Diamondhead
Page 4
For a couple of minutes, Mack Bedford seemed unreachable, as if the bloodlust of the wolf had subsided. He stood there at the bridge, and merely continued to say, “They killed my guys. They murdered my fucking guys. And I owe them that.”
Across the river, residents of the village were walking forward to claim their dead, carrying the bodies back to the east bank of the river. Three SEALs stood in a line facing them, rifles leveled, but there were no recriminations, no shouts of anger from the Iraqis. Not on this day, when the death toll on both sides was comparable – twelve insurgents, twelve SEALs, and eight Rangers.
In the background the burned remains of the tanks still sent black smoke into the sky. And every soul on either side of the river, mourning their dead, understood what had been done, and why the outcome was as it was. Here in this ancient biblical land of Mesopotamia, an ancient pact from one of the most celebrated books of the Old Testament, Exodus, had been enacted – life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.
High above, two US Army Chinooks were making their approach, clattering down toward the rough ground beyond the burned-out hulks of the tanks. Each of them contained medical supplies, nursing staff, military investigators, and combat-ready Special Forces. But at this point none of it was necessary. There were no wounded. Anyone in proximity to the missile was not only dead but cremated. For most of them, there were no remains. In time there would be white crosses, erected in scattered communities back in the USA, bearing simply name and rank in commemoration. A fallen soldier, known to God.
The dust storm created by the mighty rotors of the Chinooks obscured the horror scene on the road. And through it walked the SEAL officers who must ascertain precisely what took place. Only one of them, the Camp Hitmen CO, Cdr. Butch Ghutzman, outranked Mack Bedford.
They met at the cornerstone of the bridge and talked briefly. The tanks were still too hot for examination and would be for several hours. Commander Ghutzman looked across at the Iraqis still carrying away their dead and asked Mack, “What the hell’s going on over there?”
“I guess they’re looking after their casualties, sir.”
“They get shot or shelled or something?”
“Shot, sir.”
“In the middle of the bridge? Were they making some kind of a charge on our guys?”
“Nossir. They were pretending to give themselves up. I shot them.”
“Jesus. Were they armed?”
“How the hell do I know whether they were armed?”
“You understand why I ask the question?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
* * *
It was only a rough garret set high in the roof of a squalid gray stone house three streets back from the riverfront, directly across from the area the Americans were now evacuating. Huddled in the corner murmuring into a cell phone, in Arabic, was an elderly Iraqi, a veteran of the ill-fated Desert Storm and now a trusted “stringer” for the al-Jazeera television network based in gleaming modern offices in Doha, the capital city of Qatar. That phone call represented the vital link al-Jazeera holds to the battlefields of Iraq, the embodiment of its determination to make the United States look bad, really bad, at every available opportunity.
The al-Jazeera network is the most controversial Arabic news channel in the Middle East. It was founded in 1996, and since then it has burgeoned from a small localized station broadcasting only in Arabic to a vast international network, broadcasting twenty-four hours a day in English. It has forty foreign bureaus worldwide with dozens of correspondents. Its staff has been recruited from all the big Western television newsrooms – the BBC, CBS, CNN and CNBC. Al-Jazeera may be counted on, implicitly, to report any form of negligent or ill-disciplined US military action anywhere in the Middle East.
On this day the newsroom was busy. Bill Simons, a former BBC editor, tired of its childlike left-wing bias, had elected to pack up and join the Arabs, moving his life from South London to downtown Doha, on the east coast of the Qatar Peninsula. Bill knew a good news story as well as anyone, and the urgent tones of Abdul calling from faraway Abu Hallah on the banks of the Euphrates set his journalist’s antennae alight.
“How many did you say were dead? Twelve, shot down in cold blood by an American officer? Right there in the middle of the Euphrates Bridge? Jesus.”
Had there been a battle of any kind? “What’s that? A couple of US tanks slightly damaged after they opened fire on the village? Nothing serious, right? And then this American went berserk? Wow! And where are the bodies of the twelve villagers? Oh, you have them? Completely unarmed farmers just walking to their fields… Gimme your number, Abdul, and stand by.”
