Penance

By R. Craig Henderson

A stray rifle bullet brings Lieutenant Colonel Paul Richter's military career to an ignoble end. A man without a future, Richter is approached by an old friend from his military past with an offer to teach high school in a small town in rural South Georgia.

Richter soon learns that educating sullen American teenagers is not his biggest challenge, as he finds himself at odds with the local crime boss and a shadowy priest who has big plans for this small community. As Richter gets drawn in to confronting them and resurrecting skills he thought he no longer needed, he begins to wonder if there was more to this offer than just a teaching job.

He has finally found work that he enjoys, a place to call home, and the love of an extraordinary woman. Now, if only criminals and terrorists were not trying to kill him...

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682223024

Book preview

FIFTY-ONE

PROLOGUE

The indigenous peoples and various governments of the Philippines have dealt with foreign military forces for centuries. With the exception of the Japanese occupation during World War II, since 1899 that presence has been primarily American. Demographically, the Philippine Islands do not have a particularly homogenous population. Tribes, cultures, differing religious and economic interests have splintered the population for centuries. These rifts are felt all the more deeply because the Philippine landmass is an archipelago strung like a necklace in the Pacific Ocean.

In 1969, this splintering took on an even greater effect on the islands when a rebel group founded by a mild mannered college professor began military operations against the government. This was the Moro National Liberation Front, a Muslim group seeking to establish an Islamist state on Mindanao. They were not militarily successful, and were supplanted by the more radical and aggressive Moro Islamic Liberation Front. Through the ‘70s to the present, this organization has conducted ambushes and military style raids against urban targets, rural villages, and Philippine infrastructure. In 2000, the group achieved notoriety for robbing and subsequently blowing up a passenger train with a great loss of life. This Islamist revolutionary group has been aided, supplied and even augmented with jihadists from Malaysia, Indonesia, and Saudi Arabia.

Since 2001, the Philippine government, aided by American military assets have engaged in operations against the Moro Islamic Liberation Front as part of the global War on Terrorism. Operation Enduring Freedom-Philippines continues to this day.

The air in the jungle of Mindanao is like the Pacific Ocean that surrounds the islands. It is warm, moist to the point where one can be forgiven for thinking that it too is liquid, and layered with differing temperatures and currents. Thus, the jungle is a tricky place to fire a rifle. No matter how fast the bullet travels, it nonetheless travels through this soupy atmosphere buffeted by eddies and air currents, unstable temperatures, and the light that is blocked and refracted in any given spot in a myriad of ways, making the aiming of a weapon with any hope of accuracy a supremely uncertain and risky endeavor.

So it was a perverse bit of luck when the sixteen year old son of the Datu, wearing relatively new and too large combat boots on his very first patrol with his father and the men of the village, tripped over a root and stumbled forward. As he did, he clutched tightly the M16-A2 he was carrying and accidentally fired a single shot. The 5.56 mm projectile denied the fact that the shot was unaimed, and it ignored the vagaries of the ballistic environment of the jungle. It actually struck someone.

One hundred twenty-two meters away, the round struck the chest of Ibrahim Farsuk bin Jezd, the youngest son of a minor Saudi prince. Seconds before, the twenty-four year old Saudi national had been miserable, complaining bitterly to himself about the horrible circumstances in which he found himself in serving the will of Allah.

This wretched land was mountainous; the disgusting wet air was nothing like the gentle dry breezes of his home, to say nothing of the fact that it was absolutely alien to the cool caress of his BMW’s wonderful air conditioning. He was in the company of barbarians; near infidels whose incomplete understanding of the Qur’an drove him to distraction.

These little savages were not even grateful. Despite the gold, weapons and teachings of the imams he brought them, they merely continued to chatter like monkeys and failed to appreciate the generosity of the Organization in sending him, a prince, to help lead them in their jihad.

These bitter and admittedly unworthy thoughts were interrupted when he noticed something odd. He was lying in the hideous muck that would disgrace a peasant’s goat trail back home. He must have tripped, but he didn’t remember it, and the savages with him offered no help and merely stood about stupidly. Ibrahim then noticed other things: a far off wailing, like a call to prayer from a distant minaret; and he noticed his chest was wet with blood. How did that happen? It did not hurt, and he found himself feeling pleasantly cool. Perhaps he might nap briefly.

