A Far Justice (35 page)

Suddenly, it was quiet. The sound of crunching gears and a racing diesel engine echoed over them as the BMP reversed out of the compound and backed across the runway.

“They’ll be back,” Jason promised. “We’ve got to stop that fuckin’ BMP.”

Leon reached into his shirt and pulled out the brandy bottle they had emptied the night before. But now it was filled with gasoline. “We’re not dead yet.”

The Hague

The clerk called everyone to stand as the judges returned from lunch. Hank sat down and leaned into Aly. “Let’s see if she bites.”

Aly looked over Hank’s shoulder directly at Denise. “She can’t wait.”

Denise stepped to the podium. “Monsieur Tyler,” she began. “Why do you kill innocent civilians?”

“Objection,” Hank called. “Madame Prosecutor’s question assumes facts not in evidence.”

“Overruled,” Bouchard said.

“May we confer?” Richter asked. Della Sante and Richter leaned into Bouchard and they spoke quietly. Bouchard’s face turned red and his head jerked once in acknowledgment. He turned to face the front. “Please continue, Madam Prosecutor.”

“What happened?” Aly asked quietly.

“They disagreed with Bouchard’s ruling,” Hank explained. “There’s going to be a lot of second guessing the next few days and they’re engaging in damage control.”

“Monsieur Tyler,” Denise continued, “you testified that you ‘volunteered’ to fly the mission in question. Can the court assume that no order from your headquarters was ever given to fly the mission?”

“Then the court would be assuming wrong. The order to fly a combat mission is given through an Air Task Order, or ATO for short. It can come down to the wing by message or verbally. In this case, it came down from the Black Hole in Riyadh over the secure phone.” Gus waited to see if she would ask what the Black Hole was. She didn’t. “Once the wing receives an ATO, it’s our job to carry it out. If Colonel Cannon had scheduled me to fly, I would have flown the mission. However, he asked and I volunteered.”

“You said the briefings on the international law of armed conflict helped explain things. What are these things you referred to?”

“The Rules of Engagement, the ROE for short.”

“And what does this ROE tell you?” Her words were laced with sarcasm.

“It tells us how to fight. For example, hospitals, mosques, religious shrines, and orphanages are prohibited targets. They’re marked on our charts and we know where they are.”

“What happens if you bomb one of these so-called prohibited targets?”

“It depends. If I hit one without first taking hostile fire, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Where would you be?”

“Most likely in Leavenworth Prison for violating the ROE.”

Denise ticked off the next item on her legal pad. “You specifically admitted that you had been trained in the use of weapons of mass destruction. What were those weapons?”

“We were trained in the release and employment of nuclear weapons, much like all nuclear-armed forces in NATO. It’s the same with the British RAF, and the French
l’Armée de l’Air.
If we had used them, you’d have known about it.”

“Please only answer the question asked.”

“Ah shucks, Ma’am …” He was rewarded with an appreciative guffaw from the audience.

Denise’s head snapped up when she realized she was questioning Jim Cannon’s clone. She looked at the assistant prosecutor. He shook his head, urging her to caution, and she gave him a look of utter contempt. He wasn’t helping. “Monsieur Tyler, you have seen how your bombs killed at least one innocent civilian on Mutlah Ridge. Aren’t you, by your own admission, guilty of willful murder?”

“I never knowingly bombed civilians.”

“Monsieur, need I remind you that you bombed a bus without authorization.”

“Only after we were shot at when we went to take a look. A pilot never loses the right of self-defense.”

Denise swelled in indignation. “You are a mass murderer who killed innocent people! Nothing you say can relieve you of your guilt or your responsibility.”

“There she goes again,” Hank groaned loudly as he stood. “Objection! The chamber determines guilt, not the prosecutor.” Bouchard huddled with Della Sante and Richter.

