Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “I did not know. Tell me who it is and I will see to it that he never betrays another.”

  “He has been punished for his sin. But now the Americans have turned your name in to our police, asking that we arrest you.”

  The third man looked at the first two. “You should have been more careful,” he said, chastising them.

  The honored one looked at the third man. “The Americans have traced the number on the cell phone you used to trigger the bomb. That has led them directly to you.”

  “But the Americans can do nothing.”

  “It will be better for all if you leave our country.”

  “But, Al Sayyid, where will we go?”

  The honored one smiled. “The Prophet has told us that one hides best in the bosom of the enemy. You are all three going to America,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Although he was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, and his vast television empire was headquartered there, Todd Tanner, founder and owner of World Cable News, considered himself more a citizen of the world than of America.

  Publicly, he had spoken out against the war in Iraq, stating that it was a war of American aggression. But privately, he relished the war. Until the war his numbers had been sagging, but since the war, his audience share was at an all-time high. And because he was taking an openly hostile attitude toward the war, he had ordered that all his reporters look for stories that would put the United States in general, and the current administration in particular, in the worst possible light.

  Because of the anti-American slant he gave all his stories, his reports were picked up by the foreign networks at a rate of five to one over the reports of any another American network.

  Tanner had cut his teeth in political expression during the Vietnam War. At the time he owned one small, local TV station, left to him by his father. It was not only an independent station, it was the lowest-rated station in the Atlanta market. As a result, he had very little public influence. But he learned that by making himself very visible in the antiwar campaign, he could often garner coverage from other TV sources.

  Todd Tanner gained national recognition when he married Joan Fanta, a movie actress whose most memorable screen roll was in the sexploitation film Maryella.

  Joan had been an active war-protester for some time, showing up at antiwar rallies, encouraging young men to burn their draft cards, and throwing buckets of ketchup, representing blood, at soldiers who were departing or returning from duty in Vietnam.

  But Joan really burst onto the scene when she made a trip to Hanoi. While in Hanoi, she stood by the gun crew of an antiaircraft gun as they fired at attacking American airplanes. When one of the American planes was hit, exploding in a large ball of fire, Joan clapped her hands happily and squealed with delight, “Oh! We got one of them! We got one of them!”

  Tanner’s marriage to Joan elevated his own status as the two of them became very active protesters throughout the rest of the war. Then, after the war, Tanner hit upon the idea of transmitting the signal of his small Atlanta station, via satellite, to cable systems all across the country. Not long after that, he started a twenty-four-hour news network. The experts laughed at him, deriding him for thinking that he could make a network pay off when it had only news shows for its fare. But pay off it did, and now WCN was recognized around the world.

  Now, with the war, his network was growing even bigger than before. And he was actually beginning to wield some personal power. The exposure of the prison abuses at Camp Alpha, the resultant relief of command of Colonel Dell, and the court-martial and conviction of Private French proved that.

  But his latest coup, catching on video an American colonel shooting a prisoner, was his greatest accomplishment so far. The colonel was going to be tried in what was sure to be a very high-profile trial. And WCN would profit handsomely from it.

  Last week, Todd Tanner was honored by the University of California at Berkley.

  “I am an American as I am a Georgian,” he told the audience gathered there. “But those are merely means of classification. They are not expressions of citizenship, for I consider myself a citizen of the world.

  “To that end, I long ago issued orders that my reporters and commentators were never to use the word foreign in any of their reports.

  “We are the eyes, ears, and conscience of the world. No place on earth is foreign to us.”

  Tanner checked the time on the wall clock, then left his office and walked into the control room to watch, live, the evening report.

  Jim Leyland, the anchor of World Evening Report, his hair perfectly coiffed, his whitened, straightened, and capped teeth prominent, stared into the camera smiling warmly.

  “Coming back to you on camera two in five seconds, Jim,” the director said. “Three, two, one.”

  The red light came on camera two, and the teleprompter box just beneath the lens displayed the copy.

  “In Iraq, the United States is conducting a sweep operation of Fallujah, but at a terrible cost,” Leyland began reading. “Some say that the cost is too high, as at least four Americans have lost their lives in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Despite that personal tragedy, however, many experts say that America is suffering its greatest damage in the increasing animosity its operations are causing throughout the world community. Recently an incident happened in Fallujah that illustrates the mistakes we have made from the very beginning of this war.

  “A high-ranking American officer shot and killed a wounded prisoner. And if that wasn’t enough, this happened inside the Abu Hanifa Mosque, one of the holiest places in all of Islam.

  “John Williams is our reporter in the field, and he files this report.”

  The anchor, comfortably ensconced in his Atlanta studio, was replaced by a man in camouflage BDUs, flak jacket, and helmet. He was holding a microphone as he stared earnestly into the camera. Behind him was the rubble of what was left of the several buildings that had been leveled by military action over the previous hours.

