Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “Ratings,” Sutherland grumbled. “The shocking and outrageous is so routine now that they’re caught up in some weird escalation.” The screen flickered and a scene of the eucalyptus grove on the cliff overlooking the ocean came into sharp focus. It was a beautiful golden red sunset like Sutherland had experienced when he was there with Marcy. But this time, the men, women, and children were standing in a long line at the very edge of the cliff. Two men walked behind them, dousing each of them with water from big watering cans used in the gardens. Then the man who had guided him and Marcy around the compound lit a big torch and walked behind the line. He touched each person with the torch and each burst into flames.

  “My God,” Toni whispered. “It was gasoline.” She buried her face in Sutherland’s chest and couldn’t watch as the people fell into the sea below them, one after another, in a shower of human meteorites.

  When the last person had fallen into the sea, the video froze and the camerawoman walked into view and joined the leader. With slow deliberation, they poured gasoline over each other and stepped to the edge of the cliff. The leader touched the woman with the torch and then himself. They fell into the sea together. The camera continued to run, recording the last of the sunset.

  Tears streaked Toni’s face and she fought for control. Sutherland held her tight, feeling her racing heart against his chest. “Why the children?” she gasped, her body shaking.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, “I simply don’t know.” Slowly, she calmed and regained control.

  Blasedale walked past the open door and looked at them standing there, holding on to each other. She glared at Sutherland. “I want to talk to you,” she snapped. “In private.” Toni broke free and ran from the room, her face still wet with tears. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Sutherland gestured helplessly at the TV. For a moment, Blasedale stood there, half listening to the TV and still staring at Sutherland, demanding an answer. Then it registered. She stared at the scene as it replayed. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Hank, you knew them, didn’t you?”

  “Do we ever know anybody?” he mumbled.

  The base was eerily calm when Sutherland walked to the headquarters building early Monday morning. The shock of The Gardeners’ flaming immolation still hung over him, and he had never felt so lethargic. Snap out of it, he told himself. You’ve got a court-martial today. But even that didn’t help. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs in the main foyer. He paused at the top and gazed out the big glass windows. Two security cops were raising the flag as reveille sounded. Somehow, the formal routine helped, and he walked into the legal offices feeling a little better.

  Catherine Blasedale was waiting for him. “Hank, I owe you an apology from yesterday. When I walked in, I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” he said, not about to let her off the hook.

  “Toni is a staff sergeant and—”

  “You were concerned about fraternization, right?”

  She nodded. “Toni told me. Hank, I was wrong and I’m trying to apologize.”

  For reasons he didn’t understand, he stayed angry. “Dammit, Cathy, these days men are guilty of sexual harassment any time we come around a woman.” He heard himself and realized how petty he sounded. He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Now I owe you an apology for sounding like an asshole.”

  A look he had never seen before spread across her face as the phone rang. “Hank, you’re many things but never an asshole.” She picked up the phone. “Legal office, Maj. Blasedale.” She listened for a moment and dropped the phone in its cradle. “Well, there is some good news. It seems two federal marshals at the Kansas City airport removed one R. Garrison Cooper from an airplane this morning for being drunk and disorderly. Col. Williams has postponed the court-martial until Thursday.”

  Sutherland suddenly felt much better. “If that don’t beat all.”

  Blasedale smiled. “That was the good news. The bad news is that we’ve got to bail him out.”

  “Do you think this afternoon will be soon enough?”

  “Absolutely.”

  21

  9:52 P.M., Monday, July 12,

  The Farm, Western Virginia

  Durant switched off the computer and leaned back in his bed while his nurse wheeled the computer stand into a corner. “I thought the news about Cooper being dragged off the airplane was very amusing,” the young man said. The evening news had been dominated by the sight of R. Garrison Cooper in custody of two serious-looking Federal Marshals.

  “It did cause the court-martial to be postponed,” Durant said.

