Authors: Brian Haig
“Again, Doc, tell me you’re positive of your numbers.”
I could hear his voice getting more exasperated.“Major Drummond, I’m a graduate of Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. I’ve been a fully functioning pathologist for sixteen years. I think I can recognize when tissue damage is severe enough to cause imminent mortality.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I hung up the phone and sat there, stunned.Well, okay, maybe not stunned, but in that general proximity. I was certainly mystified. Jones had said that when Alfa 36 arrived at the ambush site, it called its division headquarters and reported that there were seventeen dead and still eighteen survivors. Yet, according to McAbee, twenty-five of the thirty-five Serbs should most definitely have been dead. That would’ve left, at most, only ten survivors. Depending how it went with the three or four questionables, maybe less than ten survivors. Maybe only five or six.
Say that Alfa 36 reached the ambush site right after Sanchez’s team pulled out. Maybe that accounted for the difference. I tried to think that through. Sanchez’s team opened the ambush by detonating the two mines buried in the road.That might’ve killed the driver of the lead truck and maybe a few of the men in the back. Then Sanchez’s men began raking the column with M16 and machine-gun fire. Willy-nilly, the Serbs piled out of their vehicles and scrambled for cover behind them. Then the daisy chain of those deadly claymores went off. All of this happened in that first frightful minute.
In ambushes, that opening minute is the height of mayhem. It’s when most of the blood is spilled. And remembering the corpses I’d seen back at the morgue, a very large number appeared to have been shredded by those claymores. Then according to Sanchez and his men, another five to seven minutes were spent trading bullets back and forth. Figure a few more Serbs might’ve been killed during that exchange. By that time, though, the Serbs were mostly behind cover and were furiously returning fire. Sanchez’s men would have been hunkered down, firing back more sporadically, less accurately. Plus, with Perrite on security, and Graves, the medic, back in the rear, Sanchez only had seven shooters at the ambush site. The number of casualties would’ve dwindled to a trickle.
McAbee was sure that twenty-five, and maybe even twenty-nine of the Serbs would have been dead within three minutes after they received their wounds. He was the expert. He knew which organs had to be smashed, which arteries severed, and which limbs obliterated before human brains and hearts started putting up out-of-business signs. That made it physically impossible for Alfa 36 to have arrived at the ambush site in time to find eighteen survivors.
So what in the hell was going on here? A tough question with only two possible answers. Either McAbee was the most incompetent idiot to ever graduate from Johns Hopkins or I’d been duped. Cleverly and professionally duped. The transcripts of the Serb radio transmissions had to be fakes. And if those were faked, well, then maybe . . . no, probably . . . no, definitely, the satellite films were fakes as well. Mr. Jones with the marble eyes had somehow managed to orchestrate a bit of high-tech chicanery.
There was a very unsettling problem with that scenario, though. Mr. Jones wasn’t a freelancer. Mr. Jones was here because General Clapper had officially requested NSA to assist my investigation. And Mr. Jones had the authority to waltz in and sequester the use of a fully functioning NSA field facility. And Mr. Jones had the resources to create false satellite images. I mean, I’d seen my share of satellite images, and the ones I just saw sure as hell looked like the genuine article. On the other hand, computer graphics being what they were these days, two expert analysts with a Sun microstation and CorelDRAW probably could have fabricated that product.
I wanted to kick myself for being such a gullible dumbass. I should have seen it. The con job was too perfect by half. First came that trumped-up explanation that no photographic satellites had passed over Zone Three, only a thermal imaging collector that spit out all those vague, unidentifiable little green dots. Then only two sets of film, both of which verified everything Sanchez and his men claimed. Then, voilà—Jones and his people just happened to have discovered those intercepted transcripts that just happened to solve the last great mystery about how those corpses got all those nasty little holes in their heads.
Of course, Jones could not have done this without help from someone inside my team. He knew every pressure point of our investigation, every area of doubt, every unresolved mystery. Well, all of them except one—the body count. But then, no one knew that I’d asked McAbee to prepare that particular article. Back at the morgue, McAbee and I were alone when we spoke about that. Delbert and Morrow were off in another corner together, comparing notes. Therefore Jones and his people had probably applied that old tried-and-true, well-studied maxim that for every man killed in battle, there are usually one or two wounded. Jones just split it right down the middle and made it one survivor for every corpse. Only problem is, when it comes to ambushes, particularly one with a devilishly well-prepared killzone, that ratio has a tendency to get badly skewed.
