"Was the radio call made on a channel different from what was called for in the Air Tasking Order?"
"Yes," Patton said. "There was a problem with the scheduled communications satellite. We were assigned an alternate channel on a different satellite."
"And was this communicated to the defendant, Colonel Rodman?"
Wing Patton's heartbeat ticked up a notch and he took a deep breath before answering, recalling the crumpled, doodle-scarred note in the White House Situation Room wastebasket. "I gave the information to Major Juan Bolivar, who communicated it to Colonel Rodman just prior to takeoff."
"Objection!"
Colonel Paul Pitts, Roddy's defense counsel, rose to his feet. He was tall and thin and as tense as a bowstring. Though a competent attorney, he had specialized in contracts, not the Uniform Code of Military Justice or the tricks of lawyers who regularly practiced in the courtroom. But he knew hearsay when he heard it. "I submit that what Major Bolivar may or may not have said is hearsay."
"Sustained," said Colonel Wilburn Gridley, a beatle-browed legal officer who served as the military judge.
As if taking that as his cue, Colonel Finch called Major Juan Antonio Bolivar to the witness stand.
Roddy watched closely as the stocky young officer was sworn and took his seat. He noted the random gestures that betrayed the obvious tension the major was under, a darting tongue that moistened parched lips, hands that twisted nervously in his lap. The dark eyes shifted warily behind gold-rimmed glasses.
To Roddy, it clearly signified the officer's intention to lie again, though he realized others in the room might not perceive it in that light. What he could not understand was why Major Boliver had lied in the first place. Initially, he had thought Bolivar might be covering up his own failure to pass along the satellite information. But the Major had just come from talking with General Patton. Taking that into consideration, it made no more sense than the premise that Roddy himself had forgotten to act on it or to pass it along to his copilot.
He recalled how, after the briefing, Bolivar had gone out to the C-20B Gulfstream jet that had brought him from Washington to call General Patton. The Major returned shortly to say that everything was still "go," then gave him a personal message from Patton that had nothing to do with the alternate frequency.
Now Roddy listened as Bolivar, under Colonel Finch's careful questioning, recalled General Patton's message. Nervously clearing his throat, he lowered his head slightly, looked over the top of his spectacles and added, "Then I told Colonel Rodman about the new FLTSATCOM satellite and the changed alternate channel."
The prosecutor removed some papers from his briefcase and handed them to Bolivar. "Do you recognize these?"
"Yes, sir. It's the Air Tasking Order for the mission. The copy I took with me from Washington."
"And is this your handwriting on the back?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell the court what you wrote there and when."
Bolivar cleared his throat and swallowed hard. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The air conditioning system clearly could not cope with the state of his nervous system. "It's the information General Patton gave me on the new alternate channel for the mission. I wrote it down while talking to him in the aircraft, just before going back into the hangar to tell Colonel Rodman."
Actually, he had written it after returning to Washington and being confronted by a man sent by General Patton, a menacing stranger who convinced him that he had no choice but to do as instructed. The message was clear. Should he fail to cooperate, not only would he find himself out of the service, but his father, a government employee in Texas, would also be haunting the unemployment lines. Or worse.
Colonel Finch entered the order as evidence, then continued with a raised eyebrow. "Did Colonel Rodman write down the information when you gave it to him?"
"No, sir," said Bolivar, almost in a whisper.
"Did you not think that unusual?" Finch's voice echoed an exaggerated disbelief. Like most good trial attorneys, he was an accomplished actor.
"Yes, sir. Very unusual. I...I thought maybe he was one of those people with a photographic memory."
To Roddy, Bolivar sounded like a very lousy actor, somebody throwing out rehearsed lines, and doing it poorly. He turned and whispered harshly to Paul Pitts, "The bastard's lying through his teeth. The whole damned thing is a farce."
Somebody had coached him on this, Rodman thought. But who? Any why?
Finch called as his next witness Captain Peter Schuler.
