by Quinn, Jack
The General’s smile was not ingenuous this time. “You did not specifically ask for it. You asked to meet with me on a broad subject of which I have no firsthand knowledge. To which I saw no point.”
Andrea had the good sense to turn full face to the camera that zoomed in tight on her, excluding the officer from its picture.
“Thank you General Callaghan for your promise to grant what I hope will be an enlightening, although belated interview.”
Then she addressed the anchor in their Washington studio. “Frank, it seems that the decision of NNC News to bring this exclusive story-in-the-making to the attention of the American people was both wise and productive.”
“Andrea Madigan,” Frank intoned, “America is in your debt for an absolutely world-class
investigative report. Thank you.”
Andrea lowered her eyes then looked up, her expression a conflicting amalgam of pride and humility.
A voice from the glass production booth in NNC’s Washington studio came through the
director’s earphones. “Cut to Frank, wind it up.”
Rand Duncan rose from his lounge chair in the VIP booth. “That goddamn woman! I never
know if I want to fuck her or fire her.”
“How about just backing off?” T.P. said.
Duncan’s eyes narrowed at Viola. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
T.P. stood up. “Let me handle this. Andrea.”
“You’ll be crawling out on her limb, T.P.”
“My news nose is quivering, Rand. Trust me on this one.”
Corporate Vice President Rand Duncan leveled a long look at his news chief. “I’ll be watching my set.” Then he moved toward the door, looking back with his hand on the knob. “By the way, tell Frank to lay off that Katy Couric crap.”
The producer’s voice broke into the VIP booth through the intercom. “Hey, guys, watch the monitor.” Their eyes swung to the large client screen on which Andrea stood watching the two Army officers walk to their car. As soon as the red transmission light on Steve’s camera went out, Andrea handed her mike to an assistant and pulled the audio plug from her ear. Although off the air, Steve continued taping Andrea’s progress toward the staff car, transmitting the image via satellite to NNC in Washington.
“General Callaghan!” Andrea yelled, starting to limp across the access road toward the staff car. Halfway there, she tripped and fell, sprawling full length along the macadam. Her tech crew reached her before the men in the car could open their doors. She was back on her feet quickly, accepted her cane from a lighting tech, shrugged off further assistance and hobbled the remaining distance to the army staff car.
Rand Duncan stood trembling in the Washington VIP booth gripping the back of a chair
with both hands, his knuckles white, face flushed. “If I ever see anything like that on my network
again, T.P., dead or live, your ass is grass, man.”
Viola stared at the monitor in silence as Duncan slammed the door of the booth behind him.
Outside the main gate at Fort Bragg, General Callaghan stood beside the open door of his staff car.
“Are you OK?” he called out.
She was breathing deeply from her abortive sprint and fall. “Fine. How about my interview?”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow morning every news hound in the universe will be charging these gates and I don’t want to get trampled.”
The General grinned. “That’s your problem. You’re the one who spilled the beans.”
“I’m the one that dug this up in the first place.” Andrea stepped back from the side of the car and squared her shoulders. “I’m the one that’s worked her tail off for the past year and a half butting her skull against military barricades, sent on wild-goose chases, up blind alleys, back and forth from buck passer to buck passer. I deserve an exclusive interview, not get tossed into a pool
of catch-up competitors.”
Callaghan eyes narrowed. “A pool, huh?” Then addressed the captain standing beside him. “What do you think, Paul?”
“Good idea, sir. Let the news organizations assign a dozen people: print, TV, still cameras for a press conference with you. After that they’re on their own.”
The General looked at Andrea. “Sounds fair to me.”
“Well, not to me, it doesn’t.” She turned her back on the General to shout at her
cameraman. “Hey, Steve, get this!” Andrea dropped her cane and turned toward Steve, who was shooting the scene from a distance of twenty feet. The lighting tech filled the shadows, and one of the crew ran forward to hand her a mike.
Then she addressed the camera. “What it sounds like, General Callaghan, is the United States army punishing the female reporter responsible for exposing the U.S Army dipping its chauvinistic phallus into the proverbial hot water.”
Callaghan’s head jerked back as though he had just taken a punch on the jaw.
“It seems that General Callaghan has just reneged on the interview you saw him grant to me just a few minutes ago. After all the time and effort this reporter has put into developing this story, after getting the portals of every conceivably pertinent military and bureaucratic entity slammed in my face--Brigadier General Clyde G. Callaghan has now decided to withdraw his promised interview with this reporter and open his door to every news organization on the planet in an obvious attempt to undermine the exclusive information gathered by NNC on the Arabian artifacts theft to date.”
The captain’s voice was almost a whisper. “General, I suggest we get back to your office?”
“And now,” Andrea continued, “it seems a senior officer of the U.S. Army’s famed 82nd Airborne Division will retreat again behind the protection of armed guards and his chain-link fence.”
“Hold it, hold it right there, Miz Madigan,” the General said. “‘How sharp as a serpent’s
tooth it is to cross a female reporter....’”
Andrea laughed, holding the palm of her hand up to Steve. “That’s not the way the Old
Bard wrote it.”