But where did knowing all this get me? The answer is it got me closer to the alligator pond than ever before. I had no proof. If I confronted Mr. Jones, he’d scratch his head and say, gee, old buddy, that’s really odd. I didn’t do the work myself, you know, so why don’t I get on the horn and check the numbers with the old home office. Then someone back in Maryland would simply say, oops, how awfully embarrassing. One of our simpleminded clerks made a stupid mistake when she transcribed those Serb transmissions. Drummond was quite right: Alfa 36 reported twenty-five corpses.
Besides which, I now knew there really was a conspiracy. I hadn’t been imagining things. How big a conspiracy I had no way of knowing, but all of a sudden, those dark, steely-eyed power brokers in Brooks Brothers suits were dashing through mazes inside my skull again. Not that I took any satisfaction in that. The problem with this being a conspiracy was that there was no one I could trust. Clapper? He was the guy who sicced Jones on me. Accidental? I don’t think so. And if I had reason to suspect him, then what I felt about Morrow and Delbert was beyond suspicion. I’d already convicted them in my mind. Well, I’d convicted one of them. Which one, though?
Was it Delbert, who came up with the bright idea to start checking around for satellite shots in the first place? I mean, how in the hell did he think of that? His specialty was criminal law, not strategic intelligence.
Or was it Morrow, who’d asked all the right questions for Jones to unfold his spiel? Her performance reminded me of those wonderfully contrived dialogues Ed McMahon used to have with Johnny Carson. Gee, Johnny, yuck, yuck, and why do you think the Serbs stopped transmitting right at that particular moment?
All of which meant it was now time to take inventory. What stake did I have in this investigation? No stake. It was another job. Simple as that.
What did I care if Sanchez and his men murdered thirty-five Serbs? Other than the families of those men, did anyone care what really happened? It was war. Men got killed. Nobody said they had to die in fair ways. There were no Marquis of Queens-berry rules in battle. Besides, who knew what those thirty-five Serbs did before they died? How many rapes, how many massacres, how many towns and villages had they ethnically cleansed?
But let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that I decided I wanted to be stupid and get to the bottom of this.Where would I start?
I guessed that I’d start by buying myself a little time. Then I’d buy myself a little space to maneuver. Then I’d begin wondering who Mr. Jones and Miss Smith really were.Who sent them here? And why?
Then I’d wonder who really killed Jeremy Berkowitz. Maybe Berkowitz knew there was a conspiracy. Maybe he tried to break one scandal too many. Maybe he got too close to the truth, and Mr. Jones, that marble-eyed prick, decided it was time for him to go. That sounded like complete hogwash even to me, but as long as I was ruminating, I might as well fit a few long shots in there. I mean, I’m part of the television generation. I’d read all those Robert Ludlum books, and Oliver Stone might be nuts, but I still loved his flicks.
Then, of course, back to the basic question I was supposedly sent here to answer: What had really happened out there with Sanchez and his men? The one thing Jones’s charade accomplished was to confirm that it was something terribly rotten. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and where there’s a cover--up, there’s a sin. Usually a really big, really smelly sin.
B
y 1
P.M
. Delbert and Morrow still hadn’t returned to the office. I was glad. It gave me time to think. Time I badly needed.
In the Navy, they yell “clear the decks” and “batten down the hatches” whenever they’re about to go into combat. Sort of like your father punching you on the arm and asking if you have one of those shiny little wrappers in your wallet before your first date. Or your mother asking if you’re wearing clean, fresh undershorts every time you grab the car keys. Proper preparations take many forms.
My two colleagues waltzed into the office together at quarter past one, chattering happily, just all too pleased to have spent most of their day with a couple of sterling physical specimens of the opposing sex. After passing the rest of the morning with Mr. Jones and Miss Smith, I guessed they’d both shared a leisurely lunch with their new, or old, NSA chums. Whichever.
