“Eject! Eject! Eject!” Terrant shouted.
5:50
A.M.
, Monday, April 26,
Washington, D.C.
Nelson Durant was awake early, dressed, and drinking his second cup of coffee when the White House called with the message. “They’re reacting much faster these days,” he told Art Rios.
“The National Security Council?” Rios asked.
“The President just called an emergency meeting,” Durant replied. “I imagine Serick will be in fine form.” The National Security Advisor had a well-earned reputation for working himself into a lather during a crisis.
The two men rode in silence to the White House as Durant read the latest message traffic coming in on the car’s computer. Rios drove up to the west entrance where Durant was escorted to the Situation Room in the basement. “Ah, Nelson,” Stephan Serick boomed, “so glad you could join us—finally.” Durant ignored the jibe and sat down. “I take it you’ve heard the news on TV,” Serick continued.
The door opened and the President entered with the Vice President, his senior policy adviser, and the director of Central Intelligence. The DCI quickly outlined the situation. The facts were simple: the Sudanese had shot down the B-2 Stealth bomber and captured the crew. So far, they had only publicly announced that two pilots were in captivity. The news had driven Meredith and the San Francisco bombing off the front page. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the way they had planned. “Mr. Durant, considering your earlier discoveries, can the Project be used to monitor the situation in the Sudan?” the DCI asked.
“I’ll see what the whiz kids can do,” Durant replied. “Do we have coverage of the wreckage?” He knew the answer but hadn’t seen the photos. An aide spoke into a phone and a series of scenes flashed on one of the TV monitors. An unidentifiable mass of wreckage was strewn over the desert floor. Durant breathed a sigh of relief. Because the B-2 was in a combat mode of operation, the aircraft’s ejection sequence had worked as designed and the computers had opened the fuel valves and armed the weapons for detonation when the aircraft had hit the ground.
“It must have been one hell of an explosion and fire,” the Vice President said. “Will they have enough to convince the world it was a B-Two?”
“Once they analyze the wreckage,” the DCI said, “they will. Unfortunately, they also have the pilots, who are very much alive.”
“Mr. President,” Serick said, agreeing with the DCI’s brutal assessment, “you still have plausible denial here. Simply announce that two pilots were on a routine airlift mission hauling cargo and got lost. You are demanding their immediate release.”
“They got lost and ended up a thousand miles over the Sahara?” Durant asked. “In this day and age? Not likely.” Serick glared at him. It was the old clash of personalities and they could never stay on the same side for long. “Perhaps,” Durant counseled, “a simple announcement acknowledging the two Air Force pilots have been ‘detained’ by the Sudanese and you have no other comment at this time would be best. You need time to work the problem.” He fell silent and listened while the men discussed the situation. Durant understood how the President worked and this meeting was only one in a series as he settled on a response to the latest problem. But Serick’s arguments were swaying the President.
Durant was surprised when the door opened and the director of the FBI entered. He stood at the foot of the table and cleared his throat, not liking what he had to say. “I think we know how they did it,” he announced. “Our agents have been trailing an Egyptian national, Osmana Khalid. Khalid is an Imam, an Islamic cleric, who has been operating out of Warrensburg, Missouri, for the last month. Warrensburg is ten miles from Whiteman Air Force Base. He was observed talking to an Air Force captain who was involved in planning the attack. After that conversation, Khalid phoned a student from Egypt who was attending Central Missouri State University located in town. The student then made a phone call to the home of a clerk who just happens to work in the Sudanese Embassy. We’re still working on it.”
“Were they using a code?” Durant asked.
“Please, Mr. Durant,” the DCI answered, “we’re not that stupid. It was a code within a language, Nubian, we think.”
“So what are you saying?” the President asked.
The director of the FBI answered in a monotone, his face impassive. “Based on what we currently know, we are ninety-nine percent certain the captain passed critical information to Khalid who, in turn, passed it on to the Sudanese. It looks like they were waiting and the B-Two flew into a flak trap.”
“I knew it!” Serick thundered. “We have spent billions of dollars on a weapon system that doesn’t work. Mr. President, you need to send a message to the Air Force that the days of lavish spending on foolish programs are over.”
