Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  Holding the submachine gun easily with one hand, al Gimlas motioned for the man who had spit on his boots to drop to all fours. When he hesitated, al Gimlas fired a short burst of three rounds over his head, barely missing him. The man dropped to his hands and knees as the crowd cleared a big circle around them. Al Gimlas motioned for the man to crawl forward and pointed at his boots. His tongue flicked over his upper lip in a licking motion.

  The man hesitated and al Gimlas fired another burst into the dirt directly in front of him. Dirt kicked up into his face and the man scrambled forward. Just before he reached al Gimlas’s feet, the captain reached down and pulled him to his feet. “I prefer to be a civilized man and will never make a true follower of Allah lick my boots.”

  The man clasped his hands, dropped to his knees, and looked up at al Gimlas, protesting that he was indeed a true believer. Again, al Gimlas pulled him to his feet and told him to go in peace. The crowd split apart like leaves before a wind as the man ran away, thankful for his near escape.

  Al Gimlas turned to the Americans. “Bloody hell,” he said, sounding like a proper Englishman, “you two are an unbelievable amount of trouble.” He glanced up at the boy still standing on the truck and nodded. The boy looked down at his commander, his face full of awe.

  A man standing in the second-story window of a nearby building stepped back into the shadows of the room and zoomed in on the cage. The two Americans were now standing in full view as the captain handed them a canteen. He continued to film until the convoy drove on.

  4:01 P.M., Thursday, April 29,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  Lt. Col. McGraw took the phone call. Capt. Jefferson was to report immediately to the local detachment of the OSI in the security police building. She tapped her pencil on the message pad for a moment. Her decision made, she buzzed Jefferson. She was going with him.

  Two agents were waiting for them and escorted them to an interview room. The senior agent made the introductions and told them the interview was being recorded. “Capt. Jefferson,” he said, “before we begin, I am required to read you your rights under Article Thirty-one of the UCMJ.” He produced a card and read Jefferson’s rights to nonincrimination and the right to be represented by a lawyer. “Do you understand everything I’ve said?” Jefferson nodded.

  The junior agent took over the questioning. “Capt. Jefferson, last Friday, you were observed talking to an Egyptian national, Osmana Khalid.”

  “That’s correct,” Jefferson answered. “That was right after mosque.”

  “Was that the first time you had talked to him?”

  “We’ve met a few times before.”

  McGraw touched his arm. “Brad, don’t say anything without a lawyer.”

  “It’s okay, Colonel, it’s the truth. Besides, other people were there and overheard me. The Imam gave the sermon and afterward asked me why there weren’t more people of color from the base in the congregation. I told him that most people of color at Whiteman were either Christian or Nation of Islam, not Islam.”

  “Was that the last time you spoke to him?” the agent asked.

  Jefferson hesitated for a moment. “I called him Saturday.”

  “What was that conversation about?”

  Jefferson didn’t hesitate this time. “The same topic.”

  “Was that all you talked about, Capt. Jefferson?”

  “That was all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s enough,” McGraw snapped. “Brad, I’m telling you, don’t say anything more without a lawyer.” She glared at the two OSI agents. “This meeting is over.”

  “Are you representing Capt. Jefferson?” the senior agent asked.

  McGraw looked at Jefferson. “Brad, please do as I say.” He nodded slowly. “Is there anything else?” McGraw demanded.

  “Capt. Jefferson,” the senior agent said, trying a tactic that often worked, “did you give, or sell, any classified information regarding B-Two operations to Osmana Khalid?” From Jefferson’s stunned silence, the agent thought he might blurt out the truth, relieved to have a chance to confess.

  McGraw came to her feet. “Capt. Jefferson, don’t say another word.” She jerked the door open and much to her relief, Jefferson stood up. The two agents watched them leave.

  “What do you think?” the junior agent said.

  “I think Capt. Jefferson should be arrested before he disappears.”

  2:30 P.M., Friday, April 30,

  McClellan Air Force Base, Calif.

  Hank Sutherland was in the legal office’s small conference room, hovering behind the reservist as he signed his will. Sutherland witnessed the document and passed it to his secretary for a second signature. She handed the fully executed will to the sergeant, and he almost ran from the room, glad that he no longer had to confront his own mortality. It was the last Friday in the month and Sutherland was getting in duty time to meet his reserve obligations. Besides, he needed the money. In addition to witnessing the will, he had counseled another airman on the legal ramifications of refusing to deploy with his unit on a humanitarian relief mission to Africa. It was a typical duty day for a reservist lawyer on a JAG staff.

  He grabbed his coffee mug and wandered up to the small kitchen on the second floor where a few of the staff were taking a break. He drained the last of the coffee and went about the business of brewing a fresh pot. A sergeant channel surfed the small TV on top of the refrigerator during a commercial break in a baseball game.

  Not a bad life, Sutherland thought, settling down in a chair to watch the game. The pleasures of being a truly unambitious man, content to be on the sidelines and out of the action. Let someone else beat his head against the wall. He fidgeted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. His uniform was definitely tighter than normal. I better start working out.

