The AWAC had been ordered not to record the SEAL team's radio communications.
Under disposition of physical intelligence, the aircraft was ordered to BCST, Undisclosed.
I blinked. "What does this mean."
My attorney sighed. "I hoped you could tell me. Keep reading."
I did.
The next highlighted section was under materiel support, buried in a portion of the OP order that few beyond our supply department ever read.
It was regarding the helmet cameras.
I straightened in my seat and read. The OP order specified a type of helmet cam that I'd never seen before.
I glanced at my attorney.
He handed me a piece of paper that I hadn't realized he'd been holding.
It detailed the specifications of the cameras that our supply department had ensured our parachute riggers had affixed to our helmets.
Another segment of this spec sheet was highlighted. But only three words stood out to me as I glanced at the page. "Live feed only." The devices were designed to enable only a satellite uplink to a live feed and not to record.
"Know why we couldn't find any helmet cam footage or audio recordings of your team's ingress?" My lawyer asked.
"Because there wasn't any." I replied, closing the folder with trembling fingers.
Chapter 19:
Myers glanced at his watch. "It's almost time."
He handed me a safety razor and pounded on the door to the briefing room.
The guard opened the door a moment later.
"My client needs to get himself cleaned up."
The guard nodded and led me out of the room into a small, private visitor's bathroom down the hall, where I was able to shave and wash my face.
As I went through the mechanical motions of ensuring my uniform was in good condition and that my hair and facial hair met Navy standards my mind raced.
The witness surfacing in Afghanistan was positive news.
It meant that we finally had a corroborating witness. Added to that the medical examiner's chemical evaluation of my team's clothing, and it looked as if Chief Jones and I could very well walk away from these accusations.
The rest of my lawyer's revelations had been much more unsettling.
How he'd gotten his hands on the TOP SECRET Operational Order I wasn't sure. And in many ways I was almost certain I didn't want to know.
The revelations in that document had been almost too much.
The operational order told us two important pieces of information.
For one, it indicated that the strike had been ordered directly by the White House.
For two, it told us that the video and audio evidence that could exonerate my men from the murders in that compound had been sent via live feed to an undisclosed location rather than being recorded.
Somebody had watched the events of that evening unfold.
Somebody who had known in advance that the evidence they were witnessing would exonerate my team.
It was clear now.
None of us were meant to have survived Operation Afghan Sunset.
The highest levels of government had ordered my team to that compound in order to place the blame for the massacre of children held within at our feet.
I leaned against the sink, the realization of what had happened sweeping over me for the first time.
The mission had been a failure.
On more fronts than one.
My team and I must have arrived early. Otherwise, the other combatants would not have been loading the trucks when we arrived.
They would have been strategically posted throughout the compound for maximum devastation.
They would have killed my team. Laid it at the feet of the Taliban fighters. Broadcast the murders across Al Jazeera television as a victory for Muslim freedom fighters.
But this wasn't about politics. This was about whatever was in those trucks.
Post operational analysis had said they had been empty.
They had not been empty.
I knew that now.
And whoever was pulling strings at the highest levels of government knew it too.
And they wanted Chief Jones and I dead for knowing.
I peered into the mirror. I looked better than I had in days, though my brow was furrowed tightly. I splashed water on my face and stood up straight, tossing the small plastic safety razor into the metal wastebasket in the corner.
I turned towards the door with a resolute stride and swung the wooden door fully open. My lawyer awaited with two Military Police Officers at his side.
"Ready?" He asked, picking up his briefcase and eyed my uniform slowly.
I held out my wrists for the MPs and nodded.
As they fastened the metal clasps of the handcuffs around my wrists peered around the small corridor of the military Brig. I've never been more ready, I thought as we walked down the hallway and towards my awaiting fate.
Chapter 20:
A light rain fell as we climbed into a government Ford Expedition, the two Military Police officers taking the front seats of the vehicle as LCDR Myers sat next to me on the soft cloth seat of the rear passenger bench.
My mind was still turning as the vehicle pulled slowly through the gray parking lot and onto the main road of the base.
My attorney, to his credit, waited quietly.
It was as if he knew that I needed the time to decode the information he'd presented me with.
After a minute or two, I finally said what I'd been thinking.
"They knew". It was almost a whisper.
He nodded. "They knew. There's no question about that."
Both of us turned and faced out of our respective windows, the rain falling harder now and cascading down the glass. The weather seemed appropriate.
We sat like that for a while, until Myers turned to me once more.
"The question is, Jackson. Who knew, and why? If we can figure that part out, we have a chance to bring these people to justice."
I turned towards him just in time to see him shake his head in disdain and turn back to face the Virginia rain rolling down his window.
"That," I replied, "Is the billion dollar question, isn't it."
