Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Colonel Nighthorse?” Colonel Brisbane said, offering Nighthorse an opportunity to respond.

  “This has nothing to do with military professionalism, and everything to do with Captain Chambers being able to testify as to what was going through Colonel Jensen’s mind. We train our officers to react to specific situations, not to read other people’s minds,” Nighthorse said.

  Brisbane thought for a moment, stroking his chin as he did so. Finally, he nodded. “Objection is sustained,” the law officer said.

  “Your Honor, if we cannot use trained army officers as expert witnesses in matters of military tactics, who can we use?” Kinnamon asked in frustration.

  “The objection is sustained. Please proceed, Mr. Kinnamon,” Brisbane said.

  With an audible sigh to show his dissent, Kinnamon continued his questioning.

  “Captain Chambers, you were there when the first insurgent set off the bomb that killed Sergeant Baker, were you not?” Kinnamon asked.

  “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “And you saw the second insurgent sit up very suddenly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you perceive that as a threat?”

  “Objection, Your Honor. We’ve already been through all this. It calls for a conclusion.”

  “In this case the conclusion is valid, as it goes to the witness’s own experiences,” Colonel Brisbane replied. “You may answer the question, Captain Chambers.”

  “Let me ask it again.”

  “I remember the—”

  Kinnamon held up his hand to stop Captain Chambers. He knew what he was doing. He was replanting the question in the minds of the board of officers who were hearing the case.

  “When the second insurgent sat up, did you feel that you were in danger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “I was bringing my own weapon to bear,” Chambers said.

  “And if Colonel Jensen had not beaten me to it, I would have killed him.”

  “You would have killed him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You realize that if you had killed him, it would be you on trial here, today, instead of Colonel Jensen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Knowing that now, if you had it to do over again, do you still say you would have killed him?”

  “Objection, again, this calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled,” Brisbane said. “You may answer the question.”

  “Yes,” Captain Chambers said. “Even knowing what I know now, if I had it to do over, I would have killed the son of a bitch.”

  There was a tittering of laughter from the room.

  “Strike the appellation from the record,” Colonel Brisbane ordered.

  “Thank you, Captain, I have no further questions. Your witness, counselor.”

  Before Nighthorse stood up for his redirect, Colonel Brisbane rapped his gavel against the desk. “Gentlemen, I’m going to ask that we adjourn for the day. This court will reconvene in the morning.”

  The court stood at attention as Colonel Brisbane and the board of officers filed out of the room. Kinnamon began gathering up his papers.

  “How do you think it’s going?” Art asked.

  “Hard to say,” Kinnamon said. He glanced over at Nighthorse. “He’s good. He’s damn good.”

  Art laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That is exactly the qualitative analysis of his skills that I gave my father,” Art said.

  Colonel Nighthorse held the cell phone until his party came on the line.

  “This is Gordon.”

  “Gordon, this in Nighthorse. You made the DVD that we are using in the Jensen trial, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any chance it could have been doctored?”

  “Doctored? In what way?”

  “There is one line of audio just before Jensen shoots the insurgent. The line says, ‘shit, the son of a bitch isn’t armed.’ Is it possible that line could have been dubbed in there?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Gordon said.

  “Is there any way to check it?”

  “I’d have to go to the original tape to find out,” Gordon said.

  “Do that for me, would you?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kennedy Airport, New York City

  The 767 was guided into its parking place by a wand-wielding ground-guide. The Arabic markings, in green on the side of the airplane, were duplicated in English.

  Royal Fleet of the Kingdom of Qambari Arabia.

  When the engines were shut down a Jetway was extended to the plane’s cabin door. The Jetway led to a private debarkation area, for this was not a commercial plane, but the private aircraft of the royal family of the Kingdom of Qambari Arabia.

  Prince Azeer Lal Qambar stepped out into the VIP lounge where he was met by representatives of the Qambari Arabia consulate.

  Imad Alla Hamdi bowed very low and remained in that position until Prince Azeer told him he could rise.

  “You have cleared me through customs?”

  “Yes, Al Sayyid. There was no difficulty.”

  “What about the three I sent earlier, as members of our trade council?”

  “They were all admitted without difficulty,” Hamdi said. “Abdulla Balama Shamat is in Dallas, Balli Daftar Taleb is in Missouri, and Azoon Jabri Shadloo is in Alabama.”

  “Alabama,” Azeer said with a scoffing laugh. “It is easy to ask someone to become a martyr for Allah. But to ask someone to live in Alabama requires much faith and loyalty.”

  “Even though their names are on the list of suspected terrorists, no one questioned them. There was no difficulty in getting them visas.”

  “I didn’t think there would be. The stupid Americans will do anything to win our favor. They grovel for our oil the way a beggar pleads for crumbs to eat. They are decadent infidels whose lives have no value. Where is the car?”

