The Truth About Adrian Henson

The Office of Special Investigations or OSI showed up at my office one day asking me what I knew about Sergeant Adrian Henson. The officer flashed a badge identifying him as an OSI agent.

“What association do you have with this individual?” He asked me and my blood ran cold.  

“I don’t know him very well.” I lied suddenly feeling as if the weight of the world had landed on my chest.  

“How long have you been enlisted in the Air Force?” He asked, opening a spiral notebook.

“Three years.” I answered after swallowing hard. 

“Planning on reenlisting?” 

“Not really sure at this time.” I answered thinking about some of the duty I liked and the duty I did not care for.  I had been promised that I could choose a base I wanted to be stationed at and dreamed of Hickam in Hawaii. All of that evaporated when Sergeant Yates showed up at the counter.

“It says here that Sergeant Henson listed you as one of his closest friends.” Yates stared at me through his sunglasses. 

“I don’t know why he’s say such a thing.  We barely know each other.” I could feel the sweat trickle down my back. “What’s going on with him?”

“I can’t say at this point of the investigation.” He sounded like a robot repeating words from a script.  I had heard about a group that was taking some of the field jackets and selling them from the trunk of their cars at places all along the valley of Northern California.  The ring was being investigated according to the local newspapers out of Sacramento, He passed me a small card, “Here’s my card.  If you remember anything later, give me a call.”

“I will.” I nodded as I held the card.

“Good day to you, Airman Clayborne.” He picked up his briefcase and was gone before I looked up.

“Don’t sweat it, Doug.” Adian told me as he grilled hot dogs and hamburgers at his apartment in town.  The grills were part of the community patio with lounge chairs and a in -ground pool.  I was sitting in one of the lounge chairs with a can of beer in my hand. He had invited over a few guys from Operations and me.  Operations was the part of the fighter wing that scheduled what planes flew when.  He was the noncommissioned officer who kept the big board schedule using a grease pencil to mark down the plane number and scheduled flight time.  “Those OSI guys are always burning for us, because we have all the info on the planes.  They ain’t gonna find nothing.  Major Turnbull makes sure we are together at all times.  Ship shape, if you know what I mean.” 

I did know what he meant and I knew Adrian was always in ship shape.  He was in my section when I was fresh out of technical school.  He taught me all about how to keep proper flight records, because you never knew when you would have an inspection.  The inspectors loved to drop in unannounced to have a gander at the files.  Adrian always made sure the files were ship shape.

Major Turnbull who ran operations heard about Adrian and requested his transfer to Operation.  The major needed someone to keep Operations in ship shape order and he found Adrian to be the man for the job.  

“Doug, this whole thing is gonna blow over.” He flipped a couple of burgers on the grill with an enticing sizzle, “We go through this at least once a year.” 

“How come?” I asked.

“Because we do such a good job, they think it’s criminal.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, “You know how the service is, the better you do at your job, the closer they watch you.  Simple.” 

“I guess.” I was still confused.  I could not recall seeing an OSI agent in our office until today.  We did a good job.  I was pretty sure of that, so why hadn’t they come to keep an eye on us?

“Adain, how are those dogs looking?” Brian called from across the pool.

“Sizzling away.  Be done in a few minutes.” He called back.

“Got enough time for a lap?” Brian asked.

“Barely.” Adrian waved as Brian dove into the water.

“It was hot today.” I commented.

“July, Northern California, what do you expect?”  He plucked two hot dogs off the grill and put them on a plate, “So, what’s this I hear about you re-upping and sneaking off to Hawaii.” 

“I’ve been thinking about it.” I confessed.

“And break up the team?” He squinted at me as the sun was now directly in his face.

“Yeah.” I shrugged.

“I’d go if I were in your flip-flops.” He nodded. “Hey, do me a favor.” 

“Sure.” 

“Come by my office.” He flipped a couple of burgers, “I’ve got some files I want you to dispose of.” 

“What are they?” 

“Classified stuff that needs to go into the shredder.” He patted me on the shoulder, “Can you do that for me?”

“Sure, why not?” 

“That’s the team spirit.” He laughed, “Now keep that up when you get to Hickam.” 

“I will.” 

