Black Ops #1 Read online

  “Thank you,” Brisbane said. “Trial Counsel?”

  “I am Lieutenant Colonel Temple Houston Nighthorse, duly qualified before the bar, assigned to the Judge Advocate General’s Corps for the Fort Myer Military District. This covers Fort Myer, Fort McNair, and Washington, D.C.”

  “It would appear,” the military judge said, “that counsel for both sides have the requisite qualifications. The court will now be sworn.”

  With a scrape of chairs and a few throat clearings, the seven officers behind the bench-barrier stood. They were arranged according to rank, with the senior officer in the center. They raised their right hands.

  “Do you,” Colonel Brisbane began, then read the name of each of the officers appointed from a copy of the general order convening the court, “swear or affirm that you will faithfully perform all the duties incumbent upon you as a member of this court, that you will faithfully and impartially try, according to the evidence, your conscience, and the laws and regulations provided for trials by courts-martial, the case of the accused now before this court?”

  “I do,” they all mumbled as one.

  When they were finished, Colonel Brisbane looked toward Nighthorse. “Trial counsel may make his opening statement.”

  Nighthorse stood up and looked at the board of officers. “The task we have before us is not a pleasant one. We are going to have to decide upon the fate of an officer who, until the incident in question, has had a brilliant military career. I know that many in the country might think killing the Iraqi prisoner was justified. Some might even think it was heroic.

  “But Colonel Jensen is not being tried in the court of public opinion. You are trying him. This is a unique case, but you are uniquely qualified to hear it. Like Colonel Jensen, you are army officers all, professional military men and women, representatives of the United States. And let’s face it, ladies and gentlemen, in the kind of war we are waging against terrorists, any one of us could find ourselves in the same situation.

  “The question is, will we allow ourselves to descend to the level of the evil we are fighting? Or, will we conduct ourselves as Americans, and as soldiers, subject to the UCMJ? In the final analysis, this issue is not as difficult to understand as it might appear. It boils down to whether Colonel Jensen killed the Iraqi prisoner or not. Clearly, he did, for we have it on tape. And killing a detained enemy, even if done 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.”

  Not until then did Nighthorse look toward the defendant. He was surprised to see that Jensen met his gaze squarely, not belligerently, not self-consciously, but openly, and with confidence and self-assurance.

  It was Nighthorse who broke eye contact before he sat down.

  Asa Kinnamon stood then, and began reading from a paper.

  “Oh ye who believe, what is the matter with you, that when ye are asked to go forth and sacrifice your life in the cause of Allah, ye cling so heavily to the earth? Do ye prefer the life of this world to the hereafter?

  “In the name of Allah, I call upon you to kill Americans by whatever means, by force of arms and by suicide bombs.” Kinnamon looked up from the paper then, and stared into the face of each member of the court-martial board before he added, “And by deceit. Do not worry about the Americans.” He punctuated the comment by holding his finger up. “They will punish their own soldiers for carrying on the fight against us!” He paused for a long moment before he continued. “And they will be the means of their own defeat. The Americans are weak in body, mind, and spirit, for even now the American press clamors for the head of Colonel Jensen.”

  Asa put the paper on the table, then looked up at the court. “Your Honor, the fatwa I just read to the court was issued within the last twenty-four hours. I suggest that the terrorists will be following this trial with great interest. I hope we do not provide them with even more incentive to put our men and women in harm’s way.”

  After the first day of the trial ended, Art stopped by a fast food place to have a hamburger. He was trying to get ice for his drink when a very pretty woman smiled and took his cup from him.

  “This one is tricky, Colonel,” she said. “Let me do it for you.”

  She held the cup under the ice dispenser standing so close to him that she was actually pressing her hip against him. He could feel the heat of her body through her dress.

  The ice tumbled into the cup.

  “There you go,” she said. As she handed the cup to him, she put her other hand on his. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  The touch of her hand, the timbre of her voice, and the glint in her eye indicated that her question was a double entendre.

  “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,” Art said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s been a hard day,” Art said. “Trust me, I would not be very good company.”

  “Too bad,” she said as she walked away, swaying her hips perhaps just a bit more than was necessary.

  Because there were no quarters on Fort McNair, Art was staying at a transient BOQ at Fort Myer, Virginia, which was only a ten-minute drive away. Although the room would be depressing to most, to Art it was as homey as the proverbial rose-covered cottage with a white picket fence. His uniforms were hung neatly in the closet and two pairs of shoes sat glistening on the floor under his bunk.

  Art saw his AWOL bag on the shelf above his closet, and he took it down, opened it, and removed an old, hard-bound journal. The cover of the journal was green, and it was of the type that had served merchants for many years . . . long before the advent of computers, as a means of keeping records of their transactions. Such a book could also work as a personal journal, and that was exactly the purpose this one served.

  Art held it for a moment, thinking of the man who had kept this journal, marveling at the fact that the journal was written specifically for him, even though it was started several years before Art was born.