  “Jim, as you can see by the rubble around me, the fighting here has been quite intense, and the destruction, wrought by the American forces’ indiscriminate use of bombs and artillery, has been significant,” John Williams began. “And while there have been a few acts of heroism committed by American soldiers in this battle, there have apparently been many more acts of despicable conduct in violation of all that our nation stands for. Yesterday, just such an act occurred, and our cameras were there. I caution you, this is very graphic.”

  A video of the action began playing on-screen as several armed soldiers were seen standing in a room of some sort.

  “This is a room in the Abu Hanifa Mosque,” Williams’s voice-over said. “It is a holy place for Muslims, and here the wounded Mujahedeen have been brought for processing and interrogation. But Americans were killed in the fighting leading up to this point, and tempers were running high. As you are about to see, the rules of the Geneva Convention are not always followed.”

  “Son of a”—bleep—“he’s alive!” someone shouted, though it wasn’t obvious who shouted it.

  Bleep—“the son of a bitch isn’t armed,” another disembodied voice said.

  The camera moved in on one man who swung his weapon around and fired. A little spray of blood and detritus sprayed from the back of the Mujhedeen’s head, as he fell back, his arms flopping out to either side.

  “The bastard isn’t alive now,” the shooter replied.

  The shooter turned toward the camera, which then moved in for a very close picture of his face. It held for a moment, and then the screen went black. When it came up again, it was, once more, John Williams.

  “As you can clearly see, the prisoner was unarmed and posed no threat to the American soldiers. And what makes this particular incident so disturbing, Jim,” Williams said in his well-modulated, TV newsman voice, “is the fact that the soldier you just saw, the soldier who shot and killed the unarmed, wou
nded man, was not just any soldier.”

  Once again, Art’s picture was on the screen.

  “He was Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Kirby Jensen, the commanding officer of the battalion.”

  The broadcast went to split screen, John Williams in Iraq and Jim Leyland in Atlanta.

  “John, was there any provocation for the colonel shooting the wounded prisoner?” Leyland asked.

  Williams shook his head. “No provocation whatever,” he replied.

  “But, to establish some standard here, was there a reasonable expectation on the part of the colonel to think that either he or his men were in danger?” the anchor in Atlanta asked.

  “For an ordinary citizen, perhaps,” John Williams replied. “But Colonel Jensen is not an ordinary citizen. One would not think that an officer of his experience and proven capability would panic. That leaves only one conclusion. He shot the unarmed Iraqi, not out of fear for his own life, but out of a sense of revenge for his own men he had lost in the operation. But, as I’m sure you can understand, that kind of example set by the higher ups does not bode well with the men. Can there be any questions as to why our younger and somewhat more impressionable soldiers find themselves caught up in such things as prisoner abuse and desecration of the Quran and religious sensitivities?”

  “You are there, on the scene, John. What kind of effect is this having on the Iraqi nationals?” Leyland asked.

  “As you can imagine, the murder of a Muslim in a mosque has had a devastating effect,” Williams replied. “And remember, these are the very people we are trying to win over.”

  “Have you spoken to the colonel in question?”

  “I have spoken to him, Jim, but he refuses to grant an interview.”

  “Is he facing any type of disciplinary action?” Williams asked.

  Williams shook his head. “I can’t answer that question,” he said. “As you know, there is a camaraderie among these men. I doubt that any of the soldiers involved would file a report on what just happened. I’m sure that seeing this report will be the first information any of the higher ups have on Colonel Jensen’s behavior.”

  “Then your report is doubly important, John,” Leyland said from his studio in Atlanta. “For not only have you brought the news of this, yet another American atrocity, to the attention of the world, you have also alerted the American command so that justice might be done. Good job, thank you.”

  “Thank you, Jim.”

  The screen returned to a one-shot, full screen, of Jim Leyland.

  “That was John Williams, embedded with the Seventh Infantry Division, and coming to you from the contested streets of Fallujah, Iraq. When we come back, we will have as our guest Senator Harriet Clayton of New Jersey. Senator Clayton recently introduced a bill demanding that the United States withdraw all troops from Iraq and issue a formal apology to the Islamic world for going to war against their religion. It will be interesting to get her take on this incident, the latest in a long string of American atrocities.”

  Camp Casey, headquarters of the Seventh ID,

  just outside Baghdad, Iraq

  “Colonel, if you don’t mind, I’m going to run over to the PX and get some things for the men,” Specialist Winson said. “I mean, figurin’ you’re going to be tied up with the general for a while.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Jensen said. “But I don’t have any idea how long this is going to take. I have no idea what the general wants with me.”

  “Well, hell, Colonel, excuse me for bein’ blunt, but if you don’t know, you just ain’t thinkin’ straight. He’s goin’ to give you a medal for what went down in Fallujah.”

  “I doubt that. It was just another operation.”

  “No, sir, it wasn’t just another operation. Everybody saw you shootin’ Hajs here, savin’ Americans there, givin’ commands, keepin’ order. You ought to at least get the Silver Star out of all this.”

  “We’ll see,” Art said. “Oh, here.” He took some money from his billfold. Get some goodies for the men from me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Winson answered.