One of the savages gripped him under the shoulders and tried to move him. He screamed in pain. Fire danced before his eyes, and he thought he heard shouts and gunshots. His mind drifted back and he felt his thoughts rushing away from him as if in a dark tunnel. He thought about the disapproving glare of his father, his mother’s hand on his cheek when he was a child. He thought about the madrassa in Pakistan and his vision of jihad against the infidel. He wished he could feel that dry air one last time.

But as the light in the tunnel dimmed, he thought of England, his wonderful year at school in London, and the infidel harlot in London whose body he relished. It seemed a shame he wouldn’t see Meghan again, but even that seemed a minor disappointment as his sight turned irrevocably black.

After the initial shock, the ensuing firefight was brief and savage. The Datu’s men were well trained and disciplined. As the Islamic insurgents fired wildly into the jungle, the village tribesmen carefully assumed their positions and fired only in predetermined zones as Badong Paul had suggested and the Datu ordered. In a few minutes, they had killed an additional six insurgents and captured two burros bearing launchers and crated rocket propelled grenades. A few tribesmen searched the bodies, and gave the money, watches and jewelry discovered to the Datu for later distribution. The foreign one that Primip shot additionally had some sort of papers on him, and these the tribesmen gave to Badong Paul. The bodies were pushed down the hillside, and quickly the fifteen men of the village faded back into the jungle.

It was a hard day’s hike back to the village. The village itself was a collection of frond thatched, open walled houses on stilts. They were grouped on a low bluff overlooking a bend in the river. On the other side of the river, rice paddies were cultivated. Chickens wandered between the stilts, and downriver several pigs were kept in makeshift pens. Smoke rose from several communal fires, and as the men came out of the jungle on an old trail, women and children ran to them as the old ones watched silently near their houses.

The villagers were dressed in an odd combination of clothes; brightly colored sarong like skirts paired with western shirts and tee shirts. Youths wore simple kilts while some children frolicked about naked. As the men came in, the women took their weapons and the captured bounty and helped them out of their jungle pattern camouflage uniforms. The weapons and uniforms would be hidden, and in minutes the village warriors looked like the simple tribesmen that they wished they were.

Badong Paul, whose real name and rank was Lieutenant Colonel Paul Richter removed his web gear and handed it and a Kevlar bedded M14 to the grinning man who approached him. The stocky man was a forty-five year old Master Sergeant in the United States Army Special Forces. His name was Samuel Thornton, and he had joined the Army twenty-seven years ago from Houston, Texas.

Well, Sam, it appears we cheated death again, said Richter as he peeled off the faded jacket of his tiger striped ripstop fatigues.

How’d it go?

Primip got us started a little early. He shot some gomer who I think is not local; maybe Middle Eastern or something. After that, the guys settled down and did pretty well. We got some money and stuff, and some RPGs, a couple of AKs, and some paperwork I haven’t looked at yet.

Well, drawled Master Sergeant Thornton, You’d best get cleaned up. A haul like that, and I think we’re gonna have a party. Thornton shook his head in either amusement or mild exasperation.

Richter knew that it was amusement and maybe a little anticipation. He knew that Thornton had grown up in one of Houston’s toughest projects, raised by his grandmother because no one knew who his father was and his mother had succumbed early on in his life to the ravages of her drug addiction. Richter had seen a picture of Thornton’s grandmother, a stern, unsmiling black woman who appeared small and frail when compared to Thornton’s bulk. One night while drinking in Manila, Thornton told Richter that the old woman was, hell, at least as tough as you, and probably smarter.

Thornton recalled fondly the time she had caught him with some weed when he was fourteen or so. She took him out to the basketball court behind their building where he had bought the marijuana from a nervous guy whose street name was Ninja. She gave the marijuana back to Ninja and demanded that he give her, her fool grandson’s money back. Ninja laughed, but abruptly stopped and gave her the few bills back after she stuck an old but well maintained Iver Johnson break-top thirty-eight revolver under his chin. Back in their tiny apartment, after she had repeatedly cuffed him on the head and then fervently prayed over him, Thornton asked his grandmother if she really would have shot Ninja. I certainly would, she said with a fierce gleam in her eye. That boy is trash. Thornton believed her, and so did Ninja.