  “It is just outside the door, Al Sayyid. With diplomatic plates it was not difficult to bring it here,” Hamdi replied.

  Ostensibly allies of the United States and vital to the U.S. because of its oil, Qambari Arabia was anything but friendly. The tiny country was ruled by the dictatorial family that gave the country its name. They controlled their people by allowing, and even planting, hatred and distrust for America, all the while making public pronouncements of friendship with the United States.

  In addition to being a prince of the family, Azeer Lal Qambar was a member of a Qambari Arabia Trade Council in the U.S. This gave him access to all levels of U.S. government and business, a position that he was about to use to his advantage.

  As Azeer rode in the back of the limousine to the elegant consulate quarters on Fifth Avenue, he turned on the TV in the back of the car.

  “. . . another example of the American military shooting itself in the foot,” one of the talking heads was saying.

  “But, Ted, Colonel Jensen was acting alone. And but a moment earlier, one of the others, who had only been pretending to be dead, set off a bomb that killed one of the colonel’s men. Surely you can see that he thought he was justified.”

  “Thinking he was justified and actually being justified are two different things,” Ted replied. “And, as a high-ranking officer, in fact, as the officer in command, Colonel Jensen had the responsibility to set aside such things as fear and uncertainty. He is charged with making decisions, and we can only but hope and pray that he makes the right ones.”

  Azeer followed the news until the car pulled through the gates of the consulate. One of the staff met the car, opened the door, and bowed lowly as Azeer exited.

  “Hamdi, I sent a list of people that I wanted to meet with. Have you made contact with all of them?”

  “I have, Al Sayyid.”

  Azeer smiled. “The Americans weep over what happened to them on nine-eleven. When I am through with them,
nine-eleven will pale into insignificance.”

  “Generations of Muslims will give praise to the name Azeer Lal Qambar, in recognition of your service to Allah,” Hamdi said. “Allah akbar.”

  “What? Oh yes,” Azeer replied. “Allah is great,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Naji, Osman, and Dawud were shown into the reception room of the Royal Suite of the Qambari Arabia consulate quarters. They were told they were going to meet someone important, but they had no idea who it would be. When they learned it was to be Prince Azeer, they were surprised and honored by the prospect.

  The three men stood in front of Azeer, who did not offer to let them sit, nor did he make any offer of food or drink. He was drinking coffee, liberally laced with alcohol . . . an open defiance of his religion, though he considered himself above any religious law.

  “You have come to serve me?” he asked.

  “Yes, Al Sayyid,” Naji replied. “And to serve Allah.”

  “We will become human bombs,” Dawud said.

  “We will gladly martyr ourselves for Allah,” Osman added.

  Lifting his hand, Azeer waved the comment aside. “The time may come when I will ask you to do that,” he said. “But not yet. I have another task for you.”

  “Your wish is our command,” Naji replied.

  Azeer picked up a copy of Newstime magazine with Colonel Art Jensen’s picture on the cover.

  “Do you know of this man?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Naji replied. “The Americans are trying him for killing a prisoner.”

  “I believe they will find him guilty,” Dawud said.

  “And they may execute him,” Osman added.

  “We cannot let that happen,” Azeer said.

  The three men looked confused.

  “Pardon me, Al Sayyid, but why is it not a good thing for the murderer of one of our own to be punished?” Naji asked.

  “Oh, he should be punished,” Azeer said. “But not by the Americans. They are doing that to curry favor with the Muslim world. They want to show that they will punish those who do wrong to Muslims. But I say it is for us to try him, and for us to punish him. We must show our own people that we are the true defenders of Islam, not the Americans.”

  “I see,” Naji said. “But how are we to do this?”

  “You must take Colonel Jensen prisoner,” Azeer said. “Bring him to me. We will try him, then we will behead him. And we will post video of the trial and the beheading on the Internet for all the world to see.”

  Transient BOQ at Fort Myer, Virginia

  Lieutenant Colonel Art Jensen lay on his bunk and read from the journal of his great-great-grandfather. As always, it was exactly as if Smoke Jensen was in the room with him, talking directly to him.

  From Smoke Jensen’s journal

  “All rise!”

  At the shout of Marshal Turnball, who was acting as the bailiff, everyone in the courtroom stood.

  I joined them.

  Since the small town of Etna didn’t have a courthouse, my trial was being held in a schoolroom, and I studied the alphabet, which had been neatly written by the schoolteacher at the top of the blackboard.

  The judge came in then, a large man that some might even say was fat. He was bald, except for little puffs of white hair that stuck out over each of his ears. He sat down, cleared his throat, and picked up the gavel and banged it a few times on the bench, then looked over toward the jury.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” he asked.

  I looked hard at the jury. It hadn’t been much of a trial. The court assigned me a lawyer, and when I suggested I might be happier with a lawyer of my own pleasing, I was informed that, other than the prosecutor, I had the only lawyer in town.