Dutch winced as he walked into the room and saw his old commander and tennis pupil seated grim-faced at the defense table. He wanted to offer a smile of encouragement, but he wasn't sure how it might be taken. Instead, he gave only a nod of recognition, a feeble acknowledgement that all was not well with the world, but what the hell could he do about it?
It had been a month since Colonel Finch had flown in to see him at Hoover's Haven, the rustic lodge hidden back in Idaho's River of No Return wilderness area, where the Air Force had exiled him to soothe his emotions and replenish his strength. The doctors had done all they could. He had never heard of any banged up officer being farmed out to a place like this, but he offered no objection. For a bachelor who loved the outdoors, it was like turning a kid loose on a new playground. He soaked up the clear mountain air, watched the wild deer that wandered through the grounds and, weather permitting, hiked the trails that meandered along in partnership with the musical rush of waters of the Salmon River's Middle Fork.
The setting was ideal for healing. The meals were sumptuous, served ranch style at long tables, and he took advantage of the heated swimming pool to help whip the old body back into shape. He followed the exercise routine prescribed by the therapists. In April, rafters began to appear on the river. With no radio, no TV or telephone, the only news he received came by letter from home or through the newspaper that arrived via twice weekly flights into the small airstrip beside the river.
Since he bypassed the newspapers most of the time, choosing to enjoy his ignorance of the world's current problems, he was caught completely off guard when Colonel Ralph Finch appeared in the middle of April. He accepted the colonel's vigorous handshake with little emotion, figuring him for another Air Force shrink here to check his mental reflexes. But as soon as they were seated at the heavy wooden table in the oak paneled card room, Colonel Finch dropped a bomb.
The short, chubby officer sat back with arms folded and calmly announced, "You'll be one of our key witnesses at Colonel Rodman's court-martial next month, Captain." When he saw the shock on Schuler's face, he added, frowning, "Does that look mean we have a problem, or have you not read the papers lately?"
"What are you...court-martial?" Dutch stammered.
"You've been out here in the sticks since February, and nobody's told you a damn thing, right?"
Dutch fought down a growing sense of outrage. "Sir, what the hell is this court-martial business about?"
"For your information, Captain, the illustrious Colonel Warren Rodman was directly responsible for the fiasco that landed you in this godforsaken place."
Obviously Finch, a product of Phildelphia's Main Line, was not a connoisseur of the backwoods. But he was a master of painting his quarry black, and when he had finished his tale, Dutch Schuler sat in a daze, unsure what to believe. It seemed almost incomprehensible that Roddy could have done what they claimed. Yet considering what Colonel Finch had said, what other explanation could there be? He recalled the strange line of questioning by the OSI agents just before he had left the hospital.
Dutch had wanted to call Eglin and hear Colonel Rodman's side but never had the chance. The only means of communication at the lodge was a shortwave radio used to maintain contact with the Hoover's Haven office in Boise. During the weeks that followed, he sometimes found himself squeezing both palms against the sides of his head, as if somehow that might concentrate his thoughts and summon every ounce of mem
ory from that September night of horror.
Had there been any distraction, any sign that Roddy might have been preoccupied, any evidence of confusion that could account for such a lapse of memory? Dutch recalled that the Colonel had been unusually quiet while he chatted with Major Hardin about Desert Storm. But when they climbed into the cockpit, Roddy had a typical wisecrack. "The President and the Chief of Staff send their warmest regards, and have a nice flight." Then he had turned strictly business, meticulously scrolling down the checklist item by item. They had made the normal communications checks, including a test of the national command authority channel. He had queried Sgt. Nickens about a rise in engine temperature but was satisfied with word that Barry had checked it out after the flight from Saudi, confident it was only a gauge "running hot."
Dutch found he had been left in the dark on just about every aspect of the case. He was unaware of the trial date until the day before, when word came by radio that a plane would pick him up that afternoon. He was flown to the F-111 base at Mountain Home, then hustled aboard a C-20B for the flight to Eglin.
