Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “Major,” Sutherland called, “nice running outfit.” She whirled around, her face flushed with anger. “That’s a compliment,” he hastily added.

  Sutherland was in Blasedale’s office reading the messages from the comm center when she returned. “The FBI came through like gangbusters,” he told her. He handed her a fourteen-page message.

  The message summarized the FBI’s investigation of one Osmana Khalid who had been operating around Warrensburg for over a month. At first, the message told them nothing new; Khalid had been observed talking to Capt. Jefferson at Friday’s mosque; Khalid had then phoned an Egyptian student attending the university in Warrensburg; the student then phoned a clerk who worked in the Sudanese embassy.

  As she read, Blasedale’s eyes came alive. “This is new,” she said. A flurry of phone calls had taken place between Khalid, the student, and the clerk right up to the moment the B-2 had launched on Sunday afternoon. She started to breathe hard. “Look at this! That bastard is going to fry.”

  The second half of the message detailed how the FBI had recorded most, but not all, of the phone calls. Further, the National Security Agency had broken the codes they had used. It had been easy, after the fact, when the NSA knew the subject of the messages. It was the first direct evidence that Khalid had passed on the target coordinates for the B-2’s mission within minutes of talking to Jefferson on Friday. The coordinates for the initial point had been forwarded in a later phone call on Saturday with the statement that it was a low-level mission.

  “There’s the trail,” Blasedale said. “Jefferson, to Khalid, to the student, to the Sudanese embassy.”

  Sutherland handed her another message. “This is from the National Security Agency. They monitored two messages from the Sudanese embassy to Khartoum. The first identified the target and the second the coordinates for the initial point, along with identifying it as a low-level mission.”

  “It’s too bad Khalid escaped,” Blasedale said. “He might have talked.”

  “I doubt that,” Sutherland replied. He paced the floor. “Look at what we’ve got from Cooper’s point of view.”

  “Direct evidence linking Khalid to the shootdown,” Blasedale said, “and strong circumstantial evidence linking Jefferson to Khalid. Look at the time frames. The phones started ringing within minutes after Jefferson first spoke to Khalid and didn’t stop until the bomber launched. Voilà, slam dunk.”

  “It’s not good enough,” Sutherland said. “We’ve got means and opportunity on Jefferson’s part but no motive. You’ve seen the OSI interview. Jefferson was very forthcoming about what they discussed. Cooper will drive a truckload of reasonable doubt through that loophole.”

  Blasedale smiled. “Hank, we’re not dealing with a civilian jury made up of the village idiots. The panel will be composed of officers who are educated and have some smarts. Cooper will strike out the first time he tries some of that bullshit he pulled on you in the Neighborhood Brigade trial.”

  “You heard about that?”

  She nodded. “Is it true that was your first loss in four years?” Now it was his turn to nod. “That’s an enviable record,” she continued. “Did you expect it to go on forever?”

  Rather than answer, Sutherland thumbed through one of his file folders. “We’ve got to nail down the connection between Jefferson and Khalid. I want to see as much of the Khalid file as the FBI will part with. I want the OSI to run a complete financial profile and lifestyle audit on Jefferson. Let’s find out if he’s been living beyond his means.”

  “Cherchez la payola,” Blasedale said.

  “I didn’t know you spoke Frog.”

  “Oui, monsieur. And don’t you voulez vous coucher avec moi.”

  He grinned at her. “I haven’t got a clue what you said. But we are going to get in bed with his boss first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Blasedale looked at him in triumph. “Jefferson’s boss is a woman. On vous a eu”—you’ve been had—“you sexist pig.”

  “Mais oui,” he groaned.

  It was after nine o’clock that evening when Sutherland returned to his quarters in the Whiteman Inn. Unfortunately, the air conditioner in his old Volvo had gone haywire and his shirt was drenched with sweat. The humidity that had come so early this year was only going to get worse, and he made a mental note to get the air conditioner fixed as soon as possible. He made the short walk to the entrance as Blasedale drove up and parked. She was also staying at the Whiteman Inn.

