Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

“I don’t know how she does it,” Linda said. “Her husband couldn’t cope and left years ago. She’s raised Mikey alone.”

  “Doesn’t the Air Force pick up the medical expenses?”

  “Thankfully, yes, but that’s only part of it.”

  “How old is Mikey?”

  “He’s fourteen and only weighs seventy pounds. The doctors say children with spina bifida seldom live that long.” Linda beamed at him. “She’s done a wonderful job.”

  “She certainly has,” Sutherland said, thinking of Beth and her self-centered existence. How would I cope? Would I cut and run like her husband? Sutherland was brutally honest with himself and admitted he didn’t know.

  He wandered down the hall into the military justice section and past Blasedale’s office. “Hank,” she called. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The Sudanese announced they are putting the two B-Two pilots on trial.”

  “Lovely,” Sutherland said. “Absolutely fuckin’ lovely.”

  11:20 A.M., Tuesday, June 1,

  Kansas City, Mo.

  Toni jammed the Kansas City Chiefs’ baseball hat over her hair before she turned onto the Jeffersons’ street. It was a well-kept, upscale neighborhood on the southern side of Kansas City with houses in the two-hundred-thousand-dollar range. She drove slowly past the Jeffersons’ home and turned onto a side street to park. Then she picked up a clipboard with survey forms about lawn and tree-care products and started to canvas the neighborhood.

  She was careful to work the intersection far enough down the street to be unobserved, but able to watch any movement out of the Jeffersons’ house. She put on her bounciest persona and soon had four forms completed, three by bored housewives who welcomed any break in their Tuesday morning routine that might result in free tree care, and one by a young writer who worked at home and had lecherous inclinations about young ladies in tight jeans. Her cover now firmly in place, she added the forms to the stack of fakes she had filled out and went back to the car to supposedly “tabulate” the results. She didn’t have to wait long.

  Sandi Jefferson flashed by in her bright yellow Miata convertible, her auburn hair blowing in the wind. Toni dropped the clipboard and pulled out after her, careful to stay well back. “Okay, where are you going?” she murmured to herself. She followed Sandi through the turn onto 95th Street. “Oak Park Mall,” she muttered. The traffic piled up and she lost sight of the Miata a block short of the mall. “Damn!”

  Going purely by instinct, she pulled into the parking lot and did a quick change of clothes, shedding her tight jeans for baggy safari walking shorts. She pulled a matching shirt over her tee-shirt, changed her shoes, and gave her hair a quick brush, fluffing it out. A touch of lipstick and she was ready. “Now where did you go?” She walked into the mall and smiled. A Nordstrom department store loomed large, beckoning anyone with healthy credit cards to enter. Toni took the escalator to the third floor and stepped off in time to see Sandi join the short line into the restaurant.

  Toni wandered around until Sandi had disappeared inside. She waited for two more minutes and joined the line. “Please excuse me,” she said, “I’m meeting some friends and I think they’re already inside.” She repeated it as she worked her way to the front of the line. A shy smile at the hostess and she was in. She strolled through the restaurant and headed for the ladies’ room. Sandi was sitting at a table with another woman engaged in a very serious conversation.

  The contrast between the two women was striking. Sandi was reformed stripper and the other cool elegance. East coast establishment, Toni thought, carefully noting the other woman. Her smooth complexion matched her perfect features and exquisite figure. Her dark blond hair was cut in the latest style and carefully arranged. Her clothes shouted Paris or London, and Toni estimated the flashing diamond engagement ring on her left hand at four carats. But her shoes were the real giveaway: handmade Italian. We are moving up in the world. Toni went into the rest room and lingered for a few minutes. When she came out, the table was vacant.

  “Miss Moreno,” a man’s voice called. All of Toni’s alarms were in overdrive as she turned. The writer with lecherous inclinations who lived down the street from the Jeffersons smiled at her. “Please join me,” he said. Toni sat down. Without a word he handed her his identification: FBI special agent Brent Mather. “We have the Jefferson woman under twenty-four-hour surveillance”—then he added the clincher—“Agent Moreno.”