  “Hey,” a voice called, “leave it there for a second.” Someone wanted to watch CNN.

  The familiar face of the President’s press secretary filled the screen as a reporter grilled him during a press conference. “Tim, does the White House still maintain the pilots were on a routine airlift mission over the Mediterranean and got lost? How does anybody get that lost, given modern navigation aids?”

  Sutherland listened to the press secretary’s answer. He leaned forward, watching for the telltale clues. Years of being a prosecutor had fine-tuned his instincts. Another lawyer on reserve duty shouted from the other table. “That lying sack of shit! Turn back to the game.”

  “Hold on,” Sutherland said. He wanted to hear more. Then, his own suspicions confirmed, he said, “Turn.”

  The channel flicked. Only instead of the game, a reporter was on the air with a late-breaking news story. “The Air Force announced that a Capt. Bradley Jefferson at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri was arrested this morning.” A soundbite showed a confused-looking African-American man in uniform being led away in handcuffs by a huge security policeman. “Capt. Jefferson’s superior officer has described him as outstanding, with an unblemished record. But a confidential source claims Jefferson is active in the local Islamic community and alleges he is suspected of selling highly classified information to foreign agents.”

  “Too bad it’s not here,” one of the lawyers said. “We could have a lot of fun with that court-martial.” Sutherland listened as the other JAGs discussed how they would try the case. Some of them were actually licking their lips in anticipation.

  “I wouldn’t want a piece of this one,” Sutherland said in a quiet voice. The others jumped on his statement, probing his logic. “Sometimes, you get a feeling about a case,” Sutherland explained. “This one doesn’t feel good to me.”

  “How can you say that based on what you’ve heard?” a voice protested.

  “Instincts,” Sutherland replied. Now they were all listening. Sutherland’s formidable reputation as a deputy district attorney gave him credibility. “Too many coincidences, I guess.” He tried to find the right words without sounding like a pomp
ous jerk. “Well, you got the Sudan government announcing they’ve captured two U.S. pilots after shooting down their aircraft. That’s all, nothing else. Then the President’s press secretary claims they were on a routine airlift mission and got lost. You heard him say it.”

  The lawyer who wanted to watch the baseball game repeated his earlier observation. “He’s a lying sack of shit.”

  “So what’s new?” a lieutenant fresh out of his bar exam asked. “Politicians lie all the time.”

  “I’ll get back to that in a moment,” Sutherland replied. “Next, a black captain, who happens to be Muslim, is arrested at Whiteman for supposedly selling classified information. Want to make any guesses about who he was passing information to? Don’t forget that Whiteman happens to be the home of the B-Two and a B-Two is flown by two pilots.” Like a good prosecutor, he paused for effect and let them make the connections. “Nope. I wouldn’t touch this one.”

  “Holy cow!” the lieutenant said. “If what you say is true, this could be the spy case of the century. If nothing else, think of the book deal you could get.”

  Sutherland laughed. “Every lawyer I know has a manuscript secreted on his person yearning for publication. That includes me.” It was time to get serious and pass on a few facts of life. “This case is going to get ugly. Politics and racism are going to be big players.”

  “You seem to forget,” one of the senior JAG officers said, “that this case will be tried under the Manual for Courts-Martial, on a military installation, with a panel of officers and not a brain-dead jury. No military judge will let racism in.”

  Sutherland gave him the look he reserved for witnesses who preferred perjury to the truth. “Wanna bet?” Sutherland replied, his voice mild and nonconfrontational. “Besides, I don’t share your opinion about juries.”

  “After what happened to you in the Neighborhood Brigade trial?” the JAG shot back. “Gimme a break.”

  “Strange enough,” Sutherland said, “juries have a tendency to do the right thing in criminal cases, even if it’s not for legal reasons.”

  “What about the O.J. case?” the lieutenant asked.

  Sutherland ignored the question. He wasn’t about to open that can of legal worms. “This case has the potential to stir up a lot of passion and if I’m right, a lot of politicians are going to be involved. Never, never get involved with politicians. They’re not a forgiving bunch, and if anything goes wrong, they’ll have you for lunch. You will be munched on.” He looked around the room. “Hard. Very hard. And you’ll never know exactly who or what had you for lunch. And that is a fact of life.”

  “What happened to justice?” the lieutenant muttered.

  “We’re not talking about justice,” Sutherland retorted, “we’re talking about the law.”

  With no pressing commitments at home, Sutherland also worked that same afternoon, sorting out a botched Article Fifteen, nonjudicial punishment, case. After counseling an overeager first sergeant on the correct way to nail an airman who couldn’t tell time and was chronically late for work, he threw a thick copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial into his briefcase. I do need to review it, he told himself. The phone rang before he could escape and make the short drive back to his apartment on the other side of Sacramento.

  “Hank.” It was the colonel who commanded the local judge advocate. “I just got a missive by e-mail from the Jag-Mahal.” Sutherland groaned. While JAG headquarters were at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, the major general who commanded the judge advocate general had his offices in the Pentagon. He ruled the JAG with an imperial dictate and his office was nicknamed in like manner. “They’re looking for a trial counsel.” The trial counsel was the prosecutor in a court-martial. “Didn’t you serve as a TC at one time?”

