by Tom Clancy
Captain Wegener was quiet for a moment. That made sense, didn’t it? Sailors didn’t change much over the years, did they? On the beach they’d work mightily to get into every pair of female pants in sight, but on the question of murder and rape, the “kids” felt the same way the old-timers did. Times hadn’t changed all that much after all. Men were still men. They knew what justice was, courts and lawyers to the contrary.
Red thought about that for a few seconds. Then he rose and walked to his bookshelf. Next to his current copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and The Manual of Courts Martial was a much older book better known by its informal title, “Rocks and Shoals.” It was the old reference book of regulations whose ancestry went back to the 18th century, and which had been replaced by the UCMJ soon after World War II. Wegener’s copy was an antique. He’d found it gathering dust in a cardboard box fifteen years before at an old boat station on the California coast. This one had been published in 1879, when the rules had been very different. It had been a safer world then, the captain told himself. It wasn’t hard to understand why. All you had to do was read what the rules had once been....
“Thanks, Portagee. I’ve got a little work to do. I want you and Riley here at fifteen hundred.”
Oreza stood. “Aye aye, sir.” The quartermaster wondered for a moment what the captain had thanked him for. He was skilled at reading the skipper’s mind, but it didn’t work this time. He knew that something was going on in there. He just didn’t know what it was. He also knew that he’d find out at fifteen hundred. He could wait.
Wegener had lunch with his officers a few minutes later. He sat quietly at the end of the table reading over some message traffic. His wardroom was young and informal. Table talk was as lively as usual. The talk today was on the obvious subject, and Wegener allowed it to go on as he flipped through the yellow sheets generated by the ship’s printer. The thought that had come to him in his stateroom was taking shape. He weighed the pluses and minuses in silence. What could they really do to him? Not much, he judged. Would his people go along with him?
“I heard Oreza say that in the old days, they knew what to do about bastards like this,” a lieutenant (j.g.) observed at the far end of the table. There were affirmative grunts all around the table.
“Ain’t ‘progress’ a bitch?” another noted. The twenty-four-year-old officer didn’t know that he had just made a decision for his commanding officer.
It would work, Wegener decided. He glanced up from his messages to look at the faces of his officers. He’d trained them well, the captain thought. He’d had them for ten months now, and their performance was as nearly perfect as any commander could ask. They’d been a sorry, dejected lot when he’d arrived at the shipyard, but now they sparkled with enthusiasm. Two had grown mustaches, the better to look like the seamen they’d become. All of them lounged in their hard-backed chairs, radiating competence. They were proud of their ship and proud of their captain. They’d back him up. Red joined the conversation, just to make sure, just to test the waters, just to decide who would play a part and who would not.
He finished his lunch and returned to his cabin. The paperwork was still there, and he raced through it as quickly as he could, then opened his “Rocks and Shoals.” At fifteen hundred Oreza and Riley arrived, and he outlined his plan. The two master chiefs were surprised at first, but fell into line quickly.
“Riley, I want you to take this down to our guests. One of ’em dropped it on the bridge.” Wegener fished the cigarette pack out of his pocket. “There’s a vent in the brig, isn’t there?”
“Sure is, skipper,” the bosun answered in some surprise. He didn’t know about the “Calverts.”
“We start at twenty-one hundred,” the captain said.
“About the time the weather gets here,” Oreza observed. “Fair enough, Red. You know you wanna be real careful how you—”
“I know, Portagee. What’s life without a few risks?” he asked with a smile.
Riley left first. He walked forward to a ladder, then down two levels and aft until he got to the brig. The two were there, inside the ten-foot-square cage. Each lay on a bunk. They might have been speaking before, but stopped when the door to the compartment opened. It seemed to the bosun that someone might have included a microphone in the brig, but the district legal officer had once explained that such an installation would be a violation of constitutional rights, or a violation of search-and-seizure, or some such legalistic bullshit, the chief thought.
“Hey, Gomer,” he said. The one on the lower bunk—the one he’d cracked across the bridge rail—looked around to see who it was. He was rewarded with widening eyes. “You guys get lunch?” the bosun asked.
“Yes.” There was an accent there, but a funny one, the master chief thought.
“You dropped your smokes on the bridge awhile back.” Riley tossed the pack through the bars. They landed on the deck, and Pablo—the chief thought he looked like a Pablo—snatched them up with a surprised look on his face.
“Thank you,” the man said.
“Uh-huh. Don’t you boys go anywhere without letting me know, hear?” Riley chuckled and walked away. It was a real brig. The designers had gotten that part right, the master chief thought. Even had its own head. That offended Riley. A prison cell on a Coast Guard cutter. Hmph. But at least that meant you didn’t have to detail a couple of men to guard the gomers. At least not yet, Riley smiled to himself. Are you boys in for a surprise.
Weather at sea is always impressive. Perhaps it looks that way sweeping across a uniform surface, or maybe the human mind simply knows that weather has a power at sea that it lacks on land. There was a three-quarter moon tonight, allowing Wegener to watch the line squalls approach at over twenty knots. There were sustained twenty-five-knot winds in there, and gusts almost double that. Experience told him that the gentle four-foot swells that Panache rode through would soon be whipped to a maniacal series of breaking waves and flying spray. Not all that much, really, but enough to give his cutter an active ride. Some of his younger crewmen would presently regret dinner. Well, that was something you had to learn about the sea. She didn’t like people to overeat.
