Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “Who the fuck are you?” Jim Bob snarled.

  “Do you have a parade permit?” The Rock asked, ignoring the question. Jim Bob fished a folded paper out of his pocket and thrust it into The Rock’s hands. “I see,” The Rock said. “And you are the gentleman listed here as the organizer?”

  “Congratulations,” Jim Bob said, “you can read.”

  The Rock looked friendly. “Does your answer mean you are the organizer?”

  “You got it, fuckface.”

  “Then you were briefed.”

  “Briefed on what?” Jim Bob answered.

  “Let’s walk,” The Rock said, “while I explain it.” He turned and walked slowly on base. Confused, Jim Bob followed him.

  “Where we going?”

  “Nowhere,” The Rock answered. “We just need a little quiet so we can discuss things—before they get out of hand.” They stepped behind the nearby visitors center and were out of sight of the crowd. The Rock’s right hand flashed out and grabbed Jim Bob lightly by the throat. He tried to pull away and The Rock squeezed, hard, holding him in a viselike grip. “Sir, there’s something you got to understand. I hope you are listening.” He let up and Jim Bob tried to pull away. Again, The Rock clamped him. Slowly, he released the pressure and Jim Bob gasped for air. But he didn’t move. He was ready to listen.

  “Those are my people out there. They’re good kids just doing their job and ain’t got no ax to grind like you folks. I don’t want them hurt. So if your people hurt them, I hurt you. And I mean you. It’s that simple. Now, this is the part you gotta understand, it will be me doing it. No one else. It will just be between you and me.” He released Jim Bob. “And it’ll be up close and personal. Very personal.”

  “You can’t get away with this, asshole!”

  The Rock shook his head slowly. “We definitely have a failure to communicate here. Let me put it in terms you’ll understand.” His face turned to granite. “If you hurt my people in any way, I want you to be sure of one thing the next time we meet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll be outta jail before you get outta the hospital.” He smiled. “Now you go back to your people and do whatever you think needs doing.”

  The two men stared at each other. Jim Bob broke eye contact and hurried back through the gate. The demonstration was over.

  Catherine Blasedale took the phone call from the wing commander’s office late that same afternoon and relayed the message to Sutherland. The two of them and Toni were wanted in the wing conference room where the wing posse meeting was being held.

  “What’s a ‘posse meeting’?” he asked.

  “It’s when the staff judge advocate, chief of Security Police, and the OSI get together with the wing commander to discuss base security. Since they’re asking for you, me, and Toni, I’m guessing the Wing King is very worried about the demonstration at the main gate.”

  “He should be,” Sutherland muttered. “That was a lynch mob.”

  “I’ll get Toni,” Blasedale said.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Sutherland said, heading out the door.

  He was sitting in the rear of the conference room listening to the wing’s reaction to the demonstration when Toni and Blasedale walked in and sat beside him. The chief of Security Police was standing in front of a screen as he ran a series of slides showing the disposition of the security police. “We only try to delay them at the gates,” the lieutenant colonel said.

  “Shouldn’t that be our first line of defense?” the wing commander asked.

  That is one upset brigadier general, Sutherland thought.

  “In most cases, yes,” the cop answered. “But when faced with a threat like this, we don’t have the resources.” Click, the slides cycled forward. “Instead, we sequentially fall back to more easily defensible positions and trade space for time while we call for help.” The slide showed a series of barricades that finally ended in a defensive perimeter around the flight line. “Here we have a class A security fence, bunkers, and signs announcing the use of deadly force. Further, this far inside the base there is no question of intent.” Click. This time the slide summarized the conditions when deadly force could be exercised. “Once an intruder penetrates the fence, we are authorized to use deadly force, should the conditions so warrant.”

  “Who gives that order?” the general asked.

  “No order is necessary,” the cop answered. “But we do it by the book and my people will only fire if the intruder does not respond to commands and continues toward the hangars sheltering the B-Twos.”

  “You have a lot of faith in your people,” the staff judge advocate said.

