Shadows of War

by Robert Gandt

  By stretching his authority as commanding officer, Maxwell would conduct a captain’s mast—a non-judicial form of military justice. Carson would receive a demotion and a censure, but he would be spared a court-martial. With an endorsement from both Maxwell and Alexander, Carson would be allowed to remain in the Navy.

  “When can I get out?” said Manson

  The sooner the better, Maxwell felt like saying, but Alexander answered for him. “As soon as your papers clear admin, you’ll get orders to report to the wing back at Oceana. They’ll process you out. You’ll be a civilian this time next week.”

  Manson nodded, then looked at Maxwell. “One more thing. I want a letter from you stating that my departure from the squadron was under honorable circumstances.”

  “Sorry,” said Maxwell. “I don’t write bullshit documents. That’s your department.”

  Manson’s face reddened. “You’re the CO. You have to add an endorsement to my letter of resignation.”

  “I already have. I endorsed it ‘approved.’’”

  Manson stood there for another half a minute, working the muscles in his discolored jaw. “You’re pretty smug, aren’t you? Both of you carpetbaggers. You’ve been trying to get me out of the squadron ever since you came on board.”

  Maxwell listened in silence while the venom continued to spill out of Manson. He thought again about the rule, dating back before the Roman Legions, he guessed, that required every military unit to have someone like Manson. Some flaming asshole, just to keep things stirred up. He hoped that Manson’s replacement wasn’t on the way.

  Manson finally stopped ranting. Maxwell said, “Craze, tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “What happened to your jaw?”

  The color deepened in Manson’s face, making the purple bruise even uglier. “Ask him,” he said, nodding to Alexander. “Will that be all?”

  “I certainly hope so. You’re dismissed, Commander Manson. Close the door behind you.”

  Manson spun around and left the stateroom, giving the door a vicious slam. They could hear his heels hammering like drumbeats down the passageway.

  Maxwell looked at Alexander. “Do you have any idea what happened to Craze’s jaw?”

  “Jaw?” Alexander seemed to be studying a flake of paint on the far bulkhead. “I didn’t notice. Was something wrong with his jaw? ”

  < >

  Boyce got a good ember going, then wafted a cloud of gray smoke across the room. “Cohiba,” he said. “Fresh from Havana, via Bahrain. Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Good. You wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.” For a while he rolled the cigar between his fingers, absorbed with some new thought. “I presume you told Wentz and the spooks everything you knew.”

  Maxwell took his time. He could tell when Boyce was fishing. “Pretty much.”

  “They were curious about what happened to Bronson. You’re the only guy who was in position to know.”

  “Not the only one. There was the guy who shot him.”

  Boyce nodded, still looking at him through the gray smoke. “Oh, yeah, him. Whoever that was.”

  “And Rasmussen. He was there too.”

  “Apparently he wasn’t any help to them,” said Boyce. “Said he had no idea who shot whom. He hit the dirt when the shooting started and missed the whole thing.”

  “Too bad.” Good for you, Raz, he thought.

  Boyce was giving him a look that he had come to recognize. Boyce said, “Now that Rasmussen has been freed, there are some things I’ve learned about our man Bronson that make me wish he was around to answer some questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he was the case officer back in ninety-three when they received intelligence that an American prisoner might still be in Iraq. It seems pretty clear now that Bronson knew the truth— that Saddam Hussein was holding Rasmussen after giving all the other Gulf War prisoners back.”

  “So why didn’t he pull out all the stops to get him back?”

  “By ignoring Raz’s existence, the CIA could deny Saddam the use of the prisoner as a bargaining chip. For his part, Saddam couldn’t go public with it because it would be clear evidence that he was violating the terms of the cease-fire accord. And after enough time had gone by, the CIA couldn’t afford to admit that it had known about the prisoner all along or there would be hell to pay. It was a stalemate, and Raz was caught in the middle.”

  “Until Al-Fasr came along.”