Wegener welcomed the storm. In addition to giving him the atmosphere he wanted, it also gave him an excuse to fiddle with his watch bill. Ensign O’Neil had not yet conned the ship through heavy weather and tonight would be his chance.
“Any problems, Mister?” the skipper asked the junior officer.
“No, sir.”
“Okay, just remember that if anything comes up, I’ll be in the wardroom.” One of Wegener’s standing orders read: No watch officer will ever be reprimanded for calling the captain to the bridge. Even if you only want to check the correct time: CALL ME! It was a common hyperbole. You had to say such things, lest your junior officers be so afraid to bother the skipper that they rammed a tanker by way of protecting his sleep—and ending his career. The mark of a good officer, Wegener repeatedly told his youngsters, was willingness to admit he had something yet to learn.
O’Neil nodded. Both men knew that there was nothing to worry about. It was just that the kid had never learned first-hand that a ship handles a little differently with sea and wind on the beam. Besides, Chief Owens was standing by. Wegener walked aft, and the boatswain’s mate of the watch announced, “Captain off the bridge.”
In the crew’s mess the enlisted men were settling down to watch a movie. It was a new tape, with a “Hard R” notation on the plastic box. Riley had seen to that. Lots of T&A to keep their attention. The same movie was available to the wardroom TV; young officers had the same hormonal drives, but they wouldn’t be exercised tonight.
The onrushing storm would serve to keep people off the weather decks, and the noise wouldn’t hurt either. Wegener smiled to himself as he pulled open the door to the wardroom. He couldn’t have planned it any better.
“Are we ready?” the captain asked.
The initial enthusiasm for the plan was go
ne. The reality of things had sunk in a little. That was to be expected, Wegener thought. The youngsters were sober, but they weren’t backing away either. They needed someone to say something, and they got it.
“Ready here, sir,” Oreza said from his seat at the far end of the table. The officers all nodded agreement. Red walked to his seat in the center of the mess table. He looked at Riley.
“Bring ’em up here.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The bosun left the room and proceeded down to the brig. On opening the door again, he caught the acrid stink that made him think at first that there was a fire in the rope locker—but an instant later the truth sprang on him.
“Shit,” he growled disgustedly. On my ship! “Stand up, Gomer!” his voice boomed, adding, “Both of ya’!”
The one on the lower bunk flipped his butt into the toilet and stood slowly, an arrogant smile on his face. Riley answered it, and produced a key. That changed Pablo’s smile, but didn’t erase it.
“We’re taking a little walk, children.” The bosun also produced a pair of handcuffs. He figured that he could handle both of them easily enough, especially stoned, but the skipper had been clear on his instructions. Riley reached through the bars to yank one toward him. On a rough order to turn around, the man complied, and allowed himself to be cuffed. So did the other. The lack of resistance surprised the master chief. Next Riley unlocked the brig door and waved them out. As “Pablo” passed, Riley removed the pack from his pocket and for want of something better, tossed it back on the lower bunk.
“Come on.” Riley grabbed each by the arm and led them forward. They walked unevenly—the increased rolling of the ship didn’t help, but there was more to it than that. It took three or four minutes to reach the wardroom.
“The prisoners will be seated,” Wegener announced when they arrived. “The court is called to order.”
Both of them stopped cold on hearing that, which told everybody something. Riley steered them to their seats at the defense table after a moment. It is hard for a person to endure the stares of his fellowman in silence, particularly when one knows that something is going on, but not quite what it is. The big one broke the silence after a minute or so.
“What’s happening?”
“Sir,” Wegener replied evenly, “we are holding a summary court-martial.” That only earned him a curious look, and he went on, “The trial judge advocate will read the charges.”
“Mr. President, the defendants are charged under the Eleventh Article of War with piracy, rape, and murder. Each of these is a capital offense. Specifications: that on or about the fourteenth of this month, the defendants did board the motor yacht Empire Builder; that while aboard they did murder the four people aboard the vessel, that is, the owner and master, his wife, and their two minor children; further, that in the course of these events the defendants did rape the wife and daughter of the owner and master; further that the defendants did dismember and dispose of the bodies of the victims prior to our boarding the vessel on the morning of the fifteenth. The prosecution will show that these actions took place in the course of drug-running operations. Murder in the course of drug-related activities is a capital offense under United States Code, Annotated. Further, murder in the course of piracy, and rape in the course of piracy, are capital crimes under the Articles of War. As the court is aware, piracy is a crime under the doctrine of jus gentium, and falls under the jurisdiction of any interested warship. Further, murder attending piracy is, as I have stated, a capital crime. Although as a ship of the United States Coast Guard we have de jure rights to board and seize any American-flag vessel, that authority is not strictly necessary in a case of this kind. Therefore, this court has full jurisdiction to try and, if necessary, execute the prisoners. The prosecution announces herewith its intention to request the death penalty in this case.”
