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
“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
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