We ate hot dogs, burgers and the fixings on the picnic tables in the pool area.  We were loud because we were drinking beer and Sandy brought his boom-box playing some hot tunes a bit too loud.  The guy working apartment security wandered by to tell us to keep it down.

“You know I don’t mind, but we got little kids living here.” He explained.  Adrian gave him a hot dog which he happily accepted.

“The guy’s a pedophile.” Adrian said once he was out of sight.

“How do you know?” Sandy turned down his boom-box.

“I got eyes.” Adrian shook his head, “He always comes down in the morning when they have swimming lessons and sits in one of the lounge chairs, watching.” 

“Ewwww.” Tony grimaces.

“You gotta know people.” Adrian said before sipping his beer, “You gotta watch people.” 

I had known Adrian for almost three years and in that time, I had seen some of his dark side.  While he was a very popular colleague by throwing beer bashes with lots of food and snacks out at his apartment, I had heard him say things that did not sit well with me.  He would smile as he said cruel things about people sometimes right to their face often dressed as a compliment.

My dad was a retired Air Force NCO with twenty five years of service that included time in Korea during the war.  He told stories of guys who you thought had your best interests in mind, but would slice you up like Julius Caesar if given the chance.  

He never talked about what happened during one mission.  His face would lose all color and his eyes would get cloudy.  When I saw him like that, I would leave him to his thoughts.  He was serving in Vietnam and that’s all I know.  

When I enlisted, he put his arm around me and told me to watch my backside.  It was good advice, because there were plenty of folks who would plant a dagger in it if they could. 

When Adrian was still a member of Administration, he grew to dislike a female airman named Della Kurtz who kept asking the same questions over and over again.  

“What a dumb bitch, Doug.” He whispered to me while she left to run some paperwork up to headquarters.

“I guess.” I shrugged feeling as though I was caught in the middle.  Della was doing her best it seemed, but Adrian did not like people who never seemed to get it.  If by the third time, you did not get it, you were stupid according to Adrian.  

There were rumors that Airman Kurtz filed a sexual harassment complaint against Adrian and a week later he was transferred to Operations.  Convenient that Major Turnbull requested Adrian and Captain Sendusky had just received the complaint against Henson.  Dirt under the rug as Captain Sendusky would call it and the written complaint was never put in Henson’s file.  It just vanished. 

“Is Sergeant Henson here?” I asked the airman at the desk.

“Yeah, he’s out in back.” The airman answered just as Adrian appeared.

“Oh, you made it.” He smiled. “I’ve got some files I need put in the shredding bin at your office.  Remember these are classified documents.”

This meant that I had to make sure I did not drop any of the files.

“I’m gonna have you sign here.” He pointed to a ledger where there was a space for the person moving the files would take physical custody.  A person who was careless with records containing classified material could go to prison depending on what was contained in the records.  

“There you go.” I left the pen on the ledger where I had found it.

“Alright, just make sure you put those in the shred bin.” Adrian nodded.

I had done this many times and had never made an error with classified material, but he kept drilling me on it, making sure I knew where these files were headed.  I wondered what was in these files that was so important to keep insisting that I put the files in the shredding bin.  

Usually I do not bother to look at the files I am transporting to shredding bins, but I decided to take a peek at some of the files.  I was carrying about thirty sealed files. I had a pocket knife with me, so I used it to cut open one of the sealed files.  By the time I got to my office, I had the file open.  I put the pile on my desk and looked at the file I had opened.

SECRET was written in red letters across the top of the document.  Inside were some codes the pilots used to label the mission.  In the pages that followed were detailed logs of what the pilots did during the mission.  If someone looked at the file they could follow what flight the pilot was on and a log of what they had done.  Some of the missions or sorties were for reconnaissance purposes and the files contained photographs take by the pilot’s cameras.  The photographs were missing.  They should have been in the file, but were not.

I could feel my heart begin to pound in my chest.  Where were the photographs? 

“Airman Clayborne, what are you doing?” Asked Lt. Terronova, the officer on duty. 

“I am taking these to the shredding bin.” I answered.

“Why are you looking at the files?” Lt Terronova asked.

“One of them came open.” I lied.

“Good security awareness.” He nodded and walked into the office for the officer on duty. 

