A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  Leon studied the BMP. “The head sticking up in front of the turret, is that the driver? Why doesn’t he button down?”

  “I’m guessing his field of view is too restricted with the hatch closed,” Jason said. He watched as foot soldiers moved into the ‘V’ for protection. The sound of a diesel engine revving carried across the still morning air. “Hon, hide the Wolf Turbo and don’t let the BMP see you. He’s got a 73mm cannon you don’t want to mess with.” He grabbed the hunting rifle and jumped down. “Go!” Hon gunned the engine and raced for the storage yard with its piles of drilling machinery and pipes.

  Jason climbed onto the flat roof of a nearby cement-block shed and rolled into a prone shooting position. The vehicles and soldiers had reached the minefield and had slowed. Jason keyed his radio, calling the DFPs. “Hold your fire.” A geyser of dirt mushroomed from the center of the formation quickly followed by a muffled explosion. “There’s still some mines out there,” Jason radioed. The formation kept moving. The armored car on the left flank disappeared in a fireball and a sharp blast. A secondary explosion ripped it apart, sending a billowing cloud of smoke across the minefield. The mines were still taking their toll but Jason had no illusions about their chances. He fully expected they would have to retreat into the swamp, which was a dead end. But they had a chance if they could inflict enough damage that the soldiers wouldn’t pursue them. It was all they had.

  Another mine detonated but the BMP was out of the minefield and less than fifty meters from the runway. Jason again keyed his radio. “Hold your fire, hold your fire.” He waited as the remaining armored car cleared the minefield. Then, “Blow the bastards!” On cue, the three strings of dynamite erupted, raising a curtain of smoke, dirt, and death. The dust slowly cleared as soldiers still stumbled around in confusion. The remaining armored car was nose down in the dirt, its front end blown away, and the BMP was stopped. A small group of soldiers took cover behind the BMP and banged on the hatches. The commander’s hatch next to the turret flipped open and a helmet poked up. Jason sighted the rifle, trying to lay the crosshairs on the helmet, but the hatch cover blocked his view. The driver’s hatch popped open and a second head appeared. Jason shifted his aim as the BMP started to move.

  Jason squeezed off a round and immediately keyed the radio. “Fire!” The top of the drivers head disappeared in a cloud of bloody mist as gunfire from the three DFPs swept across the runway, driving the soldiers to the ground. Driverless, the BMP jerked to the left and stalled. Jason was on the radio. “Pull back now! Pull back, pull back.” He sighted again and squeezed off a second round. A soldier collapsed to the ground. “Oh shit!” he yelled. The BMP’s turret was traversing towards him.

  He rolled off the roof, leaving the rifle, his radio, and binoculars behind. He hit the ground running and bolted for the closest DFP. He dove in head first as the sharp retort of the BMP’s cannon reached him. The shed vaporized in a loud explosion and debris rained down, burying Jason.

  The Hague

  Bouchard went through the opening routine and the court was back in session. Hank returned to the podium to continue Gus’s testimony, but he could sense a difference in the audience. He looked at Catherine. Did she also feel it? She nodded and smiled telling him all he needed to know. Public sentiment was swinging in Gus’s favor.

  Bouchard called for a short recess and Hank turned on his percom to get Cassandra’s reaction. “The media loves him,” she said. “The military and aviation experts can’t say enough good things about him.”

  “Any word on Jason and Toby?”

  For a moment, Cassandra was silent. “NSA monitored a brief emergency distress signal from the compound Sunday night at 2304 hours, and there’s no news on the helicopter. We should get satellite coverage of the compound later today.”

  “The distress signal was Sunday night, and we’re just hearing about it thirty-six hours later? We’re pretty low on the information totem pole.”

  The judges were back and Hank returned to the podium to resume questioning. “Mr. Tyler, did you review your personnel file that the prosecution submitted into evidence?”

  “I did. It was complete and I don’t think it had been altered. But I may have missed something.”

  “Moving on, did you find the testimony given by Ewe Reiss plausible?”

  “Objection,” Denise called. “By his own admission, the witness was not on the ground at the time. He was not in a position to judge one way or the other.”

  Della Sante tapped her microphone. “I would like to hear Signore Tyler’s answer.”

  “And I,” Richter added.

  Gus looked the judges full in the face. “Ewe Reiss was there.”

  “Was it your bombs that injured him?”

  “I assume so, but he was hit a second time by someone else.”

  “Mr. Tyler,” Hank asked, “were you ever briefed on the international law of armed conflict?”

