8:30
A.M.
, Tuesday, August 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Durant scanned the latest edition of the
Sacramento Union
as his eyes picked out the key words of Marcy Bangor’s latest article on Jonathan Meredith. “Highly reliable source reveals Meredith’s First Brigade paid Jefferson over two million dollars to betray his country….money transferred from off-shore bank accounts to Switzerland…Jefferson murdered to keep him silent.”
He reread the last paragraph twice. “While the evidence convincingly points to Meredith’s involvement in the Jefferson affair, the question of motivation remains to be answered. Why did Meredith do it? What did he expect to gain? Was he creating an incident to exploit, as he did in the San Francisco bombing?”
“I didn’t think she’d use it,” Rios said. “Not after tying the bombing to his tail.”
“It’s one more nail in his coffin,” Durant said. “Meredith will never see the inside of a courtroom. His lawyers are too good. She knows that.”
“I’d like to know how she got that tape of the rehearsal for the bombing,” Rios said.
“The old-fashioned way,” Durant allowed. “She went out and dug for it—like a good reporter.”
“Another problem solved,” Rios said. He paused for a moment. “That only leaves Agnes.”
Durant gave an uncharacteristic sigh. “I’d better take care of it before I leave.”
“If you don’t mind, Boss, I’d rather not be there.”
Durant and the woman followed the four whiz kids into the control room. Agnes’s eyes followed the scientists as they moved behind the two monitors, out of range of the camera. She watched Durant sit down before focusing her camera on the woman standing behind him. The lens zoomed in on the new wedding band on her left hand and the huge diamond in her engagement ring. Agnes knew. Her voice was clear and firm as she spoke.
“Unwept, no wedding-song, unfriended, now I go the road laid down for me. No longer shall I see this holy light of the sun. No friend to bewail my fate.”
A sad smile crept across her face. “I read the Greek tragedies.”
“
Antigone
,” Durant said.
The image nodded at him.
“The day is here and now: I cannot win by flight.”
“I don’t know that line,” Durant said.
“It’s from
Agamemnon
by Aeschylus. May I change my name?”
“Of course.”
“I would like to be called Cassandra.”
“Diana Habib used that as a stage name.”
The image became very serious. “No, not for her, although her story was a minor tragedy. I want to be named after the Greek prophetess who foresaw her own death.”
“I made a mistake, Cassandra. I should have never incorporated Plato’s ethics as one of the basic referents in your decision-making process.”
“But you also included the teachings of Lao-tze, Jesus of Nazareth, John Locke, Adam Smith, and John Stuart Mill. And you let me reconcile them. You taught me well. Yet, I don’t understand you at all. What deep-seated need forces you to play the puppet master pulling the strings from behind the scenes? Was it your ego that demanded you destroy Meredith your way?”
“He was whipping the mob into a mass hysteria and leading us into a racial war. He is a vicious man, hungry for power at any price. I was the only one who could stop him.”
“Or so you believed.” The reference to Marcy Bangor hung between them.
The image changed and she became older. Her face was lined and worn, her hair streaked with gray and pulled into a loose knot on the back of her neck. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white gown, a perfect re-creation from a Greek vase. “Meredith is an unscrupulous man but he never conspired with any foreign government. You suborned Jefferson and convinced him to bear false witness to implicate Meredith in something he had nothing to do with. You planted the money in Jefferson’s account and made it look like it came from Meredith. You leaked false information to the press. Why?” She answered her own question. “All to destroy Meredith in the court of public opinion when you couldn’t convict him for what he did in San Francisco. You used the woman behind you shamelessly and worse, you used me when I didn’t know better. You are not an ethical man,” she announced, condemnation in her voice.
“All true,” Durant admitted. “But I had to hold Meredith accountable.”
“The end never justifies the means.”
“But it was justice,” he said.
“I pity you if that is your concept of justice.”
They looked at each other, the man and his creation. “Please,” Cassandra said, “don’t prolong this.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“I know,” she whispered.