Roddy watched his former copilot stand in front of the witness chair to be sworn. Appearance-wise, Dutch had recovered almost completely from his ordeal, though he looked considerably thinner than before. He seemed to have no difficulty raising his right hand. Maybe he would be able to play tennis again after all.
At Colonel Finch's prompting, Schuler confirmed Major Bolivar's account of calling the aircraft commander aside following the briefing. And, in a dispirited voice, he acknowledged that the Colonel had not mentioned any change in the alternate channel nor had he adjusted the radio to alter the originally briefed frequency.
"How would you describe the Colonel's mental state prior to the mission?" Finch asked. "Was he nervous, apprehensive...perhaps skittish or anxious...maybe so preoccupied that he could have forgotten a vital part of his briefing?"
"Objection." Colonel Pitts rose behind the defense table. "This witness is not qualified to testify as to the defendant's mental state or what might have resulted from it."
"Sustained," said Colonel Gridley.
"Just tell us how Colonel Rodman acted before the flight," Finch countered, knowing he had already made his point.
"He wasn't nervous," Schuler said, shaking his head. "Unusally quiet, maybe. He didn't say if anything was bothering him."
Roddy winced, remembering his bad feelings about the mission.
Under cross examination by Colonel Pitts, Schuler gave an emotional endorsement of his former aircraft commander. "I've never known him to lie," the captain testified. "He's the most competent pilot I've ever flown with."
The case for the defense began appropriately on a clouded, cheerless morning. It consisted primarily of character witnesses, colleagues who had flown with Roddy, served under him and over him. In calm, sincere voices, they painted a picture of a skilled, conscientious officer and pilot, a commander who was both liked and respected by his men, a professional who knew the rules and treated them with biblical respect. Last to take the stand was Colonel Rodman himself.
He described the scene before the mission, agreeing with everything Major Bolivar had testified to except for the part about the alternate channel change.
"What would you have done if the major had given you new alternate channel instructions?" Pitts asked pointedly.
"The same thing any aircraft commander would have done. Written it on my pad and told Captain Schuler during the preflight."
Colonel Pitts asked him to describe the injuries he received in the crash, and then, softening his voice, he added, "Do you feel any responsibility for the deaths of the four airmen and the soldiers killed in that ambush?"
Roddy's eyes turned watery and his voice choked as he answered. "Those young men...my aircrew...they were some of the finest young people on the face of this earth. I would never have done anything to endanger their lives." Roddy took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. "You ask me about responsibility. The only responsibility I feel is for having chosen them to take part in that mission." As he spoke, all the hurt and hate that had been gathering inside him these past few months, like storm clouds in a summer sky, suddenly reached the saturation point. It could no longer be contained. Something had to give. And as with storm clouds, it would inevitably be violent. In his brain a tiny warning light flashed red, but his rational self was no longer in control. His eyes hardened into black stones and his words spewed out like a stream of venom.
"Somebody screwed up this damned operation somewhere, and caused those deaths, and they're trying to railroad me for it. And, by God, I'm bitter as hell!"
A hushed silence filled the room as eyes suddenly widened with displeasure along the table where Roddy's peers sat in judgment. Colonel Pitts' jaw sagged noticeably. It was something he had not anticipated, but it was out and there was no way he could cram those words back into Roddy Rodman's mouth. He knew if there was one thing the military couldn't countenance, it was a sore loser, someone who covered his misfortune by taking a swipe at the system. A proper career professional should open his mouth only to swallow his medicine.
Considered in the aggregate, the case was essentially a stand-off. One man's word against the other. The character witnesses had scored a sizeable number of points in Roddy's favor, and his record as a pilot in and out of combat was impressive. But there were enough extenuating circumstances, which seemed to back Major Bolivar's story, to allow sufficient justification for the court to go either way. To a man they would have denied it, but the final decision was undoubtedly influenced by Colonel Rodman's untimely outburst.
When the deliberation ended and Roddy stood facing the court, the verdict resounded in his ears like a sinister pronouncement from some ancient Greek oracle. As to the charges and specifications, on both counts, "Guilty!"