Gus fixed Denise with a level stare, his face a mask, as he took her measure. She returned his look, and suddenly she knew. He was a raptor, a bird of prey, and she felt the fear of the hunted. “Sustained,” Bouchard intoned. “The prosecutor’s last statement will be disregarded.”

“I have no further questions,” Denise said.

Hank stood for redirect. “You said that prohibited targets were marked on your chart. Did you ever attack one of these targets?”

“Once. An Iraqi anti-aircraft artillery battery hiding in a religious shrine shot at us one night. We didn’t react because it was a religious shrine and expected they’d be gone by morning. That was pretty typical, shoot and scoot. But for whatever reason, the Iraqis stayed and kept shooting at us. After three days, they brought in a surface-to-air missile battery. That’s when we were ordered to take it down.”

“Did you ever bomb one these prohibited targets by mistake?”

“No.”

“So you followed the ROE.”

“To the letter.”

“I have no further questions.” Hank waited to see if Denise was up for re-cross. She declined and Bouchard adjourned for the day.

Gus was in bed when the door lock clicked. “May I come in?” Therese Derwent asked. “I was wondering if you needed help sleeping.”

Gus hesitated before switching on the light, hating to lie to her. “It would help.” He hoped it sounded right. He switched on the light as she closed the door behind her. He sat up on his bunk as she drew a glass of water. She handed him the plastic cup and sat at the table. “My stomach is still in knots.”

“I know.”

He took a sip of water and swallowed the capsule. “May I ask a personal question?” She nodded. “You are very professional but how do you really feel about Americans?”

“I like most of the ones I have met, but not all.”

“And me?”

“Gus, you are my patient but I do consider you a friend. I find you full of contradictions and while I know a great deal about you, I have much more to learn. For example, do you like the theater?”

“Shakespeare. ‘O! withered is the garland of war, the soldiers’ pole is fall’n; young boys and girls are level now with men; the odds is gone, and there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.’”

“What a lovely refrain, ‘and there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.’ So much better than there is nothing new under the sun.”

Gus gave her a half smile. “‘As You Like It.’ Clare loves the Bard. She got me hooked on Old Will.”

She returned his smile. “You do surprise me.” They sat and talked about Shakespeare until he grew drowsy. “Until tomorrow.” She switched off the light and left.

Southern Sudan

A flare arced high over the compound and drifted slowly down. The shrill whistle of incoming mortar rounds drove Jason and Leon deep into their foxhole. Both men covered their heads as the mortars walked across the compound, blasting what was left of the buildings. As quickly as it had begun, the barrage stopped and an uneasy silence came down. Jason’s head bobbed up for a fraction of a second as he chanced a glance.

Every building had been hit and two were on fire, sending an eerie light flickering across the wreckage of what had been Westcot Five. His head bobbed up again. “Damn!” The mortar barrage had hit the storage yard where the Wolf Turbo had taken refuge.

“Hon!” Jason radioed. “Are you okay?” He was answered by another salvo of mortar rounds.

“They bastards are monitoring the radios,” Leon said.

Paride’s voice came over the radio, low and urgent. “Boss, mortar hit Wolf Turbo. Hon dead. I get Reverend out. We hide in last DFP next to swamp. But hole half-full of water.”

“Stay there,” Jason directed as more mortar rounds walked through the compound.

When the barrage stopped, only two of the other teams checked in. “Peit and Raul took a direct hit,” an Afrikaner said.

Jason waited, expecting another round of mortar fire. But the night was quiet. “I guess they ran out of ammo,” he said as Leon lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Those things will kill you.”

Leon gave him a contemptuous look. “Not before morning.”

THIRTY-NINE

Southern Sudan

The radio came alive as the sun broke the horizon. “The BMP’s moving!”
a voice yelled. Jason wasn’t sure who it was. He chanced a quick look, and, as he suspected, the BMP was headed straight for his position. Gunfire erupted from the DFP nearest him, cutting into the soldiers trailing behind the armored personnel carrier. Amoeba-like, the soldiers clustered around the opposite side of the BMP bringing them into Jason and Leon’s field of fire. Both men opened fire. The BMP’s cannon fired and the round split the air directly over their heads.