  Art opened the cover and read the very first page. He didn’t have to read it. He knew it by heart.

  June 2, 1928

  Dear Art,

  I am your great-great-grandfather, and though my name is Kirby Jensen, I am known to friends and family alike as Smoke Jensen. At the risk of being immodest, I will tell you that in my day, I was a man of some renown. I owned, and still own, Sugarloaf, one of the finest ranches in the state of Colorado. Whatever its fate is by the time you read these words is beyond me, but I intend to keep it until the day I draw my last breath.

  I was also rather good with a gun, an ability that saved my life more than a few times. I like to think that I never abused that talent, but in fact used it to protect the rights and the lives of others.

  As I write these words, I am full from a cake my daughter-in-law has baked me for my eighty-second birthday. My six-year-old grandson, Pearlie, who will someday be your grandfather, has helped me celebrate the occasion. I am leaving instructions for this journal to be passed down to Pearlie’s first grandson.

  That would be you.

  I am further leaving instructions that his first grandson be named Art, and I have every faith and confidence that that will be the case. It is for that reason that I will address you by that name as I write this journal.

  I want you to know something about your namesake. Art is the name of the man who took me in and raised me as if I were his own son. I never knew his last name, and sometimes think that perhaps he didn’t know it himself, or had forgotten it, or long ago decided he had no wish to remember it.

  Most folks called him Preacher, and he was one of the finest men ever to roam the mountains of this great country. It is strange to think that Preacher fought in the Battle of New Orleans, while I have lived to see such modern marvels as the radio and airplanes. I can only imagine what wonders you will see in your lifetime.

  I intend, Art, with what time I have remaining, to speak to you through this bo
ok. I will share some of my experiences with you in the hope that it might help you in your own journey through life. Because, despite all the wonders clever scientists are developing, in the end, everyone’s life comes down to one thing.

  Character.

  Be of good character, Art. No matter what trouble you may encounter, if you are of good character, it will serve you well.

  Art closed the book. He knew much of the history of his family because it had been passed down by word of mouth. He knew, for example, that his grandfather, Pearlie, was named after Smoke’s very good friend. Grandfather Pearlie had served in World War II as a B-17 pilot. During the war Pearlie met and married an English girl and brought her back to the States. In 1948, Art’s father, Cal, was born. Cal was an infantry officer in the Vietnam War, but left the military after his tour was completed. He came home to become an FBI agent. He married his college sweetheart and Art was born in 1972.

  When Art was eighteen years old, his grandfather asked him to stop by for a visit. During that visit, Pearlie pulled out an intricately carved box, opened it, and removed the journal.

  “This is from my grandfather,” Pearlie said, holding up the book. “He left it to you.”

  Art laughed. “That would be my great-great grandfather,” he said. “He was dead long before I was born. What do you mean he left it to me?”

  “Look what it says, right here,” Pearlie said, opening the cover.

  I wrote this journal for, and I leave it to, my great-great-grandson, Art.

  Art looked up in surprise. “How . . . how did he know my name?”

  “Because he named you,” Pearlie answered.

  That ledger became Art’s proudest possession, and, long ago, he stopped being amazed at how so many of the entries seemed aimed specifically at him. He felt that he was in direct contact with the old mountain man, and, in a very real sense, he was.

  From the journal of Smoke Jensen

  I was building a ranch and working hard to fulfill a dream. I had just come through a bad winter and cattle losses to weather, wolves, and rustlers were so high that there was a question as to whether or not I would even be able to keep my ranch. In order to help out, I took a job with the Sulfur Springs Express Company, working as a shotgun guard. That earned enough to keep me going, but not enough to recoup what I had lost during the winter.

  The local bank was carrying my note and when I applied for an extension they turned me down. In fact, they informed me that I had a one-thousand-dollar note due in two days, and if I didn’t make the payment, I would lose Sugarloaf.

  Then Sally, my wife, and your great-great-grandmother, came up with an idea. She suggested that we lease our land for one year to one of the big eastern cattle combines. The lease money would pay off the loan. We would sell what was left of our herd to the combine and at the end of the year we could start all over again with a new herd on land that we owned free and clear.

  I confess to you, Art, I didn’t much like the idea of letting someone else run cattle on our land, but I had to admit that this was probably the only option open to us. So I agreed, and I started into town to send a few telegrams and make all the arrangements.

  As it turned out the telegraph lines into Big Rock were down, so I had to ride to Etna, which was one hundred miles away and a town I had never visited before. I sent word back to Sally that I would be gone for a few days, then started out on what I thought would be an uneventful ride.

  I’d been riding for two days and was about four miles outside of Etna when my horse threw a shoe and I had to stop. I had just lifted the left foreleg of my horse to look at the foot, when I looked up and saw three men riding hard, toward me. I didn’t pay that much attention to them, my biggest concern being the shoe. As it turned out, though, I should’ve paid a lot more attention to them.

  The horses made an obvious turn so that they were riding directly toward me. I had no idea what they wanted, so I kept an eye on them as I started filing the horse’s hoof.