Durant shook his head. One of his companies had developed part of the B-2’s electronic defenses and he knew what the bomber could do. “You’re misreading this, Stephan.”
“How so?” Serick shot back. His jowly face was livid.
“Until an investigation is completed, we don’t know what happened. The bomber has its faults, all aircraft do, but believe me, it would be best to assume the B-Two can perform as designed.”
Serick snorted in disagreement.
Part of Art Rios’s job was to know when to shut up and this was one of those times. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror as he drove back to Georgetown after picking Durant up at the White House. “Call the helicopter,” Durant finally said. “We’re going to The Farm. I’m sick of this place.”
Rios decided it was time to talk. “Meeting went bad?”
“Terrible. I think Serick must be senile. His thinking hasn’t changed in twenty years.” He shook his head in disgust. “He wants to stonewall it. Plausible denial. Deny that a B-Two was shot down. The trouble is, Jim is listening to him.”
“That can change in a heartbeat,” Rios said.
Durant thought about the problem. “I need to talk to Agnes.” He was going to add the Egyptian cleric, Osmana Khalid, to the watch list. Again, they rode in silence. Finally, Rios had to ask the question that demanded an answer. “How in the hell did they manage to shoot down a B-Two?” he asked.
Durant stifled a smile. Rios had been reading his message traffic again. “A traitor,” he answered.
“I hope they nail the bastard.”
“They know who he is.” A long pause. “At least they know after the fact.” Silence. Then, “Check on the status of Hank Sutherland.”
Rios cocked an eyebrow. “Are you looking for anything specific?” There was no answer.
8:30
A.M.
, Wednesday, April 28,
El Fasher, Sudan
The convoy had barely left the army barracks in the center of town when a crowd of men and boys swarmed around the vehicles and prevented them from moving. Al Gimlas climbed out of the lead Range Rover that he used as his staff car. He stood in the hot, dusty main square as a shout of “Death to the American pigs!” echoed overhead. Before he could shove his way back to the third truck in line, an open flatbed, more people took up the chant and started to throw rocks.
The two Americans in the cage lashed to the flatbed were cowering against the floor, their arms wrapped around their heads as the stones pummeled them. Al Gimlas swore loudly, a fine Arabic phrase that lost its true meaning in English but roughly translated to “fucking idiots!” The captives had been in his care for three days and he had grown to respect them, especially the more reserved and dignified Major Terrant. There was no doubt that the same fools who had ordered the Americans to be caged like animals for transportation to the barracks at El Obeid had also organized this demonstration, rousing the people to a frenzy of hate. He couldn’t change his orders, but he could ensure his charges arrived in good health.
“No!” he shouted. “Have you forgotten who you are! We are civilized men!”
A fat, dark-complected man pushed his way in front of al Gimlas. He sneered at the tall captain, establishing his dominance. “They are infidels, American swine who love Jews!” He hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat on al Gimlas’s boots. It was a mistake. Al Gimlas knocked off the man’s
kaffiyeh
, a red-checkered headdress, grabbed a handful of hair, spun him around while lifting him off the ground, and launched him into the crowd.
A loud roar of anger washed over him in retaliation. The crowd was becoming a mob. The sharp rattle of an AK-47 split the air. The boy who had been buried in the cave-in was standing on the hood of the next truck in line, firing his weapon over the heads of the crowd. “Captain!” the boy shouted, throwing his AK-47 to him. Another weapon was passed up from the cab of the truck and the teenager chambered a round. Over fifty of al Gimlas’s soldiers ran from the barracks and shouldered their way into view. Loud clicks of magazines and bolts slamming home quieted the shouts.
Holding the submachine gun easily with one hand, al Gimlas motioned for the man who had spit on his boots to drop to all fours. When he hesitated, al Gimlas fired a short burst of three rounds over his head, barely missing him. The man dropped to his hands and knees as the crowd cleared a big circle around them. Al Gimlas motioned for the man to crawl forward and pointed at his boots. His tongue flicked over his upper lip in a licking motion.