“He would have if he ever had to deal with you.” Callaghan gestured at the rear door of the staff car. “Get in, Miz Madigan.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ft. Bragg, NC
September 2004
His office was smaller than she expected: fewer military photos, Matisse and Gauguin prints she would never have anticipated, de rigueur American and Army flags on twin staffs on either side of the window behind his desk; the 82nd Airborne Division banner tacked to the opposite wall; floor-to ceiling bookshelves packed with an eclectic selection of hard-cover spines.
General Callaghan sat in a leather armchair to the left of a brass hinged deal table on which a silver coffee service and their steaming china cups rested. Third Battalion Information Officer Captain Paul Brooks occupied the far end of the leather couch, Andrea the near end opposite the General.
She withdrew a pack of unfiltered Pall Malls from the canvas carry-all at her feet, scanning every flat surface of the room for an ashtray, which was non-existent. “May I smoke, General?”
“I prefer you did not,” he answered.
Andrea shrugged, replaced the cigarettes, and from the depths of her bag produced a steno pad, pen and compact tape recorder she flicked on as she placed it on the table.
“Before we go further, Miz Madigan,” Callaghan informed her, “I should make you aware that both Military Intelligence and the CIA conducted a thorough investigation into this alleged artifact theft immediately following the official complaint by the Iraqi government.”
“I’m impressed, General. My main interest, however, is which Bravo Company platoon occupied the northwest corner of the Syrian Desert along the Iraq border with Jordan and Syria last March.”
“That’s a pretty broad area,” Brooks said. He was a barrel-chested man in his late twenties with short red hair, a jumper’s insignia and three rows of multi-colored ribbons indicating he was far more than an a
dministrative lackey.
“My last GPS reading before the Bedouins confiscated our electronics,” Andrea said, looking down at her notepad “was 32˚ 47’ north latitude, 39˚ 20’ east longitude. It took them three days to lead us to the where they claimed they clashed with the soldiers, which our guide estimated was some two hundred kilometers to the east of our last fix.”
“About 120 statute miles,” Brooks observed. “Camels, your average caravan, can do 60, 70 miles a day.”
Callaghan’s smile was amiable. “It seems as though your Bedouins led you on a three-day goose chase.”
Andrea’s tone was testy. “I’m aware of that. Which of your units were in that area during that timeframe?”
Captain Brooks glanced at the senior officer for his nod before opening a three-ring binder he had brought in from the outer office. He thumbed one of the section tabs, flipping through several pages. His admission sounded reluctant. “The Second platoon.”
Andrea scribbled in her notebook, then looked up waiting for more. Brooks had raised his eyes from the binder to stare back at her in silence. She would have to drag information about their desert sojourn out of them grain by grain.
“What was the name and rank of the officer in charge?”
Brooks eyes flicked to Callaghan who answered, “First Lieutenant George B. Mitchell.”
After several more moments of silence she said, “That’s it?”
Brooks face was devoid of expression. “I didn’t hear your question.”
“Exactly where did Mitchell’s platoon land?”
Brooks flipped through the binder again. “Several klicks south of Al Qaem.”
“The junction of the Euphrates and Iraq-Jordan border, if memory serves--did they sortie east or west from there?”
General Callaghan had been sitting with legs crossed, holding his coffee cup and saucer on his lap. “Platoon commanders were ordered to split their troops into squads to cover defined grids. A squad leader could further divide his people into fire teams if circumstances warranted.” His eyes held Andrea’s over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee. When he resumed his explanation, the easy cadence of his voice was constant, his tone forthright and credible. “Those teams reported in by radio to their respective platoon leaders once a day. With the exception of unusual incidents, daily platoon logs are destroyed after sending summary reports to company H.Q.”
Andrea failed to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “You are telling me that no unusual incidents, such as a firefight with a nomadic tribe, were ever reported.”
The General’s gaze did not falter. “That is correct.”
“The artifact thieves would never call in their Bedouin encounter, of course.” Andrea’s comment was less accusative than thoughtful. “But wouldn’t a team of four, five soldiers, even a full squad take a good beating from the fifty or so armed nomads who held us captive?”
“We didn’t know what kind of opposition we’d encounter out there or the strength of Saddam’s elite Palace Guard he might have with him,” Brooks said. “Some of those squads were equipped with TOW missile launchers on Humvee’s, fast-moving Bradley Fighting Vehicles and Cavalry Gun Trucks. It would be a wonder there was any tribe left, never mind a few dead Bedouins.”
The General smiled as he leaned forward to place cup and saucer on the tray. “Presuming the incident described occurred at all.”
“Were any casualties taken by ‘B’ Company searching for Saddam?”
Brooks seemed hesitant. “Not during ‘Dark Dawn’.”
“Will you explain that, please?”
“They pulled our entire Battalion back to join the 101st outside Fallujah to reinforce the marines for the surge on Baghdad” Callaghan explained. “We lost nine good men trying to knock
insurgents out of their stronghold.”
“How many from the Second platoon?”
“I don’t recall.” Callaghan turned to Brooks. “Do you Captain?”
“No, sir.”
“May I have copies of those casualty reports?”
