“One minute out,” Toby said.
“I got ‘em on the FLIR,” Gus said, amazingly calm as the lead trucks materialized on his HUD. Bright red flashes from the convoy, tracers, drifted towards them and Gus jinked hard, loading the jet with little sharp and random turns. It worked and they bore down on the convoy. At the last moment, they flew straight and level for two seconds. It seemed an eternity but they had no choice if the weapons system was to do its magic. Three bombs rippled off and Gus jinked the Strike Eagle for all it was worth as tracers ripped past them.
The night exploded behind them as the Mark-82s walked across the lead trucks. The center bomb was a shack and hit the rear of the first truck. But the other two were not wasted as the fragmentation pattern of a Mark-82 reaches out over two thousand feet. The night erupted as three secondary explosions ripped the darkness apart. “Gas tanks,” Toby said. A fourth explosion lit the sky. “Got something big.” For a moment, only the sound of heavy breathing filled their headsets. “Let’s nail the rear,” Toby said.
“I’ve got a visual,” Gus said as he repositioned the Strike Eagle. “Rip three.”
“Got it,” Toby said as he moved his crosshairs over the tail end of the convoy that was now stopped. Gus turned inbound and jinked. But this time the TEWS was quiet. A single stream of tracers reached out from the heart of the convoy but it was wide by a thousand feet. The run-in was a walk in the park. Again, the system worked as designed and the last three Mark-82s separated cleanly from the aircraft. The result was not as spectacular as the first time but it was every bit as accurate. They circled back. The flames from burning vehicles at both ends of the convoy lit the night and they had no trouble seeing the havoc they had caused.
“Moonbeam, Driver One,” Gus radioed, his voice calm and measured, “the convoy is stopped on the highway. Both ends bottled up.”
“Shit hot!” the controller aboard the orbiting C-130 yelled.
“What’s he so happy about?” Toby asked over the intercom.
“Driver One,” Moonbeam radioed, “Driver Two with three is inbound, five minutes out.”
“Copy all, Moonbeam,” Gus answered. Jim Cannon back at Al Kharj was starting to launch every Strike Eagle he could. “We’ve still got the CBUs,” Gus told Toby.
“This is what we get paid for.”
“One pass, haul ass,” Gus said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Gus called up the weapons armament panel and selected the remaining stations to ripple the six canisters on one long pass. He circled back to the head of the convoy and flew a curvilinear approach onto the stalled vehicles. Neither man said a word as they flew down the length of the highway and the canisters separated one at a time, each spewing its deadly cargo. Gus honked back on the stick and climbed into the clouds. He never looked back.
“Radar’s clear,” Toby said, clearing them of any aircraft that might be in the clouds.
Skid’s familiar voice came over the radio. “Moonbeam, Driver Two with three. How copy?”
“Driver Two, I read you five-by,” the controller answered. “Hold at angels fourteen while Driver One clears the area.”
“Hope there’s something left for us,” Skid answered.
“Plenty to go around,” the controller answered.
Gus nudged the transmit switch on the throttle quadrant. “Moonbeam, Driver One clear of area.”
“Rog, Driver One. You’re cleared RTB. Good work out there.”
Gus answered with two clicks of the transmit switch as they climbed into the clear night sky.
The Present
The image on the screen abruptly ended and the lights in the courtroom came up. The audience sat in silence, stunned by the reality of combat. Hank’s cool voice split the quiet as he brought them back to the moment. “Colonel Tyler, during the mission we have just witnessed, did you drop any bombs or CBUs off the highway?”
“No. You can see that on the video.”
“At this time,” Hank continued, “I would like to replay defense exhibit one, which is the complete and unedited video of the Highway of Death as documented by Harm de Rijn. Colonel Tyler, will you please point out for the court those destroyed vehicles that are on the highway or close to it. Just say ‘stop’ so we can mark the tape.” Harm de Rijn’s video came on the screen. But this time there was no sound and just the images. It played in complete silence. Finally, it was over. “Colonel Tyler, we have just seen 248 destroyed vehicles on the so-called Highway of Death. Yet you did not say stop once.”
“None of them were on the highway.”
“How do you explain that?”
“The highway had probably been cleared by the time this video was taken.”
“But you freely admit that you bombed vehicles on the highway.”
“I did. But I have no idea who bombed the ones we just saw.”
Hank turned to the bench. “The defense enters the airborne videotape as defense exhibit ten.”
“Objection,” Denise called. “Defense has not established the validity of the tape.”
