“Pam, what brings you out of that little hovel of an office at this hour?”
“Your Majesty, I have received a communiqué wired from Portsmouth this morning. The message was relayed from the HMS Slaughter as soon as she docked.”
Victoria sat stoically and with her delicate right hand shoved a small piece of leftover bread from one end of her empty plate to the other as Palmerston opened his case.
“It seems I remember that my ship Slaughter was attempting to run the American blockade outside of Charleston. Am I correct in this or is my memory failing?”
“Your memory is as sharp as ever, Your Majesty. She was indeed and she did manage to break into the harbor and deliver the war materiel we promised the Confederacy.”
“Not that it will do our American southern friends any good at this point. It seems their setback in Pennsylvania early last month may have written the final chapter in their rather short history,” Victoria said as she sadly shook her head.
“From the reports I received, their General Lee is quite capable of reversing the current trend of defeat.”
“A flood is a flood, Pam, you know that. Once the waters of defeat gain a sloping ground there is no stopping it from inundating your house, and the southern house is taking on water at an alarming rate, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, Majesty,” Lord Palmerston said as he nodded and then held forth the cable from Portsmouth. “It took some time for HMS Slaughter to sneak out of Charleston, but she finally managed to get past the Union blockade in a thick bank of fog. She carried back far more than cotton mercantile on the return trip.” He handed Victoria the yellow paper. She took the offered telegram and then held up a small pair of reading glasses to her gray eyes as she read.
“Our Colonel Freemantle has spied more than war in America. What do you make of this meeting between Secretary of State Seward and General Lee? I would think that any surrender request would have been forwarded through to Richmond and President Davis.”
“Normally yes, but my people suspect it is more than that.” Palmerston again reached into the satchel and brought out another flimsy telegram delivered by ship. “Our man at the White House has passed along a report of a seemingly benign meeting between President Lincoln and Professor Lars Ollafson. He’s a theology professor at Harvard University. A rather brilliant scholar, so much so that he had accompanied our own Professor James Kensington, of Oxford, and three other Englishmen and four American scholars on a field expedition.”
“Pam, why exactly are you telling me this?” Victoria asked as she stood from the small table and gestured to her ladies in waiting that she was ready to get dressed.
Palmerston averted his eyes as the queen maneuvered to a large silk screen.
“I’ll refresh your memory,” he said as he placed the satchel down. “Professor James Kensington was the man who had an audience with you more than four years ago to ask for funding for an expedition.”
Queen Victoria stuck her head around the screen and looked at the prime minister. “Not that silly old wives’ tale again?”
“It seems our esteemed Professor Kensington received outside assistance after you curtly dismissed his expedition as”—he lowered his head—“folly.”
“So I did,” she said as she again vanished behind the screen. “So, what have we, Pam?”
“Professor Kensington is dead, along with six others, and the entirety of the expedition’s personnel have vanished with the exception of one man—Professor Ollafson. He escaped Turkey with a large parcel and then made his way back to the United States where he took the meeting with Mr. Lincoln and most of his cabinet, and after this meeting there was great dissention, as reported by our man in the White House. After that the professor vanished. Where? We do not yet know.”
Victoria reappeared from behind the dressing screen still wearing her robe. Her hair was now exposed and brushed, but the prime minister could see her aging was progressing quickly with the strain of her rule.
“Mr. Lincoln is reputed to be an extremely smart man. You are not telling me he will choose to go after this rather dubious prize that has exactly zero percent of a return on investment?”
“Evidently, Your Majesty, Mr. Lincoln was shown something from Ollafson’s venture to Turkey that may have changed his mind.”
Queen Victoria closed her eyes and then stepped back to continue dressing. “Right now we have our own troubles with the French, and now we receive word that hostilities could break out at any time in Africa. The Province of Natal’s a little nervous about the Zulus across the Buffalo River. And here we are, using resources we cannot afford to be wasting, to examine if the American president has gone completely insane. With the problems he faces, even if the war is truly coming to a close, he has no time for foolishness such as this. So, from this point forward, Lord Palmerston, we take a wait-and-see attitude toward this preposterous theory that seems to have taken hold of every theologian in all of Europe. We wait, we see what our very-puzzling Mr. Lincoln will do. Instruct your man at the White House that his queen is curious as to the details of the plan”—she again stuck her head out from behind the dressing screen—“if there is a plan. If there is, then we will deal with the Americans accordingly. If they make a run for the Aegean Sea and the Strait of Constantinople beyond, we will know Mr. Lincoln has fallen for this rather dubious fairy tale. If the Americans think they can get into Europe, we’ll be there to remind them who rules the world’s oceans.”
Palmerston gathered his satchel and bowed even though the queen couldn’t see him. He stopped and faced the dressing screen again.
“Your Majesty, if this is a fairy tale, as you believe—”
“You did not hear that from me, Pam,” she said as she stuck her head out again. “My beliefs in that regard wouldn’t go over too well with my subjects.”
“But, if you believe that, why would we worry about Lincoln and what he believes may be there?”
