by Brian Haig
Chapter 13
Early the next morning, we all checked out of our rooms and trundled back out to the airfield. We climbed into another of those ubiquitous C-130s that, as I mentioned earlier, have no soundproofing. We all stuffed in our earplugs and felt grateful we’d been relieved of the obligation to converse.
Poor Delbert looked like death warmed over. There were dark shadows under his eyes. His hair hung limp and unwashed. At various times during the flight, I could see his lips moving as though he was rehearsing something over and over, like possibly the questions he had asked during the interrogatories. Imelda sat directly across from him and somehow maintained a perfectly straight face. I glanced over at Morrow, and she immediately tore her eyes away. Maybe she was worried that I still had a grudge from last night’s session. Maybe it was because she hadn’t informed Delbert about Imelda’s devious bent and I’d just caught her in the act.
As soon as we landed, we went back to our little wooden building. Imelda and her girls began filing and faxing all kinds of things. There was a message for me to call General Clapper, so I went into my office and rang up the Pentagon.
Clapper’s ever-efficient secretary answered on the first ring and put me right through.
“How was Aviano?” he asked.
“Nice place. Next time I do a crime, promise to lock me up in an Air Force facility. I smelled lobster and champagne on the prisoners’ breaths. By the way, I see you’re working early,” I mentioned, since it was 6 A.M., his time.
“Just trying to catch up,” he groused. “Spent nearly the whole damned evening over at the White House.”
“They’re not still talking about me over there?”
“Your name popped up a few times, but you’re passe, no longer the topic du jour.”
“What was the subject?”
“They wanted me to help brainstorm the options.”
“Options? What options?”
“Option one is you recommend a court-martial. Option two is you don’t.”
“Don’t they have better things to do, like feed the homeless, fix the interest rates, check out the boobs on the new crop of interns?”
“It’s not so simple, Sean. The President’s policy on Kosovo does not enjoy wide national support if you haven’t noticed. Hell, it’s not even being called our national policy. It’s called the President’s War. They’re scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“This thing’s been presented as the first war fought solely on moral grounds. That’s how they’re justifying it. It’s a war based solely on principle. So, let’s say you go with option one. See any problem there?”
“No. The actions of a few men shouldn’t undermine the moral underpinnings of the President’s policy.”
“That’s because you and I don’t live, breathe, and eat politics the way those guys over in the White House do. They’re catching hell from some of our allies. Some of the Republicans up on the Hill are threatening to cut off all funding and hold hearings.”
“So this is a battle for the high ground.”
“You might call it that. Now the other alternative is you recommending that there’s insufficient grounds for a court-martial.”
“And what’s wrong with that one?”
“Nothing, unless it’s due to insufficient evidence. Here we are dropping bombs on a bunch of Serbs we publicly vilify as war criminals, and it turns out we have some of our own war criminals. Only thing is, we let them go scot-free. God forbid we ever eventually capture Milosevic and his bloodthirsty henchmen. The moment we attempt to try them for war crimes, we’ll be branded the biggest hypocrites there ever were.”
“Rules of evidence are rules of evidence.”
“You know that, and I know that, because we’re lawyers and knowing that’s a condition of our employment. Joe Sixpack doesn’t understand it, though. As for the rest of the world, they haven’t got a clue what our crazy legal system’s all about.”
“So the only thing that works for them is if I say Sanchez’s team acted responsibly and innocently?”
“Did they?” he asked a little too quickly, which was a good omen of where he was now coming from.
“I still don’t know. They’ve got a good tale to tell. It just doesn’t all add up.”
“Does it not add up a lot, or only a little?”
“Depends who’s listening. I think there’s some gaping holes and inconsistencies that might collapse the whole thing.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Not yet. Inconveniently, Sanchez’s team are the only living witnesses.”
“But their stories coincide?”
“Except for some details.”
“Then maybe they’re telling the truth.”
“I don’t think they are.”
There was a moment of awkward quiet before Clapper said, “Sean, do you know my one reservation when I recommended you for this?”
“Reservation? I didn’t know you had any reservations.”
“Your infantry background. I was worried that you’d start trying to second-guess what Sanchez and his men did out there, the decisions they made, the way they handled themselves.”
“What makes you think I’m doing that?”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just warning you not to get all caught up in little details, like who held whose rucksack during the ambush.”
“Thanks, General, I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Uh… there’s another thing.”
“Another thing?”
“A decision was made to shorten the time line. It’s no longer twenty-one days.”
I said, “You’re kidding, right?” because I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say.
“No. The White House thinks this is dragging out too long. They’re taking ungodly political heat. They want it wrapped up in ten days.”
“Ten? That’s ten days from today, right?” I asked.
“That’s ten from when you started. Six days from today.”
“Any reason I should know about?”
“Sean, is this a problem? If it is, I can find someone to replace you.”
“No, it’s no problem,” I said, trying to sound reasonable.
