“How so?”
“You never lose the right of self-defense and I don’t need clearance to nail ‘em. So sayeth the rules of engagement. Now the FLIR breaks out the target. A truck and a fuel tanker are sandwiching a TEL with a couple more trucks and a bus behind.”
“TEL?” she whispered. She wasn’t making notes and her eyes were wide and unblinking.
“TEL stands for transporter, erector, launcher,” Gus said. “A really big vehicle that carries the missile.”
“So you saw the rocket.”
“Nope. The TEL was camouflaged. Behind the fuel tanker is a bus and I see a few smaller vehicles flanking the convoy – outriders running escort. A red stream of tracers reaches up from one of those puppies, right at us. Toby’s head is buried in the back, working the radar, getting a system lock-on so he doesn’t see it. The TEWS is still screaming at us and I turn off the audio.”
“Why?”
“So I can concentrate. Toby’s got the TEL locked up and the weapons system is doing its magic. All I got to do is get close enough. Two more SAM’s are coming at us but I figure they’re SA-7s, shoulder-held missiles that aren’t much of a threat, not as long as I can keep us on the deck and going like stink. The tracers cut behind us. The bastards can’t shoot. We over fly the convoy and I rip six Snake Eyes – I mean I rippled six Mark 82, five hundred-pound bombs. Shack.
“The jet rocks something awful and the lights on the warning panel go crazy. We’re headed down and I stroke the ‘burners and pull, going for the moon. Behind us, the convoy goes up like the Fourth of July on steroids.”
“What happened?” she asked breathlessly.
“The fuel tanker and whatever was on the TEL exploded. The warhead I guess.”
“I mean what happened to you?”
“We took a hit. Lost most of our hydraulics and holed the right wing something fierce. We were leaking fuel like a sieve. No way we can make it home so I call for an emergency refueling.” He gave a little laugh. “It was a long way back to the tanker. Almost flamed out for fuel starvation. But we got hooked up and the KC-135 dragged us back to Al Kharj, where we landed.”
“Did you get a medal?”
“No way. We had gone out of our area without clearance. Some general at CentCom, that’s Central Command, wanted to court-martial us. But my wing commander, Jim Cannon, wasn’t having any of it since they had shot at us.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was warm and moist. “You’re sweating.”
“So are you.”
She pulled her hand back and shook her hair. “It must be the thermostat.”
Gus sat on his bunk, his back against the wall as he watched Davis Armiston being interviewed by Harm de Rijn on Dutch TV. The overhead lights blinked, warning him that it was fifteen minutes to lights out. “You’re still the same oily son of a bitch,” Gus said to no one.
Stop talking to yourself. This place is getting to you.
The camera zoomed in on Armiston’s face. “While most American’s are opposed to the ICC,” Armiston explained, “there is a substantial, and growing minority who believe we should participate.”
Now don’t go falling all over yourself with unbridled joy, Harm.
De Rijn did. “That is very encouraging to hear, especially after the cowboyism and amateurism that has characterized American foreign policy for the last decade.”
“One of my foreign policy goals,” Armiston replied “is to reach out to our European allies in a meaningful way and rebuild the ties that are the bulwark of the western alliance.”
“Rebuild, my ass,” Gus said. He hit the power key on his remote control and the TV went blank. He closed his eyes and sat there, his head against the wall.
“Rebuild what?” Derwent asked from the doorway.
“How long have you been there?”
“Just a few moments. I was listening to your General Armiston. I take it that you don’t approve of what he said.”
“Armiston is a total asshole. He’ll say whatever he thinks will get him elected.”
“Do you know him personally?”
“I knew him when he was a captain, later a lieutenant colonel, he hasn’t changed a bit.”
“So he was a fighter pilot like you.”
“Davis Armiston doesn’t know the meaning of the term.”
Derwent drew a cup of water at the buffet, and handed him a sleeping capsule. Before he could take it, she sat on the bunk next to him, and as before, placed her fingers lightly on his neck to feel him swallow. “We must be very careful with these,” she murmured. Her fingers lingered longer than necessary. She rose and walked to the door. “Your story about the Scud missile was most exciting. Sleep well.” Then she was gone, closing the door behind her. He heard the lock click and spat the pill into his hand.
Gus waited for the lights to go out. When it was dark, he walked to the buffet, still holding the capsule. He unrolled the paper towels and placed the pill on the last sheet. Then he methodically rolled the towels back up.
We’re getting there.
