Gus dropped the big jet down to three hundred feet and flew up the Khwar ‘Abd Allah, the estuary leading into the marshes of southern Iraq. “Moonbeam,” he radioed when they were over the marsh, “Driver One feet dry.”
“More or less,” Toby quipped from the backseat.
“Roger, Driver One,” Moonbeam replied. “You’re cleared hot into the area.” Gus nudged the throttle forward and the airspeed marker on his HUD touched 500 knots. Every second, they were three football fields closer to the fleeing convoy.
“Forty miles out,” Toby said. Then, “Four minutes.” The jet’s TEWS, the tactical electronic warfare suite, came alive and shrieked, warning them that a hostile radar was tracking them. “It’s a monopulse radar,” Toby said tersely. “Probably a SA-11 Gadfly.”
“Where the hell did that come from?” Gus wondered. The Gadfly was a very dangerous surface-to-air missile because of its guidance and tracking radar and ability to follow an aircraft down to fifty feet above the ground.
“A little lower would be nice.”
“It is night out there,” Gus muttered.
“The TFR is working fine,” Toby said. The TFR was the terrain following radar. “And nothing is wrong with the FLIR.”
It was true. The contrast on the forward-looking infrared display was unusually good. Gus squeaked the jet down to a hundred feet above the terrain. The TEWS protested louder. “Sweet Jesus,” he said.
“He ain’t gonna help,” Toby said. “Just row the boat and I’ll deliver the mail.” Gus dropped to fifty feet and nudged the throttles forward until their airspeed was rooted on 540 knots. Now they were eating up the distance to the convoy at 911 feet a second. Toby updated the system, constantly refining the targeting solution. He hit the EMIS switch, putting the radar in standby and cutting off the electronic signature they were broadcasting. The TEWS shifted signals, warning them that a radar-guided SAM was locked on and coming their way. The TEWS automatically sent a burst of energy out to jam the hostile radar and dropped bundles of chaff in their wake. The missile flashed by their left wing, missing them by eighty feet. It exploded harmlessly behind them.
Gus scanned the sky, looking for a second missile. He found it at their four o’clock position just as its rocket motor burned out. He lost visual contact but he knew where it was. He turned into the missile, putting it at his two o’clock position and waited a fraction of a second for the missile to follow. He pulled up sharply, turned into the missile, and loaded the Strike Eagle with eight Gs as he slammed the big jet back down to earth. Gus never saw the missile as it tried to turn with them and tumbled. He did see the flash as it detonated well above and behind them.
“One minute out,” Toby said.
“I got ‘em on the FLIR,” Gus said, amazingly calm as the lead trucks materialized on his HUD. Bright red flashes from the convoy, tracers, drifted towards them and Gus jinked hard, loading the jet with little sharp and random turns. It worked and they bore down on the convoy. At the last moment, they flew straight and level for two seconds. It seemed an eternity but they had no choice if the weapons system was to do its magic. Three bombs rippled off and Gus jinked the Strike Eagle for all it was worth as tracers ripped past them.
The night exploded behind them as the Mark-82s walked across the lead trucks. The center bomb was a shack and hit the rear of the first truck. But the other two were not wasted as the fragmentation pattern of a Mark-82 reaches out over two thousand feet. The night erupted as three secondary explosions ripped the darkness apart. “Gas tanks,” Toby said. A fourth explosion lit the sky. “Got something big.” For a moment, only the sound of heavy breathing filled their headsets. “Let’s nail the rear,” Toby said.
“I’ve got a visual,” Gus said as he repositioned the Strike Eagle. “Rip three.”
“Got it,” Toby said as he moved his crosshairs over the tail end of the convoy that was now stopped. Gus turned inbound and jinked. But this time the TEWS was quiet. A single stream of tracers reached out from the heart of the convoy but it was wide by a thousand feet. The run-in was a walk in the park. Again, the system worked as designed and the last three Mark-82s separated cleanly from the aircraft. The result was not as spectacular as the first time but it was every bit as accurate. They circled back. The flames from burning vehicles at both ends of the convoy lit the night and they had no trouble seeing the havoc they had caused.
