Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  The tone of Harry’s voice changed and he stepped out of the hard-boiled persona that characterized his profession. “Andrea, when we tell your commander about your moonlighting, he will probably want to kick you out of the Air Force.”

  “But you said dancing wasn’t illegal.”

  Harry shook his head, a sad look on his face. “Did you get his permission to work a second job?”

  “No.” Tears flowed down Andrea’s cheeks. “I like the Air Force and want to stay in. But you don’t know what it’s like when the guys hit on you at work. All they want is to get you into bed. That’s no worse than what I do, and they get away with it.”

  “I know,” Harry said. “And we want to help you. But how is your commander going to react when he hears about your dancing? Sooner or later, those guys you mentioned will hear about it. What then?” Before she could answer, Harry pressed ahead. “We haven’t read you your rights because you haven’t done anything illegal. But that won’t save you from being kicked out. I would like nothing better than to tell your commander that you are helping us in a positive way in an investigation. I can’t make any promises, but that might sway him in your favor. I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just help us for a short time and then quit dancing—before the word gets out.”

  “Can I think about it?” Andrea asked.

  “Certainly,” Toni said.

  “May I go now?”

  “You can go anytime you want,” Toni told her.

  Andrea stood to leave. She paused at the door. “You don’t believe me. Why don’t you come and see who’s being exploited.” She looked at Harry. “I can take a hundred dollars off him in fifteen minutes.” She turned and hurried out the door. Toni looked at her notes. She had hardly written a thing.

  Harry cleared his throat, handed her his microcassette recorder, and made a show of turning it off. “She’s probably telling the truth.”

  “Then why do you want to use her?”

  “Reno is in our area of responsibility and we’ve had cases involving money laundering—”

  Toni interrupted. “That lead to Reno.”

  Harry smiled. “You got it. We may have a break here. Let me tell the boss what’s going down.” He shifted his bulk out of his chair.

  Toni’s voice stopped him short of the door. “Harry, could she have? The hundred dollars? In fifteen minutes?”

  A sad look crossed his face and he headed down the hall. “Maybe fifty.”

  “She’d get the whole hundred,” Toni muttered.

  3:12 A.M., Wednesday, May 12,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  The country road was lost in darkness when Sutherland wheeled his dirty Volvo up to Arnold Gate. He was dog-tired and almost asleep at the wheel. But he felt relieved, almost jubilant, that he had found the base with so little trouble, even though it was the back gate. Sutherland was a terrible navigator and got lost driving around the block. The drive across two-thirds of the country had been absolutely traumatic and, luckily, he had been on autopilot for the last twelve hours, which actually improved his sense of direction. However, true to form, he had missed the main entrance and finally stumbled onto the back gate.

  The guard stepped out of the shack and snapped a sharp salute. “Sir,” she said, “please dim your lights when you drive up to the gate. It really helps when it’s dark.” She waved him to proceed without checking his ID. The bumper sticker for McClellan Air Force Base was enough.

  “How do I get to the visiting officers quarters?”

  She started to give him detailed directions but stopped. She knew a klutz when she saw one and darted back into the shack. She outlined the route in red on a base map and gave it to him. She pointed down the road at his first turn. He thanked her and drove slowly onto base.

  The guard shook her head when he missed the turn and reached for the radio clipped to her belt. “A dark red Volvo with California plates just came through Arnold Gate,” she radioed. “The driver is looking for Whiteman Inn. I don’t think he’s got a clue. If you see him flailing around, help him out.”

  Tech Sergeant Leroy Rockne’s voice answered. “Roger, we’ll watch for him. Thanks for the heads up.” The guard snapped the radio back onto her belt. Praise from The Rock made her whole shift.

  The flashing blue light jolted Sutherland into full consciousness and he pulled over to the side of the curb. A tall security policeman emerged from the patrol car and ambled toward him. A five-hundred-pound gorilla, Sutherland told himself. Closer up, he decided the security cop was a five-hundred-pound gorilla who lifted weights. Automatically, he flicked on the overhead dome light, rolled his window down, and put his hands on top of the steering wheel in full view.