“Good. I know you’re doing a great job, Sean. Just stay with it.”
I chewed on my tongue for a moment, then very briskly said, “Right, thanks.”
I hung up the phone. I took three deep breaths. I yanked the phone out of its socket, took careful aim, then flung it with great force against the wall. There was a loud, satisfying crash as the phone punched right through the wallboard and ended up with the base still in my office and the handpiece dangling through the hole.
One of Imelda’s assistants rushed to the door and stuck her head in. It was the one whose head looked like a big, mottled grapefruit with tiny glasses. She took one look at my face, blinked once or twice, quickly backed away, then frantically scurried from desk to desk and warned everybody to stay the hell away from me.
Either Delbert or Morrow had ratted me out. Hell, maybe they’d both ratted me out. I could just hear their two voices on the phone, competing to see who could outrat who.
It’s not that I expected loyalty, because most lawyers can barely spell the word. But there’s disloyalty, and then there’s something that flies unspeakably beyond those bounds. It was a really good thing neither of them were here at this moment. They’d look damned silly with a telephone sticking out their butts.
And why did I get this sudden feeling that Clapper had just subtly pressured me to declare these men completely innocent of all possible charges? I wanted to vomit-and I might have-except I’m too cool for that.
I had trusted Clapper completely. Worse, I owed him. This was the same guy who gave me my start in law, literally in a classroom at Fort Benning, then later when I needed the Army to sponsor me through law school. He was also the man who picked me for this job. Until now, I’d just assumed it was because I was the hotshot young lawyer
he’d always wished he’d been. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I at least thought he liked me.
Somebody at the White House must’ve really put his balls in an intolerable vise, because until this moment he’d been very high and mighty about seeking the truth. Or maybe he’d just been pumping me full of bullshit to prepare for this moment.
They say that the devil makes sure the wicked get more than their share of luck, and just at that moment there was a timid knock on my office door. It slowly opened, and another of Imelda’s assistants, the one who strongly resembled a saber-toothed tiger, cautiously stuck her long, narrow face in.
“Uh, Major… excuse me,” she kind of whispered, like she didn’t want to start an avalanche.
I looked up and tried to control my temper. “What?”
“There’s a man here to see you. A civilian.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you ask him nicely?”
She giggled a little too nervously, the way some people do when they’re placing blasting caps inside C4 explosive. “If you’d like, sir, I’ll tell him you’re busy.”
“No, show him in,” I said.
For some reason or other, nearly all reporters, when they’re in the field, like to wear those silly-looking tan vests. You know the type, the ones that have a dozen or so pockets, like bird shooters use, so they can have a handy place to tuck all that ammo they’re going to use against all those vicious ducks and geese.
This man wore one of those vests, only it was a really big one, more like a tent with pockets. He looked to be about three hundred pounds. He was a little shorter than me and about thrice as wide. The word “lardass” instantly popped to mind, and I instinctively looked around to see if there was any chair in my office that was sturdy enough to handle him. There wasn’t.
“Hi,” he said, real friendly-like, as his beady little eyes did a quick inspection, apparently also seeking a chair. “You must be Major Drummond.”
“Says so on my nametag,” I replied, pointing down at my chest.
“Hah-hah,” he laughed, waddling forward. “That’s a really good one.”
“Actually it wasn’t all that funny the first time you heard it, and it hasn’t improved with age.”
His laughing stopped. “You know who I am?”
“Mr. Berkowitz, right?”
He gave me this ingratiating smile. “Hey, no hard feelings, right?”
“Hard feelings?” I asked with an inquisitive frown. “Why would I have hard feelings?”
“Come on.”
“No, what?”
“You’re screwin’ with me, right?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Berkowitz, we don’t get the Washington Herald out here. Is there something I should know about?”
This sly grin crossed his lips. “Nah. It’s just that some military guys don’t like my writing slant very much. I always worry about it.”
“Well, don’t. I never read the papers. They make pretty good toilet paper in an emergency, but of course, then you end up with all this black ink stuck to your fanny, which is damned hard to explain to your proctologist.”
He edged over and planted his big ass on the corner of my desk. “Hah-hah! That’s a good one, too. By the way, call me Jeremy.” He stuck out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Jeremy. Call me Major Drummond.”
“Okay, if that’s what you’re comfortable with,” he said, becoming more amiable by the second now that he thought I didn’t know he’d raped me on the front page of his paper.
“So what’re you doing out this way, Jeremy? Checking out the good restaurants?”
“Hah-hah.” He gave me another dose of that same phony laugh. “Actually, I’m doing a story on how the operation’s going. Of course, I’m also working on the ambush story, and I thought I’d stop by and see if you changed your mind.”
“Changed my mind?”
“Yeah. About talking with me.”
“Geesh, this is tough, Jeremy. I’d love to, I really would.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
I rubbed my jaw a few times and gave him the squinty, calculating look people say makes me resemble a Turkish rug merchant. “Well, there’s a certain amount of risk in it for me. I mean, what do I get out of it? I just don’t see that it’s worth my risk.”