“They can’t depress the muzzle far enough,” Jason shouted. He jammed another clip into his M16 and fired again. But the BMP kept coming at them. Suddenly it jerked to the left presenting its right side. The four firing ports on the side of the BMP flipped open and the muzzles of AK47s poked out. “Down!” Jason yelled as the gunners opened fire, raking the ground in front of the DFP. Leon raised his M16 over his head and fired blindly. The small 5.56 mm rounds pinged harmlessly off the side of the BMP. Suddenly, the BMP stopped firing. Jason bobbed his head up to see what was happening. The BMP was just sitting there, its engine idling. Behind it, he could see more soldiers surging across the runway, running to reinforce their comrades in the compound. “What the hell?”

It was the Golden B-B, that mystical bullet that combat veterans muse about in reflective moments at the bar, and the uninitiated chalk up to superstition. A single M16 round had entered a firing port and ricocheted around the crew compartment, grazing two soldiers before striking one in the head. The bullet tumbled in the soft brain tissue and blew off the back of the soldier’s skull, adding to the panic and chaos. A top hatch flipped open and a soldier bailed out. Jason shot him before he reached the ground. More soldiers bailed out of the two hatches in the back. It was enough. Jason grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Everyone fall back to the swamp. Go! Go! Go!”

He grabbed two bandoleers, and jumped out of the foxhole, holding his M16 to his chest. He rolled into the shallow depression immediately behind and squeezed off a short burst. To his left, he saw the four Afrikaners running for cover as Leon climbed out of the DFP. Jason ran, crouched low, as bullets split the air around him. He skidded to cover behind a destroyed out-building and looked back for Leon. “No!” he shouted.

The Frenchman was charging the BMP, the gasoline-filled brandy bottle in his hand. The gas-soaked rag stuck in the bottle’s neck was blazing, licking at Leon’s hand. The turret on the BMP traversed, swinging onto Leon. The cannon fired as Leon heaved the Molotov cocktail. The 73 mm round blew through Leon, tearing him apart as the bottle smashed against the front of the BMP.

Jason was up and running, taking what cover he could as the air filled with gunfire, all coming from the charging soldiers. He was well clear of the compound when Paride’s head popped up in front of him. “Here! Here!” Jason jumped into the DFP crowding Toby and Paride aside. Paride stood and fired. “Here they come, Boss.”

Jason stood and emptied the M16’s clip. Toby handed him a fresh magazine to reload. Jason looked to his left and saw two Afrikaners run for the tall grass and the swamp, abandoning their DFP. The all to-familiar clank of the BMP’s track reached him. “Shit! Fuck! Hate!” he roared. He squeezed off a short burst as Paride stood beside him and fired. Jason thumbed the M16 to full fire and mashed the trigger, sending a long burst into the soldiers and the advancing BMP.

Toby handed him a fresh clip. “Two left,” he said.

Again, Jason fired as the BMP came within twenty meters. He could clearly see the scorch marks left by Leon’s Molotov cocktail. Suddenly, the BMP exploded and the fireball pillared high into the air as it kept exploding, shredding its armor and vaporizing the men inside. Then he saw it.

A small jet-powered, wedged-shaped aircraft, was sweeping in low. Two canisters separated cleanly from underneath its wings and opened like clamshells. What looked like a cloud of dust arced towards the ground. But it wasn’t dust. It was a hail of golf ball-sized bomblets that started to explode before they reached the ground, ripping into the soldiers caught in the open. The aircraft pulled up and Gus wanted to wave at the pilot. But there was no cockpit. It was a UAV, an unmanned aerial vehicle.

