Black Ops #1 Read online

  Canady looked toward the C-SPAN camera, knowing that people all across America were watching him now.

  “Mr. President, my esteemed colleagues, the U.S. military presence in Iraq has become part of the problem, not part of the solution,” he began. “If the other nations of the Middle East do not fall into line with our aggressive policies, then rather than condemn them, we should respect them for their independence of thought, and their courage of action.

  “Let’s face it. The war in Iraq is not a war against terror, it has nothing at all to do with terror. Instead, it has become a war in Iraq for the independence of Iraq. Do not be fooled by this administration’s insistence that we are fighting terror, or that it has anything to do with what happened on nine-eleven. We are facing Freedom Fighters doing battle against the American occupation.

  “The sad truth is, the brutal murder of a defenseless prisoner of war by Lieutenant Colonel Art Jensen is not an anomaly. Instead, it has become all too common an occurrence among our men and women serving in Iraq. And now, as our storm troopers march through Iraq leaving a trail of death and destruction, they are undoing in a matter of three years the goodwill generated by six generations of Americans.

  “Our administration tells us that we are there to bring freedom to the Iraqi citizen. But it is not freedom the Iraqi citizen yearns for. Unfortunately freedom has to take a backseat to a more fundamental need. What the average Iraqi citizen wants is a country that is not a permanent battlefield. He also wants a future that is free from permanent occupation.

  “I am ashamed to say that Saddam’s torture chambers have been reopened under new management—U.S. management.

  “We have but one recourse now, and that is to start, as soon as possible, to repair the damage we have done. Even now it may be too late, but we have no other choice. And the most visible evidence that we are serious in trying to recoup our goodwill would be for the swift trial, and extreme punishment, of Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Kirby Jensen.”

  There was absolutely no chance that the Senate Resolution to withdraw all soldiers from Iraq was going to pass. Clayton knew it would not pass, Canady knew it would not pass, and the few dozen senators who voted for it knew that it would not pass. It was introduced for one reason only: to send a message that they were the only hope for the extreme left wing of the party.

  Television wasn’t the only media covering Art’s adventure in Iraq. He was also on the cover of Newstime magazine.

  Art was shown in full battle dress, standing near a Humvee, studying a map that was spread open on the hood. It was obviously not a posed photograph. Splashed under the photo was the blurb: FROM THE HOT SANDS TO THE HOT SEAT.

  Inside, the lead story was about Art.

  Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Kirby Jensen is the kind of poster soldier the army likes. He stands six feet tall, weighs 185 pounds, has closely cut, light brown hair, gunmetal gray eyes, a square jaw, and a strong chin. “He is,” one of his contemporaries stated recently, “the kind of man women turn to look at when he walks into a room, though he is totally unaware of his body except as a means of accomplishing his mission.”

  Jensen is a West Point graduate whose military career has apparently precluded marriage. He has been a brilliant soldier, making lieutenant colonel as he made all previous ranks, on the “five percent” list . . . which means he was promoted ahead of his contemporaries. By all accounts, Jensen is a brilliant tactician, an accomplished commander, and a warrior who is skilled with every weapon.

  But even before he entered the military, he had gained some national prominence as an All American starting linebacker on the football team while at West Point. The cadet captain, Jensen graduated at the top of his class at the academy, number one in his classes in Airborne training, Special Forces Operations, and languages.

  Arthur Kirby Jensen is the great-great-grandson of one of the legends of the American West. Like Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickock, Temple Houston, Frank Morgan, and Falcon MacCallister, Kirby “Smoke” Jensen was a gunfighter about whom books were written and songs were sung.

  It is, perhaps, this “shoot first and ask questions later” syndrome in Colonel Jensen’s family background that has caused him his latest difficulty. Colonel Jensen was caught, on camera, killing an unarmed and wounded Iraqi prisoner. The video, which has been shown around the world, has made even deeper the distrust the rest of the world now has of America.

  “The damage Colonel Jensen has done to the United States is practically incalculable,” Senator Harriet Clayton said in a recent interview. “The best we can do now is hope that, by rigorous prosecution, we can prove to the rest of the world that the United States will not allow such uncivilized behavior by its citizens to go unpunished.”

  For Colonel Jensen the punishment has already started. He was immediately relieved of his command and returned to the United States where he faces court-martial for violation of several Articles of the Universal Code of Military Justice. The UCMJ is the code of laws by which all members of the military are bound. Although Colonel Jensen could face the death penalty if he is found guilty, most military legal experts believe that his penalty will be a lengthy imprisonment.

  Office of the secretary of the army,

  the Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

  The Honorable Jordan T. Giles, secretary of the army, sat at his desk, studying the report that was in front of him. Like former Congressman J.C. Watts and Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, Giles was an African-American who espoused a conservative philosophy. However, Giles preferred to think of himself as an American who happened to be black, rather than the more politically correct African-American.

  A decorated veteran of the Vietnam War, Giles was proud of his military background, and he felt a special kinship with the army. His no-nonsense approach to his job and his willingness to go to bat for his soldiers made him extremely popular with the officers and enlisted personnel who served under him.