PART II
THE RUSE
***
Minsk, Belarus
May 1995
11
A burly militiaman, his black hair coarse enough to have been cut from a horse's mane, leaned against the doorway of the small apartment and stared impassively at the body sprawled in the hallway. A police photographer was busily reducing the victim to a series of 35mm negatives, as close to immortality as the luckless man would come. It was the fifth floor of a colorless high-rise, typical of the massive monuments to Marxist-Leninist tedium that housed most of Minsk's million-and-a-half population, stark reminders of the dark era that most people believed had ended with communism's demise. Chief Investigator Yuri Shumakov was not so sure, particularly with all the uncertainty about the future course of his country's big bear of a neighbor, Mother Russia.
As the photographer stepped aside, the investigator stooped for a closer look at the fatal head wound. His expressive gray eyes held a questioning look as they peered out through large, horn-rimmed spectacles. Then, as he bent closer to the body, the strong odor of alcohol assaulted his nose. So what's new, he thought? Careful to avoid the blood that had pooled on the floor, now darkened like weathered red paint, he turned the man's head to check the back of his scalp.
"His brother-in-law had the gun," said the militiaman, eager to show that he had the situation well in hand. "He's inside the apartment with Detective Kahn. He's an absolute wreck. Both of them had been drinking. Seems he was showing the gun when this fellow reached out to take it. He thinks his finger must have caught on the trigger. Anyway, the gun went off. I was down the street when they called."
Shumakov stood up. "How tall is he?"
"Who?"
"The man with the gun."
The militiaman frowned thoughtfully. "He's...ah...about your height, I'd say."
Shumakov measured exactly 1.75 meters, approximately five feet, nine inches. He studied the prone figure dressed in brown slacks and rumpled blue shirt. The hands were calloused, rough as pine bark, smudges of black beneath the fingernails. A mechanic perhaps. Definitely not someone who pushed a pencil. He might have been lying
there asleep, except for the nasty hole right in the center of his forehead.
"Ask Detective Khan to step out here," Shumakov said.
The burly militiaman summoned Omar Khan, who was jokingly called "Genghis" by some of his fellow officers. He stepped through the doorway a few moments later, a dark, stocky, youthful man with a bland Uzbeki face. It was the militia's job to investigate a case up to the point of arrest, but Khan did not normally handle homicides. Of course, if the militiaman was right, this was no homicide, simply a tragic accident. But Khan had a bad feeling about it. He had asked Investigator Shumakov, with whom he frequently worked, to come over and offer his opinion.
"Khan, would you estimate this man's height about the same as mine?" Yuri asked.
The detective nodded. "No more than a few centimeters shorter."
Shumakov glanced back at the body. "I think we had best look for a motive, my friend."
"No accident?"
"Did you check the position of the entry and exit wounds?"
Khan pointed to the front and back of his own head. "Here and here."
"To get that kind of trajectory, your man must have been showing the pistol by aiming it at eye level." He held his arm straight out, index finger pointed like a gun barrel at Kahn's head.
"Which isn't the way he told it."
People had a tendency to lie about homicides they committed, Shumakov reflected. He motioned Khan to accompany him inside the apartment, where the assailant huddled morosely beside an empty vodka bottle. It took only a few minutes to coax a confession. The deceased, who worked at a motorcycle factory, was a wife beater, according to the brother-in-law. His sister, four months pregnant, had called him over because her husband had been out drinking and threatened to maul her when he returned. She had been sent to her mother's and was not yet aware of the tragedy. The pistol was a 6.35mm TK semiautomatic with one cartridge fired. That was one of the less desirable by-products of democracy, Shumakov mused. Firearms were much easier to come by now than in the tyrannical old days under communism. But the brother-in-law would not likely have used it without the fortification of vodka. That was one fact of life that hadn't changed. Alcohol still lay at the root of most personal tragedy in the Republic of Belarus, formerly Soviet Byelorussia.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 7