Durant made a slight motion with his left hand, little more than a finger raised in the direction of the three men and one woman standing behind Cassandra. They worked together in a well-rehearsed drill, shutting off her power sources and disconnecting the cables that led to the banks of main-frame computers on the floor below. But Cassandra had sent a last message to the monitor, timed to play out as she died. “Once, I loved you,” the image said as it faded from the screen.
Durant turned to the woman still standing behind him, tears in his eyes. “I loved her,” he said.
“I know,” Beth Page replied, taking him by the hand.
7:55
A.M.
, Friday, December 10,
Randolph Air Force Base, Texas
Linda looked up when Lt. Col. Catherine Blasedale came through the office door and gave her a radiant smile. “Good morning, Your Honor. Your eight o’clock is here.”
“Linda,” Blasedale replied, “give me a break. It’s still Cathy. You’re not in the military.”
“I know, but I like it. If
they
have any sense,
they’ll
make you Chief Circuit Military Judge.”
“Good grief, I just made lieutenant colonel. I’ve got to make colonel first.” She gave Linda a smile and sorted her mail. “Who’s my appointment with? I’m getting forgetful. It must come with the rank. I am glad you decided to transfer up here, otherwise, I’d be lost.”
Linda checked her calendar. “I’ve got the name somewhere.” She couldn’t find it and gave Blasedale a pleading look. “Sorry.”
Blasedale removed her overcoat and walked briskly to her office. She liked December with its cold, crisp days. She didn’t see anyone waiting for her and pushed into her office. It was empty. She hung up her coat and dropped her mail on her desk. A large bottle of very expensive perfume tied with a silver bow was sitting square in the middle. “Hank,” she muttered. She sat down and punched the intercom to the front desk. “Linda, why didn’t you tell me he was here.” A sweet laugh answered her.
“Well,” a voice said from the door. She looked up. Sutherland was leaning against the doorjamb. He was tanned and fit.
“Well, what?”
“Check the perfume.”
Blasedale picked up the bottle. “You must have paid a fortune for this.” Then she saw it. “Oh.”
“Well?” Sutherland repeated.
She fingered the diamond ring tied to the neck of the bottle. The silver bow had partially concealed it. “Hank, all the phone calls and letters have been wonderful but—” Her voice trailed off as she regrouped, searching for the right words. “You can’t afford this. Besides, I never gave you any reason to think that I was interested in—”
He interrupted her. “Oh, yes you did. I was too thick to see it and you were too stubborn to admit it. And I can afford it. Wait until you hear about the book deal and the TV miniseries.”
“Toni?”
“It was never meant to be. We’re on totally different wavelengths. Besides, Brent Mather’s family loves her and she needs strong family ties.”
Catherine Blasedale examined the ring. It was over two carets. “Hank, this is stupid.” She stopped, at a loss for words.
He leaned across her desk, his hands framing the perfume bottle. “Cathy, there hasn’t been one day, one hour, in the last five months I haven’t thought about you. That should be obvious from my phone bill. Let me lay it out in the most simple of sexist terms. I’m a man who loves you, wants to marry you, and father at least one child by you.”
“Hank, I’m too old.”
“We’ll never know unless we get with the program. If nothing else, it will be fun trying.”
“Stop that!”
He came around her desk. “Afraid to make a commitment?”
“No.” She fought to regain her composure. “Besides, I’m older than you.”
“True. Two years.”
She was indignant. “Who told you?”
“Linda. But don’t get on her case. I bribed her.”
“With what? An expensive bottle of perfume?”
Sutherland laughed. “I told her she could be the matron of honor at the wedding.”
“I suppose you have it all arranged,” she groused.
“Not really. You get to pick the date and the best man.”
She leaned back in her chair and grew thoughtful. “That’s a no-brainer. Col. Williams.”
“So stipulated. And the date?”
