A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  A FAR JUSTICE

  by

  RICHARD HERMAN

  Willowbank Books

  San Francisco Los Angeles

  Also by Richard Herman

  The Last Phoenix

  The Trojan Sea

  Edge of Honor

  Against All Enemies

  Power Curve

  Iron Gate

  Dark Wing

  Call to Duty

  Firebreak

  Force of Eagles

  The Warbirds

  Published by

  Willowbank Books

  www.willowbankbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction and all characters, incidents, and dialogues are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2010 Richard Herman. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  First Edition by AuthorHouse 5/26/2010

  ISBN: 978-1-4490-7542-2 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4490-7540-8 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4490-7541-5 (hc)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Bloomington, Indiana

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Designed and produced by

  AuthorHouse™

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1-800-839-8640

  In memoriam

  Janice Hayes Perkinson,

  whose friendship and wisdom

  made this possible.

  “Law stands mute in the midst of arms.”

  Cicero

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Saudi Arabia

  Gus Tyler stood in the dark and took a deep drag on the cigarette, ratcheting up the flood of nicotine and caffeine coursing through his body. A line from Shakespeare came to him. “O! withered is the garland of war.” It seemed the right thing to say.

  Where had he first heard it? Oh, yeah, he thought. That time Clare sweet-talked me into seeing ‘As You Like It’ at the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. He had been a fan of Old Will ever since. He couldn’t remember what came next so he fast-forwarded a few lines. “And there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.” On cue, an almost full moon filled a break in the overcast. He reached out and held it in his hand, only to slowly crunch it in his fist, willing it into darkness. He opened his hand and it was still there, hanging in the cloudy night sky. The war was exactly forty hours old.

  A sergeant bounced out of the bunkered entrance into the command post. “Sir, Colonel Cannon is looking for you.”

  Gus Tyler stubbed out his cigarette. These things are going to kill you. He marched back into the command post, leaving the moon to watch over the airbase at Al Kharj.

  The wing commander, Colonel Jim Cannon, was on the secure line in the glassed-in mission control cab, and waved Gus to come inside. At thirty-one years of age, Captain August “Gus” Tyler was the best of Cannon’s pilots, a true combat leader, and at the top of his game. He was lean and stood exactly six feet tall. He had a full head of dark hair cut short, and his brown eyes were close-set. He had the required straight teeth and crooked grin required of all fighter pilots, and could have served as a poster boy for the tactical Air Force. Women considered him very attractive but he had no trouble refusing the not infrequent offers for a few innings of extramarital sport that came his way. He was on the promotion list for early promotion to major but hadn’t pinned on his bronze oak leaves yet, which to his way of thinking was a good thing. Field grade officers flew desks, not jets. Gus Tyler was a happily married man doing exactly what he wanted to do – flying the F-15E Strike Eagle.

  Cannon mouthed the words “Black Hole” as he listened on the phone. The Black Hole was the name given to the Special Planning Group in Riyadh that directed the air campaign to help drive the Iraqis out of Kuwait. “How many jets?” Cannon asked. He listened for a moment. “You got it.” He punched off the connection.

  “Gus, Saddam’s trying to extract his army and they don’t want the bastards to regroup north of the Euphrates. The Iraqis have got the mother of all convoys moving north out of Kuwait City. We told the Saddamites that anyone movin’ in a military formation is a legitimate target, and only deserters on foot would be safe. But they don’t seem to believe us.”

  “Their brains haven’t kicked in or they’re slow learners,” Gus said.

  “Both,” Cannon replied. “Latest count shows over a thousand vehicles beating feet north out of Kuwait City. The Black Hole wants us to bomb the livin’ hell out of the bastards. You want it?”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Just remember what they did to a lot of innocent women and children in Kuwait. That should put some hate in your heart. Who you want on your wing?”

  “Skid, with Woody in his backseat.”

  “You got ‘em. And in your pit?”

  “Toby.”

  “Who else? He hates flying with Armiston and will wet himself at the thought of doing something productive. I think he’s in mission planning. You and Skid launch ASAP and bottle ‘em up while I get jets coming your way.” Cannon’s eyes followed Gus as he walked quickly out of the command post. He took a deep breath and looked at the master clock on the wall. It was exactly 22:04 hours, February 25, 1991.

  “Shit oh dear, Gus,” he murmured. “Do it right. This is gonna be a biggy.”

  Mutlah Ridge, Kuwait

  The Belgian’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the truck’s steering wheel and stared into the dark. He strained to see the tank carrier they were following, and desperately wanted to turn on the headlights to avoid another rear-end collision with the huge, low-bed vehicle transporting a T-72 main battle tank. But the Iraqi sergeant had made it very clear what would happen if he did that, or delayed the convoy because of another accident. “How much farther, Hassan?”