Forty minutes later, al-Jazeera went to work in its customary mode. Its familiar chimes, which always sounded as if they emanated from the heart of a mosque, signaled for the 4:00 pm news headlines. A dark-eyed beauty from Riyadh began the broadcast:
“Reports are coming in of a terrifying atrocity committed by US Special Forces on a bridge over the Euphrates River near the Iraqi desert town of Hit. Twelve unarmed local farmers were apparently shot down in cold blood by an American officer. All of them died.
“Our correspondent was unable to provide the names of the dead, but Iraqi police are expected to supply details later this evening. So far, US military chiefs in Iraq have declined to comment until more of the facts are known. The Pentagon denies all knowledge of the incident and instructed our reporters to speak to the US authorities in Baghdad. We will bring you more on this breaking story as the evening progresses.”
For years it has been impossible for Western news networks to ignore al-Jazeera, which has been labeled the mouthpiece of both Osama Bin Laden and al-Qaeda. Any time there is an unusual military problem in the Middle East, the chances are the story hits first on al-Jazeera. And boy, was this ever unusual.
Inside all newsrooms, both print and broadcast, in London, Washington and New York, there is a near-permanent watch on the Qatar station, which is tuned in, always, to the eyes and ears of the Arab world. And when the possibility of a US atrocity on the Euphrates came bounding onto the screen like a Labrador puppy on steroids, the left-inclined media of both countries could hardly wait to savage the military that guards their freedoms and keeps their nations safe.
One “enterprising” journalist made a phone call to the US military in Iraq and was told, “Yes, we do have a report of an armed clash along the Euphrates, and yes, there is a Navy SEAL commander assisting right now with an internal investigation. We have reports of some casualties on the US side, no knowledge of Iraqi casualties.”
By the time various editors and rewrite men had finished with this and added it to the “report” from Abdul in the attic, it was on for young and old.
MASSACRE ON THE EUPHRATES
SEAL COMMANDER FACES Court-Martial
There was, of course, an absence of real facts, like what caused the battle? Which side opened fire first, and with what? Did Americans die, which compelled their colleagues to retaliate? Did they come under attack, unprovoked, from roadside weapons? Was there any complaint from official Iraqi authorities?
Never mind all that. What mattered was the chance to demonstrate murderous bullying by US troops, shooting and killing innocent Iraqi farmers, slamming the iron fist of Uncle Sam into the guts of unarmed Bedouins.
There had plainly been glaring failures by US commanders to control their unruly troops. And how did this make the USA appear in the eyes of the world? (See editorial on page 21.)
Not since the disgusting behavior by US troops in Abu Ghraib prison in the spring of 2006 has the ethos of the United States military been called into such question… etc., etc.
This bombardment of journalistic half-truths, misapprehensions and exaggerations almost caused the roof to fall in at the Pentagon, especially on corridor seven on the fourth floor, in the head offices of the United States Navy. SEAL activities have been known to raise the blood pressure of navy chiefs, but mostly at the HQ of SPECWARCOM in S
an Diego. Only when an incident looks likely to spiral out of control does general disquiet start rippling along E Ring and into the office of the chief of naval operations.
Adm. Mark Bradfield, a former US Navy carrier battle-group commander, occupied the CNO’s chair in the Pentagon. Right now he was staring at the front page of the Washington Post, and uttering the timeworn phrase of those in high command but not on the battlefield – “What in the name of Christ is going on over there?”
His personal assistant, Lt. Cdr. Jay Renton, was staring at the front page of the New York Times, and grappled for the most calming phrase he could think of. Jay’s kid brother was a SEAL, serving in Afghanistan, and he knew firsthand about the low cunning of the Taliban and al-Qaeda, the way they had open lines to al-Jazeera and reported the most lurid and unlikely scenarios to the Qatar station, the way they knew how swiftly the left-wing press of the United States would jump all over American troops. “Looks like a pretty nasty battle along the Euphrates, sir,” said Jay. “And, like always, the insurgents get to al-Jazeera television a long time before we’re on the case.”