Because of his upbringing with his severe grandmother, Thornton actually relished the celebrations that seemed to occur spontaneously in the village. The food was ample, if somewhat strange to his Texas taste, the beer and homemade liquor flowed very freely, and Thornton reveled in the fascination of the unmarried, and some of the married, female members of the village with his taut musculature and blue black skin. It was a rare night for Thornton to be in the village and not excuse himself from the hootch he shared with Richter, saying, Excuse me my colonel, but I be entertaining. Richter was mildly concerned that some future Moros were going to resemble Thornton, but so far it had not been a problem.

Thornton was right, the villagers were preparing for a feast. As Richter walked to the central area of the village compound, he smelled the wood smoke and pig roasting above the fire. Children gathered around him and shyly, but with giggles touched his pants or the white skin of his arms. Eventually, he found the Datu resting against one of the posts of the largest stilt house. The Datu smoked an evil smelling cigar, and Richter accepted his offer to sit with him as he gazed out across the river.

So, Badong Paul, a ver’ very good fight, yes? asked the small man between puffs. Many good deaths.

"Yes, Datu, answered Richter. Your men fought very well."

The wrinkled older man chuckled and then shook his head sadly. Better they leave us alone, I think.

Richter nodded his head and said with great solemnity, "Datu, the children of my children will sing songs and tell of your village and your courage. My chiefs are proud of you, and will pray for your village."

The Datu nodded, This belongs to us, he said simply. He grinned and cast a sidelong glance at Richter. Chiefs send guns and money, we get many deaths. No guns, deaths are harder.

Richter shrugged. We do what we can.

The Datu looked up at Richter, all humor gone and his expression grave. "You do, Badong Paul. You and Sergeant Sammy work hard with us. You get deaths with us, you bring us things, you live with us. Far away chiefs do far away things. You here." The Datu opened his hands. You we trust. You we love.

Richter nodded. The little man stood and clapped Richter on his shoulder. Come. Get drink and be happy. And Richter followed his host. The celebration may have lasted two days. Frankly, Richter was a little hazy on the details. Eventually, village life returned to normal. Men fished and hunted, and a large timber was cut and brought into the village to repair the roof of one of the huts. Women tended the gardens and chickens, and worked in the rice paddies. Thornton and Richter helped with the construction, and Thornton tended the wound of a young boy who was bitten by one of the village pigs.

The days stretched into weeks. Twice more, acting on information from other villages, the men of the village went out in search of the insurgents who used the mountain trails to supply bands of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front. One time, with Sergeant Thornton accompanying them, the men ambushed a pack train that carried prized Russian made AK-74 rifles and ammunition. The last time Richter went with them, the smugglers failed to appear.

Two and a half months later, Thornton came out of the hootch he shared with Richter. He walked back up into the village and found Richter sitting with the Datu and several of the elders. Thornton waited respectfully at the edge of the circled men and waited for the Datu to finish speaking. The Datu saw him, and welcomed him into the circle. As was the practice of the village, the Datu did very little commanding except when staging an ambush against the insurgents. The men talked, and under the wise counsel of the Datu, eventually a consensus emerged. Decisions were made. Richter nodded and clasped each man in turn. The Datu grinned at Thornton and ambled off as children saw that the men’s talk was over and they could now play and be teased under the Datu’s affectionate gaze.

Hindquarters has been heard from, Colonel, said Thornton.

What’s up?

They want you back ASAP.

Richter seemed mildly surprised. Usually, he went back to the main base every couple of weeks. He was due there in probably five or six days. It seemed highly unusual to be summoned like this.

You got any idea what this is about, Sam? asked Richter.

No, sir. Just that they seemed to want you back without any fucking around. Blackhawk’s supposed to be here in about… Thornton glanced at his watch, …ninety minutes.

Oh, hell, grumbled Richter. They probably screwed up your shot records or something. Christ! He spat disgustedly in the dirt.

Ours is not to reason why, noble leader, intoned Sergeant Thornton. Ours is to get your aging white ass on that Blackhawk.

Richter chuckled and started walking down towards the hootch. He turned and crooked a finger at Thornton. Oh, Master Sergeant, he called. Thornton came over expectantly.

If I have to say it, Master Sergeant, fuck you very much! Both men found this riotously funny.