  “That was in a prior life, years ago. I did twenty-one of ’em when I was on active duty. Besides, don’t they have circuit trial counsels to do that sort of thing?”

  “They do,” the colonel answered. “But they’re always looking for fresh meat.”

  “In Missouri, no doubt.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “My training as a rocket scientist,” Sutherland answered.

  “I’ll recommend you, if you want it,” the colonel offered.

  “No way.” He added a respectful, “Sir.”

  “Well, think about it,” the colonel said.

  “I’ll do that.” He dropped the telephone into its cradle, grabbed his briefcase, and ran for his car before someone else collared him. He drove quickly, stopping only for the traffic light on Peacekeeper Avenue. He watched a lone runner sprint across with the light. She was a petite Mexican-American, maybe five feet four inches tall with a classic Roman nose. Her brief running shorts gave full freedom to a pair of legs most women dreamed about. A mass of very nonregulation dark hair was held back in a ponytail and bounced as she pounded the concrete.

  The driver in the car next to him was so distracted that his car rolled forward and the runner had to swerve to avoid being hit. She never broke stride and bounded out of sight. “Wow,” the driver said, loud enough for Sutherland to hear. A slight grin cracked Sutherland’s face. Some things never changed.

  Another asshole, Staff Sergeant Antonia “Toni” Moreno decided as she cleared the intersection. Sweat streaked down her face and stained the back of her tee-shirt. She was aware of the effect she had on some men but had decided long ago that was their problem, not hers. She checked her watch. It was time to go back to work. She picked up the pace and turned toward her office. She turned onto Price Avenue and slowed, jogging the rest of the way in. She walked through the double glass doors labeled “DETACHMENT 112, AIR FORCE OFFICE OF SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS.”

  The Office of Special Investigations, or OSI for short, was the field operating agency that provided criminal, fraud, counterintelligence, and special investigative services for the Air Force. While its special agents could be either NCOs or officers, they never wore uniforms or went by their rank. As a result, Toni was Special Agent Moreno and hadn’t worn a uniform since graduating from the ten-week training course at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. She had graduated at the top of her class and had jumped at the assignment to McClellan, which was an hour’s drive from her family home in Stockton.

  “Yo, Moreno,” another agent called. “The old man wants to see you and Harry in five minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” she replied, walking quickly down the hall to the unisex locker room. The sign on the door had been reversed and claimed it was occupied by a male. She could hear a shower running inside. “Hey, hurry up! I need to change.”

  “I’m hurrying,” a male voice replied.

  She sighed. It was Harry Waldon, the veteran agent who had been assigned as her mentor to guide her through her first two years. Working together had taught her that Harry never hurried anywhere. As the junior agent of the OSI detachment, and the only woman, she had to endure a definite minority status. But in Toni’s grand scheme of things, that was a temporary situation. She was simply going to be the best agent in the OSI, and from all indications, the doors were wide open. Well, all but the one in front of her.

  For a moment she considered barging in and turning the shower into a true unisex facility. But she reconsidered. The other agents, and Harry especially, weren’t quite ready for that. She waited impatiently. The locker room door opened just as the civilian secretary said the detachment commander was ready for them.

  “Thanks, Harry,” she groused.

  “You look fine,” the offending Harry replied.

  “Sure. All sweat and armpits.”

  The lieutenant colonel did not seem to object to the way she was dressed and other than a slight look of disapproval from the matronly secretary when they entered, the meeting went smoothly. “Harry, Toni, I want you to check out an Airman Andrea Hall. Her commander is worried because she is living well above her means and seems to be disappearing on weekends.” The OSI was strictly an investigative, or
fact-finding, agency and never took judicial or administrative action. Once they finished investigating a case, they turned their findings over to the requesting authority or the legal beagles.

  Toni nodded. One of the first clues of criminal activity was a lifestyle not warranted by the individual’s income.

  “Are we on a fishing expedition?” she asked. “Or are we looking for something specific?”

  “The usual,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Drugs or sex.”

  “Lovely,” Toni murmured.

  The lieutenant colonel leaned back in his chair. “Agent Moreno, I realize you are new to the OSI. However, your civilian attire is totally inappropriate for duty.” Toni started to protest, but he held up a hand. “Don’t let it happen again.” He looked at the door and she beat a hasty retreat.

  Harry stayed behind. “That was my fault, sir. We should have delayed the meeting until she had a chance to change.”

  The lieutenant colonel nodded. “Part of what you’re teaching her is when to say no. Let her take the lead on this investigation. Show her how to do it. Keep her out of trouble.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  5:35 P.M., Friday, April 30,

  Sacramento, Calif.

  The temperature was hovering in the low nineties when Sutherland arrived home. He did the mental math and calculated it would reach a hundred unless a delta breeze kicked in. He broke a sweat as he made the long walk to his apartment, thankful for the tree-shaded path. Sutherland hesitated when he saw the door slightly ajar. “What the—” he muttered, fully expecting to find his apartment ransacked and burglarized. Cautiously, he cracked the door to peer in.