“Thank you,” Wegener said, turning to the defense table. “Do you understand the charges?”
“Huh?”
“What the trial judge advocate just said was that you are being tried for piracy, rape, and murder. If you are found guilty, the court will then decide whether or not to execute you. You have the right to legal counsel. Lieutenant Alison, sitting there at the table with you, is your defending officer. Do you understand?” It took a few more seconds for things to sink in, but he understood all right. “Does the defense waive full reading of charges and specifications?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Sir, the defense moves that the cases be tried individually, and begs the indulgence of the court to confer with his clients.”
“Sir, the prosecution objects to splitting the cases.”
“Argument?” the captain asked. “Defense first.”
“Sir, since, as the trial judge advocate has told us, this is to be a capital case, I beg the court’s indulgence to allow me to defend my clients as best I can under the circumstances, and—”
Wegener stopped him with a wave of the hand. “The defense correctly points out that, since this is a capital case, it is customary to grant the utmost leeway to the defense. The court finds this a persuasive argument and grants the motion. The court also grants the defense five minutes to confer with his clients. The court suggests that the defense might instruct his clients to identify themselves properly to the court.”
The lieutenant took them to a corner of the room, still in handcuffs, and started talking to them quietly.
“Look, I’m Lieutenant Alison, and I’m stuck with the job of keeping you two characters alive. For starters, you’d better damned sight tell me who the hell you are!”
“What is this bullshit?” the tall one asked.
“This bullshit is a court-martial. You’re at sea, mister, and in case nobody ever told you, the captain of an American warship can do any goddamned thing he wants. You shouldn’t have pissed him off.”
“So?”
“So, this is a trial, you asshole! You know, a judge, a jury. They can sentence you to death and they can do it right here aboard the ship.”
“Bullshit!”
“What’s your name, for God’s sake?”
“Yo’ mama,” the tall one said contemptuously. The other one looked somewhat less sure of himself. The lieutenant scratched the top of his head. Eighteen feet away, Captain Wegener took note of it.
“What the hell did you do aboard that yacht?”
“Get me a real lawyer!”
“Mister, I’m all the lawyer you’re gonna get,” the lieutenant said. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
The man didn’t believe him, which was precisely what everyone had expected. The defending officer led his clients back to their table.
“The court is back in session,” Wegener announced. “Do we have a statement for the defense?”
“May it please the court, neither defendant chooses to identify himself.”
“That does not please the court, but we must take that fact at face value. For the purposes of the trial, we will identify your clients as John Doe and James Doe.” Wegener pointed to designate which was which. “The court chooses to try John Doe first. Is there any objection? Very well, the trial judge advocate will begin presenting his case.”
Which he did over the next twenty minutes, calling only one witness, Master Chief Riley, who recounted the boarding and gave a color commentary to the videotape record of the boarding.
“Did the defendant say anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Could you describe the contents of this evidence bag?” the prosecutor asked next.
“Sir, I think that’s called a tampon. It appears to be used, sir,” Riley said with some embarrassment. “I found that under the coffee table in the yacht’s main salon, close to a bloodstain—actually these two on the photograph, sir. I don’t use the things myself, you understand, sir, but in my experience women don’t leave them around on the floor. On the other hand, if someone was about to rape a lady, this thing would be in the way, sort of, and he might just remo
ve it and toss it out of the way so’s he could get on with it, like. If you see where I picked it up, and where the bloodstains are, well, it’s pretty obvious what happened there, sir.”
“No further questions. The prosecution rests.”
“Very well. Before the defense begins its case, the court wishes to ask if the defense intends to call any witnesses other than the defendant.”
“No, Mr. President.”
“Very well. At this point the court will speak directly to the defendant.” Wegener shifted his gaze and leaned forward slightly in his chair. “In your own defense, sir, you have the right to do one of three things. First, you can choose not to make any statement at all, in which case the court will draw no inferences from your action. Second, you are allowed to make a statement not under oath and not subject to cross-examination. Third, you may make a statement under oath and subject to cross-examination by the trial judge advocate. Do you understand these rights, sir?”
“John Doe,” who had watched the preceding hour or so in amused silence, came awkwardly to his feet. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he leaned slightly forward, and since the cutter was now rolling like a log in a flume, he had quite a bit of trouble keeping his feet.
“What is all this shit?” he demanded, again making people wonder about his accent. “I want to go back to my room and be left alone till I can get my own fucking lawyer.”
“Mr. Doe,” Wegener replied, “in case you haven’t figured it out yet, you are on trial for piracy, rape, and murder. This book”—the captain lifted his “Rocks and Shoals”—“says I can try you here and now, and this book says that if we find you guilty, we can decide to hang you from the yardarm. Now, the Coast Guard hasn’t done this in over fifty years, but you better believe that I can damned well do it if I want to! They haven’t bothered changing the law. So now things are different from what you expected, aren’t they? You want a lawyer—you have Mr. Alison right there. You want to defend yourself? Here’s your chance. But, Mr. Doe, there is no appeal from this court, and you’d better think about that real hard and real fast.”