“How careless of me,” Hank answered. He handed Gus a piece of paper and the videocassette. “Do you recognize this form and cassette?”
“The form is the certification I signed when I turned over the tape. This is the cassette and you can see the seal is still intact.”
“Do you certify that this videotape is the complete and unaltered airborne video recorded during the mission in question?”
“I do,” Gus replied.
“Your Honor,” Denise protested. “This is ridiculous. The defendant could be lying.”
“The court’s technical staff can examine the cassette to determine if it has been altered,” Hank replied. “Or the learned Prosecutor can produce witnesses or evidence to impeach the tape’s validity.” He paused and snapped his fingers. “Darn. I forgot. The witness lists are closed.”
A man in the audience called, “Where’s Henri?” Two security guards were on him and hustling him out the door.
Bouchard conferred with Della Sante and Richter. “The airborne video is provisionally entered subject to examination by the court’s technical experts. The Prosecutor may call additional witnesses as appropriate.”
“Need I ask?” Hank said in a stage whisper.
Bouchard started to say something but thought better of it. He conferred with Della Sante and Richter. “As it is well past one in the afternoon and we have not recessed for lunch, court is adjourned until ten P.M. tomorrow morning.”
Catherine was standing beside Marci when her director motioned they were transmitting live. “The court has just adjourned for the day and I have with me Catherine Sutherland. Catherine, what do you make of the court’s ruling on transferring Colonel Tyler to Iraqi custody?”
“The ruling is unconscionable in the extreme. Not only that, but Bouchard timed his ruling to coincide with Gus taking the stand. It was an obvious attempt to put him under stress and weaken his testimony.”
“That is a very serious accusation,” Marci replied. “However, my Dutch colleagues were also stunned by the ruling.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s fair to ask what’s going on? Why won’t the court allow the defense to call Henri Scullanois to the stand?”
“Which is a very good question,” Marci said, transitioning smoothly to the couple standing on her other side. “I also have with me the two spectators who were ejected from the courtroom for asking, ‘Where’s Henri?’ She turned to the man. “Why did you say it?”
“I have been in the courtroom every day,” he replied with a heavy Dutch accent. “It is obvious they don’t want Scullanois on the stand. So I ask myself ‘Why?’ I think we should know, don’t you?”
“And you?” Marci asked the woman.
She spoke with a French accent. “For the same reason. But there is something about Gus that tells me he is innocent. A woman knows these things.”
“What do you think of the court’s decision to turn Colonel Tyler over to the Iraqis?”
“This is not justice,” the man replied.
“It’s barbaric!” the woman cried. Catherine reached out and held the woman’s hand.
“Mrs. Sutherland,” Marci said, making sure the camera captured the two women holding hands, “as a lawyer, what do you see as the most damning evidence the prosecution has presented so far?”
“The deposition by the Reverend Tobias Person is the smoking gun the prosecutor needs to win a conviction.”
“Which your husband has seriously questioned. Is there any chance the court will throw it out?”
“I seriously doubt it. The deposition was taken in accordance with the rules of the court and the judges aren’t about to put the court itself on trial.”
“How’s Colonel Tyler doing on the stand?”
The woman answered. “
Magnifique!
He is the only man in the room.”
Gus worked the problem.
So how do you play a shrink?
he thought.
What did Clare always say?
“For a woman, intimacy is everything.”
Then it came to him.
Talk.
He rehearsed the coming conversation and tried to gauge Derwent’s reaction. He looked up when he saw her standing in the doorway, a concerned look on her face. “Thanks for coming.” He held a chair for her at the small table and sat opposite her.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
He forced a sad look. “I knew it was coming, the Iraqi ruling. But I wasn’t really ready for it. My stomach is in knots.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He reached across the table and enfolded her right hand with both of his. “I thought I was tough enough to take it. But I keep asking myself, are they right? Am I truly guilty?”
She placed her left hand on top of his hands. “No, you’re not guilty. You are simply paying the price a sane man pays for the brutality of war.” The lights blinked, telling them they had fifteen minutes to lights-out. She stood, lifted the phone receiver on the wall, and called the cellblock commander “This is Doctor Derwent. Please leave the lights and the heat on. I’m with my patient.” She sat back down, certain they had turned a corner. Now she could help him.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “We have all night.”
“It’s hard to explain why I fought, but it wasn’t courage. It was a need that I couldn’t ignore.”
“I know,” she said. She listened as he talked, more his friend than counselor.
