Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was an act of necessity.”

  Williams nodded, then added, “Evil necessity.”

  “I take it, John, that you would not count yourself as one of Colonel Jensen’s supporters.”

  “I do not. I believe that when Mary Shelley wrote about the Frankenstein monster, she was writing about the result of our military system that trains, promotes, and indeed lauds people like Art Jensen. He has truly become a Frankenstein monster, and it is people like him who have generated a climate for the anti-American sentiment that is so prevalent in the world today.”

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

  It was six more days before court reconvened. By now the entire world knew of Art’s capture and subsequent escape, and Colonel Brisbane addressed that very issue with his opening remarks.

  “Colonel Jensen, this court hereby issues an apology for declaring you absent without authorization. All such warrants as were pertaining to you on those charges have been rescinded.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Art replied.

  “But the initial charge, and the charge for which you are being tried, remains in effect.” Brisbane looked at Nighthorse and Kinnamon. “Do either of you have just cause for further delay?”

  “I am ready to resume trial, Your Honor,” Kinnamon said.

  “As am I, sir,” Nighthorse added. “But, if it pleases the court, I would like to make a statement with regard to the DVD that prosecution has entered as evidence.”

  “What is your statement?” Colonel Brisbane asked.

  “Given the question raised by witnesses as to exactly when the statement ‘shit, the son of a bitch isn’t armed’ was made, I have had my video expert look into it.”

  “And?” Brisbane said.

  “As it turns out, the original tape has been destroyed. Therefore there is no way to determine whether or not that line of dialogue may have been inadvertently transposed during the dubbing and editing process. Therefore, I ask that the court disregard any testimony or statements that may have been made pertaining to the exact timing of that comment.”

  “So ordered,” Brisbane said. “Now let us proceed.”

  “Damn,” Asa said under his breath. “There’s not one in a hundred prosecutors who would do what Nighthorse just did. Art, my friend, we are facing a man of honor and integrity.”

  The trial by court-martial lasted for two more days before both Nighthorse and Kinnamon delivered their closing arguments.

  “It has been said,” Nighthorse began, “that Colonel Jensen isn’t really on trial here. Newspaper and television pundits have pointed out that we are trying the American antiterrorist campaign. These same commentators say that we must find Colonel Jensen guilty, in order to show that we are willing to punish our own in any violation of Islamic law.

  “Nothing can be further from the truth. We are trying Colonel Jensen for murder and manslaughter under Articles 118 and 119 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. This is the same code under which we have been trying American military personnel since 1950. It has everything to do with whether or not an American soldier has violated American laws, and it has nothing to do with making a statement, or a showing, to the Arab world.

  “I ask that you consider his guilt or innocence based entirely upon the evidence and testimony that has been presented in this court-martial. If you do that, I think you will find that Lieutenant Colonel Jensen violated his oath as an officer, his conduct as an American, and his dignity as a human being.”

  Nighthorse sat down then, and all eyes turned toward Kinnamon. He remained oblivious of their stares for a long moment as he finished a couple of notes, and then he stood to give his closing argument.

  “Four of you, I see, are wearing the Combat Infantry Badge. A great writer, James Jones, who wrote From Here to Eternity among other books, once stated that, of all the awards and medals given by the U.S. Army, the CIB is the most prestigious. It denotes that the wearer has been tried in combat, and has succeeded.

  “I am proud to say that I, too, earned the CIB for my tour of duty in Vietnam. All of you are wearing ribbons that denote your service in a combat zone. I see among your decorations a Silver Star, a Distinguished Flying Cross, all of you are wearing a Bronze Star, and four are wearing Purple Hearts.

  “I am glad that my client, Lieutenant Colonel Art Jensen, is having his case tried before a jury of his peers, men and women who understand the hazards of combat, who understand the instant decisions that must be made under harrowing circumstances.

  “Despite the fact that it was not shown on the video, there can be no doubt that there were two insurgents who stole their way into a room that had been set aside for respect of the dead, respect, I might add, for the enemy dead. Lying down with the bodies, they awaited their opportunity and when that opportunity presented itself, they acted. The first terrorist killed Sergeant Baker, but before the second terrorist could act, Colonel Jensen killed him.

  “Would you have done the same thing? You heard Captain Chambers testify that he was about to do it, didn’t do it only because Colonel Jensen reacted faster than he did. I think, if you examine your heart, and recall your own days in combat, you will come to the conclusion that Colonel Jensen’s reaction was not only justified, it was heroic.”

  Finished with his presentation, Kinnamon took his seat, as Colonel Brisbane released the board for deliberation.

  Art and Kinnamon were waiting in a small anteroom in the same building in which the court-martial was being held.

  “Coffee, Asa?” Art asked, as he stepped over to draw a cup for himself.

  “No, thanks,” Kinnamon said. He looked at his watch. “It’s been two and a half hours.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “What are you so nervous about?” Art asked, as he returned to the table.

  “I let you down. I blew the case,” Kinnamon said.