The man hesitated and al Gimlas fired another burst into the dirt directly in front of him. Dirt kicked up into his face and the man scrambled forward. Just before he reached al Gimlas’s feet, the captain reached down and pulled him to his feet. “I prefer to be a civilized man and will never make a true follower of Allah lick my boots.”
The man clasped his hands, dropped to his knees, and looked up at al Gimlas, protesting that he was indeed a true believer. Again, al Gimlas pulled him to his feet and told him to go in peace. The crowd split apart like leaves before a wind as the man ran away, thankful for his near escape.
Al Gimlas turned to the Americans. “Bloody hell,” he said, sounding like a proper Englishman, “you two are an unbelievable amount of trouble.” He glanced up at the boy still standing on the truck and nodded. The boy looked down at his commander, his face full of awe.
A man standing in the second-story window of a nearby building stepped back into the shadows of the room and zoomed in on the cage. The two Americans were now standing in full view as the captain handed them a canteen. He continued to film until the convoy drove on.
4:01
P.M.
, Thursday, April 29,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Lt. Col. McGraw took the phone call. Capt. Jefferson was to report immediately to the local detachment of the OSI in the security police building. She tapped her pencil on the message pad for a moment. Her decision made, she buzzed Jefferson. She was going with him.
Two agents were waiting for them and escorted them to an interview room. The senior agent made the introductions and told them the interview was being recorded. “Capt. Jefferson,” he said, “before we begin, I am required to read you your rights under Article Thirty-one of the UCMJ.” He produced a card and read Jefferson’s rights to nonincrimination and the right to be represented by a lawyer. “Do you understand everything I’ve said?” Jefferson nodded.
The junior agent took over the questioning. “Capt. Jefferson, last Friday, you were observed talking to an Egyptian national, Osmana Khalid.”
“That’s correct,” Jefferson answered. “That was right after mosque.”
“Was that the first time you had talked to him?”
“We’ve met a few times before.”
McGraw touched his arm. “Brad, don’t say anything without a lawyer.”
“It’s okay, Colonel, it’s the truth. Besides, other people were there and overheard me. The Imam gave the sermon and afterward asked me why there weren’t more people of color from the base in the congregation. I told him that most people of color at Whiteman were either Christian or Nation of Islam, not Islam.”
“Was that the last time you spoke to him?” the agent asked.
Jefferson hesitated for a moment. “I called him Saturday.”
“What was that conversation about?”
Jefferson didn’t hesitate this time. “The same topic.”
“Was that all you talked about, Capt. Jefferson?”
“That was all.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s enough,” McGraw snapped. “Brad, I’m telling you, don’t say anything more without a lawyer.” She glared at the two OSI agents. “This meeting is over.”
“Are you representing Capt. Jefferson?” the senior agent asked.
McGraw looked at Jefferson. “Brad, please do as I say.” He nodded slowly. “Is there anything else?” McGraw demanded.
“Capt. Jefferson,” the senior agent said, trying a tactic that often worked, “did you give, or sell, any classified information regarding B-Two operations to Osmana Khalid?” From Jefferson’s stunned silence, the agent thought he might blurt out the truth, relieved to have a chance to confess.
McGraw came to her feet. “Capt. Jefferson, don’t say another word.” She jerked the door open and much to her relief, Jefferson stood up. The two agents watched them leave.
“What do you think?” the junior agent said.
“I think Capt. Jefferson should be arrested before he disappears.”
2:30
P.M.
, Friday, April 30,
McClellan Air Force Base, Calif.
Hank Sutherland was in the legal office’s small conference room, hovering behind the reservist as he signed his will. Sutherland witnessed the document and passed it to his secretary for a second signature. She handed the fully executed will to the sergeant, and he almost ran from the room, glad that he no longer had to confront his own mortality. It was the last Friday in the month and Sutherland was getting in duty time to meet his reserve obligations. Besides, he needed the money. In addition to witnessing the will, he had counseled another airman on the legal ramifications of refusing to deploy with his unit on a humanitarian relief mission to Africa. It was a typical duty day for a reservist lawyer on a JAG staff.