“Does it matter,” she murmured.
“Yeah, I think it does.”
She pulled away. “Men,” she fumed. “You can never make up your minds. My brother warned me about that.”
“Toni, this is important.”
She laughed, the old confidence back. “Let’s see how it turns out. Come on, time to go.”
They drove in silence to the headquarters building and parked. They had to push their way through the crowd of reporters and TV crews crushed around the entrances. But like the demonstrators outside the main gate, they too were subdued and quiet. He led the way up the back stairs and to the legal offices in order to enter the courtroom through the side door. Blasedale was already there, sitting at the trial counsel’s table. She followed Toni’s progress as she found a place against the side wall to stand. Then she looked at Sutherland.
“She’s here on the McGraw case,” Sutherland explained. “She needs to talk to both of us.”
“You’re damn right she’s going to talk to both of us.”
Jefferson walked in the side door, this time escorted by two sharp-looking, armed security cops. It was the first time weapons had been in the courtroom. They stood directly behind Jefferson at parade rest and stared straight ahead. The bailiff entered and called, “All rise.”
“The final act,” Sutherland said in a low voice.
“Is it?” she answered, her voice fiat and angry.
Sutherland remained standing. “All parties and the military judge are present.” He sat down and as agreed, Blasedale took the presentencing phase. Whatever was bothering her, she covered it with a blanket of professionalism. Again, he thought of a stage play with its scripted finality as they marched in lockstep through Jefferson’s Air Force career and any matters the defense wanted to enter in mitigation and extenuation. The relentless pace accelerated when no witnesses were called and Jefferson declined the opportunity to make a statement in his own behalf.
Sutherland rose to present his closing statement. He stood motionless for a moment, his head bowed before starting to speak. The lines he had so carefully crafted and memorized flowed easily as he spoke of the crime of espionage and the damage caused to the security of the United States. He paused and looked at Jefferson and, for the first time, saw the man. He is innocent! It hit him with all the clarity and force of a revelation and his speech was dust on the wind.
“There are times,” he said, improvising, thinking not of Jefferson but of Mikey in his wheelchair, “when honorable, decent people do hurtful, bad things. Perhaps, it is not for us to know what goes on inside the heart of other humans and, lacking that wisdom, we can only judge their actions.
“Although Capt. Jefferson has pleaded guilty to the crime of espionage, I still find myself asking the one, unanswered question: Why? Until we know that answer, I, for one, cannot totally condemn him. I acknowledge that Capt. Jefferson must be punished for what he has done. But I ask the court to sentence him with both reason and compassion. For, perhaps in some middle ground, there lies justice and hope for the future—not only his future but ours as well.” His hands dangled helplessly at his side and he fell silent. There was no more to say and he sat down.
“A pretty speech,” Blasedale growled, her anger back. “Which table are you sitting at?”
“Right now, I’m not sure.”
Capt. Jordan stood to present the defense’s closing statement and coattailed on Sutherland’s sentiments. Then he was finished.
Williams folded his hands and looked at the defendant’s table. “Capt. Jefferson, would you and your counsel stand up please?” They came to their feet. “Capt. Jefferson, I have reviewed your plea of guilty and listened to both trial and defense counsel’s closing statements with care. This court sentences you to life imprisonment, reduction in grade to airman basic, and the forfeiture of all pay and allowances. Please be seated.”
“He nailed him,” Sutherland muttered in the silence. There was no answer from Blasedale.
Williams continued as he advised Jefferson of his post-trial and appellate rights. He concluded with the inevitable, “Do you have any questions?”
Jefferson stood and there was no doubt in Sutherland’s mind that he was innocent. “I have no questions, Your Honor.” His voice was firm and clear.
Williams took a deep breath. “This court-martial is adjourned.”
Everyone stood as Williams, left the courtroom. The Rock came through the same door and nodded to the two security cops. They came to attention but made no move toward Jefferson. Jefferson stepped around the defense table closely followed by the cops. He came over to Sutherland and extended his right hand. Their hands clasped for a moment and then pulled apart. Jefferson turned and walked toward the tall sergeant waiting for him. The Rock fell in behind him as he passed through the door.
“What was that all about?” Blasedale asked.
Sutherland showed her the small white card Jefferson had left behind in his hand. “This.”
Blasedale was caged fury when she barged into her old office. The anger that had been building demanded release and she slammed the door behind Sutherland and Toni. “I warned you,” she said, glaring at both of them.
“About what?” Sutherland replied.
“About fraternization.”
“What fraternization?” Sutherland asked.
“Don’t try to tell me you two weren’t getting it on. Dammit, Hank. I’m not going to let you get away with this.”
“Excuse me, Major,” Toni said. “Get away with what?”
“Must I say it? With fucking you!”
“I can’t say I object to the idea,” Toni said, “but there’s one very small problem. I come from a very traditional family and a quick trip to a doctor will prove I’m still a virgin.”
For a moment, the silence was absolute.