An hour later, the men were waiting in a cleared area below the rice paddies. There was sufficient space, barely, for the Blackhawk’s rotor cone between the paddies and the beginnings of the jungle. Richter said his goodbyes to the Datu, who accepted his leaving as he always did. The Datu was sad that his friend and trusted adviser was leaving, but had a stubborn, stoic faith that Badong Paul would return. He had left before and he had returned. Badong Paul said he would come back, so the Datu knew he would. Rather than miss and worry after his friend, the Datu would in a little while simply make plans based upon his assumption that the tall white man would return.

The soldiers felt the Blackhawk arriving before they saw or heard it. From the distance, the air thrummed with a buzz that grew louder and became a roar. As the large shadow flew over them, the air itself seemed to be compressed and flattened by the large rotor. The helicopter touched down, and with a slap on Thornton’s shoulder, Richter clutched his floppy jungle hat to his head and ran to the Blackhawk’s open passenger compartment.

He jumped aboard and was helped to a seat and harnessed in by the wispy mustached crew chief. As he was settling in, the pilot yanked the collective up and the helicopter quickly rose. Edging the nose down, the pilot made a sharp turn and quickly gained speed. The crew chief went back to his station near the mini-gun centered in the doorway. Somebody tossed Richter a lukewarm can of beer that he sucked down greedily.

The flight was not particularly long, and only a relatively short portion of it was over water. After gaining altitude, the helicopter made a few graceful turns before heading straight down a long concrete runway that the US Air Force had built for B-52s decades ago. The helicopter settled on a ramp off one of the runways, and before the pilot had braked the rotor or Richter had undone his safety harness, a Humvee barreled up to the helicopter. Unsmiling young Marines in helmets and body armor helped Richter off the helicopter and to the Humvee. A gunnery sergeant who could have been Thornton’s twin held out his hand and told Richter that he would take care of Richter’s personal weapons. That was unusual, and Richter got the feeling that the gunnery sergeant, no matter how politely he phrased it, was not asking the colonel to relinquish his weapons, he was ordering him to disarm.

With a shrug, he gave the gunny his M-14, and his forty-five, his Randall and even his Leatherman tool. Through intention or oversight, he did not turn over the Ruger LCR, worn under his jacket in a breakaway shoulder holster, nor did he surrender the Fairbairn knife in his right boot top.

It was a short ride on the hot concrete to a low, white blockhouse looking building. Glass in the closed windows promised air conditioning. As the Humvee pulled up to the building’s entrance, Richter noticed more Marines. They weren’t just standing around, shooting the shit, either. And this wasn’t a formation exactly. The Marines had spread out, almost in a defensive perimeter, as if they expected trouble on this side of the building.

What the hell is going on? wondered Richter.

Richter followed the gunnery sergeant through the door. Blessedly cool air churned in the room, and Richter vaguely thought he heard a fan somewhere. In the room were a tall Marine officer, more armed Marines, and a couple of pursed lipped embassy types in summer weight suits. After a second, Richter also noticed someone else. Seated in the corner of the room in a loose tropical shirt sat a man who looked like a constipated grizzly bear, except less happy. His brow was furrowed beneath unkempt gray hair, and his arms were crossed. Faded tattoos could be seen under the dense hair of his arms, and in defiance of the Marine colonel and the accompanying suits, a large green cigar smoldered in the corner of his mouth.

Coming to a halt before the Marine Colonel, Richter reflexively assumed the position of attention and saluted. The colonel, a tall gimlet eyed officer returned the salute. Before the Colonel could speak, one of the civilians stepped forward.

Lieutenant Colonel Richter, the colonel is here merely because his soldiers were necessary. If you require it, he is also a senior officer who will formally relieve you of your duties. Otherwise, I am in charge, he said with contempt in his voice. My name is Michael Stanton. I am a Foreign Service officer stationed here at the embassy. I am here to formally inform you that allegations have been made against you and to see that you are detained pending your return to the United States. Colonel, have your soldiers place Lieutenant Colonel Richter in handcuffs.

The Marine officer turned his gaze to the civilian. Mr. Stanton, he said icily, First, do not refer to these Marines as soldiers. They are Marines, and due the respect that that title earns them.

Look, Colonel, flared Stanton, I am in charge here. We have to carry out this distasteful chore because of the incompetence of one of you uniformed types. I expect you to do your duty, and follow orders. Or do I need to call your superior?