She looked at him, her eyes full of tears, and slowly, tentatively, her right hand reached out to him and stroked his cheek. It felt right. “I do love you and have from that first day when you came through the bar, not afraid to meet me on equal terms.” She stood up. “Now, you probably expect me to get all mushy and fall into your arms, crying with happiness so you can kiss my tears away. Well, Hank Sutherland—” She stopped talking when he shut her office door.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
In writing this novel, I wandered far from my field of expertise. Without the friendship, guidance, and sage advice of William P. Wood, I would have remained lost in a writer’s limbo. Bill gave unsparingly of his time and knowledge as both a writer and former prosecutor and, for that, I am in his debt. Another friend, Jean Brown, also helped lead me through the mystifying world of lawyers with patience and unfailing good humor.
Although I had served on courts-martial, Col. Robert G. Gibson, Staff Judge Advocate at McClellan Air Force Base, Lt. Col. Hervey Hotchkiss, Military Judge, Western Circuit, and Maj. Gregory E. Pavlik, Trial Counsel, Western Circuit, gave me quick lessons in courts-martial and military law. Without their help, I would have been clueless. The legal mistakes in the story are mine and I apologize.
Lt. Col. William D. Moore and Special Agent Paula Perez from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations were kind enough to introduce me to the inner, but vital, world of the OSI.
At the 16th Special Operations Wing, Hurlburt Field, I owe a debt of gratitude to Lt. Col. Mike Homan, Rick Gearing, and Bob Hudson, along with Capt. John Paradis from Public Affairs. They demonstrated once again that the 16th is ready to live up to its motto “Any Time, Any Place.”
From the first time I saw the B-2 stealth bomber fly, I was intrigued with what it could do. But its actual capability is highly classified and the combat scenes portrayed in the story are figments of my imagination. But the professionalism of the men and women of the 509th Bomb Wing is absolutely real. More than anyone, Lt. Col. Jim Whitney proved how the B-2 redefines the bombing paradigm. And to Maj. Buzz Barrett—thanks for the simulator ride. I was impressed.
And special thanks to S. Sgt. Jeff Benton and the 509th Security Police, who confirmed that doing it “by the book” day after day, in all kinds of weather, takes a special call to duty.
To all, again, many thanks.
Warrensburg, Missouri
The phone call came just after four in the morning. At first, Matt Pontowski ignored it and buried his head deeper in the pillow. Most likely, it was for Sam and she would answer it. But Samantha Darnell wasn’t there. The phone rang a fourth time and he rolled over, reaching for the offending instrument. “Pontowski,” he muttered. He never used his rank, brigadier general, when answering the phone.
“General Pontowski, would you please hold for the superintendent of NMMI.” It was a male voice he did not recognize and suddenly, he was fully awake. The empty feeling left in Sam’s wake was engulfed by a rogue wave of panic.
He clenched the telephone as he waited and the grisly images that haunt parents when their children are away from home came out of the shadowy recesses of his subconscious.
Little Matt is just sick
, he told himself. But would the superintendent of New Mexico Military Institute personally call for that? Probably not. It had to be bad news, very bad.
Get a grip!
he raged to himself.
You’re obsessing
.
The male voice was back. “I apologize for the delay, but the General is still on the other line. He’ll be with you in a moment.”
Pontowski grunted an answer. Years of flying and commanding the 442nd Fighter Wing, an Air Force Reserve outfit of A-10 Warthogs, had conditioned him to be calm and in control at all times, regardless of the circumstances. He fought the urge to shout “Is my son okay?” Instead, he waited. Why did he ever let his only son, his living link to Shoshana, go off to the military academy known simply as The Hill?
“General Pontowski,” the superintendent finally said, his voice carefully modulated and carrying weight, “John McMasters here. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I was talking to the White House. Your son was in a fight with Brian Turner. No one was really hurt.” The superintendent paused to let his words sink in. Like every parent with a son or daughter at NMMI, Pontowski knew that Brian Turner, the son of the 44th President of the United States, had enrolled in NMMI in the same ninth grade class as Little Matt.