“Moonbeam, Driver One,” Gus radioed, his voice calm and measured, “the convoy is stopped on the highway. Both ends bottled up.”
“Shit hot!” the controller aboard the orbiting C-130 yelled.
“What’s he so happy about?” Toby asked over the intercom.
“Driver One,” Moonbeam radioed, “Driver Two with three is inbound, five minutes out.”
“Copy all, Moonbeam,” Gus answered. Jim Cannon back at Al Kharj was starting to launch every Strike Eagle he could. “We’ve still got the CBUs,” Gus told Toby.
“This is what we get paid for.”
“One pass, haul ass,” Gus said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Gus called up the weapons armament panel and selected the remaining stations to ripple the six canisters on one long pass. He circled back to the head of the convoy and flew a curvilinear approach onto the stalled vehicles. Neither man said a word as they flew down the length of the highway and the canisters separated one at a time, each spewing its deadly cargo. Gus honked back on the stick and climbed into the clouds. He never looked back.
“Radar’s clear,” Toby said, clearing them of any aircraft that might be in the clouds.
Skid’s familiar voice came over the radio. “Moonbeam, Driver Two with three. How copy?”
“Driver Two, I read you five-by,” the controller answered. “Hold at angels fourteen while Driver One clears the area.”
“Hope there’s something left for us,” Skid answered.
“Plenty to go around,” the controller answered.
Gus nudged the transmit switch on the throttle quadrant. “Moonbeam, Driver One clear of area.”
“Rog, Driver One. You’re cleared RTB. Good work out there.”
Gus answered with two clicks of the transmit switch as they climbed into the clear night sky.
The Present
The image on the screen abruptly ended and the lights in the courtroom came up. The audience sat in silence, stunned by the reality of combat. Hank’s cool voice split the quiet as he brought them back to the moment. “Colonel Tyler, during the mission we have just witnessed, did you drop any bombs or CBUs off the highway?”
“No. You can see that on the video.”
“At this time,” Hank continued, “I would like to replay defense exhibit one, which is the complete and unedited video of the Highway of Death as documented by Harm de Rijn. Colonel Tyler, will you please point out for the court those destroyed vehicles that are on the highway or close to it. Just say ‘stop’ so we can mark the tape.” Harm de Rijn’s video came on the screen. But this time there was no sound and just the images. It played in complete silence. Finally, it was over. “Colonel Tyler, we have just seen 248 destroyed vehicles on the so-called Highway of Death. Yet you did not say stop once.”
“None of them were on the highway.”
“How do you explain that?”
“The highway had probably been cleared by the time this video was taken.”
“But you freely admit that you bombed vehicles on the highway.”
“I did. But I have no idea who bombed the ones we just saw.”
Hank turned to the bench. “The defense enters the airborne videotape as defense exhibit ten.”
“Objection,” Denise called. “Defense has not established the validity of the tape.”
“How careless of me,” Hank answered. He handed Gus a piece of paper and the videocassette. “Do you recognize this form and cassette?”
“The form is the certification I signed when I turned over the tape. This is the cassette and you can see the seal is still inta
ct.”
“Do you certify that this videotape is the complete and unaltered airborne video recorded during the mission in question?”
“I do,” Gus replied.
“Your Honor,” Denise protested. “This is ridiculous. The defendant could be lying.”
“The court’s technical staff can examine the cassette to determine if it has been altered,” Hank replied. “Or the learned Prosecutor can produce witnesses or evidence to impeach the tape’s validity.” He paused and snapped his fingers. “Darn. I forgot. The witness lists are closed.”
A man in the audience called, “Where’s Henri?” Two security guards were on him and hustling him out the door.
Bouchard conferred with Della Sante and Richter. “The airborne video is provisionally entered subject to examination by the court’s technical experts. The Prosecutor may call additional witnesses as appropriate.”
“Need I ask?” Hank said in a stage whisper.