  One wall in Giles’s office was a veritable picture gallery. There were signed portraits of Reagan, Ford, and Nixon, as well as both Bushes. In addition to the presidents, Giles had a section dedicated to his own personal heroes: Generals George Patton, Douglas MacArthur, Benjamin O. Davis Sr., the nation’s first black general, and Colin Powell, the nation’s first black chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and secretary of state.

  When the phone buzzed, Giles picked it up.

  “Mr. Secretary, there is a Colonel Nighthorse from the Judge Advocate General’s office to see you.”

  “Yes, I’ve been expecting him. Send him in, Betty.”

  Giles got up from his desk and walked halfway to the door to meet Colonel Nighthorse. It was something he often did when he wanted to put his visitors at ease. Also, if he took them to the small seating area he had in the corner of his office it seemed to create a more relaxed atmosphere than when they talked with the desk between them.

  Lieutenant Colonel Temple Houston Nighthorse was wearing the summer casual uniform of dark green trousers with the officer’s stripe down the side of the pants, and a lighter green, short-sleeve shirt with no tunic. The shirt had silver leaves on the shoulder epaulets. There was a splash of color from the ribbons and badges over his left breast pocket.

  Giles put out his hand in greeting. “Colonel Nighthorse, thank you for coming by to see me.”

  “I consider it an honor, sir,” Colonel Nighthorse replied.

  Giles steered him toward the seating area, then pointed to the leather sofa. “Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea? A soft drink, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Nighthorse said, sitting on the end of the sofa. Giles sat in the leather chair, separated from Nighthorse and the couch by a small coffee table.

  Giles pointed to the Combat Infantryman’s Badge just above the three rows of ribbons over Nighthorse’s left pocket.

  “The CIB,” Giles said. “I’m impressed. You didn’t get that with JAG.”

  “No, sir. I was an
infantry officer before I went back to law school. I was with the 101st during the first Gulf War.”

  “That’s quite an interesting background for a lawyer. And perhaps, under the circumstances, a background that will be very useful to you. Do you know why you are here?”

  “General Moran didn’t say, sir. He just said I should come see you.”

  Giles got up then, and when Colonel Nighthorse started to rise as well, Giles held his hand out. “No, stay here.”

  Giles walked over to his desk, picked up the report he had been reading earlier, then brought it back with him.

  “I am sure you have heard of the incident with Colonel Jensen and the killing of an, allegedly, unarmed and wounded prisoner?” Giles asked.

  “Yes, sir, it’s sort of hard to miss. It’s been on TV and in all the papers.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Jensen is a brilliant officer who was, no doubt, destined for stars,” Giles said, lightly tapping the file folder with the index finger of his right hand. “Until . . . this,” he added, holding up the report. He handed the folder to Nighthorse. “It’s all yours, Colonel.”

  “Good,” Nighthorse said. “I think Jensen is being used as a scapegoat. I would like the opportunity to defend him.”

  Secretary Giles shook his head. “Sorry, Colonel, you won’t be defending him. I want you to prosecute. I asked General Moran to give me his best lawyer, and you’re the one he sent me. You should be honored.”

  “Honored? Believe me, sir, it is no honor to pillory an officer like Art Jensen. To tell the truth, I believe I would have done the same thing in his situation. This is one cup I’d as soon let pass.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” Giles replied.

  Colonel Nighthorse opened the folder and glanced inside for a moment, then looked up in surprise. “Article 118? Mr. Secretary, we are charging Colonel Jensen with murder?”

  “Read this,” Giles said, handing Nighthorse a paper. “It is a statement of official military policy.”

  Nighthorse started to read.

  “Read it aloud, please,” Giles said.

  Nighthorse cleared his throat and began to read.

  “Basic U.S. policy underlying the treatment accorded enemy prisoners of war and all other enemy personnel captured, interned, or otherwise held in U.S. Army custody during the course of a conflict requires and directs that all such personnel be accorded humanitarian care and treatment from the moment of custody until final release or repatriation. The observance of this policy is fully and equally binding upon U.S. personnel, whether capturing troops, custodial personnel, or in whatever other capacity they may be serving. This policy is equally applicable for the protection of all detained or interned personnel, whether their status is that of prisoner of war, civilian internee, or any other category. It is applicable whether they are known to have, or are suspected of having, committed serious offenses which could be characterized as a war crime. The punishment of such persons is administered by due process of law and under the legally constituted authority. The administration of inhumane treatment, even if committed under stress of combat and with deep provocation, is a serious and punishable violation under national law, international law, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

  “Now, to answer your question, Colonel, yes, we are charging Jensen with murder. With all of the negative press we’ve been getting lately on everything, from putting women’s underwear on prisoners’ heads, to mishandling the Quran . . . we cannot afford to be perceived as whitewashing this incident.”

  “Mr. Secretary, we’ll never make the case for murder,” Nighthorse said.

  “I know,” Giles replied. “That’s why we are also charging him with Article 119, manslaughter.”

  “Even that is going to be a difficult case to make.”

  “Colonel, I haven’t been misinformed about you, have I?” Giles asked pointedly.

  Nighthorse sighed, and looked for another long moment at the folder.