Southern Sudan
Leon passed the bottle of Napoleon brandy up to Hon who was sitting behind the wheel of the Wolf Turbo. Hon took a long pull, sighed, and passed it to Paride who was standing behind the machine gun in the rear. Paride sniffed at it and passed it to Jason, who was standing beside Leon, completing the circle. Jason finished it and held the bottle up for inspection in the moonlight. “
Un enfant mort pour la patrie
,” he said.
“It’s
un soldat français mort pour la patrie
,” Leon corrected, referring to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier under the Arc de Triomphe. “You have been to Paris?”
“Oh yeah,” Jason replied. “I went with my family when I was a teenager. I didn’t want to go but my dad made me. We had a great time. I want to go back.”
“But Americans don’t like the French.”
Jason thought about it. “We like to complain about them, but basically, we’re family.”
“I hope not,” Leon scoffed.
The wail of Arabic music drifted across the runway and they could see shadowy figures dancing in the glow of campfires. Men started to shout and chant. “It looks like they’re getting hyped up,” Jason said.
“Opiates,” Leon said. “I saw it when I was in the Legion.” He listened to the sounds coming from the road. “They’ll attack at first light.”
“We’ve got some work to do,” Jason said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Southern Sudan
It was still dark when the Afrikaner scampered across the runway, reeling
a wire out behind him. He piled into a DFP and keyed his hand-held radio. “Boss, we got the third string of dynamite in place.” He quickly attached the wire to a clicker-type firing device and showed his buddy how to give it a half squeeze before removing the safety pin.
“Good work,” Jason replied. The Afrikaners were manning the three center DFPs stretched along the runway, and, thanks to some last minute scrambling, each DFP was protected by a string of dynamite charges strung out along the far side of the runway. Jason tried to visualize the coming attack. If needed, he and Leon could man one of the end DFPs to hold a flank, and he still had Hon and Paride in the Wolf Turbo as a mobile reserve. Anyone making it across the minefield was in for a nasty surprise. He looked across the runway as the first light of the new day broke the far horizon.
“Boss!” one of the Afrikaners yelled over the radio. “They’re coming. But the bastards are herding kaffirs in front of them, the poor buggers.”
Jason stood on top of the Wolf Turbo and scanned the minefield with his binoculars. The coppery taste of bile flooded his mouth. Soldiers were pushing and prodding a large group of women and children into the minefield with bayonets. Two six-wheeled armored cars drove into place behind the soldiers and stopped, their engines at idle. “Leon, hand me the Remington.” The Frenchman quickly unzipped the case holding a hunting rifle. He was careful not to jostle the telescopic sight when he handed the rifle up along with a box of .308-caliber ammunition. Jason quickly loaded the rifle and rested it across the heavy machine gun. He took aim and squeezed off a single round. Over three hundred meters away, a soldier collapsed to the ground. He squeezed off a second round.
Leon swept the field with binoculars. “You got one, Boss! Merde! You got a second one!” Now he could see the soldiers breaking ranks and running away. But a sergeant blocked their way and forced them back to herding the women and children into the minefield. Jason tried to shoot the sergeant but missed. The sergeant pointed in the general direction of the Wolf Turbo, obviously seeing it, and raised a radio to his lips.
“Scoot!” Jason ordered. Hon gunned the engine and raced for cover. They heard the distinctive whistle of an incoming mortar round as it arced over the minefield. But they were well clear when the mortar round impacted. The first of the mines exploded as the woman and children entered the mine field. Jason dropped the rifle, hating what was happening but unable to stop it. He felt sick to his stomach as more explosions filled the air. Suddenly, the explosions stopped only to be replaced with the crack of heavy machine-gun fire.
“Boss, look!” Paride shouted. “The people run away!” Jason raised his binoculars. The women and children were running out of the minefield and right into the muzzles of the machine guns mounted on the two armored cars. The gunners did not stop firing until the flow of humanity reversed and ran back into the minefield.
Jason’s face froze as a pure hate swept through him. It had been a question of personal survival, but now it was something much more. Slowly, the explosions tapered off as the survivors cleared the minefield. Jason keyed his radio. “Let them through,” he told his three teams in the DFPs. He froze as he scanned the minefield. “Were in hell did that come from?” An armored personnel carrier was clanking into position. It stopped, pivoted on its left track and pointed directly at the compound. The two armored cars motored into a ‘V’ formation behind it. Jason’s eyes narrowed as he studied the new arrival with its center-mounted turret and stubby cannon. “It’s a Russian BMP,” he told Leon. “It carries a three-man crew and eight soldiers.”