“Doesn’t say anything about al-Jazeera here,” replied the CNO, somewhat gloomily.
“It does here in the Times? answered Jay. “Quotes the source of the story as ‘al-Jazeera, the authoritative Arab-based television station’.”
“Hmmmmm,” replied the CNO, an element of suspicion entering his voice.
“Sir, Garrison Hitmen is probably 800 miles from Qatar. Now how do you think the television station found out? Because some-Qaeda killer hopped into a chicken shed and phoned ’em – with the information that a dozen of his guys had been shot. Never mind why, never mind the circumstances.”
“And how did al-Jazeera find out about the SEAL platoon?”
“They did not find out about it. The US media phoned through to Iraq and discovered the SEALs had been in action on that day along that part of the Euphrates. They took it from there.”
At that point a call came from Jay Renton’s office. “Sir, we got something coming through right here from San Diego. Shall I download it or send it through on the link?”
“Hold it right there…”
“Excuse me, sir – be right back.”
The lieutenant commander left the office and walked through to the bank of computers that was relaying reports from every theater of war in which the United States was involved. Especially Iraq.
The signal from SPECWARCOM was from Rear Adm. Andy Carlow, commander of the Navy SEALs. Its message was stark but, in this instance, extremely helpful: Two SEAL platoons came under separate attacks south of the Hitmen Garrison yesterday. Four US tanks hit and destroyed by insurgent missiles. Twenty dead: twelve SEALs, eight Rangers. The attacks were unprovoked. SEALs returned fire. Iraqi casualties sustained. No final count.
“Guess that wraps up this newspaper crap about cold blood,” growled Admiral Bradfield. “In the worst possible way, of course.”
“Sure does,” agreed Jay Renton. “Do we make any public statement?”
“Not yet. First of all, the bereaved families have to be informed, and then we need to get a full report from the senior SEAL commander on the mission.”
“And what do we tell the media, which is going to bombard us with questions about a possible court-martial and God knows what else?”
“Instruct the press office that the United States Navy does not make statements until the facts are known and diagnosed.”
* * *
There was an undercurrent of pure disquiet running all through Camp Hitmen. Reeling from the deaths of so many of their officers and buddies, the men of the SEAL, Ranger, and Green Beret platoons were stunned by the version of events that was currently appearing in US newspapers and, in particular, on television.
The accusations that a SEAL commander had shot down twelve insurgents on the bridge were being presented as if he had just met them on the street and then turned his rifle on them for no reason whatsoever. As one-sided accounts go, this one was right up there.
It seemed that no one at al-Jazeera had bothered to check the validity of the secret Arab correspondent, who had slunk away from the battlefield and telephoned a truly outrageous account to the television station, without even mentioning the horrifying, and flagrantly illegal, damage the Americans had sustained before they retaliated.
And the tone of certain US media editorials was directed accusingly at the troops on the ground, the guys who put their lives on the line every day, on behalf of the government of the United States of America.
“Why am I doing this?” The question was not often asked by Special Forces, whose training provided them with a cast-iron wall of self-righteousness. How else would it be possible to turn men into an unstoppable professional fighting unit, contemptuous of the enemy, and ever aware of one shining part of their creed: “Professionalism is about the total elimination of mistakes. It has nothing to do with money”?
But this was different. The US media were chipping away at their very reason for existing, suggesting they were ruthless killers, devoid of any sense of decency or justice. They watched the television; they could read the newspapers on their computers. They knew what was being said.
This new sense of bitter unfairness pervaded their actions. No one wanted to go out on missions where they could come under heavy fire yet, somehow, be reluctant to shoot back.