  The clerk on duty was watching TV when Sutherland came in. “People are going crazy,” the clerk said, his eyes riveted on the screen.

  A reporter was standing in front of a house consumed in flames. “Earlier today, the owner warned his neighbors that they were all going to perish by fire at the end of the millennium. He then shot his pets and went inside. Moments later, this fire broke out.”

  The clerk shook his head when the commercials came on. “No messages, sir,” he told Sutherland. “But you have a guest.” He looked at the ceiling, a wistful look on his face. “She wanted to wait in your suite, but I wouldn’t let her.”

  From the look on the airman’s face, Sutherland knew it was his ex-wife. “You must be a first,” he muttered. Few people could resist a request from Beth.

  “She’s waiting in the lounge on the second floor.”

  Sutherland took the elevator to the second floor and saw Beth the moment the doors opened. As expected, she looked great and his respect for the airman skyrocketed. “Hello, Hank,” she said, her voice as full of warmth and promise as ever.

  “What brings you to Podunk?”

  “Business in Kansas City. I thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

  What business would interest her in Kansas City? he wondered. Before he could pursue the subject and ask how she knew he was at Whiteman, Blasedale stepped through the doors coming from the stairwell. She walked quickly, giving Beth a brief look on her way past.

  “Do you know her?” Beth asked.

  “Maj. Catherine Blasedale. She’s the second chair on the court-martial.”

  “Interested in older women now?”

  Sutherland gave her a thoughtful smile. He did like Blasedale, but he didn’t know if she was married. He made a mental note to check for a wedding ring. As for a romantic involvement? No way. To keep Beth off balance, he replied with a “Maybe.”

  “Do you mind if I stay here tonight? It’s too late to drive back to Kansas City.”

  “Be my guest,” he said. He led the way down the hall to his two-room suite and unlocked the door. He heard the sound of a door closing from down the hall in the direction of Blasedale’s suite.

  Sutherland woke when he felt Beth’s hip move, snuggling against his abdomen. He didn’t move, still lying on his side while she lay on her back, sound asleep. Moonlight streamed in the window and the bedside clock read 03:37. Automatically she twisted, lifted her leg closest to him, and placed it over his pelvis. He nestled his top leg between her thighs as he slid inside her. “That’s nice,” she murmured and went back to sleep.

  He woke again to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. “Beth,” he croaked. She came through the bedroom door, still naked, carrying two mugs of coffee and a newspaper tucked under her arm. She sat on the bed and handed him one of the mugs. “Thanks,” he muttered. It always took two cups of coffee to jump start his heart after a night with Beth. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered.

  “I like sex with you,” she said, holding the mug with both hands.

  “Is that why you dropped in?”

  “Partly.” She reached out and stroked his arm. “Hank, there’s someone else in my life. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  “Ben Cassidy?” She shook her head. He waited to hear a name. Nothing. “You do have one hell of a way of breaking the news. Does he know you and I are still sleeping together?”

  “He knows about the time in April. I told him.”

  “What about last night, the nineteenth of May?”r />
  “I’ll tell him if he asks.”

  “This sucks,” Sutherland groaned.

  “Hank, sex is not important to him.”

  “It will be if you get married.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge—if we come to it. I’m going to take a shower.” She stood and went into the bathroom.

  “An older guy, huh?” No answer. He settled back in bed to read the newspaper. “Holy shit!” he blurted when he read the headlines.

  MEREDITH STARTS CRUSADE TO SAVE NATION

  DENOUNCES FBI FOR LETTING SPY ESCAPE

  The lead story was about how Jonathan Meredith had announced a war on all traitors to the United States. The problem was so deep-seated and widespread that he was forced to take action to save the nation. The court-martial of Capt. Bradley Jefferson was only the tip of the iceberg. “Osmana Khalid may have gotten away, but we will bring Jefferson to justice,” he was quoted as saying.