  Seventh ID headquarters was set up in a villa that had once belonged to one of Saddam’s sons. It was a large, sprawling, and beautiful house, though the various rooms had been turned into offices and quarters for the officers and men of the headquarters staff.

  “Colonel Jensen,” the adjutant said, standing as Art went into the spacious foyer, now serving as the reception room. “Have a seat, sir. I’ll tell the general that you are here.”

  “All right,” Art said. He looked around the foyer. “Pretty good digs,” he said.

  “We struggle, but we get by,” the adjutant said. He picked up the phone. “General McCabe, Colonel Jensen is here. Yes, sir.” He hung up, then looked over at Art. “Go right in.”

  General McCabe was standing in front of his desk when Art went into his office. McCabe pointed to a large leather sofa.

  “Have a seat, Art,” he said.

  Nodding, Art took the seat, and General McCabe sat in a chair across from him. McCabe put his hands together, almost in a prayerlike attitude, sighed deeply, then leaned forward. Art didn’t know what this was about, but the body language wasn’t good.

  “How have things been going for you for the last few weeks?”

  “They’re going well,” Art replied.

  “Are you getting all the supplies you need when you need them? Fuel? Ammo? Food? Water?”

  “Yes, sir, I have no complaints.”

  “That’s good,” McCabe said. “That’s good,” he repeated absently. It was obvious to Art that the general was very detached from this part of the conversation.

  “General, is something wrong?” Art asked.

  General McCabe sighed again. “Art, do you recall the incident in the mosque in Fallujah a few weeks ago when you shot a terrorist who had been pretending to be dead?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “I believe you said that the incident was filmed by a television crew.”

  “Yes, sir, John Williams from WCN.”

  “That was absolutely the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time,” General McCabe said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  General McCabe reached over to the table beside his chair and picked up a file folder. “I want you to know, Colonel, that I had nothing to do with this. I had submitted your name for a Silver Star. But what I got back was this.” He removed a paper from the folder and handed it to Art.

  For Immediate Delivery to: CG 7th Infantry Division

  DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

  HEADQUARTERS, JUDGE ADVOCATE

  GENERAL’S OFFICE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SPECIAL ORDERS

  NUMBER 341

  EXTRACT

  Action: LTC JENSEN, ARTHUR K. 488-51-2278 3rd Infantry Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment, 7th Infantry Division, is hereby relieved of command and ordered to report to Fort Leslie J. McNair, Washington, D.C., NLT thirty (30) days from receipt of these orders.

  Upon reporting to Fort Leslie J. McNair, officer will surrender himself to Commanding Officer of the Judge Advocate Corps for purposes of a Court-Martial under Articles 118 and 119 of the UCMJ. FOR THE COMMANDER:

  M.F. PIERCE

  Major, AGC

  Adjutant

  OFFICIAL

  Leonard B. Collins

  CW3, USA

  Asst Adjutant

  Distribution

  1 – Rec Set

  1 – Ref Set

  40 – LTC Jensen

  5 – 201 File

  5 – HHC, 7th ID

  5 – 32nd Inf. Rgt

  5 – 1st Bn

  5 – Msg Ctr

  Art read the orders, then read them again to make certain he wasn’t mistaking them. He looked up at General McCabe, who had been unable to look at Art while he was reading.

  “Looks like I’m going home,” Art said.

  “I’m sorry, Art,” General McCabe said. “Goddamnit, you are my
best officer, and I said that very thing to the dumb asses back at DA.”

  “Articles 118 and 119?” Art said. “What are those articles?”

  “Murder and manslaughter,” General McCabe said.

  “What?” Art asked explosively. “Holy shit! They are charging me with murder?”

  “It all has to do with the video Williams took of you in the mosque.”

  “Damn.”

  “You made a mistake, Art.”

  “General, I—” Art started, but McCabe held his hand up to stop Art in midsentence.

  “You made a mistake,” he repeated. “You shot the wrong man. You should have shot that son of a bitchin’ reporter.”

  Art chuckled. “Maybe I should have.”

  “You’ve got thirty days before you have to leave. You can stay here as long as you want, or leave as soon as you want. It’s your call.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, General, I think I’d like to get out of here as soon as possible,” Art replied. “I’m going to have to make some plans for my defense.”

  “I’ll have you on a plane tomorrow,” McCabe replied. He stuck his hand out. “Good luck.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Washington, D.C., the Senate floor

  Senator Todd Canady, Democrat from Massachusetts, rose to address the senators assembled.

  “Mr. President, I rise in support of SR-137 as introduced by our esteemed colleague, the senator from New Jersey, Senator Harriet Clayton, and I thank Senator Blackman of California for yielding the rest of her time. I also reserve the right to revise and amend my comments.”

  Canady, who had occupied his seat for forty-five years, cleared his throat as he shuffled a few papers around. Though once he’d been considered to be presidential material, Canady’s problem with liquor and a drunk-driving accident that resulted in the death of a young campaign worker dimmed any chance he may have had of winning the White House.