Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “He’s not in the pattern,” Harold said. Both pilots strained to see in the night, hoping to pick up a rotating beacon or position lights. “I hope he’s at the right altitude,” Harold added.

  The flight engineer tapped Durant on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir.” Durant stepped aside so the sergeant could help scan the skies. Durant moved over to the right gunner’s hatch and scanned to the right. Nothing. A flashing strobe light suddenly materialized at their five o’clock position and didn’t move. An aircraft was on a collision course! “Break right!” Durant shouted. “Down!”

  Gillespie didn’t hesitate and maneuvered violently, throwing Durant to the deck. His head banged against an electronic equipment rack. A jet blast deafened them and the big helicopter rocked from the jet wash, throwing them out of control. Only Gillespie’s lightning-quick reflexes saved them from crashing into the ocean. “My,” the flight engineer said when they were flying straight and level, “I do believe I wet my knickers on that one.”

  “That sucker was close,” Harold said. “I never saw him.”

  “I need help!” Rios shouted. “He’s cut his head.” The two gunners were on Durant in a flash, pushing Rios out of the way. Hours of training again paid off as they quickly stanched the flow of blood.

  “There’s a crash team on the carrier,” Gillespie said.

  But before he could call for priority handling to get them aboard the carrier, one of the gunners shouted. “Shit! I think he’s having a heart attack!”

  “Give him CPR and get him on oxygen,” Gillespie ordered. He wrenched the Pave Low around and headed for the hospital at Pensacola. The flight engineer reached up and pushed the throttles to 105 percent.

  “Come on, baby,” he urged, wringing every knot he could out of the machine.

  Rios bent over Durant and took over the CPR from the gunner. Please, God, he prayed, not yet. Not yet!

  7:25 A.M., Monday, June 28,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  Sutherland automatically looked at the countdown calendar when he came to work Monday morning. Toni had changed the numbers to red and a big 14 loomed at him. Two weeks to go, he told himself. The vague itching was back. What’s out there waiting to bite us in the ass? It was the question that loomed large in every prosecutor’s mind as a trial date approached. He was confident he and Blasedale had covered all the bases, but he would continue to work the evidence, twisting it around, examining it from different angles, and trying to see it from Cooper’s perspective. If he did it right, he would be in Cooper’s head when the court-martial started and know what the defense attorney was going to do. Sutherland hated surprises.

  A surprise walked in immediately behind him in the form of Brent Mather. What’s he doing here? Sutherland grumbled to himself. The answer was obvious when he walked into the law library where Toni was still working her way through the file boxes on Osmana Khalid, looking for one more piece of the puzzle. Maybe it’s business, he thought.

  A bit peeved about Mather’s intrusion on his territory, he decided to reestablish his eminent domain. It was time for a staff meeting. He called Blasedale first and when he buzzed Toni, told her to bring Mather along. They all trooped into his office, wondering what he had to say. “Well, folks, it’s time to switch gears. I want to play ‘Napoleon’s Sergeant.’”

  “Napoleon’s what?” Blasedale asked.

  “Napoleon had a sergeant,” Sutherland explained, “who read all the orders Napoleon sent to his generals. If the sergeant understood them, the orders went out. If not, Napoleon rewrote them. So we’re going to present our case to a sergeant today.”

  “Do you mind if I sit in?” Mather asked, looking at Toni.

  “Another point of view is always welcome,” Sutherland answered.

  It was the first time Sutherland had been in the courtroom since the day he arrived on Whiteman and had met Blasedale. It had been recently cleaned in preparation for the court-martial and smelled of lemon furniture polish. Linda brought in a buck sergeant. Fred Scott was a bright and eager twenty-four-year-old from public affairs who definitely could think for himself. Sutherland sat him in the jury box with Toni and Mather while he presented their case against Capt. Bradley A. Jefferson.