Callaghan’s tone was adamant. “I will not have the families of our deceased troopers badgered by the press.”
Andrea leveled a hard stare at him. “The Bedouins were more forthcoming than you.”
The general acknowledged her remark with a nod. “That is your opinion, Miz Madigan. However, you have not been able to confirm one iota of their story.”
“Because no one in government will talk to me about it. And you don’t seem to be able to prove otherwise.”
Brooks’ ruddy complexion became flushed. “Don’t you know it’s impossible to prove a
negative? I emphatically deny that any firefight occurred between our troopers and Arab civilians during Black Dawn. Or that we sustained any casualties from such an engagement.”
“Not that I doubt your word, Captain Brooks, but your contention is in direct contradiction to a statement by a Bedouin tribal chief whose purpose in concocting his assertion I find impossible to divine.”
Callaghan’s retort was accompanied by a smile. “Unless you consider who might have put them up to leveling these charges.”
“Why would a tribe of unallied Bedouins lie?” Andrea asked.
“To comply with some nefarious order from Saddam Hussein or Shiite imam.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Brooks asked her, “that your captors were not Bedouin nomads, but Hezbollah insurgents attempting to create precisely the confusion and animosity against America you are perpetrating? A scheme fabricated in the same unfathomable workings of the Arab mind that recruits women and children as suicide bombers?”
Andrea placed her coffee cup on the tray and turned to Callaghan.
“Regardless of your investigation, can’t you concede the alleged circumstances seem credible, General? A half-dozen soldiers digging foxholes, caught in the act of stealing a national treasure? The Arab allegations valid, the thieves clever enough to elude detection?”
“The statistical odds of finding a buried treasure in that vast desert must be astronomical,” Callaghan said. “But suppose a squad of troopers did find one. They could never smuggle it back to the States under the nose of our Military Police.”
“By the way,” Brooks injected, “we use tents in the desert. Digging foxholes or trenches in sand is almost impossible without special revetment tools. We rarely do that except in extreme front line situations.”
She ignored the Captain’s diversion, addressing the General’s previous remark: “You strip
search your own troops going home?”
Brooks answered her question. “Security is extremely tight on departure here and arrival in the States to prevent just such looted contraband from leaving the country.”
“There is no evidence that an ancient treasure has surfaced anywhere in the world,” Callaghan argued. “Military Intelligence, the CIA, the FBI have all kept eyes and ears open ever since the Iraqis repeated your allegation through diplomatic channels last summer.”
Captain Brooks leaned toward her on the couch. “So, whose version do you think is most credible, Miz Madigan? A band of roving Arabs or the U.S. Army, the consensus of the entire Federal Government?”
“Let’s not get into that,” Andrea said. “My office is in Watergate Towers--that’s an every day reminder. Who I believe is not the point. My job is to determine and report facts. We, NNC, hired a private contractor to locate the Bedouin tribe last fall without success. Our guide, Amman Habakee seems to have disappeared. I understand both the army and Iraqis have also confronted Bedouin tribes roaming across those borders to no avail. Experts on those nomadic people claim that no one will find them again if they don’t want to be found. Or they have been found and admitted nothing. My only recourse is to validate their story or proof of your denial.”
“Which we are attempting to help you do,” Callaghan said.
Andrea raised her eyebrows, holding his gaze. “Then give me the original personnel list for Bravo Com
pany or at least the Second Platoon. Let me worry about tracking them down for interviews.” Andrea felt her stomach churn at the thought of trying to separate a few grains of wheat from 350, even 70 flecks of chaff.
“We’re prohibited from doing that”, Brooks said, “under the Armed Forces Secrecy Act.”
“You can surely tell me how to contact Lieutenant Mitchell.”
Brooks glanced at his binder again, turning several pages.
“Lieutenant Mitchell was killed during a house-to-house sortie in Fallujah.”
“Can you give me the names of Mitchell’s squad leaders?”
Brooks fanned through the pages of his binder. “I’ll have to look into that. Call me in a couple of days.”
Andrea wondered if that was a warning that the soldiers in question would be alerted to provide her with the same innocuous facts as these two clams. It was getting close to midnight, she was tired, and her bad leg was asleep. General Callaghan leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the contentious reporter as his subordinate parried her thrusts.
Andrea took a different tack: “How do you explain the Arabs description of the Airborne insignia patch?”
Brooks smiled for the first time since their meeting began. “Easily. One of our units came upon their caravan searching for Saddam among them.”
“They claimed they were engaged by enough soldiers to make up an entire platoon.”
“Can you imagine a tribal chief concocting a story in which they were bested by half a dozen infidels?” Brooks asked.
“General, you accompanied Bravo Company on that search and destroy Black Dawn mission--which platoon or squad did you travel with?”
“After we set up HQ at Hawija Arban,” Brooks answered, “we took the first platoon east toward Tikrit.
Andrea’s next query was also directed at Callaghan. “Did you go to Tikrit or remain in Hawija Arban during Black Dawn?”
Brooks glanced at Callaghan before answering. “The capture or elimination of Saddam
Hussein was one of the primary objectives of the entire war,” Brooks explained. “Tikrit is