  The nurse cranked his bed down for sleeping. “Will that be all?” Durant nodded and the nurse dimmed the light as he left.

  Durant couldn’t sleep as his restless mind continued to work. “You know what you’ve got to do,” he told himself. “So do it.” He sat up and dangled his legs over the side of the bed. He stood and took a few hesitant steps before sitting in an overstuffed leather chair in the corner. “Not bad,” he muttered, feeling more sure of himself.

  The nurse burst back into the room. “Mr. Durant!” he protested. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting my lazy ass in gear,” Durant replied. Another thought came to him. “How did you know I was up?”

  The nurse looked perplexed. “I got a phone call from some woman who said I should check on you.”

  “Agnes,” Durant mumbled. “I’ve got to speak to her. Please have Mr. Rios and Col. Gillespie join me.” The nurse looked skeptical. “Now,” Durant added, ending all discussion.

  Gillespie paced the floor, not certain how to respond. “Why?”

  “A gut feeling,” Durant told him. “The pace of events is starting to escalate.”

  “I like it,” Rios said. “Getting the helicopters in place always takes the most lead time. This way, we keep the Chinese looking at Fort Irwin while we pre-position our helicopters at Bangui. That cuts our response time in half.”

  “Let me run the numbers through Agnes,” Gillespie said.

  “Get back to me if there’s a problem,” Durant said. “Then get back to Hurlburt ASAP.”

  Gillespie gave him a lopsided grin. “Let the games begin.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  8:38 A.M., Thursday, July 15,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  “Sir,” The Rock said, “are you ready?” Capt. Bradley Jefferson nodded and stood up in his 9-by-12-foot cell. “I’ll be your escort to and from the courtroom,” The Rock explained. Jefferson held out his hands to be handcuffed. “No, sir. That’s not necessary.”

  “Thank you, Sgt. Rockne.” The captain hesitated for a moment. “Why?”

  “Sir, there’s a mob of TV reporters out there and the last time I checked, you are an officer in the United States Air Force and are innocent until proven guilty. That’s a point I hope those clowns understand.”

  Jefferson allowed a tight smile. “To be correct, you just made two points.”

  The Rock’s face was impassive. “Yes, sir. Shall we go?” They walked out of the confinement facility. The Rock sat in the front passenger seat and Jefferson in the rear of the patrol car for the short drive to the wing headquarters building. It had been decided to bring Jefferson in through the rear entrance off the parking lot to avoid as much of the media as possible. But the TV crews had anticipated that, and a bank of cameras recorded Jefferson’s arrival. The Rock jumped out of the front seat and held the rear door while Jefferson got out. One TV cameraman tried to shove his way between the car and the entrance for a better shot. The Rock simply pointed at him and the man scurried back into the crowd. They walked into the building together.

  Maj. Catherine Blasedale walked into Sutherland’s office at exactly 8:45. She was wearing a beautifully tailored dress blue uniform with a short skirt that strained Air Force standards. “Stand up,” she ordered. Sutherland stood and let her examine his uniform. “Look sharp for
Williams. Otherwise, he’ll reprimand you in a thirty-nine-ay session. You’ve lost weight. Good. How many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

  “About three,” Sutherland replied.

  “That’s par for the course for me,” Blasedale said. They walked down the hall, turned past the judge’s chambers with its closed door, and through the side door into the courtroom. The bailiff, a staff sergeant who had been detailed for the court-martial, was standing just inside. Blasedale had spent an hour coaching him on his duties and he was nervous. “Relax,” she told him.

  The one closed-circuit TV camera was set up inside the double doors that led out to the main corridor. The technician was more nervous than the bailiff. Williams had personally briefed him on his duties to ensure the courtroom annex in the theater saw and heard exactly what a spectator in the courtroom did.