  The young Palestinian sitting next to him clicked on his penlight to check the odometer and study the map. “Six kilometers to the border.” Hassan held the map for the Belgian to see. The Belgian’s heart raced. Six kilometers – just under four miles to the promise of a new, and very rich life. Not that Hassan knew what was in the truck. For some reason, that was important to the European. They were almost there.

  The Belgian reached out and held Hassan’s
hand near the instrument panel, directing the penlight onto the temperature gauge. It was almost pegged, all because of the collision. The radiator had been pushed back onto the electrical cooling fan, creating a horrendous scraping noise. Luckily, the radiator was still intact but he had to disconnect the fan before it did further damage. As long as they kept moving at a decent pace, they didn’t need it. He listened with a trained ear to the diesel engine of the big truck and gave silent thanks it was a Caterpillar. No one made better diesels than the Americans.

  The tank carrier loomed up in front of them and the Belgian stomped on the brakes, dragging the heavily loaded truck to a grinding halt inches short of the stopped vehicle. “What now?” the Belgian muttered. Hassan switched on the hand-held radio the sergeant had stolen from the Kuwaitis. Arabic filled the cab. “I didn’t understand that,” the Belgian said.

  “There’s an airplane in the area,” Hassan explained. They waited.

  Panic ripped at the European. “Go!” he shouted at the huge truck in front of them, pounding the steering wheel in frustration. He knew the temperature gauge was off the scale. In front of them, the tank’s auxiliary motor hummed as the turret slewed around, pointing the 125mm cannon to the southeast and to their deep right.

  “There!” Hassan shouted. Well to the east, the distinctive rocket plumes of two surface-to-air missiles reached up and streaked towards an unseen aircraft. Two explosions marked their target. “Allah be praised!” Hassan shouted, his voice filled with triumph. “They got the kafir.” The tank carrier started to move, but the tank’s cannon didn’t return to the aft travel position. Instead, it swung around and pointed in the direction they were going, to the north and safety. The Belgian eased the shift lever forward and slowly let out the clutch. The cannon fired and the tank carrier rocked from the recoil as the radio exploded with shouting voices.

  “What are they firing at!” the Belgian shouted.

  “The plane!” Hassan shrieked. “They keep missing!” More tracers cut the dark sky. Suddenly, three explosions at the head of the miles long convoy ripped the night apart. Then a fourth, much larger explosion pounded at them. Again, the tank carrier slammed to a stop, and again, the Belgian was barely able to stop in time. Now the tank was firing a round every 10 seconds. “There it is!” Hassan screamed. “There! There!” He pointed to their left at a low-flying shadow. Then it was gone, hiding in the night. Seconds later, the rear of the convoy erupted in a red cloud closely followed by three rolling explosions. The Belgian’s head twisted around and he caught the distinctive shape of a jet fighter as it pulled off its bomb run. Tracers from the convoy reached out but crossed far behind the jet. More voices were yelling over the radio.

  “What are they saying?” the Belgian demanded.

  “The kafir bombed both ends of the convoy!” Hassan shouted, his panic matching that on the radio. “We’re trapped!”

  “Get out!” the Belgian ordered. He kicked his door open and the dome light came on. He bailed out of the cab.

  The sergeant was there, waving his AK47. “Get back inside!” There was no doubt he was going to pull the trigger and the European scrambled back into the cab. The Iraqi stared at the two men, not sure what to do with the Belgian. However, the Palestinian was not a problem. He hurried around to Hassan’s side of the truck and jerked the door open. With a few well-practiced moves, he strapped Hassan’s right wrist to the handgrip mounted on the dashboard with a plastic tie-tab. “If you want him to live, stay in the truck and drive.”

  “Oh no,” Hassan sobbed. He pointed to the head of the convoy with his free hand. Burning trucks highlighted the jet fighter as it rolled in for a bomb run, coming straight down the road and directly at them.

  Panic ripped through the Belgian, and he threw a pocketknife at Hassan to cut the plastic tie-tab. “Get out!” He jumped out of the truck and rolled on the ground as the fighter roared directly overhead, two hundred feet above the ground and leaving a trail of bright flashing sparks in its wake. “Hurry!” he yelled at Hassan who was still fumbling with the knife, trying to open the closed blade. The Belgian scrambled on all fours and fell into a shallow depression as the twinkling, popping lights reached him. The flashing sparks were exploding grenade-size bomblets and the Belgian threw his arms over his head as a man-made hell washed over him. He felt a sharp pain as shrapnel cut his forearm. Then it was over. He raised his head. His truck was in engulfed in flames and he could see Hassan jerking at the plastic tie-tab, still trapped in the truck. It wasn’t in an effort to escape but involuntary spasms as he slowly cooked. The tank fired a round at the jet and the Belgian’s eyes followed the tracer into the sky. He saw the twin plumes of the fighter’s engines as it climbed safely into the night.