The Colonel looked balefully at the civilian. You don’t have to do anything, Mr. Stanton. I know Lieutenant Colonel Richter. Handcuffs will not be necessary.

Now you listen here, you pompous… Stanton’s tantrum was interrupted as the lit cigar was flicked onto him by the constipated grizzly in the corner. Mr. Stanton, his voice rumbled as he walked over to Richter. The colonel here says handcuffs aren’t necessary. If it is necessary to subdue the Lieutenant Colonel, that’ll be on him and his Marines. But, if you want him in handcuffs, well, be my guest. He took the handcuffs from the gunnery sergeant and tossed them at Stanton’s chest. But you know what you said about military competence and all. If the Lieutenant Colonel resists, the Colonel here and his Marines might be a little slow in rushing to your aid. You know, being incompetent and all. Fellow like Richter, he might do some real unkind things before these members of the armed forces were able to swing into action and restrain him.

I get it, muttered Stanton. You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you, Cullen? Well, it is a new world. Your cowboy bullshit doesn’t matter anymore. Your conduct will be paragraph one in my report. Maybe they’ll let you retire. Or maybe, he sneered nastily, You’ll get a cell at Florence next to Richter. You people have fucked up in ways you can’t imagine. I have to clean it up, and throw out the shit. And you’re just one more piece of shit that I need to toss out.

Cullen smiled at Stanton. With his craggy, jack-olantern face, it wasn’t a pleasant sight. Stanton turned away. Tell you what, Mike, said Cullen, You and I both know you’re just an errand boy here. Why don’t you just back ‘way the fuck off here, or I will just pop your head off like a pimple myself.

Stanton’s eyes were wide circles like fried eggs. Colonel, he stammered, You heard him! You heard him threaten me. Lock his ass up, too.

The Colonel glanced at his men, some of whom were trying not to laugh. The gunnery sergeant had apparently found his fingernails fascinating and was studying them diligently and refusing to make eye contact. I’m sorry, Mr. Stanton, the Colonel said with formal politeness, But I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about my incompetence and military mistakes that needed cleaning up. Did somebody say something?

Stanton snarled, Just put Richter on ice until his flight out of here. He turned on his heel and left abruptly, the other man in a suit hurrying to catch up.

The Colonel turned to Richter, Paul, I don’t know what’s going on. That little shit came from the embassy with orders from the Pentagon and the State Department to ship your ass home. He shrugged, You thinking about causing any problems?

Richter shook his head. No, Sir. Thanks for getting rid of that annoying little turd, though.

The Colonel looked at Cullen and sighed. Yeah, the Diplomatic Corps isn’t what it used to be. He waved at the door. Saddle ‘em up, Gunny, he said to the Gunnery Sergeant.

Good luck, Paul, he said shaking Richter’s hand. Smiling faintly, he said, Always nice to see you, too, Jack. Cullen’s face split into a grin.

Smilin’ Jack Cullen was a big man; he looked like an aging prize fighter who drank too much. His once obviously heavy muscled frame was beginning to collect fat, and gravity was taking its toll on his features. It was easy to underestimate Cullen; he looked like a retired cop or maybe a construction crew foreman. His eyes were pale blue, and if one knew what to look for, they reflected much of what Cullen’s gruff humor tended to hide. His eyes could change in an instant from jovial innocence to the predator’s watchfulness. On more than one occasion, those eyes were the last things someone ever saw. But when Jack closed his eyes, he slept like a baby. Mostly.

Man, the cookie pushers and college boys at Foggy Bottom and Langley are having a collective shit fit over you, said Cullen. A couple of months ago, it seems one of your kids wasted a Saudi princeling, and their assholes are making noise. He shook his head. Apparently, our assholes are listening.

I didn’t shoot anybody, said Richter. At least, nobody they give a rat’s ass about.

True, admitted Cullen. But our politicians think we can successfully suck up to the Saudis. I don’t think anyone really cares about the stupid Arab sonofabitch that was killed. I think his killing is a convenient topic to negotiate about, and you are one of the chips Washington is willing to put on the table.

Richter looked around the bare institutional room. They’re looking for a scapegoat, huh, said Richter. So how bad is it going to be?

Cullen shrugged in disgust. I don’t know, Paul, I just don’t know.