  Toni tried to be cool. “So you made me.”

  “Your license plate. It did take longer than usual. Actually, you’re quite good.”

  “Why the come-on when I was doing the survey?”

  “Solicitors, salesmen, you name it, panic a suspect. I wanted to scare you away. Normally, it works wonders.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you had her under surveillance?”

  “All the Air Force had to do was ask. We’ve got orders to cooperate fully.”

  “Really?” Toni said, her voice laced with disbelief. The FBI was the most territorial of government agencies and notorious for their high-handed, egoistical ways.

  “To say we’re getting high-level direction in this case would be an understatement.”

  “Did you make the woman she met here?”

  Brent Mather shook his head. “Missed her. I was still concentrating on you. I really got suspicious when you did the quick change in your car.” It was a typical crosswired snafu between competing agencies. “Give me her description.” Toni did as he made notes. “She’s new. We’ll check her out.” Toni gave him her best smile. “Maybe, ah, I was thinking,” Mather stammered, “maybe we could go to dinner.” Mather was blushing. “Sometime?”

  She gave a mental sigh. He was young, good-looking, and didn’t wear a wedding ring. More important, he didn’t act married. Why did interesting men always show up in bunches? She handed him a card with her telephone number. “I’d like that,” she murmured, standing up. She headed for her car. She had to get back to Warrensburg to tell Harry about the FBI stakeout on Sandi.

  She headed east on Highway 50 and remembered to slow when she approached Lone Jack, the small town famous for its aggressive enforcement of the speed limit. “Well, well,” she murmured to herself. A patrol car had pulled over a bright yellow Miata next to a service station. Toni slowed even more and pulled into the service station. She stopped at the pump nearest the patrol car and slowly filled her car’s gas tank.

  Two patrolmen were standing over the Miata giving Sandi Jefferson a bad time. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jefferson, but your car registration is in one state, your license in another, and you’re living in Missouri. That’s against the law.”

  The other patrolman leered down her low-cut dress. “Under the circumstances, we’re going to have to escort you to a justice of the peace.”

  Toni fished her cellular phone out of the glove box and called Harry. No answer. She dialed Sutherland who answered on the second ring. “Hank, I’m at Lone Jack. Two cops have stopped Sandi Jefferson and are jacking her up.” She split her attention as another car drove up and a familiar figure got out. “Oh, no. It’s that cretin from the roadblock, Jim Bob. He just pulled up and is talking to the cops.”

  “What’s going on?” Sutherland demanded.

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve got to move before he makes me.” She walked around the side of the combination office and mini-mart as if she were going to the rest rooms. Where is the FBI when you need them? Fortunately, she could still see and hear what was going on. “I’m okay now,” she told Sutherland. “They’ve got her out of the car. They know who she is. They’re talking about going to a justice of the peace.”

  “Don’t lose contact,” Sutherland told her. “I’ll get Cooper on it.”

  Sandi was surrounded by the three men and she tossed her hair from side to side in defiance. “Touch me again,” she shouted, her voice carrying over the service station, “and you’re going to be living with a legal nightmare!”


  “Please, Mrs. Jefferson,” the older of the two patrolmen said, “we just need to sort this out before we can let you continue.”

  “Give me a citation and I’ll show up with my lawyer.”

  “Throw the bitch in the car,” Jim Bob growled, “and let’s get the hell out of here.” The three men closed around Sandi just as a pickup truck with a base sticker from Whiteman drove into the filling station. The sergeant driving the pickup hopped out with a camcorder and held it up, filming the incident. “Get that out of here!” Jim Bob roared, breaking away from the group and advancing on the sergeant, holding his hand out to block the lens.

  Toni heard the sound of tearing cloth as Sandi broke away from the two cops. Her dress had been ripped down the front and her left breast exposed. She made no attempt to cover herself as she descended on Jim Bob like a tornado. She jumped on his back, clamped her legs around his waist, and grabbed his hair while the sergeant kept on filming. “You pervert!” she screamed. She jerked his head from side to side.