Finally the queen emerged from behind the screen fully dressed. Her gown was rigid, but sparkling. She looked well, and now a far better match for the French ambassador.
“Because, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. Lincoln is as much an agnostic as myself. However, if the president of the United States sponsors this expedition, then whatever this Professor Ollafson passed on to the president makes the British Empire somewhat nervous. Thus”—she looked into the mirror that was held in front of her—“if Mr. Lincoln sees advantage in this foray then we must show just as much enthusiasm and fortitude. Clear?”
“Not at all, Majesty.”
“Good, then I have not lost my ambiguous touch.”
As Prime Minister Palmerston left the palace he suspected that he might soon be witness to a confused race to find out what the real truth was in Eastern Turkey.
PART ONE
GHOSTS OF DAYS GONE BY
Thou shalt be killed if thee can’t find
the demon lurking in thou mind.
So off I ventured, to quench my thirst
of corpses piled with hearts-a-burst.
And on that quest what did I see?
The Wicked Path of Destiny.
—Joseph Clifford
1
CAPITOL HILL, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SEPTEMBER 16, 2005
The eight members of the Senate Oversight Committee were stunned to silence. The same could be said for the press seated inside the crowded room. Even military officers were visibly shocked at the comment uttered moments before by the United States Army officer seated before the panel. As the room burst into chatter, several of the higher-ranking military men, mostly army officers, glared at the man seated at the table with his JAG attorneys and then angrily left the chamber. The U.S. Army lawyers were all still shaking their heads at his statement as the men implicated in the cover-up stormed out. After all, it wasn’t every day that one of the official wunderkinds of the U.S. military so readily committed career suicide in front of the entire nation.
Senator Jam
es Kellum, head of the Joint Armed Services Committee, hammered the gavel several times to quiet the observers and guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will clear this chamber if there is one more outburst like that. This is not a soap opera with good guys and bad guys. This is an investigation into the charges of misconduct by supreme command authority in a combat area. People’s lives and careers are on the line here and I will not let these proceedings devolve into anarchy.”
The C-SPAN cameras seemed to be locked on the tired and scarred face of the young army major sitting beside his JAG counsel at the table. The man didn’t seem to hear the commotion that his last statement had unleashed. The major pursed his lips and shook his head as he must have been feeling his career slipping out from underneath the polished chair he was sitting in.
He calmly poured himself a glass of water from the decanter before him. He sipped from the glass and waited for the senator to regain control. On the television screens of millions of viewers nationwide the C-SPAN cameras had zeroed in first on the green beret that sat upon the tabletop and then the rows of ribbons on the left breast of his green uniform jacket. The camera’s sharp eye focused on the first ribbon on the top row. It didn’t look like much, but the powder-blue ribbon with five stars represented the Congressional Medal of Honor. The camera’s lens lingered and then slowly moved to the heavily tanned face of the army major who wore it. Although he appeared unfazed, the few men and women who knew him also knew the major was dying moment by moment. The chamber finally became still as the last of the high-ranking officers left the room.
Major Jack Collins calmly waited for the hearing to continue.
The senator from Missouri broke in before the head of the committee could continue his line of questioning, which drew the ire of the representative from New York. “Major Collins, to clarify your last, rather harsh statement that the decision to alter the highly detailed plans of the assault were ordered from CENTCOM,” he demanded as again the raised voices of questions sprang from the onlookers inside the chamber. “Can you explain why someone would override a battle plan that had already been approved by the commander of Central Command?”
The young major thought before he answered. He knew that the question was a loaded one that had been specially prepared by the only man on the committee whom Major Collins trusted, the senator from Missouri who had asked the question now so it could not be shunted aside by the oversight committee chair, Senator Charles Fennel of New York. Collins, without glancing at his fidgeting JAG representatives, leaned forward, as did half of the nation toward their television screens as he prepared to end not only his career but possibly many others in and out of uniform.
“The answer to your question, Senator, is not an easy one. It took me seven months to get to the truth after my assignment in Iraq was completed. By then the people responsible thought it would have been put to bed, or as they hoped, forgotten.”
“From my understanding, the investigation into the debacle had been completed eight months before, soon after the events had taken place,” the senator from Missouri noted. “Which was a little faster than I thought it should have been, but the results of that investigation did not sit well with you, am I correct in saying that, Major?”
“You are correct. When you’re speaking about the lives of twenty-seven men—men who I trained, worked, and lived with, no sir, the investigation in my eyes fell far short of the truth.”
The head of the armed services committee, James Kellum, was staring at his colleague from Missouri, as were the C-SPAN cameras. Everyone in the country could see that the senior man from New York was as angry as anyone had ever seen him.
“I’ll ask you directly, Major, were numbers of Apache Longbow gunships and Blackhawk helicopters allowed for in the planning of Operation Morning Glory adequate for the mission to succeed?”
“In my original operational plan there were more than enough evac and support ships to cover all aspects of the mission in Afghanistan. Every soldier on that raid should have been lifted out safely from the area after the operation was complete.”