ELEVEN
NATO Headquarters
Power is a relative thing and the two men sitting in office of the Supreme
Allied Commander Europe, or SACEUR, were a case in point. Maximilian Westcot was one of the wealthiest men in the United States and moved on the world stage with ruthless arrogance. He was also the confidant of the President of the United States, and had direct access to sixteen prime ministers and heads of state. On the other side of the desk, General Douglas Hammerly was an accomplished professional warrior who had commanded units in combat and a brilliant strategist. With one order, he could set thousands of men and women in motion. But more importantly, he was a leader men and women willingly followed into combat.
“The President is walking a tight rope on the Tyler issue,” Westcot explained. “Publicly, he’s concentrating on the Taiwan crises. Behind the scenes, he’s pursuing a two-fold approach to free Gus. He’s willing to let the wheels of diplomacy turn to a certain extent to see if the system can correct itself. At the same time, he’s asked me to explore more informal avenues, including private appeals to the court and some of my European friends.”
Hammerly understood perfectly: the President was using the backdoor to pressure the ICC, and he, as SACEUR, had better get on board. It was part of the world he lived in where informal links were as important as the formal chains of command. The trick was knowing when and how to respond, and as it was Maximilian Westcot, the response had better be positive. “Given the widespread public demonstrations we’re seeing over here,” Hammerly said, “appealing to their better natures or sense of justice is a waste of time.”
“It does look that away. But Hank Sutherland believes he can win, provided that he finds a key witness and gets him on the stand.”
“Who is?”
“Colonel James Cannon,” Westcot replied. “I know what Cannon does. Unfortunately, I goofed, and Sutherland is aware that I know Cannon.”
Hammerly steepled his fingers and studied Westcot, carefully guarding his words. Cannon was a key player in Operation Phoenix, a top-secret special operation that tracked down and killed terrorists. It had been a long struggle and the ranks of the terrorists had been decimated, largely thanks to Cannon who wielded the knife that targeted individuals with small airborne-delivered, precision-guided munitions. Hammerly made a decision. “I’ll see what I can do. And if Sutherland fails?”
“Then there will be a rescue mission.”
“The CIA?”
Westcot shook his head. “The Director of National Intelligence refuses to get involved. Which, given the current state of our intelligence services, is a very wise move. They would screw it up big time.”
The general agreed with him. “I assume you’re telling me all this for a reason.”
Westcot nodded. “We need Sergeant Tyler’s help.”
“You’ve got it. He’s already providing covert security for Sutherland. By the way, exactly who is the ‘we’ in all this?”
“Shall we say a non governmental organization with a lot of backing?”
“Ah,” Hammerly said, his suspicions confirmed, “the dreaded NGO working independently of any established government but certainly supported by a government.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment on that,” Westcot intoned, playing the same game as the general.
The Hague
Alex Melwin sipped at his afternoon tea and eyed the last scone on the teacart as Hank paced the floor. “Why don’t you finish it off?” Hank said. “Take a look at this. It came in today.” He didn’t tell Melwin that the mini disk was courtesy of Cassandra and her team. He made a mental note to introduce Melwin to Cassandra at the right time. He hit the start button on the video player and Toby Person materialized on the screen as he guided a BBC reporter through his mission in the southern Sudan.
“This is Mission Awana,” Toby said, sweeping the area with a broad wave of his hand. “It’s really a plantation in that we’re largely self-sufficient. Thanks to the river, we’ve over 4000 acres under year-round irrigation, and export food, mostly a type of disease-resistant sorghum. We also have some cottage industries that could be commercially successful. Equally important, we have the best schools and the largest medical station in sub Sahara Africa. Our hospital has three doctors, an operating room, a hundred beds, and a training school for nurses and midwives. Our medical teams vaccinate over 10,000 children a year.”
A loud explosion echoed over him. The men ran and the picture twisted and turned as the cameraman followed Toby and the reporter into a bunker. They all piled inside and were soon joined by a hoard of children. A little girl crawled into Toby’s lap and sucked her thumb. Toby listened as a second explosion shook the bunker. “That’s our daily reminder that we’re caught in a civil war.” The dull whomp of two outgoing mortar rounds reached them. “That’s outgoing counter-battery fire. D’Na is pretty good at discouraging them.” They sat in the stifling heat as silence engulfed them.
A heavyset figure, about five-feet eight-inches tall, and dressed in combat fatigues filled the doorway to the bunker. Her hair was cut short, her facial features classical Dinka, and her dark skin glowed with health and vitality. She would never be considered beautiful by western standards but she was a strikingly handsome woman. “It’s all clear,” she announced. The children burst from the bunker as she laughed.
Hank hit the pause button. “I would not want him as a hostile witness on the stand,” he said.
Melwin swallowed the last of the scone. “Agreed. Much better to take our chances and try to exclude his statement.”