Bouchard started to say something but thought better of it. He conferred with Della Sante and Richter. “As it is well past one in the afternoon and we have not recessed for lunch, court is adjourned until ten P.M. tomorrow morning.”
Catherine was standing beside Marci when her director motioned they were transmitting live. “The court has just adjourned for the day and I have with me Catherine Sutherland. Catherine, what do you make of the court’s ruling on transferring Colonel Tyler to Iraqi custody?”
“The ruling is unconscionable in the extreme. Not only that, but Bouchard timed his ruling to coincide with Gus taking the stand. It was an obvious attempt to put him under stress and weaken his testimony.”
“That is a very serious accusation,” Marci replied. “However, my Dutch colleagues were also stunned by the ruling.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s fair to ask what’s going on? Why won’t the court allow the defense to call Henri Scullanois to the stand?”
“Which is a very good question,” Marci said, transitioning smoothly to the couple standing on her other side. “I also have with me the two spectators who were ejected from the courtroom for asking, ‘Where’s Henri?’ She turned to the man. “Why did you say it?”
“I have been in the courtroom every day,” he replied with a heavy Dutch accent. “It is obvious they don’t want Scullanois on the stand. So I ask myself ‘Why?’ I think we should know, don’t you?”
“And you?” Marci asked the woman.
She spoke with a French accent. “For the same reason. But there is something about Gus that tells me he is innocent. A woman knows these things.”
“What do you think of the court’s decision to turn Colonel Tyler over to the Iraqis?”
“This is not justice,” the man replied.
“It’s barbaric!” the woman cried. Catherine reached out and held the woman’s hand.
“Mrs. Sutherland,” Marci said, making sure the camera captured the two women holding hands, “as a lawyer, what do you see as the most damning evidence the prosecution has presented so far?”
“The deposition by the Reverend Tobias Person is the smoking gun the prosecutor needs to win a conviction.”
“Which your husband has seriously questioned. Is there any chance the court will throw it out?”
“I seriously doubt it. The deposition was taken in accordance with the rules of the court and the judges aren’t about to put the court itself on trial.”
“How’s Colonel Tyler doing on the stand?”
The woman answered. “Magnifique! He is the only man in the room.”
Gus worked the problem. So how do you play a shrink? he thought. What did Clare always say? “For a woman, intimacy is everything.” Then it came to him. Talk. He rehearsed the coming conversation and tried to gauge Derwent’s reaction. He looked up when he saw her standing in the doorway, a concerned look on her face. “Thanks for coming.” He held a chair for her at the small table and sat opposite her.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
He forced a sad look. “I knew it was coming, the Iraqi ruling. But I wasn’t really ready for it. My stomach is in knots.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He reached across the table and enfolded her right hand with both of his. “I thought I was tough enough to take it. But I keep asking myself, are they right? Am I truly guilty?”
She placed her left hand on top of his hands. “No, you’re not guilty. You are simply paying the price a sane man pays for the brutality of war.” The lights blinked, telling them they had fifteen minutes to lights-out. She stood, lifted the phone receiver on the wall, and called the cellblock commander “This is Doctor Derwent. Please leave the lights and the heat on. I’m with my patient.” She sat back down, certain they had turned a corner. Now she could help him.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “We have all night.”
“It’s hard to explain why I fought, but it wasn’t courage. It was a need that I couldn’t ignore.”
“I know,” she said. She listened as he talked, more his friend than counselor.
Southern Sudan
Leon passed the bottle of Napoleon brandy up to Hon who was sitting behind the wheel of the Wolf Turbo. Hon took a long pull, sighed, and passed it to Paride who was standing behind the machine gun in the rear. Paride sniffed at it and passed it to Jason, who was standing beside Leon, completing the circle. Jason finished it and held the bottle up for inspection in the moonlight. “Un enfant mort pour la patrie,” he said.
“It’s un soldat français mort pour la patrie,” Leon corrected, referring to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier under the Arc de Triomphe. “You have been to Paris?”