ONE

FORT A. P. HILL, Virginia

The Board was convened at Fort A.P. Hill, an important but rather obscure training and administrative facility in Virginia. The choice of this facility, rather than one of the larger bases or even the Pentagon itself, signaled how intent the Army was on resolving this matter with as little notice as possible. They were scheduled to meet at 0800 hours. Pursuant to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the Convening Authority had sent this matter to a Review Board to determine what steps, if any, should be taken against Colonel Richter by the Army. The Convening Authority, an unsmiling three star general, and protégé of Petraeus, had constituted a five member Board to examine Richter’s role in the death of the Saudi national on Mindinao. Under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, he could have had a Board of just one officer, but the Lieutenant General recognized the politics at play and wanted everyone to have coverage, and was obviously trying to create the appearance, if not reality of fairness as the Board ground to its ultimate conclusion.

Usually, a Board will take evidence, with the Judge Advocate General (JAG), lawyers making nuisances of themselves every step of the way. In this instance, little evidence was solicited or taken. They had Richter’s reports, his e-mails and messages. They had that State Department weasel Stanton’s statement, but never spoke to Master Sergeant Thornton or any Philippine national. Richter knew that his personnel jacket had been pulled, and that this episode and his career in general had been discussed in government offices outside the Pentagon.

Richter had been told privately that the Army and the entire government wanted this matter disposed of as fast as possible. The Saudis were screaming, although their sincerity was open to interpretation, and for the most part the media had not done much with the story. That was not completely accurate: Mother Jones had printed a story about recent American Military atrocities and mentioned Richter. Not surprisingly, what few facts the story mentioned were wrong. And again, not surprisingly, no one cared. As near as Richter could tell, no one read the damned thing anyway. Richter had shown up on a couple of left leaning websites as an example of American Imperialism running wild, and on a couple of right wing sites dedicated to the premise of the primacy of the white American race. He ignored them all, but felt the uncomfortable pressure of such unwanted scrutiny. In any event, Richter was grateful for the most recent reality show scandal and inevitable political outrage that dominated the news. It appeared that whatever happened to him, it would happen fairly anonymously. He understood that the possibilities ran the gamut from awful to terrible. It just depended on what the Army wanted to do. They could refer him to a General Court Martial, following a perfunctory Article 32 hearing; they could cashier him, retire him, reduce him in grade, or conceivably turn him over to The Hague. He had heard that certain talking heads and denizens of the State Department at Foggy Bottom and their consultants had tried to break into the twenty-four hour news cycle by raising this possibility, but the idea had gotten no traction at the Pentagon or in a media that was obsessed with the alcohol and cocaine fueled tantrums of Hollywood’s Beautiful People. Richter doubted that even in the current political climate that they would turn him over to the International Criminal Court, but like being struck by lightning, it was possible.

Richter stood in his small BOQ room. He looked at the tunic of his Class A uniform, and resolved to meet his destiny wearing all of his ribbons and badges. After twenty-two years, he had plenty. Along with the silver oak leaves of his rank on his shoulders, affixed to his lapels were the crossed rifles of the Infantry. On his sleeves he wore the small strip of cloth that proclaimed him a Ranger, as well as the flashes of the Southern Command and 5th Special Forces Group. On his chest were the Combat Infantry Badge, the silver wings of a Master Parachutist, Air Assault Wings, and British jump wings he had earned during a short liaison tour with the SAS. Richter had four rows of brightly colored ribbons, from the Distinguished Service Cross and Silver Star, to his collection of I was there, service medals. He also wore an I was there but forgot to duck, ribbon, the Purple Heart with its three clusters attesting to four separate awards. What the hell, Richter thought, maybe the sight of the hardware will give those chair warming bastards something to think about as they flush me.

He shrugged into the blouse and examined himself in the only slightly warped full length mirror. From his graying crew cut to his mercilessly shined Corcoran jump boots, he looked like what he was; a professional soldier who had been around the block more than a few times. He paused as he selected his headgear. He was entitled to wear several different types, but elected to put on his Green Beret. His silver oak leaf glittered in the center of the flash. He glanced at the Latin motto with a small, bitter smile, Die Oppresso Liber (To Liberate the Oppressed). He picked up his new, cheap briefcase in his left hand and left his room.