  The security cop smiled. “Well, they did stop the demonstration at the gate without incident.”

  “How did they manage that?” the general asked.

  “I sent Tech. Sgt. Rockne to read the proclamation,” the cop said. “The man has credibility. I’m putting him in for a commendation medal.”

  “If I read the OSI’s report right,” the brigadier said, “we owe him more than that.”

  “Sir,” the OSI detachment commander said, “Agent Moreno was in the crowd and can answer any questions you might have.”

  Sutherland listened as Toni answered a barrage of questions. Finally, the general was satisfied. “I want a detailed report forwarded to higher headquarters ASAP. We are not out of this by a long shot and somebody upstairs had better get their heads out of their collective closets.” He stood, indicating the meeting was over. Before Sutherland could follow Toni and Blasedale out, the general motioned for him to stay behind.

  “Captain, the connection between Jefferson’s court-martial, the trial of Terrant and Holloway in the Sudan, and the demonstration at the main gate is obvious. I can only see the heat getting more intense.” He held up a hand before Sutherland could speak. “It’s my job to stop it. But for God’s sake, don’t make any mistakes. If you need help, get it. If you want a continuance, ask.” Now the meeting was truly over.

  Outside, Blasedale and Toni walked slowly down the hall. “It was lucky you were out running and stumbled over Hank,” Blasedale said.

  “It wasn’t luck,” Toni murmured.

  15

  8:42 A.M., Saturday, June 5,

  Camp David, Md.

  Kyle Broderick was waiting for Durant when he arrived outside the main lodge. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Broderick said. Normally, people thanked Broderick for being invited to Camp David, but hard experience had taught him Durant was not a normal person. He escorted Durant into the lodge where the President was meeting with his key advisers.

  “Nelson,” the President boomed, full of resolve. “How’s the rescue coming?”

  “We’re making progress, but there are some problems we need to work out.”

  “When can the rescue occur?” Stephan Serick, the National Security Advisor, asked.

  Durant thought for a moment. “Three, maybe four, weeks.”

  “Will that be soon enough?” the President asked. “I’m very concerned about this so-called trial the Sudanese have announced.”

  “Without doubt,” Serick said, “it is in reaction to the court-martial of the spy at Whiteman. We must remember he is a professed Muslim, Nation of Islam, I believe. Perhaps, we can defuse the issue by turning the captain, what’s-his-name, over to the Federal courts and delaying the trial.”

  “His name,” Durant said, “is Bradley Jefferson, and he is not Nation of Islam. He is a true Muslim, which is quite a different matter.”

  “I hear he’s a real cold fish,” the Vice President said, calming the atmosphere before the cranky Serick erupted. “A regular Alfred Dreyfus,” he added, making a reference to the court-martial of the French officer a century earlier. Captain Alfred Dreyfus was an aloof Jewish officer serving on the French general staff in 1894 when the generals discovered someone was selling secrets to the Germans. As the only Jew on the general staff, he had been framed by the same generals as
a traitor and, as a consequence, anti-Semitism had become a national passion. The case had split France apart and ultimately caused the downfall of the government.

  “There are no similarities,” Serick humphed. “This man is not Jewish and he is guilty. The problems of France a hundred years ago are not our problems.”

  “I beg to disagree with you, Stephan,” Durant said. “The country is a powder keg, and we’re seeing racism, confusion, and turbulence spreading like a plague.”

  “An expected phenomena,” Serick said, “with its roots in the end of the century. This situation has nothing to do with this man Jefferson.”

  “As I read history,” the President said, “a certain craziness always happens at the end of a century.”

  “And it is compounded,” Serick added, “by the end of the millennium. A millennium factor, if you will.”

  “I want to stay focused on the immediate problem,” the President said, “which is the release, or rescue, of our two pilots.”

  “I’m afraid the issues are linked, Mr. President,” Durant said.

  “Nonsense!” Serick thundered. “There is no linkage.”

