And, of course, there was Mark Kemble. Poor, dead Mark Kemble. Why had Bian lied about that? Why keep it hidden? Also, if her two days in Baghdad were not spent in Mark's company, what had she been doing? And more to the point, why lie about that?
I must've reflected too long, because Kemp Chester was engaged in his own reflections and asked, "Hey, what the hell does this have to do with a 15-6? Isn't this supposed to be about an officer's credibility and judgment? What's going on here?"
I took a moment and sized him up, as I would any witness on the stand. A good guy, levelheaded, articulate, smart. But clearly he felt a strong affection for Bian, which I understood, because, like nearly any man who met her, I was at least half in love with her. He was trying to be protective, which raises the ever-provocative question of why he felt Bian needed protection. As they say, where there's smoke, there's fire. Not always, but when smoke's being blown up your butt, you'd better be sure.
On one hand, I admired and appreciated his loyalty to Bian, and I liked him for it. The occasion, however, called for the other hand, and I gave him a hard stare and asked, "Have I told you how to do your job?"
"No, but-"
"Because I would really fucking appreciate it if you reciprocated that professional courtesy." I allowed him a moment to contemplate the shift in the tenor of our conversation. I said, "Maybe I've made this too friendly, too informal. Maybe we should reconvene to an interrogation cell at the MP station."
"Okay, okay. Relax…"
I now knew what was really bothering me, and asked, "When Bian was reassigned from her battalion to the corps staff, it was supposed to be for a full year-right?"
"I have no idea."
"You're really starting to piss me off."
"Uh… okay, a full year. Her fiance had just begun his one-year tour in Iraq. Bian wanted to stay for the duration of his tour."
"But she rotated stateside after what… six, seven, eight months?"
"Yeah… maybe."
I offered him another cold stare and he quickly amended his statement. "About seven and a half months… She got an early drop. Why is this important?"
"Why was it curtailed?"
Kemp now looked restive and a little unhappy. He said, "Why don't you ask her former boss? Bian and I were friends, and… Look, you're making me very uncomfortable."
"And you well know that the personal comfort or discomfort of a professional officer is irrelevant. I asked you a question. Answer it."
"Because… well, because it was… a hardship transfer. Because her fiance, he died… here in Iraq. His death was very rough on her." He added after a moment, "The general was sympathetic. He personally intervened to arrange a transfer stateside."
I gave it a moment, then said, "Kemp, because this is the Army, I don't have to swear you in or read you your rights, or any of that nonsense. I'm an officer of the court pursuing an official investigation. Lying, quibbling, or misleading statements can and will result in charges. Don't make things any worse for yourself."
Kemp started to say something, and I cut him off. "We're now on the record. Are we clear?"
He stared at me a long time.
I said, "According to the manual, Army criteria for hardship transfers and discharges pertain only to deaths in the immediate family. Reconsider your reply."
It looked like he was giving himself a root canal, but he said, "It was… just a situational transfer. After her fiance's death… she… she went to pieces. She took it very, very hard."
This still didn't sound like the Army I know and love. Unhappy or mentally depressed soldiers, ordinarily, are sent to the unit chaplain, or in these more Zen-like times, to a unit counselor, they get their "give-a-shit" ticket punched, and are returned to duty. In extreme cases, the soldier can be awarded a thirty-day leave for mental convalescence-i.e., a month to drink and screw him/herself silly- which typically fixes the mood rings of most soldiers. If neither of these tried-and-true methods fails to produce a mentally stable soldier who is willing and able to kill at the drop of a hat, next step is a discharge-not a transfer-and their issues become the problems of the VA-the Veterans Administration.
Clearly, my threats and cajolements weren't doing the trick. As somebody knowing once said, stupidity is trying the same thing over and over and watching it not work. What I needed was a new approach, i.e., a bigger lie. I informed him, "I don't understand why you're being antagonistic. Bian Tran is a witness for the Army. I am not her enemy."
He seemed to weigh this.
I informed him, "On the stand, where she'll likely end up, she will be cross-examined by a vicious, mean-spirited defense attorney. The defense will of course access her personnel and medical records and, naturally, her mental stability will be at issue. Always is. And if, as you've led me to suspect, there is some damaging revelation, the defense attorney will exploit it to humiliate her in a courtroom before her fellow officers. You can't protect her, Kemp." I took his arm and warned, "Don't try."
He mulled this over. "All right."
"All right, I'll answer truthfully? Or all right, fuck you?"
"Both."
Now we were getting somewhere. I gave him a moment to settle his nerves before I asked, "What happened to Bian Tran? I'm guessing something traumatic."
"Yes, it was… very traumatic. Her transfer was psychiatric. Bian felt responsible. She was crushed. She couldn't stop crying. And she couldn't function, professionally or personally. A complete mental breakdown."
It still wasn't adding up. I said, "She lost a loved one. Sad, but this is war, and as a professional soldier, she surely was mentally prepared for this eventuality. A West Pointer, a battle-tested officer who led troops into combat and who suffered the loss of soldiers. Others have described her as tough, resilient, a cool customer. Why did she take it so hard, Kemp?"
"Guilt, Drummond. Plain guilt. So heavy, so overbearing, so painful, it simply shattered her into pieces." He looked away for a moment and said, "Imagine, if you will, how it must feel to be responsible for the death of the person you loved. What this would do to your insides?"
"Why did she feel responsible?"
"I didn't say she felt responsible. She was responsible."
"How? Why?"
"The CIA courier brought us a message that tipped us off to a large load of weapons and trainers coming from Iran into Karbala. This was during the midst of the Shiite uprising… you might remember… Sadr's Shiite militia had taken over the city, his people were killing our soldiers, and we all knew a major operation would have to be mounted to restore control. So preventing those weapons and trainers from linking up with Sadr's people… well, that would be a real coup. Less guns, less bombs, less American deaths."
"And Bian was in charge of this operation?"
"That's not how it worked."
"Okay. How did it work?"
"Bian was the analyst assigned to shape a response. As I said, the CIA never told us how they knew, or about their sources, but they informed us that the Iranian shipment and trainers were going into the city of Karbala, in a sector assigned to the First Armored Division. Bian provided the division operations shop with an order. A description of what was coming, when, and where to intercept it."
The lights were now coming on. I said, "And the division assigned this mission to her fiance's… to Mark Kemble's battalion."
He stared at the ground a moment, and the man was clearly in pain. Finally, he mumbled, "It was the worst coincidence I've ever seen or heard."