“Be my guest,” he said. He led the way down the hall to his two-room suite and unlocked the door. He heard the sound of a door closing from down the hall in the direction of Blasedale’s suite.
Sutherland woke when he felt Beth’s hip move, snuggling against his abdomen. He didn’t move, still lying on his side while she lay on her back, sound asleep. Moonlight streamed in the window and the bedside clock read 03:37. Automatically she twisted, lifted her leg closest to him, and placed it over his pelvis. He nestled his top leg between her thighs as he slid inside her. “That’s nice,” she murmured and went back to sleep.
He woke again to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. “Beth,” he croaked. She came through the bedroom door, still naked, carrying two mugs of coffee and a newspaper tucked under her arm. She sat on the bed and handed him one of the mugs. “Thanks,” he muttered. It always took two cups of coffee to jump start his heart after a night with Beth. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered.
“I like sex with you,” she said, holding the mug with both hands.
“Is that why you dropped in?”
“Partly.” She reached out and stroked his arm. “Hank, there’s someone else in my life. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“Ben Cassidy?” She shook her head. He waited to hear a name. Nothing. “You do have one hell of a way of breaking the news. Does he know you and I are still sleeping together?”
“He knows about the time in April. I told him.”
“What about last night, the nineteenth of May?”
“I’ll tell him if he asks.”
“This sucks,” Sutherland groaned.
“Hank, sex is not important to him.”
“It will be if you get married.”
“We’ll cross that bridge—if we come to it. I’m going to take a shower.” She stood and went into the bathroom.
“An older guy, huh?” No answer. He settled back in bed to read the newspaper. “Holy shit!” he blurted when he read the headlines.
M
EREDITH
S
TARTS
C
RUSADE TO
S
AVE
N
ATION
D
ENOUNCES
FBI
FOR
L
ETTING
S
PY
E
SCAPE
The lead story was about how Jonathan Meredith had announced a war on all traitors to the United States. The problem was so deep-seated and widespread that he was forced to take action to save the nation. The court-martial of Capt. Bradley Jefferson was only the tip of the iceberg. “Osmana Khalid may have gotten away, but we will bring Jefferson to justice,” he was quoted as saying.
Sutherland glanced at the clock: 07:20. “Beth, I’ve got to go.” He ran into the bathroom to share the shower and missed the byline on the story: Marcy Bangor, the
Sacramento Union
.
Blasedale was waiting for him when he reached his office. “Who’s your friend?”
“My ex-wife,” he answered. “She was just passing through.”
“Passing through what?” Sutherland ignored the jibe and showed her the newspaper. “I’ve seen it. Not to worry. We just do our job the best we can. Luckily, the main gate and the security police are still between us and the weirdos.”
An image of The Rock beating off hordes of rabid demonstrators flashed across his mind.
“I called Col. McGraw.” She paused at the blank look on Sutherland’s face. “Jefferson’s boss, remember? I set up an appointment for this morning. I thought it would be best if we did it there.”
“Have the orders convening the court-martial come through yet?” he asked. She shook her head. “Eighth Air Force had better get off the stick.”
Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw was waiting for them at the entrance to the Operational Support Squadron building. She did not take them downstairs to the vault but led them into her office, a bright corner room on the ground floor. For the next hour, she explained how mission planning worked. Sutherland liked her straightforward manner and decided she was stamped out of the same mold as Blasedale—competent, dedicated, and all business. They even looked alike, with short hair, trim figures, and neatly tailored uniforms. Then he remembered to check Blasedale’s marital status. He checked her left hand. No wedding ring. He glanced at McGraw’s left hand. No ring.
The price a woman pays for success in the Air Force
, he decided.
“Col. McGraw,” he asked, “is it fair to say that all the mission elements come together in this building?”
“That’s correct, Captain.”
“And given this knowledge, your people are prime targets for foreign agents.”
“I would agree with that statement, although I have no reason to doubt the integrity, or loyalty, of
any
of my people. And that includes Capt. Jefferson.”