  “That’s not necessary, sir,” The Rock said, his voice a perfect match for his chiseled, rocklike face. “You look lost. Can I help?”

  Sutherland shook his head, more to clear the cobwebs. “Ah, yes. I’d appreciate that. I’m looking for the Whiteman Inn.”

  “Follow me, sir, I’ll lead you there.”

  Sutherland waited until the patrol car pulled in front and followed it to the visiting officers quarters. “Thank God,” he muttered to himself. He would have never found the building by himself. The Rock waved at him and drove off. Inside, an airman was waiting for him at the counter.

  “Welcome to Whiteman Air Force Base,” the clerk said. “There’s a message for you.”

  Sutherland unfolded the paper. He was to see the wing commander at 0630 hours that morning. “Three hours sleep,” he mumbled. “A hell of a way to start my first day.”

  At exactly 0625 hours, Sutherland walked into the redbrick two-story headquarters building on Spirit Boulevard. He presented himself to the crisp and efficient African-American secretary in the commander’s office on the second floor. She ushered him immediately into the brigadier general’s office. The walls were bare and packing boxes lined one side of the room. The one-star general remained seated, returned Sutherland’s salute with a half wave, and left him standing in front of his bare desk. “I arrived yesterday myself,” the general said. “In case you are wondering why, it’s because the previous occupant of this office was fired for having the bad luck of being in command when the first B-Two was lost.”

  “I hadn’t heard we’d lost a B-Two,” Sutherland said. “Is that for public release?”

  The one-star humphed. “No. Definitely not. Which, if you ask me, is dumber than dirt. But that decision was made far above my pay grade. It’s going to come out sooner or later.” He contemplated his future when that happened. “Needless to say, this is a high-risk job that has high visibility. That visibility is going to get much higher when we convene the court-martial you are going to prosecute and the connection to the B-Two comes out.”

  “So there is a connection?”

  He held up a hand before Sutherland could ask another question. “The Air Force is not going to waive jurisdiction and turn this over to the feds. We’re going to try the case right here, on this base. My main concern is that no one, and I mean no one, raises the issue of command influence. If, at any time, you suspect that you or anyone connected with this trial is being subjected to command influence, you are to immediately report it to me and your superiors at the Central Circuit in San Antonio. You are not to talk to me or anyone on my staff unless it is in your official capacity as trial counsel.”

  The general paused, taking Sutherland’s measure. “Public Affairs will handle all media relations. You will not speak to the press or give interviews.” Again, he held up a hand, cutting off any comments. “I know how persistent they can be. Stay on base and you won’t have a problem. Dismissed.”

  Sutherland beat a hasty retreat into the outer office. “The legal office is down the corridor to your left and around the corner,” the secretary said.

  Sutherland walked down the corridor and stopped at the corner, the junction of the two wings that formed the bui
lding. He was on a balcony overlooking the glassed-in foyer of the main entrance. Outside, two security cops were raising the flag. Nice building, he told himself. He looked down the other corridor and saw a set of double doors. It was the courtroom. He took a few paces to the doors and tested the handles. Finding one unlocked, he stepped inside.

  He was standing at the back of a room approximately fifty by thirty feet with a judge’s bench that stretched across the width of the room at the far end. A lone, high-backed dark red leather chair sat in the middle and was flanked by American and Air Force flags at the rear wall. He sat down in the area behind the low railing that formed the bar. He counted thirty seats for spectators. On the other side of the bar and on the left, the jury box held twelve chairs. That puzzled him. Even a general court-martial only impaneled five to nine members to serve as the jury. As best he could recall, five was the minimum and there was no legal maximum.

