The technician was just pulling himself to his feet, his face drained of all color. “An explosion,” he said stupidly. “It exploded.”
“It was a trap,” Arkady said. He turned hard, cold eyes back to Zentos. “Did you not warn them that it might be booby-trapped?”
“General, I… no, sir. I did not specifically warn them of that possibility.” Zentos noted that Arkady’s hands were trembling.
“You are a fool.” Arkady walked over to the tree line, picking his way through smoldering debris. The technician shook off his shock and trotted after him, shouting for the medic to come with him.
I didn’t warn them because they know to check. They are… were… the experts. Zentos stared after Arkady for a moment, watching him move among the wounded, closer to the downed helo than he’d been all morning.
“Sir?” a voice asked behind him. “Sir, shall we radio back to the command center for additional teams? A medical helo at least, sir. Colonel?”
Things look different from the ground and from the air. From inside and outside. I wonder…
“Yes, immediately,” Zentos said, consciously steering his mind away from that train of thought. “And alert the base hospital to stand by to receive casualties.”
As the rest of the men began the careful process of extracting the survivors and the casualties, Zentos tried very hard to ignore the suspicions crowding his mind. Everything had gone wrong, so wrong. There was only one consolation. Zentos might be a fool, as Arkady claimed — but Arkady was a coward. If not worse.
Tombstone stood to one side as the command elements of the investigation filtered back into the center. Most of the men were still in shock, but a somber, angry undertone was starting to surface in the snippets of conversation he understood. You didn’t have to understand Greek to know that every one of them took it personally, just like any military officer would. Somehow falling victim to sabotage made the deaths seem pointless, devoid of the honor of dying in combat.
But this was the way of modern combat, with attacks on civilians and guerilla tactics substituting for conventional warfare. You didn’t have to approve of it to realize that it was the wave of the future.
He felt a vague sense of guilt as well, and saw the accusation in the survivors’ faces. It was an American helicopter that had killed them. Civilian, perhaps, but American nonetheless. Coming on top of American objections to the UN command of their forces, the tragedy of the ACN helicopter simply added fuel to the argument that the United States was not really a part of any peacekeeping force that didn’t serve their own agenda. He supposed it was reasonable from a Greek point of view, if one ignored the countless contributions Americans had made in other parts of the world, most particularly in virtually single-handedly shouldering the burden of keeping the explosive Middle East under control.
He waited until General Arkady retreated to his inner office, then quietly approached and rapped on the door. “Come in,” a voice said in English. Tombstone paused, trying to fit the fact that they were expecting him into his intelligence picture. He shoved the door open.
“My deepest condolences, General,” Tombstone said. “Is there any way in which I can be of assistance?”
Seated behind his desk, General Arkady simply stared at him. Finally, he shook his head. “No. America has done so much for us already.”
Tombstone started to answer, then stopped himself. The aircraft involved might have been civilian, operating with its credentials approved by General Arkady himself, but now was not the time to point that out. Not when Arkady had just lost ten men at last count. There might be time later to discuss it, but for now Tombstone let it be.
“I’ll leave you, then,” Tombstone said.
“Wait.” Arkady held up one hand. “There is something that you might be able to resolve for me. Until the transfer of command power to my task force”—the UN task force, but I’ll let that pass, Tombstone thought—“I am in a difficult position in a particular matter. Since it involves a U.S. serviceman, I would like to appoint you as investigating officer.”
“Investigating officer? For a court-martial or a JAG investigation?”
“Perhaps either one,” Arkady said. He picked up a file folder from his desk and held it out. “Review the facts. Interview the witnesses and the man in question. I shall require your assessment of the situation.”
“I’m not certain—”
“Read the file. Keep in mind that regardless of the status of your military forces, you are still assigned to me as an advisor. So do that. Advise.”
“Of course.” Tombstone took the folder and eased out of the office, aware that he’d been summarily dismissed. Once out in the corridor, he started leafing through the sheaf of papers, skimming the acts. He let out a low groan when he saw the squadron — VF-95.
He knows — he’s got to know — that I’m married to the skipper. That it’s my old squadron. Conflict of interest written all over it. Tombstone started to head back to Arkady and explain why it was simply unworkable.
He stopped two paces from the door. Conflict of interest was an American concept — would it apply to the Greek way of looking at things? And would Arkady care one way or the other?
You’re not thinking about this the right way. Of course he knows about the conflict of interest — he has to. He’s making a point, assigning me to investigate this case. Making the point that America’s got too many conflicts of interests to remain a distinct and separate force.
Well, he’d do the investigation. Find out what was behind it all, see if he could nip it in the bud. He skipped back to the first page and read the sailor’s name again, fixing it in his mind.
Tomorrow, Airman Greg Smith, I’m going to find out exactly what was on your mind when you started this. You’re a pawn in this power struggle, and you’ve just given Arkady another piece to play on the board.
TEN
Tombstone stared at the young sailor popped tall in front of his desk. The youngster’s uniform was immaculate, freshly pressed and starched. The rank insignia and rating were meticulously positioned, the Dixie cup hat placed squarely on his head, and the haircut high and tight. Airman Smith stared at a point somewhere over Tombstone’s head, unblinking and seemingly frozen at attention.
“At ease,” Tombstone ordered. Smith snapped immediately into the correct position, no more relaxed that he had been at attention.
“You’re aware of why I asked to see you,” Tombstone said.
“Sir, yes, sir. The admiral is assigned as the investigating officer in this case and will make a recommendation to the convening authority as to whether court-martial charges should be preferred against me.” The voice shook slightly but was clear and level.
“That’s correct. They’ve explained your rights to you?” Tombstone asked, glancing through the file to make sure that the correct form, signed and dated by Smith, was in it.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“And you know you don’t have to talk to me unless you want to?”
“Sir, yes—”
“One sir per sentence will do, Airman Smith.”