A second UAV swept over the field, spreading the same blanket of destruction over the remaining soldiers. Twice more the UAVs returned, now working the runway and road. Moans and cries for help echoed over the battlefield as Jason and Paride climbed out of the DFP. A UAV swept over the field, this time low and slow, as it recorded the scene with a high-definition digital camera. It wagged its wings and pulled up.

“What’s that?” Paride asked.

“The cavalry,” Jason replied. They helped Toby out as a strange silence came down and Jason stood there, stunned by the carnage. He breathed deeply as relief surged through his weary body. Slowly, he raised his right fist in victory, his mouth compressed into a tight line.

Amsterdam

Max Westcot stood by the big window and puffed his cigar, sending wave after wave of smoke billowing across the penthouse suite of the Amstel Intercontinental. Outside, a winter storm beat at the window and obscured the low skyline of the city. He stubbed the cigar out when the elevator doors slid silently back and Hank and Catherine entered the suite. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said. Hank nodded, not that he could avoid the summons. “Coffee? Some breakfast?” Westcot asked, always the genial host.

“Coffee would be lovely,” Catherine said, sitting down next to the fireplace. A maid poured two cups of coffee and served them on a silver tray. Westcot waited until she withdrew to the pantry, well out of earshot.

“How’s Gus doing?” Westcot asked.

Hank considered his answer. “Actually, better than me.” It was the truth. The strain of the trial was taking a fearsome toll and the lawyer was having a hard time sleeping.

“Well,” Westcot said, smiling, “there is some good news. We’ve got a plane overhead at Westcot Five and are in radio contact with Sergeant Tyler. Person is wounded but very much alive.” Hank sank into his chair as relief flooded through him. He managed a weak smile and raised his right hand in gratitude. “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Westcot continued. “They fought off an attack by the Sudanese Army and the plane can’t land until they get the runway cleared. But once that happens, it’s two hours flying time to Addis Ababa where a commercial jet is waiting. Figure seven more hours to Schiphol. They should arrive here late tonight.” He smiled and changed the subject. “Today’s what? The seventeenth day of the trial? So how are things going?”

Hank suspected, rightly, that the financier knew exactly how things were going and this was the lead in to something he wanted. “Public opinion is swinging around to us and we’ve got momentum. I don’t want to lose either.” Westcot nodded, encouraging him to continue. “We hit two home runs with Cannon and Gus, now all I need to put the game away is to get Person on the stand.”

“So Cassandra has said,” Westcot added. “The good Reverend has the moral authority to offset Schumann and his testimony is relevant. So what’s on the agenda today?”

Hank looked worried. “I can easily call a few witnesses and sprinkle a little legal dust around, but that would be redundant at this point. I’m also worried it will take the edge off Gus’s testimony and cost us some momentum.” He turned to Catherine. “How do you see it?”

“I agree. Right now, we’ve got the judges and the spectators sitting on the edge of their seats. We need to keep them there and let the anticipation build until we can get Person on the stand. We need to ratchet up the tension and delay at the same time.”

Westcot paced the floor, signaling they had come to the reason for the meeting. “Call Henri Scullanois again.”

Hank shook his head. “I’ve played that for all it is worth. Scullanois was a diversion to make it look like they’re hiding some dark political agenda.”

“Your instincts were right,” Westcot said. “Scullanois is in this up to his eyeballs with Du Milan. We’re talking conspiracy.”

“Son of a bitch,” Hank muttered.

“We need to get Scullanois in the news,” Westcot continued. “Get in a legal brawl over Scullanois before Friday. Cassandra has a petition waiting at your office. It’s pure bullshit, but get it out there.”

Catherine caught it immediately. “Why is Friday so important?”

Westcot didn’t answer. “I realize you need to get to court. My chauffeur will drive you.” They were dismissed and the meeting was over.

