Free Against All Enemies by Richard Herman Page A

assume this is the real thing,” Terrant replied.
    “Isn’t it always?” McGraw said.
    Holloway gave her his best grin. Other crews had been through this drill before. “Right. If it was for real, Jim West would be beating down the door to take it.” Lieutenant Colonel Jim West was, without doubt, the best mission commander in the wing and an advocate for high-level corridor tactics.
    “Col. West is on leave,” McGraw said.
    “Just like all staff weenies,” Holloway said. “Never around when the shooting starts. But since we’re not headquarters pukes, we’ll take it.” The implication was obvious: No staff weenie would want to fly in real combat.
    “Don’t pay him no never-mind,” Terrant said, not wanting to antagonize McGraw. He knew of her reputation, and her recommendations carried weight in the 509th. “He just thinks he’s the best pilot in the wing.”
    “So does the Old Man,” McGraw conceded, now very serious. “Or he wouldn’t be here.”
    It was the truth. For all his flippant manner, Doug Holloway was a dedicated bomber pilot. He was a student of the B-2 and probably knew more about the aircraft and its systems than anyone on base except Jim West and Mark Terrant. But there was more. The men were consummate pilots and possessed IQs that bordered on the edge of genius. Physically, Mark Terrant was tall and gangly with red hair. Doug Holloway was shorter, just over five feet ten inches, with dark-brown hair, and built like a highly conditioned athlete, which he was. Both men had narrow-set eyes and perfect vision. Professionally, they were the product of a selection process that had started years before. For Mark Terrant, it had been the Air Force Academy and B-52 bombers, for Doug Holloway, electrical engineering at Stanford University, AFROTC, and fighters.
    Because they flew an aircraft that cost $1.3 billion a copy, they had to be solid trustworthy types who were extremely competent pilots. But underneath, at their very core, they were classic alpha personalities and controlled aggression.
    The wing commander, the operations group commander, their squadron commander, and the chief of Intelligence were waiting for them in the briefing room. “Gentlemen,” the wing commander began, “I think you all know Maj. Mark Terrant, one of our lead mission commanders, and his pilot, Captain Doug Holloway.” Nods all around. “Well, Mark, Doug, we’ve been tasked to take out a biological weapons factory in the Middle East with conventional weapons. Do you want it?”
    Terrant was ready with the standard answer. “Yes, sir.” Not too loud, just the right emphasis.
    Holloway couldn’t help himself. “How much of my sex life do I have to give up, sir?”
    10:00 A.M. , Friday, April 23,
Warrensburg, Mo.
     
    FBI Special Agent Mather focused on Sandi Jefferson as she came out of the converted warehouse that served as a mosque for the faithful of Warrensburg. He dutifully recorded the other faces in the crowd, mostly foreign exchange students from Central Missouri State University in town, but he always returned to Sandi. “Who’s that with her?” he asked.
    The other agent came over and studied the monitor. “The black guy? That’s her husband. He’s a captain in the Air Force.” They watched in silence as the two stood under a shade tree. A short, dark-complected man with pock-marked skin joined them. What a toad , Mather told himself, comparing the newcomer to Sandi’s husband who was trim and well dressed.
    “Son of a bitch,” the senior agent growled. “Why are they talking to Khalid?” Mather’s fingers flew over the computer’s keyboard as he logged the date, time, and circumstances surrounding the contact between Osmana Khalid and the Jeffersons.

6
     
    6:05 A.M. , Saturday, April 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia
     
    Durant ambled across the campuslike grounds, enjoying the soft morning air. It was a pleasant change after a hectic Thursday and Friday in Washington. But he was