If it had been another time, Sutherland would have laughed. But not this day. “I bet you can’t say the same,” he muttered. Damn! Sutherland thought. Why did I say that? Cathy didn’t deserve it. He felt miserable. Blasedale’s jaw went rigid. She turned and left the room with as much dignity as she could muster. “I hope that’s not a goodbye. I like her.” He looked at Toni. “I got to tell you, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
She gave him a warm smile. “It was hard, wasn’t it?” She paused. “That card Jefferson gave you—I saw you pocket it.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?” She nodded as he drew the business card out of his pocket. A nine digit alphanumeric code was written on the back in neat block printing. He turned it over to read the front. It was a business card for Credit Geneve, Geneva, Switzerland.
“What is it?” she asked.
He slowly turned the card over and over. “The money.”
6:40 A.M., Saturday, July 24,
Khartoum
The army truck roared through the gates of the largest medressah in the Sudan. The Islamic seminary was still bathed in the cool shadows of Saturday morning and no sound of the angry demonstrations that filled the streets had reached inside its thick walls. The gates closed behind the truck as shouts of “Death to the Americans!” echoed in the air. The canvas sealing the back of the truck was ripped aside and eight guards dragged Mark Terrant and Doug Holloway out the back.
They were dressed in freshly laundered, but ill-fitting prison garb. Both were barefooted and manacled. A black canvas bag covered each one’s head. They were pulled down a long corridor and through the doors of a large assembly room where they were kicked and shoved into a cage made of steel bars. A hand reached through the bars and gently pulled off Terrant’s hood. The major blinked his eyes and focused on Kamigami. Kamigami moved over to Holloway and removed his hood.
“What now?” Terrant asked.
“You’re going on trial,” Kamigami said. He pointed to a fanatical little man sitting at a desk in front of the cage. “That’s your defense attorney. He doesn’t speak English.”
“Where’s the i
nterpreter?” Holloway asked.
Terrant looked around the room. “I don’t think we’re going to get one.”
Three men wearing dark flowing robes and turbans entered from a side door and sat at a long table. “Those are the judges,” Kamigami said.
“Who are they?” Holloway asked.
Kamigami answered in a low voice. “Imams.” He motioned them to silence as the imam sitting in the middle started to speak in Arabic. His words were harsh and guttural, filled with hate.
It was Osmana Khalid.
28
8:08 A.M., Saturday, July 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Durant turned away from the monitor. “At least we know what happened to Khalid.” He thought for a few moments. “Agnes, how long do you anticipate the trial to last?”
The computer answered without hesitation. “Since the execution is scheduled for this coming Friday, I expect it will end Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.”
“An interesting concept of justice,” Durant muttered, “where the date and manner of execution is determined before the trial.”
“The trial is for symbolic purposes only,” Agnes explained. “Under Islamic law, there is no question as to their guilt.”
“Have we reestablished contact with Kamigami yet?”
“My information indicates no. Mr. Durant, what exactly is Mr. Kamigami’s role in all this?”
“It’s very simple,” Durant answered. “We need someone on the inside to tell us exactly where the prisoners are when we go in. We don’t want to find the well dry when we get there.” He didn’t tell her the second reason.
Agnes paused, running this information against her data base on rescue missions. “Given your force size, diversionary tactics are critical. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please do.”
“You need to gain their attention and get them looking away from the prisoners. I suggest you target Assam’s laboratories, the original objective. But there are problems. The Sudanese, with the help of the Chinese, have positioned considerable air defenses in the area. However, what they see as a formidable deterrence is also a target.” A series of maps and an order of battle surrounding Jamil bin Assam’s laboratories scrolled on the second TV monitor.
“I see what you mean,” Durant said. “It’s a good target for cruise missiles.”
“If you’re willing to settle for reduced damage,” Agnes replied. “If you want to destroy the laboratories, use B-Twos. Not only is the symbolism obvious, but according to my analysis, by ingressing at high altitude, the probability of success is very high.” The second monitor blinked and the statistics that predicted mission success appeared on the screen. Durant scanned the numbers with some care. Statistics he understood.
“I think you’re being overly optimistic,” he said.
“Actually, these numbers are quite conservative. May I suggest you bypass Mr. Serick and approach the President directly?”
Durant ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve lost credibility with Jim, probably because of my heart attack, and Serick and Broderick have teamed up to block access. Let’s find out if I’ve still got the juice to kick in the front door.”
“Please don’t,” Agnes said. “I’m afraid that level of physical exertion might trigger another heart attack.” Agnes was still having trouble with idioms.
“Agnes, last Tuesday when we talked, you found something ‘interesting’ but wouldn’t tell me what it was.” The image changed and gave him a thoughtful, mature look. Durant smiled. “Have you been watching reruns of Murder She Wrote?”
The image actually blushed. “I like Jessica. She’s so elegant. To answer your question, I monitored a phone call from Meredith that made reference to Delta Force. I think he knows about the rescue mission.”
“Do you know who leaked it to him?”
Agnes shook her head. “I strongly suspect Serick, but I have no proof.”
“Serick,” Durant explained, “is playing both sides and wants to ingratiate himself with Meredith in the event he comes to power.”
Agnes sighed. “There’s so much I don’t understand.”