Southern Sudan

The small group of men watched as the dark gray C-130 transport flew a short final and touched down on the runway. Dirt kicked up as the big tires on the tandem gear sank into the ground, but they had done their work well and the runway was clear of debris, spent shell casings, and bodies. The pilot slammed the four turboprop engines into reverse and dragged the big cargo plane to a halt with room to spare. The crew entrance door on the left side of the fuselage flopped down and Jim Cannon climbed out. He was wearing a desert-tan flight suit and combat boots. A 9mm Beretta hung in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He jammed a baseball hat on his short-cropped hair and marched up to Jason. “Jason Tyler, it has been a while.” The two men shook hands. “Where’s Toby? I need to howdy that gentleman.”

“Over there,” Jason replied. He led Cannon to where the four Afrikaners and Paride were clustered around a stretcher.

Cannon bent over and touched Toby’s face. He was still running a fever. “We need to get you to a hospital.” He stood and motioned for three of his crew to help with the litter. “Let’s go,” he said. They headed for the waiting C-130.

“What were those airplanes?” the youngest of the Afrikaners asked.

“Well, son,” Cannon replied, “this is the way we kill the bad guys these days. Those airplanes you saw were unmanned drones that we control from the C-130 over there. We’re down linked by satellite to a center in the United States where we’re tied into about every reconnaissance platform and intelligence collection system known to man. And that includes some of the bad guys’ as well. Under the right conditions, we can put ordnance about anywhere we want and service whatever is there. Doesn’t matter where it is, bunker, cave, tank or auto, we can find it and kill it.” He swept the area with a wave. “This was a piece of cake. The hardest part was finding you. Luckily, we monitored your emergency transmission and figured you were still alive and well.”

The Hague

The assistant prosecutor stepped off the tram and walked briskly towards the court building. He was not happy as he contemplated his future at the ICC. The trial was going badly and he was certain Du Milan was going to shift the blame to him for the disaster bearing down on them. A man he had seen everyday among the spectators in court joined him and smiled in recognition. “May we talk for a moment?” he asked. The assistant prosecutor nodded. “You work for a very foolish woman.” The look on the assistant prosecutor’s face was ample proof that he had scored a bull’s-eye. The man nodded at a nearby sedan and opened the rear door. “I have something that may be of some benefit to your, ah, continued success.” The assistant prosecutor hesitated. “You do need some other options at this moment.” The assistant prosecutor threw caution to the winds and got in.

The man crawled in behind him and closed the door. The sedan pulled into traffic and the man handed over a mini CD player. “Please listen to this. The Frenchman is Henri Scullanois and the other speaker is his counterpart in Beijing.”

The assistant prosecutor did as requested and his eyes opened wide. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. It’s yours to do with as you wish.” The car stopped a block short of the court and he opened the door. “But my employer would be grateful if it should find its way to the American reporter Marci Lennox.” He sensed a little more coxing was in order. “I assure you, he will be most grateful.”

Hank studied Bouchard as the judge led Della Sante and Richter to their seats on the bench. The Belgian’s face was flushed and swollen and he was unsteady on his feet. “He doesn’t look well,” Aly whispered.

Hank tapped the blue cover of the thick petition on the desk in front of him. “This isn’t gonna help.” The document was a book in itself and a masterpiece of legal murkiness, shadows, and misdirection. Bouchard asked if there was any business for the court to consider and Hank came to his feet.

“If it may please the court,” he began, “we respectfully request the court reconsider its prior ruling on calling Henri Scullanois as a witness for the defense.” Denise was on her feet, objecting and repeating the court’s original rationale. Hank waited until she finished and handed the petition to the clerk who was surprised by its size.

Bouchard coughed and sipped at a glass of water. “I have repeatedly cautioned defense counsel not to waste the court’s time on this matter. This court will not call a witness for you to engage in political debate. However, we will take your petition under advisement. Please call your next witness.”

“Your Honor,” Hank replied, “it was our intention to call Minister Scullanois and one more witness. Both witnesses are critical to the defense” – he paused before hurling the insult – “and both must be heard if the court is to reach a fair and unbiased verdict.”