He just nodded.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, reaching the tall brick building which housed the military tribunal here in Norfolk. It stood stoically above the shorter buildings on base, red brick with a sloping roof, punctuated by Doric columns in the front and large heavy doors.
An appropriate building for a court house. I thought, as the MP opened my door and I stepped onto the wet concrete below.
A number of reporters crowded around the steps.
The throng turned towards me as we stepped up the brick steps to the courthouse.
As the reporters attempted to swarm me, men and women in business suits tried to get a statement, any statement that would feed the twenty four hour news machine.
The government vehicle drove away as the remaining MP escorted me up the brick stairs to the heavy wooden doors at the top of the landing.
We pushed through the reporters who crowded around us.
The rain continued to fall lightly as we approached the building.
At the top of the brick landing stood another Military Police officer who pushed open the doors as we approached. The wooden doors swung silently on well oiled hinges and we stepped into the large foyer of the building.
The press had not been allowed inside. The foyer of the building was quiet.
Within the foyer sat a man in a wheelchair, flanked by his own attorney who was clad in dress whites. The man in the wheelchair was wearing the familiar khaki uniform of a Chief.
It was Chief Jones.
The huge black SEAL's almost 6 foot 5 frame seemed to dwarf the small metal wheelchair, which looked like it might collapse at any minute under the weight of his 250 plus pounds of muscle.
When he heard the door flung open, he turned and the closest thing to a
smile I'd ever seen from the Chief crossed his face.
Ever the stoic, he wheeled himself over to me, his right leg propped up in the chair before him.
He nodded, and I returned the nod with a slight inclination of my own head.
"Chief." I said, eyeing his condition.
"You look pretty good, Lieutenant. Better than me, I guess."
The Chief was admittedly in rough shape. His leg was propped up in a cast which extended from his wheelchair. One of his arms was in a sling, and there were cuts covering his face.
My anger boiled as I looked at the Chief. His face, bruised and cut was a reminder of my team members who hadn't made it. Of their families. And of my own.
"Did they get to you?" I asked, forcing myself to relax the muscles in my face and jaw as I awaited the Chief's response.
"What do you mean?" The Chief responded. There was no lie in his eyes, and his voice was steady.
I relaxed.
Leaning in, I whispered in a voice only loud enough for Chief Jones and my own ears, "This was no case of mistaken identity. It was a cover up. Someone at the highest levels of government was trying to get whatever was stored at that facility out before we arrived."
To his credit, the Chief did not allow emotions to cloud his behavior. He simply nodded, although his fists did clench involuntarily on the arms of his wheelchair.
"Who?" He asked, as his attorney approached us from behind and began to talk to LCDR Meyers. It seemed the judge was ready to see us now.
"I don't know." I replied, as the military police officer escorted me into the courtroom.
But we need to find out, I thought as I stepped down the long marble hallway past the wooden seats packed with waiting officers and military public affairs officials.
The press had been relegated to the outside, but there was no doubt that the military services themselves would be releasing the results of today's hearing to the public as soon as it happened.
I glanced around the room before taking my seat at the defendant's table. It was almost all men and women in uniform, and was only about half full.
In the back of the courtroom near the tall double doors that led into the marble floored auditorium sat Leigh.
In her lap was Clementine. Even from forty or so feet away, I could see that Leigh had been crying, her mascara running slowly down her cheeks as she dabbed at her face with a tissue.
She held Clementine in her strong but slightly trembling arms. I was so fixated on the two of them I almost failed to notice the man sitting two rows behind them. He was the only person in the room who was not a family member or wearing a military uniform.
His tan skin and bespoke business suit stood out against the sea of white and khaki uniforms. He sat quietly. His hands folded in his lap, looking straight ahead, his eyes hardly wavering.
He looked even younger during the day than he had in the dark of night in the solitary confinement cell of the military Brig. His features sharper. His gaze self assured.
I straightened my back and sat as the Military Police officer released his grip on my shoulder and unlocked my handcuffs, ushering me to a wooden chair at the defendant's table. LCDR Meyers took a seat to my side and they wheeled Chief Jones to a specially designed table to our side.
I shuddered as I took a seat.
That man was here as a threat.
Admit to the crime you didn't commit or your family will suffer.
I turned to Chief Jones and flashed a small smile.
No. I would neither sacrifice my honor or the safety of my family.
I was a SEAL.
Chapter 21:
When the judge entered the courtroom we stood; all of us except for Chief Jones, who was physically unable.
So I stood and Jones sat. Our fates equally uncertain as the Navy Captain positioned himself behind the raised bench where he would preside over our Article Thirty-Two Hearing.
"Seats." He stated authoritatively before taking his own and turning the page to our charge sheet.
"Lieutenant Jackson Pike." He called.
I stood once more.
"Chief Petty Officer Michael Jones." He continued.