  Sutherland and Blasedale walked to the trial counsel’s table and sat down. The bench was in front of them, the jury box to their left, and the defense table to their right. Behind them, twenty-nine spectators sat in silence, afraid to speak. Sandi Jefferson and R. Garrison Cooper made a grand entrance through the main doors. Cooper escorted her to the one empty seat in the front row and patted her manfully on her shoulder before coming through the bar to take his seat at the defense table. Blasedale studied Sandi’s conservative dress and scribbled a note for Sutherland.

  Nice outfit. Someone is coaching her.

  The side door opened and Jefferson walked in alone. He shot his wife a smile and sat between Cooper and Capt. Ed Jordan.

  Blasedale arranged the folders and books in front of her. Two legal briefcases were open at her feet, ready for instant access. Only a fresh legal pad and a black pen were in front of Sutherland. “Where’s your Manual for Courts-Martial?” she asked. He only shook his head. She opened the red loose-leaf binder where she kept her guide for general courts-martial. A court-martial followed a script that was based on case law and tested to withstand appellate review. A security policeman, the evidence custodian, came in with a cardboard box. Blasedale went through the evidence and signed an inventory sheet taking custody. Because the mission’s digital data cartridges and other material from the mission-planning cell were classified secret, the security policeman would stand next to the TV technician during the court-martial.

  “We’re ready,” she said. Sutherland nodded and she spoke to the bailiff. He gestured to the security cop to close the main doors. The bailiff marched out the side door leading to the judge’s chambers. He was back in a moment and came to attention. “All rise.” The room was eerily silent as Col. William W. Williams came through the door. He was wearing a traditional black robe with no indication of his rank. He crossed behind the court reporter and stepped behind the long bench. As before, the deep red leather chair seemed to swallow him up when he sat down. “This Article Thirty-nine-ay session is called to order,” he said. “Please be seated.”

  Sutherland remained standing with his hands clasped in front of him, at ease in the surroundings, ready to conduct the business of the court-martial. He spoke in a quiet and firm voice. “This court-martial is convened by general court-martial convening order AB Thirty-eight, Headquarters Eighth Air Force, dated Twenty May 1999, copies of which have been furnished the military judge, counsel, and the accused, and to the reporter for insertion at this point in the record.”

  Blasedale stared at him. Sutherland was reading the courts-martial guide from memory, without fault. Williams’s eyes darted from his script to Sutherland to see if he was making a mistake. The court reporter worked hard to keep from smiling as her fingers danced on the keyboard of the steno machine. Blasedale shoved her guide in front of Sutherland, hoping he would at least glance at it from time to time.

  “The charges,” Sutherland continued, “have been properly referred to this court-martial for trial and were served on the accused on Twenty May 1999.” Blasedale masked her worry as Sutherland accounted for the parties, the reporter detailed to the court-martial, and the qualifications of the prosecution and defense counsel. Again, his recitation was letter perfect. Then it was Williams’s turn to speak. He dwelled on Jefferson’s rights to counsel and his understanding of the single charge against him. Blasedale tensed when Sutherland came to the next phase. “Your Honor,” Sutherland said, “are you aware of any matter which may be a ground for challenge against you?”

  “I am aware of none,” Williams replied.

  Blasedale popped to her feet as they had planned. “The government has no challenge for cause against the military judge.”

  Cooper leaned back in his chair to answer for the defense. But Jefferson’s hand shot out and shoved him to his feet by his elbow. “The defense has no challenge against your Honor at this time.” He collapsed back into his chair, looking at Jefferson.

  “For the record,” Sutherland said, “The defense has stated that it has no challenge for cause against the military judge.” He had put Cooper’s response into the precise language required by the guide. Williams gave a little nod in acknowledgment and Blasedale relaxed as Williams covered Jefferson’s options for choosing the type of court-martial.

  Jefferson’s voice was firm. “I choose to be tried by court-martial composed of members as determined by this court.”

  “The accused will now be arraigned,” Williams announced.

  Sutherland picked it up and continued smoothly through the arraignment. He spent some time in detailing the exact nature of the charge, espionage.