  “Meredith’s the link,” Durant said. “He’s already turned this into a rerun of the Dreyfus affair.”

  “To what end?” Serick questioned.

  “The downfall of the government,” Durant said. “And racism is his weapon.”

  Serick displayed his famous contempt for lesser, mentally challenged mortals. “You’re obsessing, Nelson. We must concentrate on the problem at hand.” The President nodded in agreement.

  “The demonstration at Whiteman yesterday was not an isolated incident,” Durant said. “It’s all part of Meredith’s plan.”

  Serick snorted. “Ah, that report from Whiteman Air Force Base.”

  “It’s the tip of the iceberg,” Durant replied. Serick shook his head, apparently not believing him.

  11:10 A.M., Saturday, June 5,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  Catherine Blasedale watched Toni Moreno wander down the hall past Sutherland’s office. Was I ever that young? Blasedale wondered. “Toni,” she called, “you don’t have to work on Saturdays.” Toni stood in the doorway of Blasedale’s office and smiled. It was a beautiful smile that came from someplace deep within and lit her face and dark brown eyes. For a moment, the older woman was deeply envious. You are a pretty little thing. Blasedale suppressed a sigh. She was getting old.

  “Since the FBI has Sandi under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Toni said, “I can work full-time on the Khalid files. I’ve only gotten through the first five boxes.”

  “I haven’t seen Harry,” Blasedale said. “What’s he up to?”

  “He’s gone undercover at Bare Essence to work the money trail. I can always contact him.”

  Blasedale flipped a wall calendar to July and circled Monday, the 12th in red. The court-martial was bearing down on them like a runaway train. “We’ve got thirty-seven days. The sooner you can get through this stuff the better. If you find anything significant, be sure you forward it to Cooper.”

  Toni frowned. “I gave him the transcript of the Saturday phone call between Jefferson and Khalid. You should have seen him. He went through the ceiling and treated me like some kinda bug that crawled out from under a rock.”

  “It’s a critical link in the chain of evidence against his client, Toni. He’ll do anything to get it thrown out.”

  The OSI agent nodded, recalling all she had learned about evidence while in training. “Is he going to blame me for a break in the chain of evidence?”

  “That’s not even a question. Count on it. Don’t worry, we’ll help you handle it.” She hesitated for a moment. Should I warn her about Hank? “Toni, be careful around these guys. Basically, they’re all alike.” The warning missed its intended mark and Toni strolled back to the law library to start working on the files, again passing Sutherland’s office. She’s got it bad, Blasedale decided.

  An hour later, R. Garrison Cooper stormed into the legal office. “I want to see Sutherland!” he barked.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Coop,” Sutherland called from his office. “Come on back.” Cooper rolled down the hall like the grim reaper anxious to collect his daily quota. Both Toni and Blasedale came out of their cubbyholes to watch his performance.

  “You!” Cooper shouted, pointing at Toni. Then he disappeared into Sutherland’s office. Blasedale motioned for Toni to follow her. They arrived in time to see Cooper fling a sheaf of papers on Sutherland’s desk.

  “A motion to suppress the tape?” Sutherland asked without picking up the document.

  “What did you expect?” Cooper growled. “If you think I’m going to stipulate to this piece of shit—”

  Sutherland interrupted him. “Putting the motion machine into action, Coop?” A standard technique used by defense lawyers was to flood the court with motions. The goal was to slow down the trial and drive people crazy.

  “Mr. Cooper,” Blasedale said, “the nice thing about the UCMJ and the Manual for Courts-Martial is that we can go through a stack of motions faster than your word processor can grind them out. So go for it.”

  “Read the motion!” Cooper shouted, his theatrics in full play. He took a deep breath. “You,” he pointed at Toni, “gave me a copy of the tape in question.”

  “That’s all the FBI provided us,” Toni replied, “along with a certified true copy of the transcript—which you have.”

  “The tape was obviously edited,” Cooper said, a little more rational. “I am going to prove that there is a conspiracy to frame my client and we will stipulate to nothing.” He glared at Toni. “Nothing.”