For two days, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford was ensconced with the senior officers of the garrison. There had still been no official complaint from the Iraqis, which suggested the missiles had been fired from an illegal insurgent unit. As for Commander Bedford’s actions, he admitted he had opened fire on the Arabs on the bridge and that he did not know if any of his men had also retaliated. He did not know how many had died, and, quite frankly, he did not care.
In the opinion of the senior command at Camp Hitmen, the real atrocity of the conflict had been the firing of an almost certainly illegal missile that had killed twenty US military personnel in unprovoked attacks.
There was great disquiet in the garrison. And enormous sympathy for Mack Bedford. Behind it all, though, was the unspoken fear that the veteran SEAL commander had simply gone berserk after witnessing the shocking death of his closest friends, Frank Brooks and Charlie O’Brien. Both burned alive.
There was not one single resident of Camp Hitmen, serving officer or other rank, who would ever be persuaded to utter one word against the lieutenant commander. In fact, there was genuine worry among senior staff that men would lie, say anything, in defense of the commander.
Lies have never been tolerated in the navy. Instructors at the US Naval Academy, in Annapolis, will tolerate all manner of transgressions, except for lying. For that, a midshipman will be thrown out. Not might be, will be. Young men being prepared to take command of very expensive warships cannot veer from the truth. Ever. Every man on the ship is dependent on the straightforwardness of the captain and his commanders.
The navy’s SEALs, the combat elite, though normally far removed from life at sea, were nonetheless bound by the same dark-blue code of conduct. And here was an entire garrison of men preparing to close ranks in support of a hugely admired officer, who had essentially carried out what all of them would have wished but didn’t dare. Even Lt. Barry Mason.
There is a natural inclination in circumstances such as these just to shut up and say nothing. And it has doubtless been achieved many times when personnel were under constant attack. But this scenario had the added complication of a hysterical media, demanding justice, demanding punishment for the guilty, demanding the USA does not operate under the same lawless regimes as the terrorists. Which is all very well, unless you happen to have been Charlie O’Brien, Frank Brooks or Billy-Ray Jackson. Or their many highly regarded, trusted friends.
As Admiral Bradfield had so succinctly put it – “Hmmmmm. Very tricky.”
In the end, the opinion that would count was that of the navy’s serving judge advocate general, the JAG, so
often a reasonable and charming naval officer, but the one man whose shadow looms large over every single Special Forces operation.
A Navy SEAL, armed to the teeth, trained to the minute, with strength closer to that of a mountain lion than a regular human being, is a very dangerous character. Each one of them is conditioned mentally and physically to destroy his enemy. Which can be very awkward when he doesn’t know who the hell his enemy is.
In theaters of operation like Iraq and Afghanistan, the insurgent wears no uniform, may or may not be armed, may or may not be a spy, or a lookout, for a lurking al-Qaeda hit squad, may or may not be concealing a deadly cargo of explosive somewhere in his local streets. The Navy SEAL has a lot of thinking to do, which is why the vast majority of them have college degrees.
But SEALs are often placed behind enemy lines. Behind the lines of an unseen enemy. Way, way behind the lines of that unseen enemy. Which is where the game is likely to change – among young American servicemen who are far from home, far from help, and will not admit they are scared. These are guys who are operating under terrific tension, and who might blow some tribesman’s head off merely because of the massive twin pressures of fear and past experience. For such young men, the shadow of the JAG looms extra large.
He is there to carry out the most impossible task – to decide the truth, to weigh the circumstances, to try to place himself in the SEAL’S combat boots for a while. And then to try to get al-Jazeera, the US media and all the appalling fabrications of the Islamist militants off the back of the Pentagon. The JAG, for a thousand reasons, must always be seen by all parties to be scrupulously fair on behalf of the US military.
The JAG currently on duty in Camp Hitmen had his back to the wall. His current inquiry involved a very special man, Mackenzie Bedford, Honor Man in his BUDs Class, a decorated SEAL commander, beloved by almost every man who had ever served under his command. And worse yet, a man currently trying to cope with the most awful personal problem involving his only son, Tommy.