  Sutherland glanced at the clock: 07:20. “Beth, I’ve got to go.” He ran into the bathroom to share the shower and missed the byline on the story: Marcy Bangor, the Sacramento Union.

  Blasedale was waiting for him when he reached his office. “Who’s your friend?”

  “My ex-wife,” he answered. “She was just passing through.”

  “Passing through what?” Sutherland ignored the jibe and showed her the newspaper. “I’ve seen it. Not to worry. We just do our job the best we can. Luckily, the main gate and the security police are still between us and the weirdos.”

  An image of The Rock beating off hordes of rabid demonstrators flashed across his mind.

  “I called Col. McGraw.” She paused at the blank look on Sutherland’s face. “Jefferson’s boss, remember? I set up an appointment for this morning. I thought it would be best if we did it there.”

  “Have the orders convening the court-martial come through yet?” he asked. She shook her head. “Eighth Air Force had better get off the stick.”

  Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw was waiting for them at the entrance to the Operational Support Squadron building. She did not take them downstairs to the vault but led them into her office, a bright corner room on the ground floor. For the next hour, she explained how mission planning worked. Sutherland liked her straightforward manner and decided she was stamped out of the same mold as Blasedale—competent, dedicated, and all business. They even looked alike, with short hair, trim figures, and neatly tailored uniforms. Then he remembered to check Blasedale’s marital status. He checked her left hand. No wedding ring. He glanced at McGraw’s left hand. No ring. The price a woman pays for success in the Air Force, he decided.

  “Col. McGraw,” he asked, “is it fair to say that all the mission elements come together in this building?”

  “That’s correct, Captain.”

  “And given this knowledge, your people are prime targets for foreign agents.”

  “I would agree with that statement, although I have no reason to doubt the integrity, or loyalty, of any of my people. And that includes Capt. Jefferson.”

  “Then you believe he’s innocent,” Blasedale said.

  “Absolutely,” McGraw replied. “He has never, I repeat never, said or conducted himself in a manner contrary to what is expected of a loyal officer.”

  “Was Capt. Jefferson involved in planning the mission where the B-Two was lost?” Blasedale asked.

  “Actually, he was involved in the planning of both high and low profiles. He never knew, nor did he need to know, which one was chosen. That is a true statement for everyone on the team.”

  “Did he know the coordinates of the initial point?” Sutherland asked. McGraw confirmed that Jefferson knew the coordinates. “Was he at work on Saturday?” Again, she said he was. Sutherland reached into his briefcase and pulled out a computer printout of all the telephone calls into and out of the OSS building from the Friday when the Air Task Order came in until the mission was launched. “Are any of these from a phone Captain Jefferson had access to?”

  McGraw studied the list and pointed out two calls, one to his home on Friday and one on Saturday to a number in Warrensburg, that came from Jefferson’s phone. “But anyone could have made those calls,” McGraw said. She led them down to the basement, through the security entry point, and into a windowless office that held six desks. “The desk in the far corner belongs to Capt. Jefferson. During mission planning, he works at a computer in the mission planning cell. Like I said, anyone could have used the phone on his desk.”

  “But whoever made the phone calls,” Sutherland said, “had access to the basement.”

  For the first time, McGraw hesitated and a worried look crossed her face. “That is correct. Look, why don’t you interview the other members of his team who were with him during the time in question? Find out what they know.”

  “Then you weren’t always present during mission planning?” Blasedale asked.

  “I’m all over the building keeping everything on track. Mission planning is an involved process.”

  “Col. McGraw,” Sutherland asked, “who made the final decision about which profile was flown?”

  “Ultimately, the crew. In this case Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway made the decision.” She gave them a hard look. “On Sunday, the day they launched, I gave the crew the mission cassettes of the low-level profile flown.”

  “Was that when you learned which profile had been selected?” Blasedale asked. McGraw nodded in answer. “About what time did that occur?” Blasedale quickly asked.

