were alone.

  "Sorry. I've wanted to do that all day."

  "Don't be sorry."

  "Well, I am."

  "Well, you don't need to be. I'm starved. What do you say we run downstairs to Starbucks for a protein box?"

  "Lead on, boss. I'm starved too."

  "Not boss; partner. Lead on, partner."

  "I like the sound of that much better, actually," he said.

  "Me too. An idea whose time has come."

  "Just be warned. I'm now officially pursuing you."

  "What, you're going to stalk me now?"

  "Yes, I am. You need to be stalked."

  "Maybe so, Ed Mitchell. Maybe I do, by you."

  29

  He was fifteen when he fell in love. Her name was Diana Apersain and she was a senior, while he was a junior.

  So why would a senior girl be interested in a junior boy who hobbled around on forearm crutches and geeked everyone out? For one thing, they were in math club together. For another, they had partnered that summer at Science Camp. They had developed a software project: Diana had provided database work while Jamie had done the actual coding. It was Diana's goal to become a database designer after she got her Ph.D. in computer science at the University of Chicago. It was Jamie's goal to get a Ph.D. in computer science and teach and develop code. As Diana told Jamie one night in early July, "We're a match made in heaven."

  "Isn't that from a song or something?" he asked.

  "I don't know. My mom says I need a match made in heaven. That's all I know."

  "How about a match based on data points instead? Like, I'm fifteen, you're sixteen, so we're both teens. Your IQ is above one-forty and my IQ is above one-forty. We're both in MENSA. We both love computers. I have a dog, you have a dog. We both love Science Camp and science fiction books. You love Hugh Howey's book Wool, I love his book Sand. I think data points make more sense than heavenly matches. Don't you?"

  "Plus you're handsome," she said.

  "You mean even with these?" he asked, raising a crutch skyward.

  "Don't even go there. Lots of people have challenges. You're a CP kid. Me, I'm anorexic, in case you haven't noticed."

  "You're skin and bones."

  "Let's get out of the hallway. Time for lunch, speaking of."

  "Will you eat?"

  She did a fake faint up against their adjoining lockers, where they had actually met.

  "I think I can force something down. Maybe celery and carrot sticks."

  "Let's try some meat and potato
es on you, girl. Todays' menu is beef pot pie and fries."

  "Ugh. I don't do animals."

  "I do. You should too. It's protein."

  "I want veggies, not protein. I want my body to eat its own protein."

  "TMI. Let's go."

  Together they made their way down the hall, Jamie running interference on his crutches and swinging his legs, Diana bringing up the rear. It was crowded, sometimes the path was jammed closed, and Jamie made honking noises with his mouth.

  "Queerbait!" yelped a senior.

  "Doofus!" cried a junior.

  "Watch it dude," said a freshman, who then swore under his breath at Jamie and his swinging legs.

  "It's the genius twins," said Margo Hagelman, the head cheerleader and a senior. She was wearing a short gray pleated skirt, green tee, and her letter jacket, even though summer school classrooms were warm.

  "Just can't get over yourself, can you?" Jamie said to Marco as he swung past her. "Letter jacket in July? Really?"

  "Screw yourself, Jamie," said the head cheerleader. "If you were half as smart--"

  Diana, who pushed past the cheerleader and laughed back over her shoulder as she went, interrupted her words. "Go cheer about that!"

  They made it to the lunchroom and headed for the serving line. Jamie dislodged two trays from the spring-loaded tray service and pushed one to the side for Diana. She pulled napkins and flatware and placed them on the trays. Then the serving began. Jamie asked for two beef potpies and double fries. Diana wanted only veggies. Jamie shook his head and scolded her with his eyes. "Need protein, Di," he said, shaking his head. "At least take a grilled cheese."

  "Half of a grilled cheese."

  "Okay, then."

  She helped herself to the half-sandwich and they selected fruit juice for their glasses.

  Jamie had learned to hold his tray with his left hand and work that crutch with his forearm, keeping all his weight on his right side. He slowly but gracefully led them to a table with two seats together. The rest were filled with freshmen, who no upperclassman would ever be caught fraternizing with, but Jamie and Diana didn't seem to notice. She slid in first and he slid in beside her. He balanced his crutches at the end of the table and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  "My God, you're diving in up to your elbows?" she chided him.

  "All the way. Maybe to my shoulders. Growing boy's gotta eat, Di."

  "What do you think of us learning to program in C++?"

  "Nothing to it. We're already doing C#, which is object oriented all the way. C++ shouldn't be much of a challenge."

  "Agreed. Let's take it this fall."

  "Let's."

  They chewed quietly, staring ahead, but he was aware of her left leg pressed against his right leg. She was warm and firm: he hadn't lost the feeling in his legs, just the use of. The feelings were just fine.

  They had kissed and held hands at the movies. He had wanted to do more but she had told him no way, not in a public place like a movie.

  So they met up to study in her bedroom. With the door closed.

  One thing led to another that long June afternoon.

  Now he had a girlfriend.

  A real one.

  30

  Office time was scarce, so Ed and Winona agreed to workout together at lunch. That way they could get in their workouts and discuss her divorce problems too.

  The Chicago Women's Athletic Club was a misnomer. It accepted memberships from men and women both.

  Ed and Winona trotted at a good clip around the springy indoor track as they talked.

  "So he's got a girlfriend. That has to hurt," said Ed as they ran.

  "Gorman's always fancied himself a ladies man. But he's never done this before. At least not that I knew about."