  “Our case relies on both direct and circumstantial evidence,” Sutherland explained. “In many respects, circumstantial evidence is as good, if not better, than direct. For example, say a cherry pie is missing from your kitchen and you find a trail of pie crumbs leading to your four-year-old daughter’s room. In the room, you then discover your daughter with cherry stains around her mouth, but no pie. This is all direct evidence. What happened to the missing cherry pie is circumstantial. However, you can be sure who ate at least part of the pie. Our case is like that. By relying on direct and circumstantial evidence, we can establish a chain of events that are linked together beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  This was the first time Blasedale had seen Sutherland in action and she was impressed. He spoke without notes and in a very straightforward, simple way. The certainty in his voice alone would convince most jurors of his case. Sutherland’s logic was even more damning. First, he presented in detail the direct evidence they had: the information about the B-2’s flight plan that passed from the Islamic cleric, Osmana Khalid, to the student, to the Sudanese embassy in Washington, and then to the Sudan. “Now only one question remains,” Sutherland said. “Where did Khalid get his information?” Slowly, he proved that Jefferson had detailed knowledge of the mission and had twice talked to Khalid previous to the mission being flown. Rather than actually bringing their witnesses in, Sutherland read their statements. Only once did Sergeant Scott show any doubt, and that was when he read S. Sgt. Miner’s statement about overhearing Jefferson speak to the pilots on Saturday afternoon.

  Sutherland carefully laid out the timing and geography of the conversations between Jefferson and Khalid. Then he presented a series of graphics that depicted the sequence of phone calls and contacts, i.e., the direct evidence, that took place immediately after each conversation. The timing in itself was overwhelming. “The first meeting at the Mosque might be coincidence,” he allowed. “But the second conversation took place immediately after Captain Jefferson had spoken to the pilots after a session in the simulator—a session where Major Terrant and Captain Holloway had practiced the mission they would later fly.” He played the tape of the intercepted phone call that Jefferson made after talking to the pilots. “Is this also coincidence?”

  They broke for lunch. Sergeant Fred Scott and Agent Brent Mather clustered around Toni and the three went off together. “What do you think?” Blasedale asked.

  “Did you see his reaction to Sergeant Miner’s testimony? That may be a weakness. Let’s work on that.”

  After lunch, they all gathered in the courtroom and Sutherland let Toni describe the money trail that led from Reno, to Warrensburg. When she had finished, he stood up and demonstrated how Sandi Jefferson lived way beyond a captain’s salary. But Sergeant Scott was shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” Scott said. “It all makes sense, but I don’t see the money trail going to Jefferson.”

  They had found the weak link in their case.

  “Damn,” Sutherland moaned. “I must be getting senile. Talk about a basic mistake. Why didn’t I see it before?”

  “Because we’ve been rushed for time,” Blasedale told him. “It is so obvious—but we just didn’t prove it to Sergeant Scott. Besides, we can prove motivation other ways. We downplay the money trail and stress Jefferson’s religion—the Islamic connection—which is the connection to Khalid.”

  They were sitting in Sutherland’s office with Mather and Toni rehashing the session with Scott. As usual, Blasedale was sitting next to the door. For the first time, Sutherland noticed that Mather and Toni were sitting just a little too close together for his comfort. “When are you going to find Khalid?” Sutherland asked, taking a dig at the FBI and, by extension, Mather.

  Mather gave him a hard look. �
��If he’s still in the country, we’ll find him.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe Habib, the bartender at Bare Essence, can help. We’ve had him under surveillance for some time. He bought a gold Rolex watch right after the money transfer from Reno to Warrensburg.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Sutherland grumbled.

  “They did,” Toni said in a soft voice. They all looked at her. “It was in the files they sent over. I didn’t think it was important at the time and forgot about it.” She tried to recover. “Harry’s watching Habib too.”

  “We can work together on this,” Mather said, a little too eager.

  “Yeah,” Sutherland groused, “do that.”

  Toni smiled at him, eager to recover. “We’ve got a hired gun on the way to get on the inside at the club.”

  “A hired gun?” Mather asked, a perplexed look on his face.