  Williams paused before speaking. In less than twenty minutes, they had reached the fulcrum on which the entire system balanced and, for the next few moments, everything pivoted on Jefferson. It was the critical question that gave meaning to the system of military law. “Capt. Jefferson, how do you plead? Before receiving your pleas, I advise you that any motions to dismiss any charge or to grant other relief should be made at this time.”

  Cooper stood. “Your Honor, the accused requests a ruling on the motions submitted to you on Wednesday, the seventh of July.”

  Williams reached to one side and picked up a thin stack of papers. “Mr. Cooper, I have responded in writing to your motions. A copy will be furnished the court reporter for insertion into the record as appellate exhibit four.”

  Blasedale handed a copy of Williams’s ruling to the court reporter, Cooper, then Sutherland. Cooper scanned through his copy and looked up in anger. “Your Honor, you have denied all of them. I must protest, this cavalier treatment—”

  Williams cut him off. “Read first, Mr. Cooper. Speak later.” He held up a hand for silence.

  Sutherland quickly read through his pages and recalled Blasedale’s comments about a military court being able to dispatch motions faster than Cooper’s word processor could gin them out. Williams had denied all of Cooper’s motions in a quick and decisive fashion that amounted to a jurisprudential skewering. “Why didn’t you tell me Williams was a legal heavyweight,” he muttered to Blasedale.

  “You didn’t ask,” she said. She motioned toward the defense table. The veteran defense attorney’s face was turning various shades of puce as he read. He stood to speak but Jefferson pulled him back down and whispered intently in his ear. Cooper shook his head in obvious disagreement. Jefferson continued to speak. Cooper came to his feet. “The defense has no other motions at this time.” He paused, regaining his dignity. “Capt. Jefferson pleads not guilty to the charge of espionage.”

  The moment had passed.

  Blasedale turned to the box and offered up the exhibits the prosecution would be entering as evidence. The process went smoothly until she pulled out the transcript and tape of the phone call between Khalid and Jefferson. Cooper was on his feet, objecting loudly, protesting that the chain of evidence had been broken in the handling of the tape. Williams listened carefully to his claims of FBI bungling and then turned to Blasedale. Her left hand dove into one of the legal briefcases at her feet and extracted a folder. “For the court,” she said, “here are the orig
inal receipts tracking the disposition of the tape in question until the present moment. Please note the sworn affidavits of all custodial agents in regards to this matter.”

  Cooper shifted gears and went after the transcript of the tape. He was eloquent in his portrayal of the irresponsible way it had been passed between offices and from person to person. Williams let him run down and when he could not show any inaccuracies in the transcript, ruled the tape and transcript could be admitted as evidence. Cooper was outraged and challenged every remaining piece of evidence Blasedale presented. Finally, the box was empty. “Do you have any further objections?” Williams asked.

  “We have no further objections at this time,” Cooper said. The Article 39a session was over and Williams declared a recess until 1:30 for lunch.

  “Maj. Blasedale, gentlemen,” Williams said, “will you please join me in chambers?” Cooper and the ADC, Capt. Jordan, followed him out. Blasedale and Sutherland were in close trail and Sutherland was the last to enter the judge’s chambers. “Please close the door,” Williams said. “All future Thirty-nine-ay sessions will be conducted efficiently and stay on point,” he said. “Please try to plan ahead with any motions or requests so we do not have the panel marching in and out of the courtroom like ducks at a shooting gallery.” He pointed a pen at Sutherland. “You are giving me a heart attack in there. Please read the goddamn script. I don’t want to lose this one on appeal because of your grandstanding.”

  “I thought the guide was a suggestion and not mandatory reading,” Sutherland said. “Have I made a mistake?”

  “Not yet,” Williams replied.

  At exactly 1:30 Sutherland told the bailiff they were ready and Williams entered the courtroom. Everyone stood as he walked behind the bench and took his seat. He looked at the bailiff. “Please call the members.”