Free Against All Enemies by Richard Herman

there’re at least five major contractors who do.” Then she turned up the heat again. She didn’t want the troops to think she had gone all soft and mushy in her old age. “I hope you can say the same.”
    The captain felt he had to justify himself. “I apologize, ma’am. But I was only thinking about his—ah—background.”
    “Brad and I go a long way back. It’s not a factor. Trust me.” Her intercom buzzed and a voice said that Capt. Jefferson had arrived. McGraw glanced at her watch. “About time.” She made a mental note to get Jefferson jumped up on the waiting list for base housing. If the Old Man wouldn’t make it happen, she knew a general who could.
    She wandered back into the mission-planning cell. It was humming with purposeful activity. “Brad,” she called. “Got a minute? What happened? Were you late in getting notified?”
    A slender, pleasant looking African-American looked up from his computer. “I got stopped for speeding coming through Lone Jack.”
    McGraw shook her head. “It figures.”
    9:00 A.M. , Friday, April 23,
Warrensburg, Mo.
     
    The beat-up old van was parked on a side road off Maguire Street. To all appearances, it was a construction van loaded with ladders and pipes with a big storage container on top. But inside, two men were surrounded by the latest in surveillance technology. From where they were parked, the men could monitor the modest homes on the southern side of the road and the few struggling businesses with their half-vacant warehouses on the opposite side.
    “Check this out,” Brent Mather said. The other FBI agent on the stakeout looked over his shoulder at the monitor. A statuesque redhead with a cascading mane of hair down her back was getting out of a car on the residential side of the street. She was wearing a minidress that gave maximum play to her long legs as she stood up.
    “That’s Sandi Jefferson,” the senior agent said. “She’s married to a black guy at Whiteman.” Whiteman Air Force Base was ten miles away from Warrensburg, which was one of the reasons they were on stakeout. “If you want a good image, get her on the long lens.”
    This was Brent Mather’s first assignment since graduating from training, and he was still learning to handle the equipment. Mather used the telephoto lens on the high-definition camera to zoom in on Sandi Jefferson as she moved around the car. Her quick steps whipped the short hem of her dress into a sea of motion that made for some interesting photography. “Nice ass,” he said.
    “She’s white trash,” the senior agent replied. He patted Mather on the shoulder and went back to his newspaper. The kid was doing okay. Unfortunately, Mather lacked the arrogance required of FBI special agents, but the senior agent was certain that age and experience would cure that defect in his character.
    Mather recorded Sandi as she pulled a black silk chador out of the backseat and threw the long cloak over her shoulders. Then she pulled off her high-heel sandals and slipped on a pair of frumpy lace-ups. She tied a dark scarf over her hair and pulled up the hood. She walked across the street and entered the warehouse that had been converted to a mosque.
    9:15 A.M. , Friday, April 23,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
     
    “Oh, shitsky,” Capt. Douglas Holloway muttered when he stepped into mission-planning cell. “This is a biggy.” The room was crowded with every colonel and lieutenant colonel who could think of a reason to be there.
    Maj. Mark Terrant stifled the caution that was forming on the back of his tongue about watching his language. After all, this was still the 509th. But Holloway had a great sense of presence and knew when to shut up. Terrant limited himself to “What did you expect when they asked for volunteers?”
    McGraw met them and led them to the smaller briefing room where the mission would be covered in detail. “You can decline the mission if you want,” she told them before they entered.
    “I