Secret sanction sd-1

by Brian Haig

  “What was that about?” Delbert asked.

  “Wrong number,” I said.

  The door crashed open and in came the mobile hurricane known as Imelda, followed by two more assistants carrying trays piled high with steaming eggs and bacon, and something the troops disparagingly call shit-on-a-shingle, which truly does resemble its namesake but is actually a dried-out muffin covered with greasy gravy and chunks of ground beef. In the entire arsenal of Army foods, this is the one most likely to get you a quadruple bypass.

  Imelda gave Delbert and Morrow a dreadful look and had her assistants carry the trays to a conference table that had been set up in a spare office. Morrow and Delbert traded conspirational glances, and I could tell they had cooked up something the night before. Wasn’t all that hard to figure out, either. They’d obviously considered the proposition that a unified front might be enough to overpower Imelda. She stared back at them through her gold wire-rimmed glasses and said not a word, but her tiny little fists began clenching and unclenching. It was kind of a watered-down version of the OK Corral.

  I walked to the table and launched voraciously into my Army-prepared breakfast, watching out of the corner of my eye to see who’d crack first. Actually, that’s not true. I knew damn well who’d succumb. I just wanted to see how long it took Delbert and Morrow to figure that out and how ungracefully they extricated themselves: with their tails stuck between their legs, or dripping blood all the way to the conference table.

  Imelda said, “Are you two gonna eat those damned breakfasts, or act like a coupla spoiled pussies?”

  The good defense attorney acted as though she were speaking to nobody in particular. “I usually have yogurt, oatbran muffins, and juice for breakfast.”

  Imelda said back to her, “You want me to tell that mess sergeant to whip you up a cup of that latte crap, too?”

  Delbert started to open his lips, wisely thought better of it, and just stood there shuffling his feet.

  Morrow’s eyes darted down in time to see Delbert’s feet do their little retreat dance, and then she covered her own defeat with a halfhearted, “But there was a time when I really loved eggs and bacon.”

  “Then you learn to love it again, because that’s all that mess sergeant makes.”

  Not two seconds later, Delbert and Morrow were seated beside me, taking mighty bites and silently praying Imelda would go away and die.

  “What’s on for today?” Delbert asked, diverting his eyes from Morrow’s, which were at that moment bathing him with a world-class gutless weasel look.

  I said, “I thought we’d spend our morning talking with the group chaplain, then the group commander.”

  “The chaplain?” Morrow asked, still staring at Delbert.

  “Sure.”

  “Why the chaplain? When are we going to talk to Sanchez and his men?”

  “Soon enough.”

  They both nodded. They didn’t agree, but they nodded. That’s one of the things I love about Imelda. She sucked all the feistiness right out of them.

  The chapel was located in a large tent, long and broad enough to hold about forty chairs. The group chaplain, Major Kevin O’Reilly, was actually on his knees, praying, when we came in. We waited patiently for about three minutes while he finished up, then he walked to the rear of the tent where we were gathered.

  As one might anticipate from a Special Forces chaplain, he didn’t look much like a priest. He had a broad face, a pugilist’s nose, and big, strong hands that squeezed painfully when we shook and introduced ourselves. I couldn’t imagine that people were inclined to act real sinful in his presence. I didn’t want to even imagine what kind of acts of contrition he exacted in his confessions.

  “Father, thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” I said.

  “Would you like to do this here?” he asked, waving around the chapel.

  “No. Why don’t we walk around?”

  “Fine.”

  So we began strolling through the dusty streets of the big Tuzla compound, where several thousand soldiers and airmen were at that moment in a frenzy of cleaning up and preparing for another day of waging a nonwar against the Serbs.

  “How long have you been with the unit?” I asked.

  “Four years.”

  “That’s a long time. You must like it.”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “These are good boys, Major. There’s an image out there of Special Forces troops being wild, rowdy hooligans that’s completely out of character. Most of these men are good family people.”

  “I guess Captain Sanchez is Catholic, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. A good one, too.”

  I had already known his religion from his personnel file but wanted to lead into this obliquely.

  “You know his family?”

  “Very well. His wife, Stacy, and both kids. Mark is seven, and Janet is two. I baptized her.”

  “Have you heard from his wife?”

  “We’ve talked a number of times these past few weeks. It’s very troubling having Terry’s name splashed across the front pages as the man who commanded a massacre.”

  “I imagine so,” I said, and I meant it.

  “Three other members of that team were Catholic also, so I’ve been busy with all the families.”

  “Of course. Now, Father, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask a few questions. If you feel they’re too sensitive or I’m infringing on your clerical confidences, please feel free to tell me.”

  “Okay, that’s fair,” he said.

  “How would you describe the command environment here in the Group?”

  He contemplated that a moment, and I sensed that his hesitation wasn’t obfuscation but because he wanted to get this just right. He finally said, “On the whole, pretty good. Special Forces soldiers, you know, are older than you find in regular units, and the men are rigorously tested before they get to wear the beret.”

  “And if you could only use one word?”