  “Ah,” Sutherland replied, “the dreaded chain of evidence.”

  “Unless you can produce the original, unedited tape for my review, this court-martial is dead in the water.”

  “Then your client is going to spend a long time in the confinement facility,” Sutherland told him.

  “Which is another thing!” Cooper bellowed. He produced a second document from his briefcase and flung it at Sutherland. “Rockne is the most vicious bastard to walk the face of the earth since Heinrich Himmler.”

  “Anything else?” Sutherland asked. Cooper’s head jerked from side to side in answer.

  “Normally,” Blasedale said, “the military judge hearing the court-martial will request all motions be submitted before the trial. Knowing Colonel Williams, he’ll want them in writing about a week before. Until then, we can only wait.”

  “And the FBI is forwarding the original tape,” Toni added. “It should be here Monday.”

  Cooper snorted, slammed his briefcase shut, and rolled out of the office, leaving a blissful silence in his wake.

  “Is Rockne being too harsh?” Toni finally asked.

  Sutherland shook his head. “Not at all. The Rock is running an excellent facility. Cooper’s causing trouble, that’s all. It’s his way of softening up the opposition.”

  “And sizing you up as a target,” Blasedale told her. “When did you ask the FBI to forward the original tape?”

  “About an hour ago,” Toni answered. “Right after we talked about it.”

  “I’m impressed,” Sutherland said. “Anticipating is half the job.” He thought for a few moments. “Toni, did you make a copy of the tape and transcript?” She nodded. “Good. I want to see them again.” Toni rushed out of his office and was back in moments with a tape deck and the transcript. The three of them huddled together and ran the tape. Twice, he replayed the last few moments of the tape as they followed the transcript.

  JEFFERSON: There’s nothing I can add to what I said yesterday.

  KHALID: Then nothing has changed?

  JEFFERSON: Everything around here is locked in concrete.

  KHALID: That is sad, very sad. Insh’ Allah.

  JEFFERSON: Insh’ Allah.

  “By itself,” Sutherland said, “a harmless conversation—until you put it together with ev
erything else.”

  “It’s too bad we don’t know what they talked about the day before,” Toni said.

  “We don’t need to,” Blasedale told her. “By his own admission, Jefferson admits talking to Khalid on both days. All we’ve done is establish a chain of events that followed both conversations. We’ve got enough to nail him.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Sutherland said. “Cooper should have been screaming for a continuance. He’s not. Why?”

  “Maybe they want a rush to judgment so they can win it on appeal,” Toni said.

  The two lawyers looked at her. “Very good,” Suther land said. “But there’s got to be something else. Cooper is not going to roll over and play dead on this. He gets paid the big bucks for a damn good reason.”

  “So who’s paying him?” Toni asked.

  “A good question,” Blasedale replied.

  “It’s worth checking out,” Sutherland said.

  “I’ll get on it,” Toni told them.

  “Be careful,” Sutherland warned. “Even a hint that we’re looking at him for crooked money, and he’ll go straight up like a rocket.”

  “Maybe he’ll explode like a fireworks,” Toni said. Harry Waldon had taught her well.

  5:45 P.M., Saturday, June 5,

  Warrensburg, Mo.

  It was late afternoon when Harry Waldon turned into the big parking lot off the main highway just outside of town. The neon sign proclaiming Bare Essence was already on, flashing its invitation of sexual fantasy to any passerby. It was Harry’s first day as security and judging by the number of cars, the club was doing a good business. He got out and nodded to the one security guard on duty. He carefully adjusted the cummerbund and bow tie to his tuxedo, glad that he wouldn’t have to wear the coat until after dark.

  It had been amazingly easy to get the job. He had simply wandered into the club, ogled a few of the dancers as they wiggled around nude on the stage, and asked to speak to the manager. Four minutes later, he was hired. He hoped he never had to explain it to his wife. “First Saturday night?” the security guard asked.