  “Yeah. For Saddam, the prisoner became a liability, so he traded him to the Bu Hasa Brigade in exchange for a security deal on the eastern border. The Bu Hasa thought they could use the prisoner for their own bargaining purposes. Which, as you know, they did.”

  “Rasmussen for Al-Fasr.”

  Boyce nodded. “Except, as it turned out, the deal was rigged. Al-Fasr’s unfaithful lieutenant, a guy named Abu Mahmed, didn’t really want Al-Fasr back.”

  “And Bronson didn’t want Rasmussen back.”

  Boyce studied the end of his cigar. “You said it, not me.”

  “So who besides Bronson knew that Rasmussen was alive?”

  “Somebody a lot further up the food chain. Maybe quite a bit further. Probably better if we don’t know.”

  More than ever, Maxwell was feeling the stress and fatigue of the all night mission. He hadn’t slept for—how long? Almost twenty four hours. His eyes burned and his joints ached.

  He rose from the steel chair and headed for the door.

  “Haven’t you wondered,” said Boyce, “why they haven’t determined who really killed Bronson and Al-Fasr? After all they have the bodies, and they ought to be able to trace the bullets.”

  Maxwell was instantly alert. “Bullets? You mean—”

  “Wentz and the spooks weren’t telling you all the story. They said they recovered the bodies of Bronson and Al-Fasr, but that wasn’t the whole truth.”

  Maxwell turned to look at Boyce. “May I ask what the whole truth is?”

  “The truth is that there are no bullets. Presumably, both men were shot in the head, but that’s the problem.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Because there are no heads.”

  Maxwell felt a roiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. “No heads. . .”

  “They were decapitated. It seems that someone sliced off their heads. The TRAP team never found the missing parts. The Marine who told me the story had to stop and puke.”

  Maxwell thought he might do the same. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Terrorists have reasons that are beyond our understanding.”

  Maxwell was dazed. He was reaching for the door latch when Boyce said, “By the way, Brick, I was wondering something else.”

  Maxwell stopped with his hand on the latch. “Sir?”

  “I was just wondering whether it might have been you who shot Bronson. Was it?”

  For a long moment he looked Boyce in the eye. “No, sir.”

  “Good answer.” Boyce returned his gaze through a cloud of smoke. “But even if you didn’t, you should have.”

  < >

  A hush fell over the Roadrunners’ ready room. The visitor entered and peered around. He wore starched khakis and the gold leaves of a lieutenant commander. He carried a newspaper beneath his arm.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he said.

  Leroi Jones, the squadron duty officer, looked over to Maxwell, who had just come in to pick up his mail. Maxwell gave him a formation hand signal—touching his forehead and pointing to Jones. You’ve got the lead.

  Jones shrugged and said, “Guess I am, sir.”

  The visitor said, “I’m Lt. Cmdr. Scudder, the Reagan’s new Public Affairs Officer.”

  “What happened to the old PAO?”

  “He’s been relieved, shipped back to the states. I was sent out here to clean up some public relations problems.”

  “Public relations? What’s it got to do with us?”

 
; Scudder gazed around the ready room. His jowly face wore a look of disapproval. “It has to do with the call signs you people are so fond of using.” He held up the front page of the newspaper. It was yesterday’s New York Herald Tribune, and on it was a photograph of flight operations aboard the USS Reagan. A figure in a flight deck vest and cranial protector headset was pointing down the deck as a jet was launching.

  “Look at the man in the picture,” said Scudder. “See the name on his vest?”

  Jones took the paper and peered closely at the photograph. “Hey! That’s our man Dog Balls.”

  Scudder winced. “That photograph has been seen by something over a hundred thousand readers.”

  “Cool,” said Jones. “Ol’ Dog Balls is gonna be famous.”

  Scudder snatched the newspaper back. “There’s nothing cool about it, Lieutenant. Things like this tarnish the Navy’s public image. This is a public relations disaster.”

  “So why are you telling us about it? If you don’t like it, just make him to get rid of the call sign.”