  “Gung ho.”

  I smiled, then he smiled. I said, “How about another word?”

  “Okay, troubled.”

  “Why troubled?”

  “Because these are can-do men with strong consciences. It’s very taxing to be around all these Kosovar refugees. Back in America, you see the images on TV, but it’s very rending on the nerves to have to witness firsthand what’s happening on the other side of that border.”

  “Right, of course. I imagine that has a dampening effect on morale.”

  He gave me a very trenchant look. “Dampening? Major, some of these men can’t sleep at night.”

  “Have you had to do a lot of counseling?”

  “We’ve had one suicide and one attempted suicide since we’ve been here. My days are filled with counseling.”

  “So you’d say the men are frustrated?”

  “I suppose that’s as good a word as any.”

  “Did you have to counsel Terry Sanchez or any of his men?”

  He stared off at a lumbering C-130 that had just taken off from the airfield and was beginning its climb to altitude. Finally he said, “I’m afraid I’d be uncomfortable answering that.”

  “Okay, do you think the frustration you referred to might have caused that team to crack?”

  “That’s really just the same question parsed a little differently, isn’t it?”

  “Father, I’m asking off the record, one soldier to another.”

  “Okay, I don’t believe Terry’s boys did it. However, the pressures are certainly there.”

  Like hell, he wasn’t saying they did it. That was exactly what he was saying, although I couldn’t tell if he knew that for a fact, or just suspected they had and assigned it a reason, like everybody else in the world was doing.

  “What can you tell me about Smothers’s battalion?”

  “It’s a great unit. It should be, though. He’s a first-rate commander, and there’s a lot more veterans in his unit.”
r />   “Veterans?”

  “Yes, you know. A lot of his men saw duty in the Gulf, Somalia, Haiti, Bosnia.”

  “Why so many veterans in his battalion?”

  “As I said, it’s a very good unit, very reliable.”

  “I’m sorry, I still don’t get it.”

  “How much do you know about the Special Forces culture?” he asked.

  “Just hearsay.”

  “Well, it’s very inbred. The Tenth Group has a European orientation, so the men have specific language skills and regional training. You don’t take a man from the Tenth Group and move him to say, the First Group, which specializes in Asia. Many men spend their whole careers in this unit.”

  “But is there something special about Smothers’s battalion?”

  “The men call it the old-timers’ club. There’s sort of an unwritten tradition in the Group that after five or ten years in another battalion, a lot of the sergeants put in for transfer to Smothers’s battalion.”

  “Why would they do that?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer, but it never hurts to ask.

  “Camaraderie, I suppose.”

  We had arrived back at the chapel tent, and I could see several soldiers gathered and anxiously waiting. Father O’Reilly obviously had priestly things to do, and I’d heard everything I wanted to hear, so I thanked him and we parted ways.

  As soon as he was gone, Delbert said, “That was really helpful.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?” I asked.

  “He was trying to communicate motive. He’s the confessor of four men in that team, and he was trying to offer us their motive.”

  “Maybe,” I said, looking over at Morrow.

  “Is there something we didn’t hear?” she asked.

  I pulled on my nose a bit. “That old-timers’ club thing. That bothers me.”

  Delbert said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Sort of a grouping of the elite of the elite.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You think there’s more?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “This is a combat unit, Delbert. A battlefield veteran is a very different breed than a green buck sergeant who might be highly trained but has never been truly tested. It’s the green guys who can get you killed. They might break under pressure. They might make mistakes, like maybe put a blasting cap in the wrong way, or use incorrect radio procedures and give away your position.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Delbert said.

  “The old-timers’ club sounds like a survivors’ union. A guy spends five or ten years, and he becomes eligible. He gets to spend the rest of his career with seasoned, battle-tested pros, the kind of guys who don’t make mistakes.”

  “And something’s wrong with that?” Morrow asked.

  “Maybe not. Your chances of survival go way up, since I’d suspect the First Battalion is very choosy about who it takes and who it turns down.”

  The two of them nodded, and I decided not to expose everything else I suspected. Like General Partridge mentioned earlier, I’d done time in the infantry, whereas Delbert and Morrow put on their JAG shields straight out of law school. Some things you just gotta be there to learn.

  We arrived at General Charles “Chuck” Murphy’s wooden building about ten minutes later. I could have ordered Murphy to come to my building, but there were limits to how much I wanted to shove people around. There’s a fine line between being a legal barbarian in search of the truth and being a spoiled brat, and I’ve always been a stickler for nuances.

  Actually, I wouldn’t know a nuance if it hit me in the face, but I didn’t want to push my luck with Murphy. At least, not yet I didn’t.

  As it was, Murphy actually met us at the door, which made me damned glad I hadn’t ordered him to come see me, because this courteous, meeting-us-at-the-door thing sort of evened it out.

  I said, “Morning, General.”

  He said, “You look like crap, Drummond. What’s the matter, not sleeping well?”