“Oh yeah,” Jason replied. “I went with my family when I was a teenager. I didn’t want to go but my dad made me. We had a great time. I want to go back.”
“But Americans don’t like the French.”
Jason thought about it. “We like to complain about them, but basically, we’re family.”
“I hope not,” Leon scoffed.
The wail of Arabic music drifted across the runway and they could see shadowy figures dancing in the glow of campfires. Men started to shout and chant. “It looks like they’re getting hyped up,” Jason said.
“Opiates,” Leon said. “I saw it when I was in the Legion.” He listened to the sounds coming from the road. “They’ll attack at first light.”
“We’ve got some work to do,” Jason said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Southern Sudan
It was still dark when the Afrikaner scampered across the runway, reeling a wire out behind him. He piled into a DFP and keyed his hand-held radio. “Boss, we got the third string of dynamite in place.” He quickly attached the wire to a clicker-type firing device and showed his buddy how to give it a half squeeze before removing the safety pin.
“Good work,” Jason replied. The Afrikaners were manning the three center DFPs stretched along the runway, and, thanks to some last minute scrambling, each DFP was protected by a string of dynamite charges strung out along the far side of the runway. Jason tried to visualize the coming attack. If needed, he and Leon could man one of the end DFPs to hold a flank, and he still had Hon and Paride in the Wolf Turbo as a mobile reserve. Anyone making it across the minefield was in for a nasty surprise. He looked across the runway as the first light of the new day broke the far horizon.
“Boss!” one of the Afrikaners yelled over the radio. “They’re coming. But the bastards are herding kaffirs in front of them, the poor buggers.”
Jason stood on top of the Wolf Turbo and scanned the minefield with his binoculars. The coppery taste of bile flooded his mouth. Soldiers were pushing and prodding a large group of women and children into the minefield with bayonets. Two six-wheeled armored cars drove into place behind the soldiers and stopped, their engines at idle. “Leon, hand me the Remington.” The Frenchman quickly unzipped the case holding a hunting rifle. He was careful not to j
ostle the telescopic sight when he handed the rifle up along with a box of .308-caliber ammunition. Jason quickly loaded the rifle and rested it across the heavy machine gun. He took aim and squeezed off a single round. Over three hundred meters away, a soldier collapsed to the ground. He squeezed off a second round.
Leon swept the field with binoculars. “You got one, Boss! Merde! You got a second one!” Now he could see the soldiers breaking ranks and running away. But a sergeant blocked their way and forced them back to herding the women and children into the minefield. Jason tried to shoot the sergeant but missed. The sergeant pointed in the general direction of the Wolf Turbo, obviously seeing it, and raised a radio to his lips.
“Scoot!” Jason ordered. Hon gunned the engine and raced for cover. They heard the distinctive whistle of an incoming mortar round as it arced over the minefield. But they were well clear when the mortar round impacted. The first of the mines exploded as the woman and children entered the mine field. Jason dropped the rifle, hating what was happening but unable to stop it. He felt sick to his stomach as more explosions filled the air. Suddenly, the explosions stopped only to be replaced with the crack of heavy machine-gun fire.
“Boss, look!” Paride shouted. “The people run away!” Jason raised his binoculars. The women and children were running out of the minefield and right into the muzzles of the machine guns mounted on the two armored cars. The gunners did not stop firing until the flow of humanity reversed and ran back into the minefield.
Jason’s face froze as a pure hate swept through him. It had been a question of personal survival, but now it was something much more. Slowly, the explosions tapered off as the survivors cleared the minefield. Jason keyed his radio. “Let them through,” he told his three teams in the DFPs. He froze as he scanned the minefield. “Were in hell did that come from?” An armored personnel carrier was clanking into position. It stopped, pivoted on its left track and pointed directly at the compound. The two armored cars motored into a ‘V’ formation behind it. Jason’s eyes narrowed as he studied the new arrival with its center-mounted turret and stubby cannon. “It’s a Russian BMP,” he told Leon. “It carries a three-man crew and eight soldiers.”
A Far Justice Page 32