  “I’m sure there is more video footage than has been shown on television,” he finally said. “Will I be able to get it?”

  “Yes. WCN has offered to make the tape available.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Nighthorse said. “They do seem to thrive on news that is negative toward the military.”

  “Well, if it is any comfort, they don’t limit their prejudice to the military,” Giles said. “They seem to be anti-American in general.”

  “Is there any chance for a settlement of some sort? Maybe if we offer to let him plea out 119?”

  “There is always a chance, even after the trial begins, to come to some settlement. At this point, though, Colonel Jensen doesn’t seem all that interested in a settlement. He is convinced that he was in the right, and he plans to fight it.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him,” Nighthorse said. “Who is defending him?”

  “I don’t think his defense attorney has been assigned.”

  “Get the best, Mr. Secretary,” Nighthorse said. “I mean this with all sincerity. Get the best.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Giles replied. “In the meantime, whatever you need, if my office can provide it, let me know.” He took a picture of Jensen from the file folder and looked at it for a moment before putting it back. “Go for the conviction, Colonel, because if you lose, I want it well understood that there was no whitewash here. I want everyone to know that the trial was real.”

  “Mr. Secretary, the only problem with that is, even if he wins this case, Colonel Jensen will not come away unscarred.”

  “I know,” Giles said. “It is a terrible situation, no matter how you look at it.”

  The phone buzzed, and Giles picked it up.

  “Yes, thank you, Betty,” he said. Giles put the phone down and stood. Colonel Nighthorse stood as well.

  “I’m sorry to rush you but I have a meeting with the president,” Giles said, walking his guest toward the door.

  “It’s quite all right, sir,” Nighthorse answered. “I guess I’d better start preparing my case.”

  “Good luck, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. I’m going to need it.”

  Temple Houston Nighthorse was the great-great-grandson of Night Horse, a Lakota Sioux subchief who took part in the Battle of Greasy Grass. The Battle of Greasy Grass was better known as Custer’s Last Stand.

  Night Horse got his name when he was fifteen years old, stealing twenty horses from a camp of Crow, who were encroaching on Lakota territory. The name was subsequently run together to form the family name of Nighthorse. The name remained the last existing vestige of Temple Houston Nighthorse’s connection with his Indian past.

  Nighthorse’s grandfather, Russell Nighthorse, was raised on the Indian reservation at Pine Ridge, but he joined the army when he was eighteen years old. Russell was at Fort Shafter, Hawaii, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and he fought in the Pacific, throughout the war, earning the Silver Star.

  Russell’s son, Dennis, who was Temple’s father, was born at Fort Benning, Georgia, in 1947. Russell retired from the army in 1960, as a master sergeant. Dennis was the first in his family to complete high school, graduating in 1965. He had planned to go to college, but he married his high school sweetheart, then went to Vietnam instead. He left behind a pregnant wife.

  Temple Houston Nighthorse was born in February of 1967. Dennis never saw his son. He was killed in Vietnam, ironically serving with the Seventh Cavalry.

  Temple’s mother was Irene Dunnigan, an Irish girl who never remarried, but worked hard all of her life to make a home for her son. It was Irene’s plan for Temple to go to college, and he agreed with her, but argued that by joining the army, he would be able to pay his own way.

  Irene was against it, given what had happened to Temple’s father, but Russell helped Temple convince his mother that it was a good idea. With her reluctant blessing, Temple joined the army, went to Kuwait and then into Iraq for the first Gulf War, then came back to serve out the rest of his time
at Fort Benning. Taking his discharge, Temple went to college as he had promised, studied law, got his degree, then, to the surprise of nearly everyone, went back into the army where he joined the JAG Corps.

  Temple had excelled as a lawyer with the JAG. In a very high-profile case, he defended a colonel who had fired his pistol close by the head of a prisoner, extracting from him information that disclosed the location of an Improvised Explosive Device. That information saved several of the colonel’s men, but it was a violation of UCMJ. Temple’s defense got the colonel acquitted.

  There were several other cases that he tried as well, not as high in profile, but very important, dealing with such things as defense contracts, etc. Because of that, Temple was noticed by more than a dozen high-powered law firms, all of whom tried to recruit him.

  He could have made a lot more money with any of the firms, but he chose to stay in the army. As he told his grandfather, “It isn’t a matter of money. It is a matter of honor.”

  The old master sergeant nodded at his grandson. “I am glad you understand honor,” he said. “That tells me that you know the meaning of the circle. The blood of my grandfather, Night Horse, is your blood. The heart of my grandfather is your heart.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Burning Tree Golf Course

  Asa Kinnamon was just getting into the golf cart when his cell phone rang.

  “Kinnamon,” he said.

  “Asa, this is Cal Jensen.”

  “Hello, Cal,” Asa said. “I thought you might call.”

  “Yes, well, Art doesn’t know anything about it yet. But I wanted to call, just to see what would be the possibility of you defending him.”

  “I’ve been reading about it,” Cal said. “And of course, it’s been on all the news. Seems like celebrity trials are all the rage now. Ever since the O.J. Simpson trial.”

  “Celebrity trial?” Cal said. He chuckled. “I hardly think that Art qualifies as a celebrity.”