  Toni told them about Airman Andrea Hall. “As a matter of fact, she should be here tomorrow. Harry’s meeting her at the airport.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Sutherland demanded. “It could compromise our case.”

  “Harry’s too good for that,” Toni replied.

  Mather stood up to leave. “I’ve got to get back for my stakeout shift. Do me a favor, don’t tell Harry that we’re also investigating the bartender.”

  “Why?” Blasedale asked.

  “Two reasons. First, we’re not going to overlap and Harry doesn’t need to know. Second, we know this is the weakest link in the case. It will be much more convincing to a jury if an independent source confirms what Harry discovers.”

  “Okay, folks,” Sutherland said. “Let’s get moving on this and plug the hole. I’m going to ask for a continuance.”

  “Call my boss at Central Circuit at San Antonio,” Blasedale said, “and give him a heads up before you go to the judge.” He reached for the phone as they left.

  It took seven rings before the phone penetrated Sutherland’s consciousness and he woke up. It was just after four o’clock Tuesday morning and he had just fallen into a deep sleep. For a moment, he didn’t realize he was in his VOQ room. Groggily, he fumbled for the phone. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  It was Beth Page. “I’m down at the desk. Can I come up?”

  He mumbled something that approximated a “Yes” and staggered to the door. He jerked it open in time to see Beth get off the elevator. She walked down the hall toward him, moving with the same fluid grace that enchanted him years ago. She brushed past him, her shoulder touching his bare chest. Without a word, she walked toward the bedroom, shedding her clothes. “What the hell are you doing here so late?” he grumbled. He felt the stirrings of an erection when she dropped her panties. He let his pajama bottoms fall to the floor and followed her to bed.

  “Hank, wake up.” It was Beth, gently pushing on his shoulder. “Someone’s at the door.”

  Sutherland staggered out of bed and pulled on his pajama shorts. He lurched down the hall and managed to unlock the door. It was Catherine Blasedale, dressed in a crisp uniform and looking rested. “Time to go to work,” she said. She gave him a hard look. “I take it your friendly ex-wife is back?”

  “How did you know?” he muttered.

  “The well-laid look.” At least it’s not Toni, she thought, thankful that she would not have to file a fraternization charge against Sutherland. “Get rid of the bimbo and I’ll see you at the office. We’ve got work to do.” She spun around and marched down the corridor.

  Sutherland closed the door and staggered into the kitchenette to make coffee. “Who was that?” Beth asked. She was standing naked by the small breakfast table thumbing through the three legal books neatly stacked there. Blasedale had to have seen her when she was at the door. “How’s the trial coming?” she asked. It was like old times when they discussed the cases he was prosecuting. But it was different now.

  “Beth, you know I can’t discuss it.”

  She wasn’t listening as she thumbed through the thick books. She read the titles. “Military Evidentiary Foundations, Military Rules of Evidence Manual, Manual for Courts-Martial. Talk about heavy reading. Memorizing them?”

  “Sure,” he answered. “Why not.” Actually, Sutherland had a near-photographic memory and was doing just that.

  “You always did have a thing about words. But you couldn’t even remember our anniversary.” Which was also true. She sighed and changed the subject. “I’m surprised you can get to trial so quickly and that you or Cooper haven’t asked for a continuance.”

  Suddenly, Sutherland came fully awake. He was not a believer in coincidences. Does she know I’m asking for one? For some reason, he couldn’t discard the thought. “Beth, what brings you here?”

  “I’m doing background coverage on the trial for Newsweek. I’m concentrating on Kansas City and got in late last night. Since you’re here…”

  “You thought you’d pump me.”

  She moved against him and nuzzled his cheek. “Who’s pumping who?” She moved away. “Seriously, there’s a lot of political interest in the City to get this behind us.”

  Sutherland worked to keep all expression off his face. She knows about the continuance. The “City” was Washington, and she was sending him a message.

  Again, she moved into him. “Hank, this could be the break you need.”

  “If I expedite,” he said. There was no answer as she rubbed against him.

  Two hours later, Sutherland walked into the legal office. Blasedale was waiting for him. “What did she want?”