Imelda was smoldering. She had this stern notion of duty, and long, unaccounted-for absences were damned close to a mortal sin. I heard her demand to know where they’d been all morning. As usual, Delbert was too pumped up on his own garlic to either fib or just outright humbly admit guilt. I could hear him arguing, then trying to tell Imelda it was none of her business. That boy had a death wish. He might be right about it being none of her business,only being right never worked where Imelda was concerned. She was the one who decided what was her business and what wasn’t. Whenever she chose to butt into my business, for instance, I just moved aside and made room for her.
I chose this moment to walk out of my office and into the building maelstrom. I was sorely tempted to sit back and enjoy the fireworks, but that didn’t fit into my freshly devised scheme. It was time to clear the decks, batten down the hatches, check my wallet and underpants. Whatever.
“What the hell’s going on here?” I barked.
Imelda’s feet were spread wide apart, her fists were clenched, her lips were fluttering, and a trail of angry black smoke was leaking out of her ears. She was in her full Mount Vesuvius mode.
Delbert pointed a shaking finger at her and, in a very prim, very outraged voice, he declared, “Major Drummond, this specialist has been disrespectful to me for the last time. I’m filing charges.”
“You’re doing no such thing,” I yelled.
More meekly, he said,“She’s been demanding to know where we’ve been. It’s none of her business.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, Captain. I’ve been harassing her all morning to find out where you were. You and Captain Morrow have been AWOL.”
Imelda looked curiously over her shoulder at me. I hadn’t once asked her where they were.
“I’m sorry,” Delbert said, “we were with Harry and Alice.” “Harry and Alice? Just who the hell are Harry and Alice?” I demanded.
Morrow, who looked absolutely baffled, said, “Mr. Jones and Miss Smith.”
“Those two assholes? You spent half the day with those two assholes? Was this social or professional?”
“A bit of both,” Morrow said, boldly and bravely admitting the truth. Well, the truth don’t always set you free.
“Get your asses in my office,” I coldly ordered. “And don’t even let me find you in a relaxed posture when I get in there.”
That line was one some old drill sergeant had once used on me, and I’d always wanted a chance to try it out.
They traded quick, fearful glances, then scurried away like chastened children. Imelda was checking me out, and I gave her a wink. She smiled and winked back. She never did like those two.
I went over and fixed myself a cup of coffee. I took my time. I slowly added sugar and cream. I took forever to stir. Let Delbert and Morrow stew, I figured.
Finally I walked back into the office and fell into my chair. I took one or two leisurely sips from my cup, just to remind them who was boss.I always hated bosses who lollygagged while I waited. It’s such a naked display of power. Heh-heh-heh.
I stared icily. “Think this investigation’s over?”
Morrow, thinking she’d defuse this with smooth gallantry, said, “Sir, we apologize if we’ve caused an inconvenience.”
I coldly said, “I didn’t ask that, Captain. I asked if you think this investigation’s over.”
Delbert gulped and took his turn. “Sir, well, uh, after this morning, uh . . .”
“What about this morning?” I asked with a nasty scowl. This brought another round of panicky glances between Delbert and Morrow.You could almost read their minds.Wasn’t this dork listening during this morning’s session? What is he, dense?
Delbert finally blurted, “Well, uh ...yes, frankly.”
“So everything’s wrapped up?”
Morrow’s brow was furrowed and she was studying my desktop as though maybe the answer to my question was lurking inside my inbox, or maybe lying on my blotter.
I said, “Captain Morrow, what was the exact chronology of events between the fourteenth and the eighteenth of June?”
“Chronology, sir?”
“Don’t they teach chronologies at Harvard? You didn’t think we were going to turn in our report without a detailed chronology?”
“Uh, no, Major.” She nodded like, woops, yeah, gee, you’re right. A chronology; what kind of a half-assed packet would it be without one of those?
See, that’s another of those silly little things about the Army. When a senior officer comes up with a perfectly insipid suggestion, the rules dictate that it be treated like Einstein’s theory of relativity.
“And Delbert,” I yapped, “isn’t something else missing?”