  I don’t know much about lawyers and all the palavering they do, but I do believe I could have done a better job defending me than Mr. Asa Jackson did.

  At first, Mr. Jackson tried to make the case that I didn’t do it. But the more he talked, the deeper he dug me into a hole. I asked the judge to postpone the trial until I could get another lawyer, but he refused, and now I was standing here with the others, waiting to see what verdict the jury would return. And I must confess that I had some more interest in what the jury would have to say than anyone else in the courtroom.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  The jury foreman leaned over to spit a wad of tobacco into a spittoon before he answered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “We’ve reached a verdict, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Would you publish the verdict, please?”

  “We, the jury, find this here feller,” and he pointed at me, “guilty of murder and bank robbin’.”

  I must confess to you, Art, that I wasn’t surprised by their verdict. They had four witnesses who swore that they saw me in the bank. All four identified me by the plaid shirt I was wearing when the sheriff arrested me. Of course, it wasn’t my shirt, but that argument didn’t carry any weight with them.

  “Thank you, Mr. Foreman,” the judge said. “Marshal, bring your prisoner before the bench to hear his sentencing.”

  Marshal Turnball came over to me and demanded that I hold my hands out to be handcuffed. I did so, and he clamped the manacles on my wrists before he led me up to stand before the judge.

  “Mr. Jensen,” the judge said, looking at me with an evil expression on his face.

  “Three days from now, the sun will rise on this fair land of ours. A gentle breeze will send the sweet smell of flowers to all who take the time to appreciate them. Birds will fly and creatures in the forest will run free. Fish will swim and jump in sparkling silver waters, and children will laugh and play as children do. Honest working men will sweat to feed their families, and good women will toil at their daily labor.

  “But you will see none of this, Mr. Jensen, because on Thursday next, when the first ray of sunlight peeps over the eastern horizon, a lever will be thrown, a trapdoor will fall from under your feet, and you will be hurled into eternity. I sentence you to hang by your neck until you are dead . . . dead . . . dead.

  “And may God have mercy on your evil, vile, and worthless soul, sir, because I have none.”

  The judge ended his pronouncement with the banging of his gavel, and Marshal Turnball and one of his deputies led me out of the court and down to the jail.

  It was looking very bad for your great-great-grandfather.

  Nighthorse’s apartment, Alexandria, Virginia

  Nighthorse was looking over documents when his phone rang.

  “Nighthorse,” he answered.

  “Colonel, this is Kyle Gordon. You asked me to check if the DVD had been doctored?”

  “Yes, what did you find out?”

  “Nothing,” Gordon said.

  “You mean it wasn’t doctored?”

  “No, I mean I didn’t find out anything. And I’m not going to find out anything. The original tape has been reused.”

  Nighthorse was silent for a moment. “That’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

  “No, not really. They do it all the time. Especially once it has been edited and transferred to broadcast tape or DVD.”

  “I see,” Nighthorse said, as he drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Sorry I couldn’t find out any more for you.”

  “Let me ask you something. Is it possible that one line of dialogue could have been accidentally moved?”

  “You ever been typing on your computer, highlighted something, then dropped it in where you didn’t intend to?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s that easy,” Gordon said.

  “All right, thanks.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Transient BOQ at Fort Meyer, Virginia

  When Art left his quarters the next morning, he saw two men wearing coveralls. One of the men appeared to be raking the lawn, though as there was nothing to be raked, Art became immediately suspicious. Because he was unarmed, he started to go back i
nside, but just as he did so, the two men turned toward him. Both were armed, and both were pointing their weapons directly at him.

  “What is this?” Art asked.

  “Come with us, Colonel,” one of the men said. His features were Mideastern, and he spoke with a slight accent.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Art asked.

  “Because if you don’t, we will kill you right here.”

  Art thought for a moment, then nodded. “Seems like a reasonable enough request,” he said.

  At that moment a van drove up and stopped. The two men waved their pistols toward the van, indicating that Art should get inside. Art had no choice but to comply.

  JAG Court Building, Fort Leslie J. McNair, D.C.

  In the room where the trial was being held, the nine officers of the jury were in place, as were the counselors, clerks, and those who had been approved to make up the gallery.

  Conspicuously absent was the defendant.

  The law officer looked up at the clock, which now read 9:32.

  “Mr. Kinnamon,” Colonel Brisbane said, “your client was aware that court would resume at 0900 hours this morning, was he not?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, he was aware.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Your Honor. It isn’t like him to be late.”

  “Have you tried to contact him?”

  “Several times, Your Honor. He isn’t answering his cell phone.”

  “He is staying at the transient BOQ at Fort Myer?” the judge asked.

  “He is, Your Honor.”

  Brisbane looked over at the prosecutor’s desk. “Colonel Nighthorse,” he said.