  By now the pilots in the ready room had all maneuvered their way to the front, following the conversation.

  “That is the problem,” said Scudder. “He claims this squadron gave it to him, and he’s not allowed to get rid of it.”

  Jones grinned. “Dog Balls really said that, huh?”

  “It seems that Mr. Harvey actually likes the. . . disgusting name. He says he won’t change it unless you give him one just as good.”

  Cheering broke out in the ready room.

  “Attaboy, Dog Balls!”

  “Good for him!”

  “What a guy!”

  Scudder’s face reddened. He glared at the pilots in the room. “Listen. You people don’t seem to understand the facts of life. This is the new Navy. The Tailhook scandal is behind us. We have to do everything we can to portray a clean and wholesome image to the public.”

  “Clean and wholesome,” repeated Jones, nodding his head. He was peering at the wings on Scudder’s uniform. They were the gold wings of a naval aviation flight officer. “Hey, what kind of flying job do you have?”

  “None anymore. I was a tacco on a P-3 during my first tour.”

  “So what was your call sign?”

  “We didn’t use call signs in our squadron.”

  “Well, now that you’re here on the Reagan, Mr. Scudder, don’t you think you oughta have a call sign like the rest of us?”

  A wary look flashed over Scudder’s face. “No, I don’t think—”

  “After all, you’re working with fighter pilots now. If you want us to help you, then you really oughta get a call sign.”

  “Never mind that. I came down here to talk about—”

  “In fact, we’d love to come up with one for you, wouldn’t we, guys?”

  Another chorus of cheering erupted from the back of the ready room.

  “Hey,” yelled Bud Spencer. “We’ll even get you a vest with your new call sign stenciled on it.”

  Scudder sensed calamity rushing at him. He began backpedaling toward the door. “Well, this has been interesting, gentlemen. Thank you for your time. I have to go meet—”

  “Scrotum!” yelled Flash Gordon from the back of the room.

  Scudder stopped. His eyes filled with horror. “Scrotum?”

  “That’s it!” said Jones. “It’s perfect. That’ll look great on your vest. Scrotum Scudder!”

  At this a fresh round of cheering and whistling reverberated from the steel bulkheads.

  Scudder bolted for the door. He slammed the door behind him, but he was too late. Jones and half a dozen others were right behind him. The chorus followed Scudder all the way down the passageway and up the ladder to the next level.

  “Scrotum! Scrotum Scudder! Hey, come back, Scrotum!”

  < >

  Manama, Bahrain

  I hate this business, Claire said to herself.

  The red message light on the telephone was blinking like a fire alarm. It was the third urgent message from Phil Granley in the New York headquarters of the World News Syndicate. Each was the same. Return this call immediately.

  She knew what Granley wanted.

  She poured herself a coffee and stood staring out the window of her room in the Gulf Hotel. To the west she could see the sprawling harbor of Manama and, in the distance, the gray mass of the USS Reagan. The smaller ships of the battle group were assembled like chicks around a mother hen. On one of the ships was an American named Allen Rasmussen.

  Finally she picked up the phone and dialed Granley’s number.

  “Where’s the prisoner?” he said. “Have you got an interview yet?”

  “What prisoner?”

  “You know damned well what prisoner,” he roared. “The one you had me stick my neck out a mile for. He’s been freed, right?”

  “I don’t know. The Navy’s not saying.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? The story’s already been leaked to every news bureau in the Middle East. After what we did to make this happen, I expect you to get an exclusive on this one.”

  “They’re keeping him secluded, Phil. The guy’s life has been shattered. He’s not on display.”

  “Lean on your military connections. You can do it, I know you can. Get in to talk to him.”

  “No.”

  A silence fell over the telephone line. Through the crackle of the satellite connection, Claire could hear Granley’s deep breathing.

  “What the hell’s this all about?” he said.

  “Ethics, Phil. It’s called conducting ourselves like responsible journalists. We did something decent by helping get Raz Rasmussen out of captivity. Now let’s do the decent thing by leaving him alone.”