  The riders came right up to me and reined to an abrupt halt.

  “Howdy,” I said.

  “Havin’ some trouble?” one of the riders . . . a man with a long, pockmarked face and a drooping eyelid . . . asked, swinging down from his horse. The other two riders dismounted as well.

  There was something peculiar about the riders, about the way they stared at me, and how they let one man do all the talking. Two of the riders were wearing identical plaid shirts and as I looked at them more closely, they looked enough alike that I realized that they must be brothers. There was something about them that was a little peculiar, though, and I decided that the quicker they left, the better it would be.

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I answered.

  “What are you trying to do, mister? Put a shoe on a split hoof?” one of the men asked.

  I should have known better than to fall for an old trick like that, but, out of concern for the horse, I looked at his foot. That was when the pockmarked and drooping-eyed rider slammed the butt of his pistol down on my head. After that, everything went black.

  I don’t know how long I was out before I heard someone tell me to get up.

  Opening my eyes, I discovered that I was lying facedown in the dirt. I had no idea where I was or why I was lying on the ground, though I sensed that there were several people standing around me, looking down at me.

  My head throbbed and my brain seemed unable to work. Who were these people and why were they here? For that matter, why was I here?

  I tried to get up, but everything started spinning so badly that I nearly passed out again. I was conscious of a terrible pain on the top of my head, and when I reached up and touched the spot gingerly, my fingers came away sticky with blood. Holding my fingers in front of my eyes, I stared at them in surprise. I was also surprised to see that I was not wearing the blue shirt I had put on that morning, but was wearing a plaid shirt.

  “What happened?” I asked, my tongue thick, as though I had been drinking too much.

  “I’ll tell you what happened, mister. Looks to me like there was a fallin’-out among thieves,” a gruff voice said. “The other boys turned on you, did they? Then they knocked you out and took the money for themselves.”

  I shook my head slowly, trying to make sense of things. I wasn’t sure what he was suggesting, so I just hesitated.

  “That is right, ain’t it?” the man asked. “The other two turned agin’ you?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you are talking about,” I said.

  “Lyin’ ain’t goin’ to do you no good, mister,” the man said. “Too many people seen you in that shirt you are wearing. And just because you wound up without any of the money, it don’t make you no less guilty. You’re going to hang, fella. I don’t know which one of you killed Mr. Clark back there in Etna when you held up the bank, but it doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger. Everyone is just as guilty. Now, are you going to get up, or am I going to have to tie a rope round your feet and drag you all the way back into town?”

  “I’ll get up, I’ll get up,” I said.

  I was right in sensing that there were several people around me, because now that I looked around, I could see six more men glaring at me and brandishing an arsenal of weapons, ranging from revolvers to rifles to shotguns . . . all of which were pointing at me.

  “The name is Turnball. I’m the town marshal back in Etna,” the burly man said, holding open his jacket to expose the tin star pinned to his shirt. “And these men are my deputies. I reckon you and your friends figured you could rob our bank ’cause Etna is so small, but you got yourselves another thing coming. All right, now you can get up.”

  I got up, and the marshal pointed to my shirt. “Anyone who would wear a plaid shirt while robbing a bank is just too damn dumb to be an outlaw,” he said. “Hell, half the town of Etna described you.”

  “They may have described this shirt, they didn’t describe me,” I said.

  “Same thing”.

 
“No, it isn’t the same thing. This isn’t my shirt.”

  The marshal laughed. “Oh, you mean you stole the shirt before you stole the money from the bank?”

  “No. I mean whoever attacked me took my shirt and put this one on me.”

  “Now that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone do that?”

  “To throw the suspicion on me,” I explained.

  The marshal shook his head. “Save your breath, I know what happened. You boys got into a little fight, and they lit out on you. I’m arresting you for the murder and bank robbing you and the others done in my town,” Turnball said.

  A couple of the other riders grabbed me roughly, twisted my hands behind my back, then shackled them together.

  “Help him on his horse,” the marshal ordered. “And pick up them empty bank bags. Like as not, we’ll be needing them as evidence.”

  “Marshal Turnball, you’re making a big mistake,” I said, as I was put, roughly, onto my horse. “I did not hold up any bank. I’ve never even been in Etna.”

  “You want to explain these empty bank bags here?” Turnball asked, holding one of them out for me to examine. Clearly printed on the side of the bag were the words Bank of Etna.

  “They must’ve been left here by the men who jumped me. They’re the ones you are looking for. Not me.”

  “Jumped you, you say?”

  “Yes, they knocked me out. That’s when took my shirt and left this one. That’s also when they left the bank bags lying around. They set me up.”

  “You got any witnesses to that?”

  “Well, no,” I answered. “Certainly no one who would testify, as they would be testifying against themselves.”

  “Too bad you got no witnesses, mister, ’cause I do have witnesses. I’ve got at least half a dozen of ’em. And they’ll ever’ one of ’em swear they seen you and the other robbers ridin’ out of town.”