Brigadier General Roland Ford chaired the Review Board. A staff officer currently assigned to the Military District of Washington, he was pleased with this assignment. He had been made aware of the sensitivity of his responsibilities with the Board. Even the Chief of Staff’s office had called. Somewhat more subtly, he also was made aware of the political implications of the Board’s determination, both for the Army and for himself. There had been three meetings with State Department officials as well as two separate lunches with Congressional aides who very quietly let him know that the sooner this was handled, the better for all parties involved. One of the Congressional aides had dramatically overstated the scrutiny that this matter would be under, and was equally intense when he suggested, however obliquely, that General Ford’s, ahem stars would be rising over on the Hill if certain people were impressed with Ford’s adroitness in taking care of this matter. He had made that point over a very nicely done rack of lamb in one of the better Georgetown restaurants. General Ford was receptive to the concerns of the aide. In his career, he had learned the crucial lesson that battles were not just fought and won in hideous cesspools in distant, inhospitable places, but that the really important ones, the ones that mattered, were fought in Pentagon hallways, congressional offices, and even lovely oak paneled dining rooms over exquisite china. He had no intention of mismanaging this particular battle. Everyone that counted in Ford’s world wanted this thing done yesterday, and with as little fuss as possible. He had no doubt that his name had been whispered into several ears, and several people whose patronage would be welcome were counting on his finessing of this moronic, knuckle dragging lieutenant colonel’s mess.

The other members of the Board were no problem; all good career officers who were able to see the Big Picture. There was even a female on the Board, a Medical Corps colonel who had done two tours in Qatar and was aware of the sensibilities of the governments in the Middle East. Ford had been told that she had shown remarkable tact and flexibility when a certain situation involving a host colonel and an American female NCO had gotten out of hand and threatened to leave everyone with egg on their faces. The hosts were happy with what she had done, despite her gender. Ultimately, what could have been a nasty international incident turned out to be a mere lapse in communication. The Army offered the host country and the colonel private apologies, and nothing more was said about the matter. General Ford learned that the female sergeant had received excellent medical care at Ramstein for her injuries that arose from the misunderstanding, and she was expected to recover almost completely. Substantial effort had gone into counseling the sergeant into leaving the Army anyway. Most importantly, the Medical Corps colonel was another step closer to trading her silver eagles for a pair of stars. The other officers were equally good; peers he had worked with before, or up and coming officers, whom he had mentored as their careers crossed paths in and around Washington.

Outside of the paneled conference room, Jack Cullen sat sullenly. He was a large, lumpy man; he appeared vaguely out of place in his wrinkled gray suit, like a gorilla that had been dressed up for a circus act. At 7:55, Lieutenant Colonel Paul Richter, United States Army, came through the glass doors at the end of the hall and marched smartly towards the conference room.

Morning, Paul, said Jack Cullen, rising to shake the young colonel’s hand.

Jack.

So how are things looking in there, boy?

Hell, Jack, smiled Richter with a little warmth. You’re the freakin’ CIA. You tell me.

Cullen shook his head sadly. Ahhh, I dunno. I think the fix is in somewhere. Somebody’s got this thing shut tighter than a frog’s ass.

I know, Jack. And a frog’s ass is watertight. Worst case scenario, they cashier me. Can I get a job or contract with you guys?

Nope, said Cullen. The fix is seriously in on this thing. I think the government’s gonna cut you loose. Comfucking-pletely.

Shit, Richter sagged a little as his back-up position disappeared.

Well, whatever happens, see me before you get away from this puzzle palace, okay?

Richter nodded.

For what it’s worth, Paul, said Cullen, I’m sorry about this. You’ve done a helluva job for a helluva long time.

Richter nodded again and walked into the conference room, past the two grim visaged MPs at the door. Inside the conference room, he saw his attorney, a JAG Lieutenant Colonel from the Military District. She came over and shook his hand.

Paul, Colonel Linda Moore started, Remember, this is not a legal hearing but is merely administrative. If there’s going to be any legal follow-up, from an Article 32 hearing to a recommendation for a full Court Martial, these people will merely advise the Convening Authority. Even though this seems like a damned witch hunt, the Board’s function is really only investigatory. The Colonel raised her hand like a traffic cop stopping traffic.