  “Where are you getting this Mother Theresa shit? You’re in the news business, not the goddamned sisterhood of bleeding hearts.”

  “Oh, and another thing, Phil. Tell our reporters to stay away from his wife. She’s going through her own hell now, and she also deserves some privacy. If you want us to get credit for something, let’s get it for doing the right thing.”

  Several more seconds passed. She could sense the heat of Granley’s anger through the phone. She knew what was coming next.

  It took five more seconds. “You’re fired,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Whaddya mean, okay? You just blew what was once a very promising career.”

  “You’re angry, Phil. You’ll get over it.”

  “Not in your lifetime I won’t.” She heard the tinny sound of the satellite connection change. The line was dead.

  She returned to the window. In the gathering dusk, the long gray shapes of the warships looked like fish feeding in a stream. A serene image in a world at war.

  Granley would get over it, she thought. He’d get over it first thing in the morning when she called him about the exclusive story she did get.

  It came from out of the blue. An agent—an Iraqi named Mustafa Ashbar—had come to her, he said, on the advice of a trusted friend. In exchange for a reasonable payment, he was willing to share the details of a most incredible story, one that would eclipse the human interest story of the returning prisoner of war. Yes, it could be verified, he said. It concerned the Bu Hasa Brigade and a certain deceased CIA station chief.

  Chapter 28 — The Captain

  Manama, Bahrain

  1730, Friday, 26 March

  The four naval officers strode into the officers’ club bar in the American Support Unit compound in Bahrain. With Rasmussen were Maxwell, Allen, and the Reagan’s Air Wing Commander, Red Boyce. All captains except for Maxwell, a commander.

  “I feel like I’m impersonating an officer,” said Rasmussen. The eagles on his collar glistened like newly minted silver.

  “Get used to it,” said Red Boyce as he bellied up to the bar. “Let’s have a round.” He signaled the bartender.

  Boyce and Allen ordered Scotch-and-waters, while Rasmussen and Maxwell had Heinekens.

 
“I still don’t know how I got to be a captain,” said Rasmussen.

  “Do the math,” said Allen. “Brick here was a snot-nosed lieutenant, and you and I and Red were lieutenant commanders when you got shot down in ninety-one. How many years is that? We all got promoted right on schedule.”

  “That has to be the only good thing that happened while I was in jail,” said Rasmussen. He could almost joke about it. Almost.

  “Wait till you get your back pay,” said Boyce.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Allen. He clinked his glass against Rasmussen’s green beer bottle.

  Rasmussen didn’t feel like a captain in the U.S. Navy. After all these years, he didn’t even feel like an officer. He definitely didn’t look like one, despite the starched khaki uniform and the shiny eagles on the collar. The image in the mirror over the bar looked like someone’s grandfather—sunken eyes, hair thin and gray, the once-muscular frame now gaunt and stooped. The short-sleeved khaki shirt hung from his bony shoulders like a shawl.

  He was already feeling the beer, and not minding it. But he needed to sit down.

  Boyce looked around for a table. He spotted one in the corner, occupied by a trio of uniformed junior Navy officers. While Maxwell, Allen, and Rasmussen watched from the bar, he walked over to the group, said something, and the three obligingly emptied the table.

  “That was quick,” said Rasmussen when he arrived at the table. “How’d you get them to leave?”

  “I told them you were the sickest, most hungover fighter pilot in the U.S. Navy, and if they had any sense they’d the get hell out of here before you puked on their black shoes.”

  “They gave up that easy?”

  “They’re surface warfare types. I bribed them with a round of drinks.”

  Boyce fired up a Cohiba, then reached for the leather dice cup left on the table. “The game’s five-of-a-kind, gents. Loser buys the next round.” He slammed the cup down, starting the game with three deuces.

  While the dice cup went around the table, Allen ordered a round of tequila shooters from the bartender. The fifth deuce came up on Rasmussen’s roll, which cost him the round.