“Then you believe he’s innocent,” Blasedale said.
“Absolutely,” McGraw replied. “He has never, I repeat never, said or conducted himself in a manner contrary to what is expected of a loyal officer.”
“Was Capt. Jefferson involved in planning the mission where the B-Two was lost?” Blasedale asked.
“Actually, he was involved in the planning of both high and low profiles. He never knew, nor did he need to know, which one was chosen. That is a true statement for everyone on the team.”
“Did he know the coordinates of the initial point?” Sutherland asked. McGraw confirmed that Jefferson knew the coordinates. “Was he at work on Saturday?” Again, she said he was. Sutherland reached into his briefcase and pulled out a computer printout of all the telephone calls into and out of the OSS building from the Friday when the Air Task Order came in until the mission was launched. “Are any of these from a phone Captain Jefferson had access to?”
McGraw studied the list and pointed out two calls, one to his home on Friday and one on Saturday to a number in Warrensburg, that came from Jefferson’s phone. “But anyone could have made those calls,” McGraw said. She led them down to the basement, through the security entry point, and into a windowless office that held six desks. “The desk in the far corner belongs to Capt. Jefferson. During mission planning, he works at a computer in the mission planning cell. Like I said, anyone could have used the phone on his desk.”
“But whoever made the phone calls,” Sutherland said, “had access to the basement.”
For the first time, McGraw hesitated and a worried look crossed her face. “That is correct. Look, why don’t you interview the other members of his team who were with him during the time in question? Find out what they know.”
“Then you weren’t always present during mission planning?” Blasedale asked.
“I’m all over the building keeping everything on track. Mission planning is an involved process.”
“Col. McGraw,” Sutherland asked, “who made the final decision about which profile was flown?”
“Ultimately, the crew. In this case Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway made the decision.” She gave them a hard look. “On Sunday, the day they launched, I gave the crew the mission cassettes of the low-level profile flown.”
“Was that when you learned which profile had been selected?” Blasedale asked. McGraw nodded in answer. “About what time did that occur?” Blasedale quickly asked.
McGraw thought for a moment. “Captain Holloway signed for them. We can check the form.” She led them into the combat crew communications section where the crews received the classified material they needed to fly a mission. The sergeant on duty produced the requested form that was dated and time stamped:
11:38, 25 Apr 99
Sutherland dropped the form in his briefcase. “We’ll need this for evidence,” he said.
McGraw shook her head. “Air Force instructions for handling classified material require us to keep the original in our files. You can’t come in here and suck up whatever you feel like.”
“We’ll give you a certified copy that states we have the original,” Sutherland replied. McGraw glared at him.
“It’s okay, Colonel,” Blasedale said soothingly. The two women studied each other for a moment. “As I recall,” Blasedale continued, “Jefferson was at his home Sunday morning.”
“Yep,” Sutherland replied. He checked the computer printout of telephone calls. Only one had been made after the time stamped on the form. It was from McGraw’s office to her home.
“I called home to tell them I was on my way,” McGraw explained. “Why don’t you interview the other members of the mission planning cell?” Sutherland agreed and one by one, McGraw called them in. They all related that Jefferson, like everyone else, had made phone calls Friday and Saturday. But as McGraw had stated, they all denied knowing which of the profiles had finally been selected. The last team member called in was a skinny staff sergeant, William Miner. Miner’s eyes darted from face to face as they went through the same litany of questions. Something was bothering him.
“Sgt. Miner,” Sutherland ventured, “you saw something, didn’t you?”
The sergeant became more agitated. “On Saturday, I saw Capt. Jefferson talking to the pilots. They had just come back from the simulator and Captain Jefferson asked them about the simulator.”
“How much did you hear?” Sutherland asked.
Miner shook his head. “Some words, not much.” He looked at McGraw for help. “He asked something about the digital data cartridge.”