  The trial counsel’s table was placed directly in front of the bar and the spectators. That was exactly like any civilian courtroom where the prosecutor’s table separated the jury box and the defendant’s table. The defendant’s table was placed against the right wall and faced the jury box. That’s different from a civilian courtroom. Is there an advantage for the defendant when the jury looks directly at him for the entire trial? He didn’t know. The witness box was between the defendant’s table and the judge’s bench. The court reporter’s position was across the room at the other end of the bench.

  Like a good soldier, he took stock of the battleground where he would engage in combat. Aside from the framed prints on the wall, he was on familiar ground.

  The side door between the court reporter’s desk and the jury box swung open and a woman in uniform walked in. She flicked on the lights and looked at Sutherland. For a moment, they stared at each other. She was almost six feet tall and well-proportioned for her height. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and she wore glasses. Sutherland guessed her to be about his age. From his distance, he couldn’t tell if she was a major or lieutenant colonel. “Are you Capt. Sutherland?” she asked. Her voice was firm and moderately pitched with all the tonal qualities of an accomplished public speaker.

  He stood up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She slammed the door shut, stepped into the jury box, and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at him. “Close the door,” she ordered. Sutherland did as she commanded and closed the double doors behind him that led to the outside hall. “I’m Maj. Catherine Blasedale.” She spoke in a flat monotone, a bored professor lecturing students on a boring subject. “The convening authority, who happens to be the commander of Eighth Air Force at Barksdale Air Force Base, has decided in his infinite wisdom to appoint me as assistant trial counsel. You,” she spat the word at him, “are trial counsel.” She stood up, walked onto the floor and glared at him. “Captain, that sucks. I’m the chief circuit trial counsel for the Central Circuit and have prosecuted more courts-martial than you can count. Regardless of your reputation, I am more qualified to prosecute this case. The only reason you’re here is because of political influence.” Silence ruled the room.

  “Hey,” Sutherland finally said, “I’m out of here. I just got a lecture on command influence from the general.”

  “You’re not listening,” she said. “I said political influence, not command influence. Learn the difference. Interest in this case goes much higher than any command level in the military. And that’s why you’re here, gold-plated reputation and all.” She walked over to him and stood at the bar, challenging him to come through the swinging gate and enter her territory.

  “How do you know all this?”

  She snorted. “The phone lines to the Jag-Mahal are going crazy on this one. AT&T will send the Air Force a letter of appreciation for this month’s phone bill.”

  Sutherland laughed, accepted her challenge, and walked through the bar. He stood in front of her, now on her turf. “When I was on active duty, I was trial counsel on twenty-one courts-martial.”

  She leaned into him, invading his personal space. “So you are legally of age. How long ago was that?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “I’m not impressed.”

  Sutherland knew what she was doing and decided it was time to turn it around. “I won all of them. And I was the guy who eighty-sixed the Colonel Martin court-martial.” That got your attention.

  “So you’re the bastard,” she muttered, pulling away.

  “The evidence wasn’t there. You don’t ruin a man’s career on a charge of sexual harassment when—”

  “What about the lieutenant’s career?” Blasedale barked.

  “There is no double standard on evidence. She had confused command responsibility and discipline with sexual harassment. Everyone else in his command had to conform to the dress regulations. Pointing out her hemlines were too short and her skirts too tight does not constitute sexual harassment.” Now he leaned into her, pressing his advantage. He was so close that he caught the faint scent of an expensive perfume. “I like your perfume.”

  “That’s a sexist comment, Captain.”

  She had taken the bait and he almost smiled. “No,” he replied, putting steel into his voice. “It’s a compliment. Learn the difference.”

  “I don’t think we can work together,” she snapped. She turned and walked away.

  “Are you afraid of this case?” he asked.

  She stopped and turned to face him. “Based on the evidence I’ve seen, this one should be a slam dunk.”

  “Therefore, no glory,” Sutherland said.

  She cocked her head to one side. “If you blow this one, the name Sutherland will redefine the term goat. Think about it.”