  McGraw thought for a moment. “Captain Holloway signed for them. We can check the form.” She led them into the combat crew communications section where the crews received the classified material they needed to fly a mission. The sergeant on duty produced the requested form that was dated and time stamped:

  11:38, 25 Apr 99

  Sutherland dropped the form in his briefcase. “We’ll need this for evidence,” he said.

  McGraw shook her head. “Air Force instructions for handling classified material require us to keep the original in our files. You can’t come in here and suck up whatever you feel like.”

  “We’ll give you a certified copy that states we have the original,” Sutherland replied. McGraw glared at him.

  “It’s okay, Colonel,” Blasedale said soothingly. The two women studied each other for a moment. “As I recall,” Blasedale continued, “Jefferson was at his home Sunday morning.”

  “Yep,” Sutherland replied. He checked the computer printout of telephone calls. Only one had been made after the time stamped on the form. It was from McGraw’s office to her home.

  “I called home to tell them I was on my way,” McGraw explained. “Why don’t you interview the other members of the mission planning cell?” Sutherland agreed and one by one, McGraw called them in. They all related that Jefferson, like everyone else, had made phone calls Friday and Saturday. But as McGraw had stated, they all denied knowing which of the profiles had finally been selected. The last team member called in was a skinny staff sergeant, William Miner. Miner’s eyes darted from face to face as they went through the same litany of questions. Something was bothering him.

  “Sgt. Miner,” Sutherland ventured, “you saw something, didn’t you?”

  The sergeant became more agitated. “On Saturday, I saw Capt. Jefferson talking to the pilots. They had just come back from the simulator and Captain Jefferson asked them about the simulator.”

  “How much did you hear?” Sutherland asked.

  Miner shook his head. “Some words, not much.” He looked at McGraw for help. “He asked something about the digital data cartridge.”

  “Can you remember the exact words?” Blasedale asked. The sergeant shook his head. “Do you remember what time it was?”

  Miner brightened. “Oh, yeah. It was just before I got off duty. About three-thirty Saturday afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Sgt. Miner,” Sutherland said. “Do not discuss this conversation with anyone and please come over to the legal office
to make a formal statement.” Miner shot McGraw a quick look; she only nodded in return. The sergeant beat a hasty retreat, glad to escape. Sutherland unfolded the computer printout and circled the time of the last phone call made from Jefferson’s phone to Warrensburg on Saturday. McGraw’s face paled when she saw the time:

  15:42, 24 Apr 99

  “He’s not that stupid,” she blurted out.

  The two lawyers made the short walk back to the headquarters building. “It’s coming together,” Blasedale allowed. “The last phone call Jefferson made is a critical link in the chain.”

  “But it’s still circumstantial,” Sutherland replied.

  “For Christ’s sake, Hank! It’s logical, it’s compelling, and it fits a pattern. What more do you need?”

  “If I’m going for the death penalty, a lot more. I want to hear the tapes from the phone intercepts—not someone’s summary of what was said.”

  “Let’s see what the FBI coughs up,” she said. “What sort of witness do you think Miner will make?”

  “Credible,” he replied. “What’s your take on McGraw?”

  “She’ll be good for the defense. Very good. She really believes the guy is innocent. Did you see the look on her face when Miner said Jefferson had talked to the pilots on Saturday?”

  “Miner might’ve overheard which profile they selected. I want the OSI to check out everyone in the mission-planning cell. That includes McGraw.” They walked in silence until they entered the headquarters building. Sutherland breathed in relief when a cool gush of air washed over him. What’s the matter? he thought. The humidity isn’t that bad. He puffed as they climbed the stairs. It bothered him that Blasedale was seemingly unaffected by either the weather or exercise.

  Linda, the civilian secretary who controlled the chaos that threatened to swamp the legal office, was waiting for their return. “The convening orders, charge sheet, and memorandum came through.” She handed them the documents. “Eighth is recommending Monday, July twelfth for the court-martial.”