Leon studied the BMP. “The head sticking up in front of the turret, is that the driver? Why doesn’t he button down?”
“I’m guessing his field of view is too restricted with the hatch closed,” Jason said. He watched as foot soldiers moved into the ‘V’ for protection. The sound of a diesel engine revving carried across the still morning air. “Hon, hide the Wolf Turbo and don’t let the BMP see you. He’s got a 73mm cannon you don’t want to mess with.” He grabbed the hunting rifle and jumped down. “Go!” Hon gunned the engine and raced for the storage yard with its piles of drilling machinery and pipes.
Jason climbed onto the flat roof of a nearby cement-block shed and rolled into a prone shooting position. The vehicles and soldiers had reached the minefield and had slowed. Jason keyed his radio, calling the DFPs. “Hold your fire.” A geyser of dirt mushroomed from the center of the formation quickly followed by a muffled explosion. “There’s still some mines out there,” Jason radioed. The formation kept moving. The armored car on the left flank disappeared in a fireball and a sharp blast. A secondary explosion ripped it apart, sending a billowing cloud of smoke across the minefield. The mines were still taking their toll but Jason had no illusions about their chances. He fully expected they would have to retreat into the swamp, which was a dead end. But they had a chance if they could inflict enough damage that the soldiers wouldn’t pursue them. It was all they had.
Another mine detonated but the BMP was out of the minefield and less than fifty meters from the runway. Jason again keyed his radio. “Hold your fire, hold your fire.” He waited as the remaining armored car cleared the minefield. Then, “Blow the bastards!” On cue, the three strings of dynamite erupted, raising a curtain of smoke, dirt, and death. The dust slowly cleared as soldiers still stumbled around in confusion. The remaining armored car was nose down in the dirt, its front end blown away, and the BMP was stopped. A small group of soldiers took cover behind the BMP and banged on the hatches. The commander’s hatch next to the turret flipped open and a helmet poked up. Jason sighted the rifle, trying to lay the crosshairs on the helmet, but the hatch cover blocked his view. The driver’s hatch popped open and a second head appeared. Jason shifted his aim as the BMP started to move.
Jason squeezed off a round and immediately keyed the radio. “Fire!” The top of the drivers head disappeared in a cloud of bloody mist as gunfire from the three DFPs swept across the runway, driving the soldiers to the ground. Driverless, the BMP jerked to the left and stalled. Jason was on the radio. “Pull back now! Pull back, pull back.” He sighted again and squeezed off a second round. A soldier collapsed to the ground. “Oh shit!” he yelled. The BMP’s turret was traversing towards him.
He rolled off the roof, leaving the rifle, his radio, and binoculars behind. He hit the ground running and bolted for the closest DFP. He dove in head first as the sharp retort of the BMP’s cannon reached him. The shed vaporized in a loud explosion and debris rained down, burying Jason.
The Hague
Bouchard went through the opening routine and the court was back in session. Hank returned to the podium to continue Gus’s testimony, but he could sense a difference in the audience. He looked at Catherine. Did she also feel it? She nodded and smiled telling him all he needed to know. Public sentiment was swinging in Gus’s favor.
Bouchard called for a short recess and Hank turned on his percom to get Cassandra’s reaction. “The media loves him,” she said. “The military and aviation experts can’t say enough good things about him.”
“Any word on Jason and Toby?”
For a moment, Cassandra was silent. “NSA monitored a brief emergency distress signal from the compound Sunday night at 2304 hours, and there’s no news on the helicopter. We should get satellite coverage of the compound later today.”
“The distress signal was Sunday night, and we’re just hearing about it thirty-six hours later? We’re pretty low on the information totem pole.”
The judges were back and Hank returned to the podium to resume questioning. “Mr. Tyler, did you review your personnel file that the prosecution submitted into evidence?”
“I did. It was complete and I don’t think it had been altered. But I may have missed something.”
“Moving on, did you find the testimony given by Ewe Reiss plausible?”
“Objection,” Denise called. “By his own admission, the witness was not on the ground at the time. He was not in a position to judge one way or the other.”
Della Sante tapped her microphone. “I would like to hear Signore Tyler’s answer.”
“And I,” Richter added.
Gus looked the judges full in the face. “Ewe Reiss was there.”
“Was it your bombs that injured him?”
“I assume so, but he was hit a second time by someone else.”