  "Who is she?"

  "His secretary. Talk about cliché, huh?"

  "Whatever you call it, I'm sure it must hurt." There he was again, trying to get her to talk about her feelings. This time she walked through the open door.

  "I cry myself to sleep every night when he's out. When he's not out we sleep in separate rooms. We don't talk anymore."

  "So his romance is open. I mean, he's not trying to hide it from you?"

  "Exactly. He's so much as told me he doesn't give a damn how I feel about it, he's in love and he's not going to give her up."

  "So you cry yourself to sleep and feel pretty powerless. Am I getting that right?"

  "Exactly. I feel powerless. I feel like I'm lost inside a hurricane that's about to blow me away. I can't sleep, can't eat, my head hurts and throbs, I can't concentrate at work--it's a miracle Chris hasn't fired me."

  "She won't fire you. Christine knows what it is to lose someone. She'll stand behind you all the way."

  "So what do you recommend?"

  "I recommend you file suit against him and bring him up hard against the financial hole he's dug for himself."

  "How do I do that?"

  "We ask for alimony. At least temporary spousal support. How long have you been married, fifteen years?"

  "Yes, but I make more than he does."

  "What's he do?"

  "Big pharma sales. He calls on docs."

  "I thought those people did quite well."

  "At one time he did. Now the field is crowded and competition is fierce. I'll be lucky if I'm not ordered to pay him alimony."

  "What about your condo? Rent or buy?"

  "Paid for. We doubled-down on the mortgage payments. Paid off a thirty in fifteen."

  "So there's an asset you can go after. What about retirement funds?"

  "I've got my city retirement. But that won't kick in until I'm fifty-five."

  "That's twenty years."

  "More or less."

  "What other assets are there?"

  "Well, I have a lawsuit pending against the man who shot me when I was a cop."

  "Tell me about that."

  "We broke down his door and stormed his house on a warrant. He'd set a spring gun inside the front door. I was first through so it fired one round that entered my abdomen and severed my urethra. Now I pee into a bag I wear."

  "Seriously? You're wearing that now?"

  "Yep. My shirt covers it."

  "And so you're suing this guy. Who is he?"

  "He's the son of a state senator. The senator owned the house where this happened. He's a co-defendant. We're trying to get the house awarded to me in damages."

  "Well, that isn't property that the divorce court is going to split with Gorman."

  "Not?"

  They rounded the track for the fourth time and Ed was starting to breathe harder. Winona, however, not only was keeping up she was having to shorten her gait so as not to leave him behind. She consciously was forcing herself not to outrun him.

  "No, personal injury awards usually belong a hundred percent to the party who was injured. How much are we talking about?"

  "Well, the house is one of those monstrosities on the Gold Coast. Probably six or seven."

  "Six or seven what? Million?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "So you're going to be a rich divorcee one of these days."

  "I keep getting UTI's. The bag and tubes cause it."

  "Urinary tract infections are terrible."

  "Tell me about it. Constant pain, discomfort, and embarrassment. I deserve five or six million for having to live like this."

  "I'd say you do. Okay, here's what I'd suggest."

  He then went on to describe how they should approach the divorce litigation. By the time they were done with their back-and-forth, they had run four miles on the indoor track. He was breathing hard; she was breathing through her nose.

  And Winona felt happy. For the first time in months. She no longer had to sit back and be the victim. She was about to go after the man who had betrayed her, and that was feeling just fine.

  As they separated at the entrance to the men's and women's locker rooms, she took his hand and squeezed it. She was saying thanks to him.

>   31

  On July 20th the plaintiffs and defendants appeared before Judge LaJordia on Christine's motion. The motion was entitled, MOTION TO COMPEL TESTIMONY and it had been written by Christine. Sevi accompanied Christine to court and took her place with Christine at their counsel table.

  "Your Honor," Christine began; she got to speak first since it was her motion. "The defendant DOJ has refused to allow the pilot of the drone to testify about the day of the drone attack. Even the drone attack itself is classified, according to the DOJ. We're here today seeking your order compelling the DOJ to give us the testimony we deserve and that we need to properly present our case at trial."

  Judge LaJordia's eyes moved over to Martha J. Mattingly, who was wedged among a dozen other lawyers around the defense table, six in the first row, seven in the second. She rattled the papers before her and gathered her thoughts. Then, "It's not the Department of Justice that has claimed classification of the events of that day. It's the Air Force itself. To compel the Air Force to openly discuss how it operates--selects targets, surveils them, weighs their value--would be a huge help to the enemy. The terrorists of the world would rejoice to be handed that information."

  "Counsel," said the judge, "what about giving the information in a closed hearing with a jury sworn to secrecy? Would that solve the problem?"

  "It would for us," said Christine. "Assuming we first got our deposition testimony, even if it's in a closed deposition with everyone sworn to secrecy."

  "No-no-no," cried Mattingly. "Civilian secrecy vows are meaningless. We've seen this repeatedly. They never work, the cat always jumps out of the bag and American lives are lost over it."

  "Oh, so now we're making American casualties more likely because we're after the truth about what happened that day? Is that what counsel is asking the court to conclude?"

  "I'm wondering the same thing, counsel," said the judge. "How is the American military disadvantaged by telling exactly what happened on the day of the attack? In fact, let's take it a step further. What if I granted the plaintiff's motion except for policy decisions made that day? Would you still try to tell me American lives would be endangered? I'm afraid I don't get that."