  I put on my bitchiest pout. “It’s the damned accommodations here. I’m used to an air-conditioned hotel room, with a well-stocked bar and a big double bed. These damned tents and cots are killing me.”

  He emitted a very manly, contemptuous chuckle, then led us inside and up some stairs to the floor where his office was located. A burly sergeant major, who looked as though he lived in a weight room, growled something as we walked by. I kept a wide berth and hoped he didn’t bite.

  The general’s office was fairly spartan for a man of his rank, containing a long field table that was being used as a desk, two smaller field tables, two metal file cabinets, and two flags, one of the American variety and the other red in color, with a big white star in the middle. A visitor was supposed to be impressed by the austere, abstemious furnishings and believe that they somehow reflected on the humble nature of the man who worked in this office. I might’ve bought it except for the two silver-framed photographs carefully arrayed on the smaller field tables: One showed the President of the United States himself pinning a general’s star on Murphy’s shoulder, and the other a much younger Chuck Murphy in a football uniform, holding a ball, kneeling beside the Heisman Trophy and grinning like a kid who was cocksure the world was his oyster.

  Five chairs had been neatly arranged in the middle of the floor, and he directed us all to have seats. With some difficulty, he lowered his large six-foot-five-inch frame into one of the chairs, crossed his legs, and folded his arms across his chest. It was a big chest, but he had long arms.

  The empty chair was kind of mysterious, and I guessed that at one point he must’ve intended to have counsel there to represent him, then thought that might imply he had something to hide and therefore decided against it.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I can only give you ten minutes this morning. We have an important operation going on, and my presence is required in the operations center.”

  “No problem, General. You’re a busy man. We’ll make this quick.”

  “Thank you.”

  I paused briefly, then asked, “How long have you known Captain Sanchez?”

  “I’ve commanded the group the past eighteen months. Terry was here when I arrived.”

  “You approved his appointment as a team commander?”

  “Yes, but it was a pro forma thing.”

  “Why pro forma?”

  “There are four battalions in Tenth Group. It’s hard enough to know all the colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors. I recognize the names of most of the captains, but I’m afraid I don’t know them well.”

  Now, if I was a more suspicious guy, I might have considered that a Rhodes scholar who’d graduated first in his class from West Point ought to have a more impressive memory than that. I might also have suspected that the general was a smart guy, and just like Will Smothers, also had caught a sudden case of selective amnesia.

  I gave him a dubious look. “But was Sanchez maybe one of the ones you know well?”

  “Not really. I’d recognize him on a street, but not much more than that.”

  Delbert said, “Sir, could you tell us how much more than that?”

  He scrunched up his face as though he had to go bottom-fishing to come up with anything. Finally, he said, “I know he’s married. I remember meeting his wife at a few of the Group functions. I know he did a good job on a few exercises, and I think I visited his team a month or two ago, before they went into Kosovo.”

  Frankly this didn’t wash. And he apparently sensed our doubts.

  “Look, if you’d like,” he swiftly added, trying to sound and appear gracious, “I’ll ask my adjutant to go through my log and see how many times I’ve met with Sanchez over the past six months.”

  I wasn’t nearly as gracious. “That would be very kind, General, but why don’t you tell your adjutant to provide us the log and we’ll do the checking?”

  He said, “That log is classified and can’t be released.”

  “General, we al
l have top secret clearances with lots of strange little suffixes that allow us to look at whatever we want to look at. Right now, I’d like to look at your log.”

  He appeared flustered for a moment or so, before that strong jaw pushed forward an inch or two. “If you don’t mind, Major, I’d like to talk to legal counsel before I comply.”

  “Actually, sir, as the investigating authority, I am within rights to sequester that log. It is military property, and if I believe it is relevant to this investigation I can order you to turn it over.”

  “I’d still like to seek advice.”

  “Okay, do that, sir. But do it quickly, because I’d like to have that log before close of business today.”

  His eyes got like little round ice cubes, but his lips were still smiling. “Any other questions?”

  Morrow inched forward in her chair. “Could you tell us why the First Battalion is called the old-timers’ club?”

  The general’s right eyebrow sort of notched up. “That? Well, it’s an old tradition with some of the sergeants in the Group. It’s harmless, really. It’s kind of a natural evolution to want to move up to a unit that has a little higher standards, that’s a little more challenging.”

  “Is this encouraged within the command?”

  “It’s sergeant’s business, handled by the sergeant majors within the Group. There’s no official policy on it.”

  “Is it a good thing?” she asked.

  “I think it has its advantages, yes. The men seem to like it. And I can tell you from my perspective, it’s a damned good thing to have one unit that’s totally reliable, that you can put in to handle the really tough missions.”

  She shot me a quick sideways glance, a kind of triumphant look.

  Delbert, the prosecutor, took his shot. “Sir, could you tell us who ordered the arrests of Terry Sanchez and his men?”

  “I did.”

  “What chain of events led to that decision?”

  “When Milosevic and his people began holding daily press conferences, we realized that something had happened.”

  “But how did you narrow it down to Sanchez’s team?”