  He smiled at her. He had been in the goat seat before. “Maybe this is a case the Air Force can’t afford to lose. So if I do blow it, the generals can blame the politicos for forcing me down their throats and I become the scapegoat.”

  She returned his smile. “Sounds good to me.” Then she relented. “Maybe we can work together.”

  “I’d like that,” Sutherland said, meaning it.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the troops. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” She led him through the side door and into the legal offices of the 509th Bomb Wing.

  8:24 A.M., Thursday, May 13,

  El Obeid, Sudan

  Capt. Davig al Gimlas waited motionlessly as his men fell in for the open ranks inspection being held on the tarmac where arriving aircraft parked. They were a far cry from the slovenly rabble he had inherited nineteen days ago. To a man, they stood with pride, and their uniforms and weapons gleamed with care. But they still had a great deal of training in front of them. They had also shaved off their mustaches out of respect for al Gimlas who could not grow one because of his scar.

  The wind blew across the parking ramp, depositing a fine film of dust on their freshly polished boots. “Sir, would you please wait a moment before starting?” the lieutenant asked. Al Gimlas nodded. The lieutenant barked an order and the men quickly dusted their boots and weapons. Ever since the incident at El Fasher, polished boots had become a symbol of pride for the men. The lieutenant chanced a glance at al Gimlas and called the company to attention. Al Gimlas walked the line, satisfied with his men.

  Five minutes later, an unmarked, U.S.-built, C-130 Hercules entered the landing pattern and touched down on the runway. The pilot slammed the throttles into reverse and the big cargo plane slowed in time to make the first turn-off. The pilot taxied in, careful to direct the backwash from the props away from the honor guard. The props spun down and the ramp under the tail lowered. Jamil bin Assam strutted down the ramp. He was a short, potbellied man sporting a bushy beard and wearing an army uniform with the rank of a fariq, a four-star general.

  The men standing behind al Gimlas saw his back stiffen. Assam was not a general. But he was a fact of life in Arab politics. He was a bazaari made good, a wheeler-dealer out of the bazaar who could make money at the sli
ghtest hint of corruption. His wealth had bought him influence, power, an army of sycophants, women, and the C-130. Now he fancied himself a general leading a jihad against the Western infidels.

  A black Mercedes staff car, two Range Rovers, and two trucks drove up to the aircraft. The Mercedes spun around and screeched to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust. Fortunately, the wind was in the right direction and blew the dust back over the aircraft and Assam, not the men standing at attention. An aide jumped out of the Mercedes’s front seat and jerked the rear door open as the dust settled. Al Gimlas allowed a slight smile to crack his normally rigid countenance. His men appreciated the irony.

  In a tailored uniform, Jamil bin Assam resembled a pear with sticklike arms and legs. A black patent leather holster was strapped to his waist holding a large nine-millimeter automatic that had never seen use. He marched up to al Gimlas, his left hand brushing at his shirt while his uniformed bodyguard trooped off the C-130. He was in a deep sweat from the short walk.

  Al Gimlas snapped a classic, openhanded British-style salute. Assam ignored it. “Where are the filthy vermin who tried to bomb my laboratory?” he demanded.

  “Safely at the barracks,” al Gimlas replied, dropping his salute.

  Assam stalked over to the Mercedes while his staff piled into the Range Rovers and the guards streaming off the C-130 clambered into the trucks. “Follow me,” he ordered al Gimlas. Al Gimlas took a few moments to study Assam’s guards. He nodded at his lieutenant. Assam obviously preferred quantity over quality.

  Assam walked into al Gimlas’s office and sat down at his desk. “Primitive,” he snorted with a look around the room. “I need to interrogate the prisoners.” He fixed al Gimlas with a hard glare. “I must do it because of your failure to learn anything.” Al Gimlas stood at attention and did not respond. In the Sudan, Jamil bin Assam could do whatever he wanted. Assam leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the desk, the soles pointed directly at al Gimlas. It was a serious insult.