These were seriously frightened men. On a battlefield, you have about a millisecond to decide whether you want to be a hero or a coward. More often than not, you don’t even decide, you just leap toward your fate.
Most of these men were as courageous as lions on a battlefield, but this was not a battlefield. Here they had time to weigh the repercussions and decide a course. And, in an odd sort of way, what could come out of this investigation was far worse than losing a leg or an arm, or even their lives. These men accepted the prospect of becoming maimed or even dead; they did not accept the loss of their honor. They had families and careers and reputations. They were facing humiliation and imprisonment. They were facing everlasting shame upon themselves, their Army, and their country.
I understood all that. I understood it before I ever asked my first question.
I smiled warmly at Delbert and Morrow, just to show them that I could take their criticism without any hard feelings. In my most penitent tone I told them, “You’re right-both of you-and I’ll try to do better next time.”
It was a lie, of course. Something was seriously wrong with the story Sanchez and his men were telling. I’d break all their legs and arms if that was what it took to get to the bottom of it.
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.