  “No, you didn’t. I thought your closing presentation was brilliant.”

  Kinnamon shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I may have overplayed the ‘they are all heroes’ a bit. It almost came across as pandering.”

  Art smiled. “Well, it would’ve worked for me,” he said. “Of course, I do confess to being a little prejudiced.”

  “Art, I have to tell you, I don’t have a very good feeling about this one,” Kinnamon said. “I wish there were some things I could do over.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do you mean, don’t worry about it? You do understand the ramifications of a guilty verdict, don’t you? If you are found guilty of Article 118, you could be executed.”

  “They won’t find me guilty of 118,” Art said.

  “No, to be honest, I don’t think they will either,” Kinnamon said. “I would have felt better if they had tried you only for murder. It would have been a lot easier to defend you against a charge of premeditated murder. But I’m afraid they might find you guilty of Article 119, manslaughter.”

  Art took a swallow of his coffee. “There’s no ‘might’ to it,” he said. “They will find me guilty.”

  “They will find you guilty? That sounds like an absolute.”

  “It is an absolute,” Art said.

  Kinnamon laughed nervously. “Well, there’s nothing like having no confidence in my legal skills,” he said.

  Art reached across the table and put his hand on Kinnamon’s arm.

  “It has nothing to do with your legal skills, or even the merits of this case,” he said. “It has everything to do with geopolitics. The United States government cannot afford to find me not guilty. Why, that would smack of protectionism, and it would reverberate throughout the Arab world. I know that, the judge knows that, and in his closing argument, Nighthorse reminded the jury of it, albeit he told them that wasn’t a consideration.”

  “What are you saying?” Kinnamon asked.

  “I’m saying I’m a pawn.”

  “The fix is in?”<
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  Art shook his head. “No, it isn’t a fix exactly. At least, not to the degree that the board has been instructed as to how they will vote. But every officer on that board knows what is at stake here, and they will find me guilty of manslaughter.”

  “Mr. Kinnamon, Colonel Jensen, the board has returned,” Lieutenant Colonel Barnes said, sticking his head into the room at that moment.

  Art took a last swallow of his coffee, then stood up. “Into the breach,” he said under his breath.

  “Art, I’m sorry,” Kinnamon said.

  Again, Art reached across the table and squeezed Kinnamon’s hand.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I could not have asked for a better defense than the one you gave me.”

  Not one member of the board of officers looked at Art when he returned. Art sat down, then stood, along with the others, when the law officer came into the room.

  “Please be seated,” Colonel Brisbane said.

  When all were seated, Brisbane looked toward the major general who was acting as president of the board.

  “General Borders, has the board reached a conclusion?”

  “Yes,” General Borders replied.

  “Then if you would, sir, please tell the court what the verdict is.”

  “Of the charge of murder, under Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the board has found the defendant not guilty.”

  General Borders paused and looked over at Art. Art returned his gaze, not challengingly, but not weakly.

  “Of the charge of manslaughter, under Article 119 of the Universal Code of Military Justice, the board has found the defendant guilty.”

  Art let out a long sigh. This did not come as a surprise to him, but he was almost relieved that this part of his ordeal was over, even though it had resulted in a guilty verdict.

  “And what penalty has the board assessed?” Colonel Brisbane asked.

  “It is the recommendation of this board that Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Kirby Jensen be dishonorably discharged from the United States Army, that he forfeit all medals, rights, and honors heretofore accrued, and that he be sentenced to a military prison for a term of not less than five, nor more than twenty years.”

  “Thank you, General,” Colonel Brisbane said. “The board is dismissed. Colonel Jensen, please stand.”

  Art stood.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  “I do not,” Art replied.

  “Very well, this court concurs with the recommendations made by the board. You are hereby reduced in rank, and are dishonorably discharged from the U.S. Army. All medals, decorations, and honors are revoked. I further sentence you to a prison term often years to be served in the United States Disciplinary Barracks, at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Your sentence is to start immediately.”

  Art nodded, but said nothing.

  “Colonel Nighthorse, see to it that Mr. Jensen is taken into custody.”

  Brisbane emphasized the word “Mr.” to show that Arthur Kirby Jensen was no longer a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army.

  “Yes, sir,” Nighthorse answered.

  Nighthorse nodded at two of the MPs who were standing in the back of the courtroom. The MPs came to the front of the room and stood to either side of the defense table.

  “I’m sorry,” Kinnamon said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Asa,” Art replied. “You did a good job. The deck was just stacked against you, that’s all.”

  “Colonel, would you come with us, please?” one of the MPs said.

  Art looked at the MP and smiled. “I’m not a colonel anymore, Sergeant. Didn’t you hear the verdict?”

  “Yes, sir, I heard it,” the sergeant said. “And I think it sucks. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a colonel.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant, I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Art said.

  “Cuff him,” Nighthorse said, coming over to the defense table then.

  “Sir, I don’t think—” the MP sergeant started to respond, but Nighthorse cut him off.

  “You think I’m enjoying this, Sergeant? It is regulations. Cuff him.”