  “At least twice that I can remember. It helped explain things.”

  “At any time in your career, were you ever trained in the use of weapons of mass destruction?”

  Gus never hesitated. “Yes.”

  Hank left the podium and walked towards the dock. “Did you ever employ them?”

  “Never had to.”

  Hank reached the dock. “Did you ever knowingly attack civilians?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. I have no further questions at this time.” Bouchard checked the time and recessed for lunch.

  Southern Sudan

  Leon cleared the debris covering the DFP and snorted. “I thought you were dead.”

  Jason held his head and tried to focus through the pain and fog. “How long have I been out? What’s happening?”

  “Maybe an hour,” Leon replied. “I had a hard time finding you.” He finished digging Jason out and examined the back of his head, still the medic. “Nasty cut.” He snapped open his first aid kit and dressed the wound. “A few bumps and bruises, but you’ll live. How’s the head?”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “Concussion. But you’ve got a thick American skull.” He handed Jason two pills. “Take these. You’ll be wired for about six, eight hours.” Finished, he brought Jason up to date. “They’ve regrouped at the runway and we’ve pulled back into the compound.” He pointed to the three DFPs where the Afrikaners were dug in. “The Reverend’s in the Wolf Turbo over there.” He pointed to the storage yard. Both men flinched at the sharp crack of a rifle. “That’s Paride sniping at them,” Leon said. The BMP’s cannon boomed in retaliation and the debris of the old radio shack fireballed. “Paride shoots, they answer back.” He snorted. “The BMP is stalled and they can’t get it started. Without it, they won’t attack.” He pressed the transmit button on his radio. “I found the Boss. He’s okay.” In the distance, they heard the cough of a diesel engine coming to life.

  “Boss!” an Afrikaner yelled over the radio. “They got the BMP started.”

  Jason grabbed Leon’s radio. “Paride! Get to the Wolf Turbo and help Hon.”

  “I go,” the tall Dinka answered.

  In the distance, they heard the clanking of tracks. “They’re moving,” Jason radioed. “How many soldiers?”

  “Fifty, sixty,” an Afrikaner answered.” A loud explosion punctuated his transmission.

  Leon grunted. “That was the last of the dynamite.”

  “But they don’t know that,” Jason replied. “It will slow them down.”

  Two soldiers burst into the compound, swinging their AK47s from the hip and firing wildly. Leon raised his M16 and fired a short burst. The two soldiers went down. Now they could see the BMP as it moved across the runway and reached the first building. Gunfire erupted from a DFP along with the sharp crack of Paride’s hunting rifle. Three more soldiers fell but the BMP kept moving. “We’ve got to stop that bastard,” Jason said. Leon dropped his M16 and bolted from the DFP. “What the fuck?” Jason shouted. He picked up the weapon and fired a short burst. M
ore and more soldiers were streaming into the compound, taking cover behind the destroyed buildings. The two DFPs in the middle of the compound kept up a withering rate of fire, catching the soldiers in a deadly crossfire and driving them back.

  A soldier broke from behind a pile of rubble and charged at Jason. Jason fired a short burst but covering fire drove him down into his DFP. He lifted the M16 above his head and fired blindly. He was rewarded with a scream of pain and pulled the M16 down to reload. A grenade tumbled in and rolled around at Jason’s feet. He kicked at it but missed. He kicked again and it rolled into the deep shaft sunk in the bottom corner of the foxhole. Without thinking, he huddled in the far corner, wrapped his arms over his head, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. The explosion was deafening but the shaft directed the blast upward and a geyser of dirt mushroomed over Jason. He coughed and sputtered as he fumbled with the M16, trying to reload.

  He came to his feet, still a little dazed by the blast. Seven soldiers were coming at him. He fired as Leon skidded into the foxhole loaded with another M16 and six bandoleers of ammunition. “J’en ai plein le cul!” My ass is full of this! He stood and fired as the Wolf Turbo charged out from between two buildings, its heavy machine gun firing.

  The BMP’s turret traversed towards the Wolf Turbo as Paride fired, sending burst after burst of high-explosive fire into the side of the BMP. The stubby cannon fired as Hon twisted the wheel of the Wolf Turbo and darted out of its path. Now Paride raked the soldiers following behind the BMP. Most of them broke and ran as the Wolf Turbo raced for safety behind the stacks of pipes in the storage yard. The BMP’s cannon fired again, but the round was far wide of the retreating Wolf Turbo.

  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 conside
r 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.”