The Descent

The  colonel said, 'Dodge?'

'Yes.'

'What more do you want us to do, Christie?'

Every  bulletin  board  in  camp  dutifully  carried  NATO's  Wanted  poster.  Fifty-four men charged with the worst war crimes graced the poster. IFOR,  the  Implementation Forces, was tasked  with apprehending every  man  it  found.  Miraculously,  despite  nine months  in  country  and  an  extensive  intelligence  setup,  IFOR  had  found  not  one  of them.  On  several  notorious  occasions,  IFOR  had  literally  turned  its  head  in  order  to

not see what was right in front of them.

The   lesson  had  been   learned   in  Somalia.  While  hunting  a  tyrant,   twenty-four Rangers had been trapped, slaughtered, and dragged by  their  heels  behind  the  armed trucks  called Technicals. Branch himself had missed  dying  in  that  alley  by  a  matter  of minutes.

Here  the  idea  was  to  return  every  troop  home  –  alive  and  well  –  by  Christmas. Self-preservation  was a very  popular idea. Even over  testimony. Even over  justice.

'You know what they're  up to,' Chambers said.

The  mass of bones danced within the shimmering nitrogen bloom.

'Actually I don't.'

Chambers  was  undaunted.  She  was  downright  grand.  '"I  will  allow  no  atrocity  to occur in my  presence,"' she quoted to the colonel.

It  was  a  clever  bit  of  insubordination,  her   way   of  declaring  that   she   and  her scientists were  not alone in their disgust. The  quote  came  from  the  colonel's  very  own Rangers.  During  their  first  month  in  Bosnia,  a  patrol  had  stumbled  upon  a  rape  in progress, only to be ordered to stand back and  not  intervene.  Word  had  spread  of  the incident.   Outraged,   mere   privates   in   this   and   other   camps   had   taken   it   upon themselves  to  author  their  own  code  of  conduct.  A  hundred  years  ago,  any  army  in the world would have  taken  a whip to such  impudence.  Twenty  years  ago,  JAG  would have  fried some ass.  But  in  the  modern  volunteer  Army,  it  was  allowed  to  be  called  a bottom-up initiative. Rule Six, they  called it.

'I see no atrocity,' the colonel said. 'I see no  Serbs  at  work.  No  human  actor  at  all.  It could be animals.'

'Goddammit, Bob.' They'd  been through it a dozen times, though never  in  public  this way.

'In  the  name  of  decency,'  Chambers  said,  'if  we  can't  raise  our  sword  against  evil...' She heard the cliché coming together  out of her own mouth and abandoned it.

'Look.' She started  over.  'My  people located Zulu Four, opened it, spent five valuable days  excavating  the  top  layer  of  bodies.  That  was  before  this  goddam  rain  shut  us down. This is by  far  the  largest  massacre  site.  There's  at  least  another  eight  hundred bodies  in  there.  So  far,  our  documentation  has  been  impeccable.  The  evidence  that comes  out  of  Zulu  Four  is  going  to  convict  the  worst  of  the  bad  guys,  if  we  can  just finish the job. I'm not willing to see it  all  destroyed  by  goddam  human  wolverines.  It's bad enough they  engineered a massacre, but then to despoil the  dead?  It's  your  job  to guard that site.'

'It is not our job,' said the colonel. 'Guarding graves  is not our job.'

'Human rights depends –'

'Human rights is not our job.'

A burst  of radio static eddied, became words, became silence.

'I  see  a  grave  settling  beneath  ten  days  of  rain,'  the  colonel  said.  'I  see  nature  at work. Nothing more.'

'For once, let's be certain,' Chambers said. 'That's all I'm asking.'

'No.'

'One helicopter. One hour.'

'In this weather?  At night? And look at the area, flooded with nitrogen.'

In  a  line,  the  six  screens  pulsed  with  electric  coloration.  Rest  in  peace,  thought

Branch. But the bones shifted again.

'Right in front of our eyes...' muttered  Christie.

Branch  felt  suddenly  overwhelmed.  It  struck  him  as  obscene  that  these  dead  men and boys should be  cheated  of  their  only  concealment.  Because  of  the  awful  way  they had  died,  these  dead  were  destined  to  be  hauled  back  into  the  light  by  one  party  or another  –  if  not  by  the  Serbs,  then  by  Chambers  and  her  pack  of  hounds,  perhaps over  and over  again. In this  gruesome  condition  they  would  be  seen  by  their  mothers

and wives  and sons and daughters and the sight would haunt their loved ones forever.

'I'll go,' he heard himself say.

When the colonel  saw  it  was  Branch  who  had  spoken,  his  face  collapsed.  'Major?'  he said. Et tu?

In that instant,  the  universe  revealed  depths  Branch  had  failed  to  estimate  or  even dream.  For  the  first  time  he  realized  that  he  was  a  favorite  son  and  that  the  colonel had  hoped  in  his  heart  to  hand  on  the  division  to  him  someday.  Too  late,  Branch comprehended the magnitude of his betrayal.

Branch  wondered  what  had  made  him  do  it.  Like  the  colonel,  he  was  a  soldier's soldier.  He  knew  the  meaning  of  duty,  cared  for  his  men,  understood  war  as  a  trade rather  than  a  calling,  shirked  no  hardship,  and  was  as  brave  as  wisdom  and  rank allowed.  He  had  measured  his  shadow  under  foreign  suns,  had  buried  friends,  taken wounds, caused grief among his enemies.

For  all  that,   Branch  did  not  see   himself  as  a   champion.   He   didn't   believe   in champions. The  age was too complicated.

And  yet  he  found  himself,  Elias  Branch,  advocating  the  proposition.  'Someone's  got to start  it,' he stated  with awful self-consciousness.

'It,' monotoned the colonel.

Not  quite  sure  even  what  he  meant  after  all,  Branch  did  not  try  to  define  himself.

'Sir,' he said, 'yes,  sir.'

'You find this so necessary?'

'It's just that we have  come so far.'

'I like to believe  that, too. What is it you hope to accomplish, though?'

'Maybe,' said Branch, 'maybe  this time we can look into their eyes.'

'And then?'

Branch felt naked and foolish and alone. 'Make them answer.'

'But their answer will be false,' said the colonel. 'It  always  is. What then?' Branch was confused.

'Make them quit, sir.' He swallowed.

Unbidden,  Ramada  came  to  Branch's  rescue.  'With  permission,  sir,'  he  said.  'I'll volunteer to go with the major, sir.'

'And me,' said McDaniels.

From around the room, three  other  crews  volunteered  also.  Without  asking,  Branch had himself an entire expeditionary  force of gunships. It  was a terrible  deed, a show  of support very  close to patricide. Branch bowed his head.

In  the  great  sigh  that  followed,  Branch  felt  himself  released  forever  from  the  old man's heart. It  was a lonely freedom and he did not want it, but now it was his.

'Go, then,' spoke the colonel.

0410

Branch led low, lights doused, blades cleaving the foul ceiling. The  other two Apaches prowled his wings, lupine, ferocious.

He  gave  the  bird  its  head  of  steam:  145  kph.  Get  this  thing  over  with.  By  dawn, flapjacks with bacon  for  his  gang  of  paladins,  some  rack  time  for  himself,  then  start  it all over.  Keeping the peace. Staying alive.