Hank restarted the video and let it play out. “He is impressive. Any ideas on how to keep it out?”
“A few,” Melwin replied. “None good. We could call Person as a witness for the defense, and then press the Victims and Witnesses Unit to produce him at the trial, which they probably can’t do. I’ll remind the court that when Person gave the statement, he was not subject to cross examination, and as he is a witness for the defense, the introduction of the statement in his absence is prejudicial to Colonel Tyler’s defense.”
“Will that work?”
“With Bouchard? I doubt it. But the other two judges might agree.”
“Pity we don’t know who they are,” Hank said.
“There are five other judges in the trial division and they all want to hear this case. I can tell you that none will be sympathetic to Colonel Tyler.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Hank muttered. He made a mental note to have Cassandra’s team profile all five. “Notify the court that we’re calling the Reverend as a witness.”
Westcot was enjoying himself. He was sitting in the receiving chamber of Alphonse Relieu, the ICC’s senior president, and wondering where the other two presidents of the court were hiding. But he was not surprised. He did have a well-deserved reputation, and braver souls had run for cover when Max Westcot sighted down on them. Sir John Landis, the presiding judge at Gus’s confirmation hearing, was made of much stronger stuff and was sitting next to Relieu. There was no doubt in Westcot’s mind that the meeting was going nowhere, but it was exactly the type of exchange he loved. He made a mental bet that he could send at least one of the two men scurrying for the restroom. He ran his handicapping system and decided Relieu was the odds-on favorite.
The three men stood when Denise entered the ornate chamber. It was the first time Westcot had seen her in person and he sighed, deeply regretting that his marriage license lacked a mileage limitation. Denise bestowed a beautiful smile on him and his regret multiplied substantially. She sat down, crossing her legs, and gestured to the chair next to her. He joined her and she touched the back of his right hand.
“This a pleasure,” she murmured. “Chrestien has spoken of you so many times.” Her hand lingered on his.
“Madam Prosecutor,” Relieu said, “thank you for coming on such short notice. Monsieur Westcot has a most interesting, but very informal, proposal from his President.”
Denise arched an eyebrow. She was aware of the power and influence Westcot wielded and doubted that Relieu could stand up to him. “Of course we are most willing to hear whatever your President may offer.” She withdrew her hand and the battle was joined.
“If the court,” Westcot said, “will release the colonel, my government is prepared to recall him to active duty and charge him with war crimes.”
“I am familiar with your Manual for Courts-Martial,” Landis said. “Bringing charges does not automatically mean a court-martial.”
Westcot was not a lawyer but his percom was on and his legal team, without doubt the best in the world, was feeding him information through his earpiece. “Considering the severity of the charges against Colonel Tyler, I’m confident the officer conducting the pretrial investigation will recommend a court-martial.”
Relieu caught the slight shake of Denise’s head. “The preamble to the Rome Statute establishing the court clearly states that the court’s authority is complementary to national criminal jurisdictions, which hold primacy over our proceedings. We will, of course, defer to Panama should they decide to bring Tyler to trial.” His voice shook as he looked at Denise. “The court cannot grant the United States primacy in this matter.”
Westcot gave Relieu a long look that asked why he was being so stupid. A European politician could only antagonize the President of the United States up to a point. Anything beyond that had serious consequences. “May I ask why? This is a proposal that satisfies both our needs.”
Denise again touched Westcot’s hand. “Complementarity only extends to member countries of the court. Now should the United States ratify the Rome Statute and become a party to the court, then perhaps …”
“That will never happen, my dear,” Westcot told her. She gave him a sad look and withdrew her hand. “But I assure you, our system of military law reflects the law of armed conflict.”
Landis chimed in, not the least intimidated by Westcot. “You must think we’re simpletons. The law of international armed conflict separates the intended effect of an action from its logically foreseen effect, which the Rome Statute will never do.”
Westcot listened to the voice in his earpiece. “So,” he replied, “if a pilot bombs a train station to stop a troop movement and kills civilians who just happen to be in the train station, he’s guilty of murder.”
Denise nodded. “Under every civilized system of law.”
Westcot’s legal team was way ahead of her. “Under every system of criminal law,” he replied, “but not under the law of armed conflict.”
“A court-martial,” Landis said, “would undoubtedly find Tyler not guilty. That would be a mockery of justice and the court would be forced to declare it a sham trial and have the prosecutor bring charges against him.”
“Even I know that is double jeopardy,” Westcot said. He came to his feet and fixed the two men with a cold look. “I assure you, you are making a very bad mistake.” He turned and stalked out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
Relieu ran for his private restroom.