  “A good question,” Sutherland answered.

  “What about the continuance?”

  “According to your colonel at Central Circuit, the judge will be on base a week from Wednesday, on the seventh of July. He wants all motions submitted then to have a chance to study them before the court-martial. I’ll present it then.”

  Blasedale gave him a long look. She wanted to ask him why he was so late in coming to work. But she knew the answer. Instead, “Did you tell Cooper?”

  “Yeah. He laughed.”

  Although the court-martial was still twelve days away, the headquarters building bustled with activity as the 509th prepared for the trial. Sutherland wasted most of Wednesday morning in a wing staff meeting concerned with handling the media flocking into the area and demanding access to the court-martial. There was room only for thirty spectators in the courtroom, and it was decided to have a closed-circuit TV to the base theater, which could seat over five hundred people. The theater would be treated as an annex to the courtroom and no cameras, tape recorders, or TV links would be allowed.

  Most of the meeting addressed security around the courtroom. Finally, the wing commander decided they would simply seal the base and control access at the gates. That way, the media would not see a legion of security cops and armed guards. Sutherland finally escaped back to his office in time for lunch.

  Toni was waiting for him. “Good news, I hope,” he muttered.

  “Brent called. Good news on the bartender. It seems he was involved with a dancer at the club three years ago.” She checked her notes. “She went by the stage name Cassandra and was described as five feet ten inches tall, a natural redhead, willowy, and a flashy dresser.” She looked at Sutherland expectantly. “She was twenty years old at the time. That would make her twenty-three now.”

  “The same age as Sandi Jefferson,” Sutherland said, almost shouting. He played with her stage name. “Cassandra, Cassi, Sandra, Sandi.”

  “It does sound like her,” Tom allowed. “But according to her file, Sandi lived in Minnesota then and was running her own business.”

  “She might have had a cash flow problem and needed money. Don’t strippers move around a lot so they won’t be recognized?”

  “According to Andrea, the really successful ones do. But she’s going to be hard to trace because of the stage name.” She thought for a moment. “Sandi would probably be a bombshell and enjoy the work.”

  “Keep digging,” Sutherland said.
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  “There’s more,” Toni said. “I took another look at her finances. She’s a compulsive spender.” She spread the worksheet on his desk and leaned over his shoulder. “I totaled up all her expenditures since June. She’s bought new furniture, paid off her car, and remodeled her kitchen. Add that to a few other credit cards, all paid off, plus the five thousand that Habib paid for his Rolex and you get—”

  “Almost forty thou,” Sutherland said, reading the bottom line.

  “And according to Harry, Habib was skimming.”

  “Holy shit,” Sutherland whispered. “We got the money trail.”

  A worried look crossed Toni’s face. “It seems almost too good to be true.”

  “We’ll take it,” Sutherland said.

  “Are you still going for the continuance?”

  “Yeah. I’ll ask for a couple of weeks so we can get this all locked in concrete. When does your hired gun arrive?”

  “Andrea? About now. Harry’s meeting her at the airport.”

  “I hope she has time to hear something and for us to get it all sorted out.”

  3:00 P.M., Wednesday, June 30,

  Warrensburg, Mo.

  The two FBI agents were waiting for Mohammed Habib when he left his apartment for work. They trapped him against his car, identified themselves, and “invited” him to accompany them for a little chat. It was not an option and he crawled into the backseat of their car. His wife saw them drive away and phoned the club to tell them he would be late.

  “Mo,” Brent Mather said, his voice friendly, “what happened to your friend Osmana Khalid?” As expected, Habib denied any close friendship or knowledge of Khalid’s whereabouts. “That’s too bad,” Mather said. “We need to speak to him. Now you wouldn’t be holding out on us, would you?” Vehement denials from Habib. “That’s reassuring, Mo. Otherwise, the INS is going to be taking a hard look at you.” More protestations from Habib. He was married to an American citizen born in this country and he was legal. Besides, they had a son, also born in this country. He had constitutional rights too.