I walked into the room where the shredding bin was located.  Administration was the only location for a classified shredding bin since the material was considered controlled.  The log was on the table and I had to write down what I was putting in the bin. Carefully I wrote, “30 folders of classified “Secret” material with one file open.” 

Where were the photographs?  I did not note that in the log since there was no way I was supposed to know the photographs were missing in the first place. 

I sat in the barrack after chow wondering where the photographs were. I could not get it out of my mind.

I turned on the television.  The NightlyNews was on and Peter Jennings was talking about a military investigation of a spy ring.  My heart almost stopped. The reporter narrating the spy ring story did not go into details such as where this investigation was taking place, but it all had a familiar ring to it.  Anytime a story like this managed to make the evening news, I felt the pressure coming down on me.  Shit rolls downhill is a popular military adage. 

Sleep was hard to come by.  My mind would not settle down.  Where were the photographs?  What was on them?  What could possibly be so secret?  

The next morning, I went to the chow hall to eat breakfast.  I could feel some of the people start looking at me when I walked in.  I got my tray and went to look for a secluded place to sit, but the chow hall was crowded.  And as I went to sit in an empty chair, the people at the table shook their heads and told me to move on.  There was a patio that was not occupied, but when I stepped outside, the wind was blowing as it often did in early spring. When I sat down, dust blew into my meal and I discovered I wasn’t that hungry after all.

I put my breakfast into the trash bin.

Just like I put those documents into the shredding bin.  

Where were those photographs?  My name was in the ledger.  

Sergeant Yates would be waiting for me when I got to my office.  Captain Sandusky was also standing outside next to Yates.

“Airman Clayborne.” Sergeant Yates called to me when he saw me walking toward them.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You tell us, Airman Clayborne.” Captain Sandusky had his arms folded across his chest.

“I have no idea.” I shrugged.

“Well you are under arrest.” Sergeant Yates handed me the warrant. 

“What for?” 

“Read the warrant.” Sergeant Yates instructed me. 

I read it and in very simple language it said that I was sending classified material to a group of Russian cyber-hackers.

“What is your proof?” I asked Yates.

“Missing photographs.” He smiled and waved me inside.  On my desk were the files I had put in the shredding bin.

“I had nothing to do with the missing photographs.” I put the warrant down on my desk.

“Well, this morning we arrested Sergeant Adrian Henson and he told us you were working with him to send these Russian guys classified information that would help them hack into our computers on base.” Sergeant Yates explained as I held my head in my hands feeling the intense pressure crushing me.

“Henson asked me to get some files to be shredded.  I picked them up, signed the log and walked over here.” I felt the tears flood my eyes. 

“According to Lieutenant Terronova, you were viewing the files, why was that?” He leaned over my desk. 

“I felt something was wrong.” I let out a heavy sigh, “As it turned out, I was right.  The photographs were missing.” 

“Well, we have Sergeant Adrian Henson in custody.” Yates began to pick up the files, “These files were copied and sent to the hackers.  This morning we raided the location of the hackers, but they were already gone. We in the Air Force take our security seriously because the lives of so many people depend on us doing our job, so when someone purposely lets this information leak to our enemies, we put people’s lives in danger.  Do you understand?”

“I do.” I nodded.

“We believe that you were not involved in this operation.” Sergeant Yates looked at the captain who nodded in agreement, “There were too many inconsistencies with Henson’s story. He was ready for us, because he explained that you picked up the files before delivering the information to the hackers. If I were you, I’d be more careful with who I was associating with.” 

“I will, Sergeant Yates.” I promised.

“Son, I am giving you a couple of days to get your head on straight.” Captain Sandusky.

I walked out into the sun feeling as if the pressure had been lifted from my shoulders.  For three years I believed Adrian Henson had my best interests at heart.  He had proven time again to be my ally and that we needed to play together as a team. For all of his bravado, he turned out to be one who wanted to put a dagger in my back.  Et tu, Brutus? 

The evening news told the story of what had happened.  There was a picture of Adrian Henson shown as the reporter told about his connection with the Russian Hackers.  There were no other details and I was grateful that my name was not mentioned.  In the future, I would be more careful with those I chose to associate with, but for now I was thankful not to be sitting in jail. 

 In the end the truth about Adrian Henson had come to light in a very unexpected way.