Authors: Brian Haig
“You’d be surprised,” I told him. “I can recall almost every waking hour that I was in combat. The exhaustion, strain, and fear don’t dull your senses. Your brain has to work in overdrive just to function. You don’t forget things like how many flares went off or who told you the Serbs were following you, or how many Serbs were on the hillside looking down on your position. It’s like Sam Peckinpah has taken hold of your mental faculties.”
Delbert said,“I’ll take your word for it. But I also know that nine sets of eyes, collecting images from nine different perspectives, then shoving them across nine different sets of synapses and neurons, are apt to process things a bit differently. Any experienced attorney or investigator knows that.”
“What about the fact that Sanchez never reported the situation they were in, nor did he report the ambush, even after they’d extricated?”
“I don’t know,”Delbert said.“It’s an intriguing question. Maybe he was worried about the repercussions. He’s been passed over for major once. This year is his last chance. He’s got a wife, two kids, and a file that’s borderline. He’d be dead in the water if someone decided they didn’t like how he got his team out of there.”
Morrow, who had been idly watching us argue, tapped her pencil on the table a few times to get our attention. She was going to make a fine judge someday.
She stared at me. “I watched you with Sanchez. I thought you were bullying him.”
“So you thought my interrogation technique was flawed?” “It
was
flawed. You browbeat him into making inaccurate statements. I haven’t listened to the tapes, but maybe you did that with the others as well.”
“Come on, Morrow, these are battle-hardened veterans.” “And this is the Army, and you’ve got those big, shiny, gold major’s leaves pinned to your collar. Most of them are noncoms, and now you’re wondering why they lied about how many flares went off.”
“You think I badgered them?”
She gave me an exasperated look.“I think you’re predisposed. That’s the way you come off. You made them nervous. I’m not saying they’re innocent; I’m saying your approach was flawed.”
“She’s right,” Delbert said.
I could’ve defended myself, but the truth is, they were right. I was predisposed. I believed in my bones that Sanchez and his men were lying. And if you could call dubious looks, eye-rolling, verbal baiting, and finger-pointing a bullying technique, then I was guilty. I’d used the authority of my rank and the odor of my official position to coerce them into answering my questions. I could see where Delbert and Morrow thought that I’d instigated the very inconsistencies, mistruths, and fabrications I was now complaining about.
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.
E
arly 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 passé, 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.
Either Delbert or Morrow had ratted me out. Hell, maybe they’d both ratted me out. I could just hear their two voices on the phone, competing to see who could outrat who.
It’s not that I expected loyalty, because most lawyers can barely spell the word. But there’s disloyalty, and then there’s something that flies unspeakably beyond those bounds. It was a really good thing neither of them were here at this moment. They’d look damned silly with a telephone sticking out their butts.
And why did I get this sudden feeling that Clapper had just subtly pressured me to declare these men completely innocent of all possible charges? I wanted to vomit—and I might have— except I’m too cool for that.
I had trusted Clapper completely. Worse, I owed him. This was the same guy who gave me my start in law, literally in a classroom at Fort Benning, then later when I needed the Army to sponsor me through law school. He was also the man who picked me for this job. Until now, I’d just assumed it was because I was the hotshot young lawyer he’d always wished he’d been. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I at least thought he liked me.
Somebody at the White House must’ve really put his balls in an intolerable vise, because until this moment he’d been very high and mighty about seeking the truth. Or maybe he’d just been pumping me full of bullshit to prepare for this moment.
They say that the devil makes sure the wicked get more than their share of luck, and just at that moment there was a timid knock on my office door. It slowly opened, and another of Imelda’s assistants, the one who strongly resembled a saber-toothed tiger, cautiously stuck her long, narrow face in.
“Uh, Major ...excuse me,” she kind of whispered, like she didn’t want to start an avalanche.
I looked up and tried to control my temper. “What?” “There’s a man here to see you. A civilian.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you ask him nicely?”
She giggled a little too nervously, the way some people do when they’re placing blasting caps inside C4 explosive.“If you’d like, sir, I’ll tell him you’re busy.”
“No, show him in,” I said.
For some reason or other, nearly all reporters, when they’re in the field, like to wear those silly-looking tan vests. You know the type, the ones that have a dozen or so pockets, like bird shooters use, so they can have a handy place to tuck all that ammo they’re going to use against all those vicious ducks and geese.
This man wore one of those vests, only it was a really big one, more like a tent with pockets. He looked to be about three hundred pounds. He was a little shorter than me and about thrice as wide. The word “lardass” instantly popped to mind, and I instinctively looked around to see if there was any chair in my office that was sturdy enough to handle him. There wasn’t.
“Hi,” he said, real friendly-like, as his beady little eyes did a quick inspection, apparently also seeking a chair. “You must be Major Drummond.”
“Says so on my nametag,” I replied, pointing down at my chest.
“Hah-hah,” he laughed, waddling forward.“That’s a really good one.”
“Actually it wasn’t all that funny the first time you heard it, and it hasn’t improved with age.”
His laughing stopped. “You know who I am?”
“Mr. Berkowitz, right?”
He gave me this ingratiating smile. “Hey, no hard feelings, right?”
“Hard feelings?”I asked with an inquisitive frown.“Why would I have hard feelings?”
“Come on.”
“No, what?”
“You’re screwin’ with me, right?”