  The two cops rushed after her and tried to pull her off Jim Bob. But her legs were clamped tightly around his middle as she held on to his hair. Toni spoke into her phone. “I think Jim Bob is having a bad hair day.”

  “What’s going on?” Sutherland asked, his frustration mounting. The two cops finally managed to drag Sandi off Jim Bob as a crowd gathered around, eager to take in the free show. The younger cop rushed back to the patrol car to get his jacket while the other acted as peacemaker for the camera. The cop ran back and draped his jacket over Sandi’s shoulders. Now both men were trying to calm the hysterical woman. Toni smiled. She knew a good actor when she saw one.

  “Is she okay?” Sutherland demanded.

  “She’s fine,” Toni told him. The cops escorted Sandi back to her car, now very concerned with her well-being. The sergeant continued to record the action as she pulled away and headed for the base, still wearing the patrolman’s jacket. “The lady is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

  “What makes you say that?” Sutherland asked.

  “It wasn’t the cops who ripped her dress. She did.”

  Toni paid the bill for the gas and headed after Sandi. She had no trouble catching up and remained a quarter mile back until they reached Whiteman. Sandi drove directly to the Security Police building and went through the doors leading to the confinement facility. Whatever the news is, it must be urgent, Toni thought. She headed for the headquarters building to tell them about the FBI stakeout and that she and Harry would be free for other duties. She smiled at the possibilities.

  6:55 A.M., Friday, June 4,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  Sutherland was pleased with himself when he trotted out Spirit Gate on Friday morning. It was the third time he had jogged since making the decision on Tuesday. He turned right onto Highway 132 and headed for Knob Noster State Park at the intersection of 132 and DD, a few hundred yards down the highway. He took a long pull at the water bottle he carried when he turned into the park. A bird call he didn’t recognize caught his attention. Check that out, he told himself. Surprisingly, he found he did some of his best thinking when he was running, and the time was very productive.

  Normally, the park was deserted and he enjoyed the solitude. But this time, it was packed with cars, most with out-of-state license plates. He picked up the pace when he passed a group of middle-aged, potbellied men wearing camouflage fatigues and sporting huge, very nonmilitary mustaches. “Militia,” he muttered to himself. Do I look that bad in BDUs?

  The faster pace felt good and he held it as he turned onto a dirt path that led toward Warrensburg. Let’s see where this goes. He was puffing hard and slowed down to a slow jog. A few minutes later, he pulled up with a Charley horse in his left leg and collapsed to the ground. “Whoa!” he groaned. “That hurts.”

  He looked up at the sound of footsteps. It was another runner, running fast, coming from the direction of Warrensburg. He rubbed at his calf. “Ah, shit!”

  Toni Moreno rounded the bend and stopped at the sight of Sutherland. “It was a good thing I heard you,” she said. “Otherwise, major collision.” She helped him to the edge of the path.

  “Oooh, shitsky,” he muttered, trying to act more manly, “it hurts like hell.”

  She helped him to a nearby bench and went to work massaging and rubbing the charley horse. “These can be killers,” she said.

  “Tell me,” he said through gritted teeth. Finally, the pain eased but he didn’t want her to stop. He felt the start of an erection.

  “Okay,” she said, “it’s press-to-test time.” She helped him to his feet and he took a few tentative steps only to collapse in pain again. This time it was worse.

  Again she went to work on his left calf. But this time there was no accompanying erection. “Been running long?” she asked.

  “Started Wednesday.”

  “You got to take it easy at first.”

  “How far did you come?” he asked.

  “From Warrensburg. That’s where I’m staying.”

  “That’s ten miles!”

  “Normally, I do five or six miles a day. But about once a week, I like to go fifteen or twenty miles.” She smiled at him. “It keeps you in shape.” She worked at the leg. “This is going to take a while.” Strangely, he didn’t mind.

  The sound of amplified voices over a bullhorn echoed over them. “A bunch of militia pukes are in the park,” he told her.

  “Every motel in Warrensburg is packed,” she said. “I wonder if it’s related.” Honking cars and the bellow of a truck’s air horn cut her off.