“Yet almost two full squads of Special Forces personnel, including twelve Army Rangers, were”—the senator from Missouri looked down at his notes momentarily for emphasis to his question—“in your words, Major Collins, ‘left on the deck’ because of inadequate evac response. Is this more or less correct?”
“The plan called for all personnel to be evacuated at the same time. The Taliban insurgents have a bad habit of waiting for the initial first wave to lift off and then striking at those troops left uncovered in the LZ, or landing zone. That was why the extra Apache Longbows were allotted, the added firepower to assist those left on the ground until the second wave of evacuation Blackhawks lifted off the last of the rear guard. The second attack group of gunships never arrived. The Apaches that were there had RTB because of fuel concerns. My men were left out there with no air cover whatsoever with over three thousand Taliban insurgents in the mountains surrounding them.”
“How many of the twenty-seven American boys made it off of that mountain, Major?” the senator asked as the chamber fell silent.
“None.”
“Major, what happened to those men?” the senator continued.
“Six were taken alive into the mountains. We found their bodies three weeks after my return to Afghanistan.”
“The rest?”
“The description of their condition the next morning is not something I will go into here. Suffice it to say these men were massacred.”
“During your personal investigation what was it you uncovered in regard to the missing element of air cover on April 6, 2005?”
“That three Apache and six Blackhawks had been reassigned in my absence for escort duty by CENTCOM, not in Afghanistan but in Florida through MacDill Air Force Base.”
Again the gavel silenced most of the shocked and angry people watching inside the chamber.
“The decision was not made in theater, but at MacDill? Is that unusual, Major Collins?”
“Highly. Someone at CENTCOM changed the orders on the logistics of Operation Morning Glory to provide security in another area of responsibility.”
“And what area of responsibility is more important than the lives of twenty-seven American soldiers?”
Collins stayed silent as the head of the armed services committee grew red and he began to fume as he awaited the fall of the guillotine blade. Thinking now that this committee should never have been formed, and wouldn’t have if that bastard from Missouri hadn’t taken it to the press, Kellum slammed the gavel down again as he angrily silenced the room. The major looked from the tabletop to the man glaring at him from the center of the podium.
“The commanding general at MacDill changed the orders to provide security for a fact-finding inquiry from Washington on the conduct of operations in the Kabul area. This committee was escorted by the six Blackhawks and my three missing Apache Longbows. The area commander in Kabul ordered the helicopters to leave the investigative committee at a secure location and proceed on mission for dust-off of my men. The order was overridden from Kabul after the senators and committee complained about staying over in a small village. Because of their comfort concerns twenty-seven men won’t be coming home.”
It had been the former CENTCOM commander who had angrily left the chamber a few moments before when he realized Collins was not going to play the game. The threats to Collins and his career had not had the desired effect on the obstinate major.
“Major Collins, according to your investigation, what civilian personnel were involved in the fact-finding mission to Afghanistan that month?”
Collins looked straight at the head of the senate oversight committee. “Senator James Kellum and several civilian contractors from various corporations.”
The gavel slammed on the table again as the room erupted. The senator from New York shot to his feet as the wooden gavel fought for order. “I pray you have proof of that statement,
especially after the commanding general of CENTCOM cleared my committee of all of these rumors.”
Collins smiled, reached down and retrieved his briefcase, and placed it on the table before him. The room hushed as Collins removed a plastic-covered sheet of paper. “Yes, Senator Kellum, I do have proof.” Jack held up the paper and placed it on the desk before him. His JAG lawyers frowned as they all knew Collins had just officially ended his military career. “The order was issued by the commander of CENTCOM and countersigned by yourself, Senator.”
That was it. The statement was out and entered into the official record. The first soldier to turn on a four-star general and the civilian senator who controlled the purse strings of the military. As the words and career of Jack Collins faded, the eruption inside the senate hearing chamber exploded into a cacophony of shouts and gasps. The major easily slid the memo over to the front of the table where a senate aid removed it for the committee as the room continued to erupt and Senator Kellum kept slamming down his gavel.
EVENT GROUP COMPLEX, NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA
Almost a full mile beneath the sands of the abandoned World War II target range was an ancient underground sea that had vanished more than six million years before. All that remained was the largest cave system in the continental United States. While dwarfing the Carlsbad system of caves in New Mexico, the Nellis system was not a park or recreational site. The cave system was never placed in any registry of geological wonders like its sister in neighboring Mexico’s desert, but had been kept secret since its discovery in 1922. The reason for this silence was rumored to have been built in 1943–1945 by the same men and women who had designed the new Pentagon building in Washington. Their final architectural drawings would never see the light of day in any public or federal planning office in the nation, though.
The cave system was home to the darkest organization in American governmental history. Department 5656 was officially a part of the U.S. National Archives and was more obscure than most aspects of the National Security Administration. The department, unofficially named the Event Group, was assigned the task of discovering the truth behind world history. To investigate how and why we got to where we were. To avoid mistakes of history so they could never be repeated. The head of this group now sat inside of his office on the seventh level of the complex that was situated above seventy-five more levels of archives, specimen vaults, and engineering and science laboratories.
The Mountain Page 5