I know that they didn’t do much investigating. I get that they’re just drawing conclusions. However, I encourage you not to make matters worse by saying anything when the Board opens the record to you. She looked at her file beside the table and the paper scattered across it. Paul, I’m sorry. I thought things were going well, but…

Richter shocked her by emitting a low rumble of a chuckle. Colonel, relax, please, you are making your client nervous. He glanced down at the opened files. You did very well, and I am grateful. The problem is, like you say, they are here to reach a specific conclusion. Richter grinned at his counsel, I’ll bet you a hundred bucks what it is.

The Colonel looked up at her client. What does that mean? Don’t tell me that the Department of the Army, or those goddamned spooks from Langley are gonna jump in at this late date? Is that what that civilian is doing out there? He’s got Agency written all over him.

No ma’am, he’s just a pal of mine, from better days. Well, different days, anyway. No, what I meant, Colonel, Richter said, Is the one thing that the Pentagon down through this Board does not want is a record that will cause more trouble. I figured this out finally on the way in here. They don’t want a court martial, or even a serious hearing of this matter. They want it dead and buried. So, what they’ll do is make a mealy-mouthed finding that does not really say anything, and then retire me. I become a non-entity, they can show the Saudis that I was punished, and they got rid of me, and nobody says anything in public.

The Colonel stammered, But that supposes you’ll keep quiet, and let them fuck your career without a fight!

That’s actually the smart part of this, because they know I will go without making a stink. I’m not going to write any books, I won’t go on talk radio, you’ll never see me on CNN or Meet the Press.

But why? The Colonels knuckles were white as she squeezed a legal pad she just picked up. I know these assholes can stack a deck any way that they want, but we had a pretty good chance of you saving your career and walking away from this thing.

Paul Richter shook his head sadly. ‘No, it’s the one thing they got right. I am a soldier, not a politician or a writer or a litigant. I’ll do what’s best for the Army, and they know it."

Wait a minute, Colonel, Colonel Moore fumed, That means this all was just charade? What I did didn’t matter? How dare those presumptuous, cynical sons of …

The door at the head of the conference room opened and a neatly groomed sergeant stepped in and called Attention. The members of the Board filed in with General Ford coming in last and taking the center chair. He sat down, and opened a rich leather folder before him. He adjusted his glasses and without looking up, muttered, Take seats, please.

As this assignment would indicate, and the ribbons on his tunic confirmed, General Ford had been a staff man most of his career. He saw himself less as a military officer than as an upper echelon executive of a large entity that had a global presence. That the organization’s product was the projection of force across that world made little difference to him. What did make a difference to him was his personal power and prestige. He again thought that he was a singularly good choice to chair this Board, it needed his sort of judgment and skillful management. Actually, it had all been rather easy. This Lieutenant Colonel Richter was something of an aberration. Really, his career was at a dead end anyway. He had no meaningful command or staff experience that would validate his career. He might have made full colonel in a few years, but that presumed that there would be no more incidents such as this. It also presumed that he would live, and not be dead in a Third World shit-hole. Frankly, everyone, including the Lieutenant Colonel, would be better off when this sordid little mess was resolved.

General Ford cleared his throat. The Hearing Board is ready to pronounce its findings pursuant to direction of the Convening Authority, Military District of Washington. Are there any remaining issues before the Board? Good. The General did not even breathe before continuing on. I will publish the findings of this Board, after which time members may comment if they so choose. He glanced balefully at the officers flanking him, reminding them how unwelcome additional comments really were. Comments from Lieutenant Colonel Richter and or his counsel will be included in the record, and we shall conclude this matter.

General Ford picked up a sheaf of paper, and paused to emphasize the gravity of the situation and his own grandeur. He glanced at the subject of the Board’s inquiry, Lieutenant Colonel Paul Richter, and noted the trim officer before him. The General examined Colonel Richter, and was once again struck by the banality of the man. Richter sat and looked like an aging jock. It was obvious from even these limited proceedings that Lieutenant Colonel Paul Richter was one of those stunted creatures whose view was only to the next hilltop, the next battle, the next conflict with other grunting troglodytes of his ilk. The man’s career path clearly demonstrated that he had no foresight, no sophistication, no real intelligence beyond a certain tribal sort of cunning, always finding himself in horrible places in grubby little wars, far away from the real action. As he had thought many times, he was doing Colonel Richter a favor, putting him out to pasture so to speak, rather than allowing him to