  “Something’s happening,” Sutherland said. She helped him to his feet and he hobbled along, his arm over her shoulders, her arm around his waist. The parking lot at the head of the path was jammed with cars but only a few people were milling around. In the distance they could hear people chanting, urged on by a bullhorn. “It’s coming from the base,” Sutherland said. “What the hell are they saying?”

  “I think they’re saying ‘Turn him over,’” Toni said.

  They stopped and Sutherland stood alone, taking a few tentative steps on his own. “I’m okay.” They walked slowly out to the highway. It was packed with people in both directions. But very few of them were wearing any type of uniform. “Where did they come from?” Now the chant was very loud and coming at them in waves. They pushed through the crowd, heading for the main gate.

  A militia type holding a bullhorn blocked their way. “Where d’you think you’re going?” he growled.

  “I work on base,” Sutherland said, not wanting to involve Toni.

  Another man wearing fatigues joined them and stared at Toni. “How about the Chiquita?” It was Jim Bob from the roadblock in Kansas City.

  Toni turned and buried her face in Sutherland’s chest, the scared bunny rabbit looking for protection. “That’s the guy Harry decked at the roadblock,” she whispered. “I don’t think he’s made me yet.”

  Sutherland held her tight, the male protecting his woman. “He will once he realizes you’ve cut your hair,” Sutherland muttered. And gets past your legs.

  “Hey, she’s my wife and we were just out running,” he told the two men.

  “Well, nobody’s going on base until the nigger comes out,” the militia type snarled.

  “What do you mean?” Sutherland asked, shocked at the blatant racism.

  “We mean,” Jim Bob said, much calmer, “that the Air Force is gonna turn that traitor over to us civilians. We want him in a jail where we can make sure he gets a fair trial.”

  Where you can lynch him, Sutherland thought. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, leading Toni away. “Act scared,” he whispered. Toni collapsed against him and he put a protective arm around her shoulder.

  “Hey,” Jim Bob shouted, “don’t I know you?”

  “Keep walking,” Toni murmured.

  A loud roar broke over them like a tidal wave. “TURN HIM OVER!” The crowd surged forward
and swept past them. Suddenly, they were spit free of the tide of humanity.

  “Run,” Sutherland said.

  Toni grabbed his shirt. “No. Just keep walking slowly.” They reached the highway intersection with route DD and turned toward Warrensburg. “Now!” Toni said. They sprinted into the park and headed for the trail leading to Warrensburg.

  Sutherland was surprised he could move so fast.

  Tech. Sgt. Leroy, The Rock, Rockne, pulled up to Spirit Gate and got out of the patrol car. He walked slowly up to the guard shack and stood by the six security cops standing across the road. They were all that was holding the crowd back. He spoke quietly to the one woman. “How you doing?”

  “I’m scared,” she replied.

  “So am I,” The Rock answered. He motioned to his cops. “Gather round.” They collapsed onto him. “Well, folks, this is what we get paid for. In a few moments, I’m gonna read the proclamation. Now I want you to go easy on these people and don’t panic. We just need to explain things to them, that should do the trick. If they won’t listen to reason, then fall back to the barricade at Carswell Circle.”

  A group of men, all wearing fatigues, started to move forward now that the road was clear. “Sir!” The Rock called, “please don’t enter the base until the guard has cleared you to proceed.” The Rock was not easily ignored and they stopped. Jim Bob emerged out of the crowd holding a bullhorn and crossed the white stop line that was painted across the street.

  The Rock took three steps toward him. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”

  Jim Bob lifted the bullhorn to his lips. Before he could speak, The Rock reached up and took the horn away from him. He did it so easily it looked like Jim Bob handed it to him. “Thank you, sir,” he said in a loud voice. The Rock keyed the bullhorn and his voice carried over the crowd. “Your attention please. By order of the installation commander you are hereby notified that this is federal property. You are hereby given lawful warning that if you enter without authorization, you will be subject to the penalties as listed in Title Ten of the United States Code.” He dropped the bullhorn.