“Mr. Tyler,” Hank asked, “were you ever briefed on the international law of armed conflict?”
“At least twice that I can remember. It helped explain things.”
“At any time in your career, were you ever trained in the use of weapons of mass destruction?”
Gus never hesitated. “Yes.”
Hank left the podium and walked towards the dock. “Did you ever employ them?”
“Never had to.”
Hank reached the dock. “Did you ever knowingly attack civilians?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I have no further questions at this time.” Bouchard checked the time and recessed for lunch.
Southern Sudan
Leon cleared the debris covering the DFP and snorted. “I thought you were dead.”
Jason held his head and tried to focus through the pain and fog. “How long have I been out? What’s happening?”
“Maybe an hour,” Leon replied. “I had a hard time finding you.” He finished digging Jason out and examined the back of his head, still the medic. “Nasty cut.” He snapped open his first aid kit and dressed the wound. “A few bumps and bruises, but you’ll live. How’s the head?”
“Hurts like hell.”
“Concussion. But you’ve got a thick American skull.” He handed Jason two pills. “Take these. You’ll be wired for about six, eight hours.” Finished, he brought Jason up to date. “They’ve regrouped at the runway and we’ve pulled back into the compound.” He pointed to the three DFPs where the Afrikaners were dug in. “The Reverend’s in the Wolf Turbo over there.” He pointed to the storage yard. Both men flinched at the sharp crack of a rifle. “That’s Paride sniping at them,” Leon said. The BMP’s cannon boomed in retaliation and the debris of the old radio shack fireballed. “Paride shoots, they answer back.” He snorted. “The BMP is stalled and they can’t get it started. Without it, they won’t attack.” He pressed the transmit button on his radio. “I found the Boss. He’s okay.” In the distance, they heard the cough of a diesel engine coming to life.
“Boss!” an Afrikaner yelled over the radio. “They got the BMP started.”
Jason grabbed Leon’s radio. “Paride! Get to the Wolf Turbo and help Hon.”
“I go,” the tall Dinka answered.
In the distance, they heard the clanking of tracks. “They’re moving,” Jason radioed. “How many soldiers?”
“Fifty, sixty,” an Afrikaner answered.” A loud explosion punctuated his transmission.
Leon grunted. “That was the last of the dynamite.”
“But they don’t know that,” Jason replied. “It will slow them down.”
Two soldiers burst into the compound, swinging their AK47s from the hip and firing wildly. Leon raised his M16 and fired a short burst. The two soldiers went down. Now they could see the BMP as it moved across the runway and reached the first building. Gunfire erupted from a DFP along with the sharp crack of Paride’s hunting rifle. Three more soldiers fell but the BMP kept moving. “We’ve got to stop that bastard,” Jason said. Leon dropped his M16 and bolted from the DFP. “What the fuck?” Jason shouted. He picked up the weapon and fired a short burst. More and more soldiers were streaming into the compound, taking cover behind the destroyed buildings. The two DFPs in the middle of the compound kept up a withering rate of fire, catching the soldiers in a deadly crossfire and driving them back.
A soldier broke from behind a pile of rubble and charged at Jason. Jason fired a short burst but covering fire drove him down into his DFP. He lifted the M16 above his head and fired blindly. He was rewarded with a scream of pain and pulled the M16 down to reload. A grenade tumbled in and rolled around at Jason’s feet. He kicked at it but missed. He kicked again and it rolled into the deep shaft sunk in the bottom corner of the foxhole. Without thinking, he huddled in the far corner, wrapped his arms over his head, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. The explosion was deafening but the shaft directed the blast upward and a geyser of dirt mushroomed over Jason. He coughed and sputtered as he fumbled with the M16, trying to reload.
He came to his feet, still a little dazed by the blast. Seven soldiers were coming at him. He fired as Leon skidded into the foxhole loaded with another M16 and six bandoleers of ammunition. “
J’en ai plein le cul!”
My ass is full of this! He stood and fired as the Wolf Turbo charged out from between two buildings, its heavy machine gun firing.
The BMP’s turret traversed towards the Wolf Turbo as Paride fired, sending burst after burst of high-explosive fire into the side of the BMP. The stubby cannon fired as Hon twisted the wheel of the Wolf Turbo and darted out of its path. Now Paride raked the soldiers following behind the BMP. Most of them broke and ran as the Wolf Turbo raced for safety behind the stacks of pipes in the storage yard. The BMP’s cannon fired again, but the round was far wide of the retreating Wolf Turbo.