Jeremy stared at my desktop for a moment, contemplating this new twist. Then he tentatively said, “The paper provides me this very tiny pool of money for occasions like this. Perhaps a small emolument would be in order?”
I got rid of the rug merchant look and replaced it with my best “Gee, I’m shocked as hell” look. “Jeremy!” I yelled.
“Sorry,” he declared, quite insincerely, “I didn’t mean to insult you, but lots of you military guys insist on being paid.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No, really. I’m talking colonels, even some generals.”
“Generals?”
“Greediest sons of bitches you ever saw.”
“Was that how you got my name? Did you pay someone for it?”
“I didn’t pay anyone, but that’s as much as I’m gonna say.”
I grinned. “Yeah, sure. More power to you. In fact, confidentiality was gonna be one of my requirements.”
He gave me this real righteous look and sketched a cross on his heart. “They could stick hot pokers up my ass and I wouldn’t divulge.”
By the look of him I suspected he might be telling the truth. About the hot poker thing, anyway. But just wave one juicy Big Mac under this guy’s nose and he’d be singing arias.
Then he said, “What other requirements you got?”
“I want a two-way street. I give you info, you give me info.”
He actually looked relieved. “Just info? That’s all? Hey, no problem.”
“Okay, me first. What nasty rumors are you hearing back in Washington about the investigation?”
“I would’ve thought you’d know more about that than me.”
“Well, I’m stuck out here, and like I said, I don’t read the papers.”
He grinned. “The stuff I’ll give you, you won’t find in the papers. Least, not yet.”
“Like what, Jeremy?”
He bent toward me, very conspiratorially. “Well, did you know, for instance, that the President starts every day with a fifteen-minute update on your investigation?”
I tried my best not to look surprised. “Of course he does,” I said, as though I already knew that, as though where else could the briefer possibly be getting his information, if not from me? Except that I hadn’t given out fifteen minutes of information on the investigation since we started. Not to anyone, not even Clapper. So where the hell was the information coming from?
“They say this thing has him tied up in knots,” he added. “The press secretary says that’s because his conscience is eating him alive, that the thought that our soldiers-American soldiers-would massacre a bunch of Serbs has him begging forgiveness from the Lord every night.”
“But you don’t believe that?” I asked.
“The only time that son of a bitch prays is when a camera’s around. And if he’s got a conscience, it’s news to me. News to his wife, too, I’d imagine.”
“Maybe he’s worried that this thing might erode support for the whole operation.”
Berkowitz jumped off the desk and his whole body shook like a bag of Jell-O that had been tossed out of an airplane. “Horsecrap.”
“You don’t think it would do serious damage to the cause if those men are guilty?”
“People ain’t stupid, Major. Besides, what’s there to erode? There is no support for this thing. Okay, my turn, right?”
“Shoot.”
“What’d you do before you became a JAG officer?”
“I was an infantry officer.”
“Where? What unit?”
“Bragg, with the 82nd Airborne. Hoorah!”
&n
bsp; His arms reached out and his hands landed on my desk. He looked like a bent-over egg with a smug scowl. “Well, that’s the interesting thing, Major. See, I got a copy of your personnel file from one of my buddies.”
“Yeah?”
“And that’s what it says in your file, so I called a buncha friends of mine who were in the 82nd at the same time. Now here’s a coincidence. One of my buddies was actually a captain in the same battalion your file says you were in.”
“So?”
“So he never heard of you before.”
“That is odd,” I said. “I mean, there’s only like forty officers in a battalion.”
“Yeah, isn’t it.”
“Either he was in a different battalion or you must’ve misread my file.”
“Could be.”
“Yeah,” I said, “probably that’s exactly what happened.”
“So why do you think you were picked to be the chief investigating officer? I mean, no offense, but this is a pretty big one. Wouldn’t you think the Army would pick someone more senior?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I said. “Must be because I’m shit-hot and have ethics like a rock.”
“I’ve got a more interesting theory.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
He took his hands off my desk and went over and stood by the wall to contemplate my face from a safer distance.
“There’s this very special unit down at Bragg that’s so outrageously secret that nobody’s ever supposed to have heard of it. Anyone assigned to that unit, while they’re in it, their files are separated from the rest of the Army’s and are administered by a special cell. Of course, once these guys leave that unit… well, then they gotta have regular files like everyone else. So what happens is their files are filled in with units they never really served in.”
“They really do that?” I asked.
“They really do,” he said, grinning. “Nearly always they list units at Bragg. That way, if these guys are ever asked, they can at least sound like they know something about the base.”
“Damn, that’s really cunning of the Army,” I said.
“Of course, those guys are never allowed to disclose they’ve been in that unit, or even that it exists. But it does. Kind of like Delta, that other unit that doesn’t really exist, only the boys in this outfit are tougher, more deadly, and do more dangerous stuff.”