Chief raised his hand from his wheelchair and with sounded off a pronounced "Here. Sir."
The Judge Advocate General peered to where Chief sat in his wheelchair, his hand in the air.
The judge nodded.
"Lieutenant Jackson Pike, you have been charged with twenty counts of violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, article 118. Premeditated murder. This charge carries with it a maximum penalty of death. You have also been charged with a lesser charge of violation of article 113. Conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman."
He turned to the Chief. "Chief Petty Officer Michael Jones, you have been charged with twenty counts of violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, article 118. Premeditated murder. This charge carries with it a maximum penalty of death."
"Do you understand these charges?"
In turn, we both acknowledged that we did.
"How do you plead?" The Captain asked, again in turn we both denied the charges.
"Please take your seat, Lieutenant."
I turned towards the back of the courtroom and flashed a small smile to the man in the black suit. His face was a mask of rage as he stood and adjusted his tie. He walked slowly from the courtroom, his briefcase clutched tightly in a tan fist.
The small smile did not fade from my lips as the Captain then progressed through what seemed like an endless series of explanations regarding the legal rights of the accused. The rights of the convening authority, and the qualifications of our defense counsel.
It seemed like the initial script for the Article 32 hearing had lasted an hour. But, finally we came to a stopping point and the Judge ordered a five minute break.
When we reconvened, the court was sealed in the interest of protecting classified information. At this point, only the defendants, defense counsel, prosecution and judge remained.
The formalities complete, it was time to defend our honor, and that of our team, our organization, and our service.
When the hearing reconvened, my hands were shaking slightly. I breathed slowly, awaiting the surge of calm that came before every operation. Like the other missions I'd served on, today's hearing carried life or death consequences.
After confirming that the hearing had been sealed to all but those involved directly in the prosecution of the case, the judge informed us of the case's importance to national security and read us into the classified information. He then invited Chief Jones to recount the story of the fateful evening that had brought us to this Article 32 hearing.
To his credit, Mike Jones was detailed, he was well spoken and he was brief.
Every inch the SEAL, he sat with an air of quiet authority. You could almost forget the fact that he was injured and sitting in a wheelchair. Almost.
Unlike a civilian hearing, Article 32 proceedings provide a chance for cross examination. The prosecution began.
Chief Jones was quiet and confident. He answered every question clearly and was forthright on all fronts.
When asked about the loss of our team members, his voice betrayed no emotion, but a tear rolled slowly down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
The prosecution peppered Chief Jones with questions, the answers to most of which he didn't know. And he said so. It was impressive. Jones' testimony left no doubt as to this man's commitment to the country, the service, and his men.
I hoped I would do as well.
I had my chance moments later.
Like Chief, I was given the opportunity to speak my piece before the cross examination by each of the attorneys who remained.
I stood and walked to the witness stand, my steps slow and measured. My breathing controlled.
I was reminded that it was a breach of the UCMJ to give a false statement to a superior officer, before the questions began.
As I began to speak, I noticed t
hat my hands had stopped shaking. My voice rang clear and true across the near empty courtroom.
And I told our story. A story of heroism and tenacity, the type you would hear if SEALs could talk about their missions on a regular basis.
But we couldn't. In the interest of national security, even our families would never know the truth of what we did, the sacrifices we made.
The families of the men who'd died that night would be handed a folded up flag. Their brothers and teammates would pound an Eagle and Anchor Insignia into their casket and their bodies would be lowered to the earth.
All of this without a single civilian knowing of their true sacrifices for country.
This was my chance. Even in a TOP SECRET hearing where I was defending my own honor, I knew. I was defending the honor of all the heroes who went before, who were lost in missions similarly unacknowledged and unsanctioned.
When I finished speaking, I was mentally drained. I'd recounted the tale of the night of the raid in exacting detail. My story would match the Chief's exactly.
Of that I had no doubt.
But it was time for the questioning.
The prosecutor was first.
He was a tall man. A Marine Corps Captain, lean and wiry with a nose that crooked slightly and a brow that seemed constantly furrowed, the type of man weary from having tried too many of his own for heinous crimes.
He began. "Mr. Pike. You say that you were engaged by an enemy force found to be loading trucks within the facility."
"Yes. That's correct," I replied. "The enemy was distributed throughout the facility and seemed to be loading whatever had been stored at the facility into three large trucks in the central compound upon our arrival. When we spotted the men we immediately established a perimeter and engaged the force from an elevated position."
The prosecutorial attorney nodded. "What were these men loading into the trucks?"
I paused for a moment. "We never actually got a good look at what was going into the trucks. But Intel stated that the facility was being used as a staging area for insurgent strikes against allied forces in the area. We assumed the cargo to be weapons. And the secondary explosion seemed to have confirmed that."
Afghan Sunset: A Jackson Pike Novella Page 6