  “Yes, sir,” the MP sergeant replied.

  “I’m sorry,” Nighthorse said to Art.

  Art nodded. “Like you said, Colonel. It is regulations.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  United States Disciplinary Barracks,

  Fort Leavenworth, Kansas

  The prison population of the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, is made up of enlisted personnel who are sentenced to seven years or more, and all officers who are sentenced to incarceration, regardless of the time they are required to serve.

  The military prison facility at Fort Leavenworth has been in operation since 1875, opened after the secretary of war called attention to the unethical treatment of military prisoners at stockades and state penitentiaries.

  The centerpiece of the original barracks was called “the Castle” because of its imposing appearance, a massive, dome-shaped brick building. It had eight wings that could house up to fifteen hundred inmates, and it was encircled by a rock wall varying from fourteen to forty-one feet high. The Castle was quite noisy, with the sounds of inmates and guards shouting, metal doors slamming, interspersed with the occasional jangle of restraints.

  In 1994, Congress authorized $68 million for the construction of a new prison, and it was to this prison that Art was sent to begin serving out his sentence.

  The new prison is much quieter than the Castle. Rather than barred doors, the new facility has a solid door with a window. This blocks out most of the noise and makes the cells more comfortable for sleeping at night.

  Lieutenant Colonel Peter Garth was the warden of the prison, though that wasn’t his official title. His official title was Chief of Staff of the United States Disciplinary Barracks.

  Garth was overweight, and had the army not been quite as stressed for people as it was now, he might have faced the possibility of being involuntarily released from service for medical reasons. For the time being, though, the doctors merely counseled him about his weight, pointing out that he was forty pounds over the upper limit, and suggesting strongly that he do something to get his weight under control.

  Garth had been passed over for promotion during the last promotion zone, and he wasn’t certain whether he would be able to stay on active duty long enough to retire.

  He was worried about the new prisoner he would be getting. He, like the rest of the country, had followed the court-martial of Arthur Kirby Jensen. He had mixed emotions about Jensen coming here.

  On the one hand, Garth didn’t like Jensen. It wasn’t that Jensen had ever done anything to him, it was just that things seemed to come so easy for Jensen. Garth remembered him from West Point. Garth had been two classes ahead of Jensen, struggling to make his grades, meet the PT requirement, and stay in school. Jensen, even then, was playing varisty football, breezed through all the PT tests, maintained a near 4.0 average, and had no trouble with the discipline. It didn’t seem fair that there were people like that, to whom everything came so easily.

  But now, Mr. Jensen had his ass in a crack. He was coming to Fort Leavenworth, not as a highly decorated overachiever, but as a dishonorably discharged—which meant that all his medals and honors had been revoked—prisoner. He would be under Garth’s control.

  Garth wasn’t sure how he felt about that part of it. On the one hand, if there was no trouble, if he handled this high-profile prisoner without difficulty, it would have to look good on his record. On the other hand, there were many people in the country, including some powerful politicians, who were displeased with the verdict.

  COURT-MARTIAL VERDICT PLAYS INTO TERRORISTS’ HANDS, was the way the Kansas City Star put it.

  It could be that those who felt strongly that Jensen should not be in prison would transfer their anger toward Garth, as the chief of staff of USD. Garth knew that he would be under the microscope for some time, so he was going
to have to handle this situation with kid gloves.

  “Colonel?” Garth’s adjutant said, interrupting his musing.

  “Yes?”

  “Colonel Jen . . . that is, Jensen is here.”

  “Have him brought in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later, Art Jensen, wearing an unmarked uniform that resembled the army fatigue uniform of the sixties, was brought into his office. Jensen stood before his desk, neither belligerent nor subservient. Garth had to hand it to him. Even in this obviously very difficult situation, Art Jensen had control of himself.

  Art had always known that the possibility existed of him being a prisoner of war. He wasn’t a prisoner of war, of course, though in his mind this was no different. He knew men who had been prisoners of war, and he had talked to them at some length. The reaction from all of them was universal. The best way to handle the situation was not to look ahead to an uncertain future, but to take it one day at a time. That was a trite cliché perhaps, but one day at a time was exactly the way he was going to handle this.

  And, after all, he told himself, he wasn’t likely to face physical torture and starvation here. That meant he would have it easier than those who had been prisoners of war.

  “I don’t suppose you remember me, do you, Jensen?” Garth asked.

  “I remember you, Colonel,” Art said. “You were two years ahead of me at the academy.”

  “Two years ahead of you, yet you were promoted to lieutenant colonel ahead of me.”

  Art didn’t know how to take the comment, so he remained quiet.

  “I hope you understand, Jensen, that while you are in this facility, you are not a colonel, you are not an officer, you are not even a soldier. You are a prisoner.”

  “I understand,” Art replied.

  “Good,” Garth said. “As long as you understand that, and as long as you keep your nose clean, we won’t have any trouble.”

  “I have no intention of making trouble for you, Colonel.”