  “You fucking bastard!” he screamed. A killing rage coursed through his body and soul, and, for the first time in his life he truly hated.

  ONE

  Schiphol Airport, the Netherlands

  Gus Tyler stood in the main concourse of Holland’s international airport, a rock in the mainstream splitting the flow of humanity surging past him. He looked for the familiar face of his son, but Jason wasn’t there.

  An attractive young woman bumped into him and dropped her bag. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her breast brushed against his arm as he bent over to pick up her carry-on bag. “We were on the same plane,” she murmured, obviously attracted to the tall and lanky American. At fifty years of age, Gus Tyler was still fit and possessed a full head of dark hair that was only now turning gray at the temples. He hadn’t lost the straight teeth and crooked grin so characteristic of his generation of fighter pilots, and he could easily pass for forty.

  He returned the smile, his eyes alive with amusement as he handed her the bag. He was being hit on and it was a welcomed ego stroke. “Right. You reminded me of my daughter at first.” She blushed at the gentle brush-off and pushed past him. He picked up his old green Air Force B4 bag and followed her, still looking for Jason.

  A pretty young woman, heavy-set with short blonde hair and big blue eyes, was holding a sign with his name. “Colonel Tyler?” she called. He waved and pushed through the crowd. She was not the type Jason usually dated, much less proposed to, and he was anxious to meet the woman who would soon be his daughter-in-law. “I’m Aly van der Nord,” she said, extending her hand. “Jason had to work this evening. How was the flight?”

  He dropped his bag and took her hand. Her grip was firm and strong, not the least bit feminine, and he liked her serious nature. “You would not believe.” His flight out of Sacramento on Monday afternoon had been cancelled and he had been endlessly delayed by weather and more flight cancellations. He had finally reached JFK in New York where a helpful ticket agent suggested he fly into Holland rather than Belgium. KLM had done the rest and even booked him on the train from Schiphol to Brussels. “It’s very kind of you to meet me.”

  She picked up his bag with an easy motion. “When you were delayed, Jason couldn’t make it. He has to lead the honor guard for a ceremony with the general.” His son was a technical sergeant assigned to the Air Force Security Forces detachment at SHAPE, Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, in Belgium, and the general was SACEUR, the Supreme Allied Commander Europe. “So I jumped at the chance.” She led the way down the main concourse. “If you want, you can stay with us tonight and Jason will drive up tomorrow. He’s scheduled for a week’s leave. Or I can drive you down to Casteau tonight. It’s about a three-hour drive, depending on the traffic.”

  Gus did the math. It would be after midnight when they arrived. “I am pooped,” he admitted.

  Aly smiled and Gus felt much better. “Good. It will be a chance to meet my parents and they want to show you our farm. How is Mrs. Tyler doing?”

  “Not too good, I’m afraid. The quacks thought it was multiple sclerosis at first, but now think it is a rare form of lupus.”

  “Jason told me,” was all she said.

  For some reason, Gus completely trusted the young
Dutchwoman. “Did he tell you about Michelle?” Michelle was their oldest child and had never married. It took time to explain how happy she was and what two great twin boys she was raising.

  “Jason is very proud of his sister.” She gave him an easy smile. “Things like that don’t matter anymore.”

  Jason has a winner here, Gus thought.

  Outside, a cold North Sea wind whipped at them as they hurried to her car. Suddenly, Aly stopped. “This is embarrassing,” she said in a low voice.

  For a moment, Gus didn’t understand and only saw three people huddled together against the cold, blocking the sidewalk. Then he saw the banner. “I don’t read Dutch, but it looks like they’ve got the beak about the US.”

  “The beak?”

  “It’s an old slang expression for when someone is angry.”

  Aly laughed. “I like that. Don’t worry about them, they’re harmless.” She walked straight toward the small group without fear. They politely stepped aside and cleared a path.

  Then he saw the man holding a poster. His face was a mass of burn scars and his ears and lips were gone. Plastic surgery had reconstructed part of his nose but the fingers on his right hand were stumps. Only his eyes were normal. The two men stared at one another as if they had met long ago but couldn’t remember where or when. This guy is straight out of hell, Gus thought. The man held the poster up. The words

  U.S. WAR CRIMES IN IRAQ - 1991

  were written in black and splattered with red paint drops to represent blood. The man saw Gus’s reaction and spun the poster around.

  HIGHWAY OF DEATH

  was printed in bold letters over the famous photo of the charred head of a dead Iraq soldier staring at the cameraman. Slowly, the man brought the poster next to his face. In the half-light of the street the two merged, and the poster became a dark mirror into the past. Gus froze, unable to move as the ghosts of war surged out of their walled niche, demanding their freedom. Silence bound the two men. “You were there?” Gus finally asked.