Durant decided it was time to proceed with the next step in the plan to make Agnes more reliable and predictable. “Agnes, there are some books I want you to read and make an ‘Integral dash X’ to your decision making process.” The term ‘Integral dash X’ was a command function that modified Agnes’s programming logic.
Agnes’s voice went flat. “I will have to confirm any changes with my programmers before integration.”
“I understand.” He read the names of the books to her. It was not a long list.
5:00 P.M., Saturday, July 24,
Khartoum
People still milled around the gate of the Islamic seminary where the two American pilots were being tried. The court had recessed before evening prayers and the morning’s huge crowd had mostly dispersed. But a few rabble-rousers and a large group of beggars still hung on, the first hoping for some excitement of any kind, the second for a generous sucker. The last of the rabble-rousers finally wandered away, but the beggars stayed and refused to move. The common wisdom they shared as an article of their trade held that the faithful would be most generous on the day the American pilots were sentenced to death. Until then, they were immovable.
Kamigami walked out of the gate and headed for the hotel beside the Nile River where he was staying. Even in the half light of late evening, he had no trouble picking out the familiar figure of the beggar sitting against the wall. He gave the mental equivalent of a sigh of relief. He walked slowly and pressed coins into dirty palms as he moved along the wall, finally reaching the last beggar. “I am not one of you but alms are for the faithful,” he murmured.
The beggar muttered the countersign. “Allah rewards all who honor him in this way.” Then he added, “Asshole.” Kamigami pressed a few coins into his hand. “Move the execution to an isolated location in the desert,” the beggar murmured. “The farther away from here, the better.”
Nothing on Kamigami’s face betrayed what he was thinking as he made his way to his hotel. Easier said than done, he thought.
9:30 A.M., Saturday, July 24,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
The lieutenant colonel cleared himself into the mission planning cell of the 509th Bomb Wing and stood by the door. He was tall, almost six-two, and, although he had never flown fighters, wore his flight suit like a fighter pilot. His hair was salt and pepper, more gray than black. In the wing’s pecking order of things, Lt. Col. Jim West was the commander of the Combat Training Squadron. Among the knowledgeable, he was the 509th’s Top Gun. On a calm day, West was caged energy and highly focused action. On a bad day, no one got in his way. West waited until the wing commander saw him before announcing his presence. “Hell of a way to spend Saturday morning General.”
“Jim,” the general said, pleased that West had responded so quickly, “an air task order came down about thirty minutes ago. It’s a biggie.”
West looked around the room. It was packed with every high-roller in the wing and he was the lowest-ranking officer present. “Judging by this crowd, it must be. What’-cha got?”
The chief of Intel took over and briefed the latest tasking the wing had received from the NMCC, the national military command center. The wing was to prepare another strike against Jamil bin Assam’s laboratory complex. “This is the same target where Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway—”
West interrupted. “I know what the target is.”
The wing commander allowed a tight smile. He knew the symptoms. West had been on leave when Terrant and Holloway had been shot down, and he wanted a chance to even the score.
“I’m sure you do,” the intelligence officer said, trying to make peace with West. Unfortunately, he came across as patronizing. “We are now seeing multiple defenses arrayed in the area, including an S-Twelve radar system. As you know the S-Twelve was specifically designed by the Russians to counte
r Stealth technology.” West fought the urge to strangle the man. “This,” the Intel officer continued, “in my opinion, is not a suitable target for B-Two operations.” West arched an eyebrow but said nothing. “The NMCC,” the Intel officer concluded, “wants to know how many aircraft it will take for eighty percent probability of destruction.”
“Wrong question,” West replied. “How many targets do they want us to kill?”
“Four,” the Intel officer replied, “including the laboratory.” He handed West a target folder.
The lieutenant colonel glanced through it. “How ’bout that? Someone has finally got a clue. Tell them we got one aircraft and ask if they got four more targets.”
A broad grin spread across the wing commander’s face. West was about to prove what he had known for years: the B-2 had changed the bombing paradigm. In the past, it had been “How many aircraft does it take to destroy a target?” The B-2 had changed that to: “We’ve got an airplane, how many targets do you have?” But of equal importance, it was a chance to prove what the B-2 could really do. And West was the man to do it.
“Jim,” the wing commander asked, “do you want this one?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The Intel officer wasn’t ready to let it go. “I believe we should send in two B-Twos.”
“We can send in a second aircraft,” West replied, “but there won’t be anything left for it to hit.”
“You sound very confident,” the Intel officer said.
“Damn right. Just make sure there’s no leaks this time. I don’t want to get my ass shot down.”
11:03 A.M., Saturday, July 24,
Kansas City, Mo.
Toni was waiting for Sutherland when he walked into the FBI’s offices late that same morning. She handed Sutherland a copy of the Kansas City Star, The newspaper was opened to the feature page where the top headline trumpeted one Henry “Hank” Sutherland as “A Prosecutor with a Conscience.” A very flattering photo of him walking out of wing headquarters with Catherine Blasedale spread across three columns. He checked the story byline: Marcy Bangor, the Sacramento Union. Marcy had turned him into a modern knight-errant, traveling about the country righting judicial wrongs.
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