“Can you remember the exact words?” Blasedale asked. The sergeant shook his head. “Do you remember what time it was?”
Miner brightened. “Oh, yeah. It was just before I got off duty. About three-thirty Saturday afternoon.”
“Thank you, Sgt. Miner,” Sutherland said. “Do not discuss this conversation with anyone and please come over to the legal office to make a formal statement.” Miner shot McGraw a quick look; she only nodded in return. The sergeant beat a hasty retreat, glad to escape. Sutherland unfolded the computer printout and circled the time of the last phone call made from Jefferson’s phone to Warrensburg on Saturday. McGraw’s face paled when she saw the time:
15:42, 24 Apr 99
“He’s not that stupid,” she blurted out.
The two lawyers made the short walk back to the headquarters building. “It’s coming together,” Blasedale allowed. “The last phone call Jefferson made is a critical link in the chain.”
“But it’s still circumstantial,” Sutherland replied.
“For Christ’s sake, Hank! It’s logical, it’s compelling, and it fits a pattern. What more do you need?”
“If I’m going for the death penalty, a lot more. I want to hear the tapes from the phone intercepts—not someone’s summary of what was said.”
“Let’s see what the FBI coughs up,” she said. “What sort of witness do you think Miner will make?”
“Credible,” he replied. “What’s your take on McGraw?”
“She’ll be good for the defense. Very good. She really believes the guy is innocent. Did you see the look on her face when Miner said Jefferson had talked to the pilots on Saturday?”
“Miner might’ve overheard which profile they selected. I want the OSI to check out everyone in the mission-planning cell. That includes McGraw.” They walked in silence until they entered the headquarters building. Sutherland breathed in relief when a cool gush of air washed over him.
What’s the matter?
he thought.
The humidity isn’t that bad
. He puffed as they climbed the stairs. It bothered him that Blasedale was seemingly unaffected by either the weather or exercise.
Linda, the civilian secretary who controlled the chaos that threatened to swamp the legal office, was waiting for their return. “The convening orders, charge sheet, and memorandum came through.” She handed them the documents. “Eighth is recommending Monday, July twelfth for the court-martial.”
Sutherland checked a calendar and swore. “Shit! That’s only fifty-three days. Way too soon.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Blasedale explained. “Under the UCMJ it’s almost impossible to hold a suspect in confinement for longer than ninety days and Jefferson has already been locked up for twenty. After ninety days, it’s house arrest. Since Khalid’s escape, there’s no way they’re going to risk losing Jefferson.”
He studied the three documents. “These all have today’s date on them. I’d guess Meredith’s announcement built a fire under someone.”
Blasedale ignored him and studied the charge sheet. “As expected,” she said. “Violation of Article one-oh-six-
a:
Espionage.” They exchanged documents. “Read section five,” she said.
Sutherland flipped the single page document over and read the referral section. They looked at each other, neither willing to comment. He reread the section aloud. “Referred for trial by general court-martial convening order AB thirty-eight, dated twenty May 1999, subject to the following instructions”—he took a deep breath before continuing—“maximum permissible punishment is life imprisonment.”
The commander of 8th Air Force had taken the death penalty off the table.
“That will make our job easier,” she told him. “If it was a death penalty case, we’d have to get a unanimous verdict and we could never get to trial in fifty-three days.”
He nodded in agreement. Without the death penalty, they only needed a two-thirds vote of the panel to convict. Blasedale turned to the secretary. “Have the Security Police serve Captain Jefferson and send copies to Mr. Cooper.”
“Do you know the military judge named on the memorandum?” Sutherland asked.
She nodded. “Col. William W. Williams. Better known as W Three. He’s young, a bit pompous.”
“Cooper will eat him alive,” Sutherland said.
Blasedale smiled but said nothing.
They walked back to Sutherland’s office. “What about the panel?” he asked. The convening orders listed three captains, five majors, three lieutenant colonels, and one colonel to serve on the panel, or jury. Judging by their names, two were women.