After Kamisiyah

By Harris J. Baseman

When Lieutenant Clarence Davenport was assigned to destroy a munitions depot near Kamisiyah, Iraq, a hushed-up incident in the Gulf War, he had no idea his mission would result in a mass assassination at the Inauguration Ceremony.

With the President and all other legal successors dead, the Presidency falls on a man who doesnt want itSecretary of Education, Ben Silver, a man in love who cant wait to get out of government. Compelled, Silver takes the job, but is immediately accused of involvement in the assassination conspiracy.

Accusations fester, fueled by the political aspirations of Senator Jeb Davies. Davies institutes a plan to destabilize the country even further to force Silvers resignation and his succession to the Presidency. Amidst civil unrest, the war for the most powerful office in the world is on.

Murder and attempted murder of President Silvers political enemies heighten suspicions against the reluctant President. Those investigators who believe in Silvers innocence keep uncovering puzzling facts relating to the assassination, but seem unable to solve the mystery of who did it and why. The unsolved crime of the new millennium threatens to destroy the nation if the answers are not found quickly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469704197

Harris J. Baseman

Harris Baseman has had a successful career as a senior partner in the Boston law firm of Bernkopf, Goodman and Baseman. He attributes his success in handling complex business transactions to understanding the kinds of ambitious, vindictive, devious and aggressive people who populate the high stakes world of politics and business.

Book preview

Contents

Foreword 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

7 

8 

9 

10 

11

12 

13

14

15

16 

17

18 

19

20 

21 

22 

23 

24

25 

26 

27 

28 

29 

30 

31 

32 

33 

34 

35 

36

37 

38

39 

40

41

42

43 

44 

Foreword 

While the story and characters are fictional, they were suggested by the demolition of the Kamisiyah munitions depot in Iraq by American forces during the Gulf War and by the response of some Federal Government Departments and individuals to that event.

The New York Times said of the destruction of Kamisiyah:

For More than five years…the Defense Department had insisted that it had no evidence to suggest that American troops had been exposed to Iraqi chemical weapons—and no answers for the thousands of veterans who had complained of mysterious health problems.

Last year (1996), however, the Pentagon reversed itself and announced that it had received evidence…that American troops had been exposed to…the nerve gas sarin when they blew up a sprawling Iraqi depot in the southern Iraqi village of Kamisiyah…in 1991.

The LA Times recited in a 1996 Editorial that U.N. inspectors informed American officials of the destruction of chemical weapons at Kamisiyah in 1991, and that:

There may have been no intentional suppression of the findings on Kamisiyah, as the Pentagon says. But there clearly seems to have been a collective lapse of official memory about a possibly crucial clue to Gulf War syndrome, and that cries out for explanation.

An August 1, 1996 Associated Press piece stated that Persian Gulf War military logs omit the eight days during which American troops destroyed the Kamisiyah ammunition depot and that:

Some of those troops, interviewed Sunday on CBS’ 60 Minutes, said they had been told at the time not to don full protective gear, despite a chemical officer’s warning that his tests detected the nerve gas sarin at the site. The chemical officer…told ‘60 Minutes’ he ignored a commander’s orders not to put on protective suits and wore his anyway, and he is the only man in his unit who is not ill.

A New York Times copyrighted article by Philip Shenon written following a 20 month congressional inquiry quotes Rep. Christopher Shays saying, Sadly, when it comes to diagnosis, treatment and research for gulf war veterans, we find the federal government too often has a tin ear, a cold heart and a closed mind, and that the investigations by the Pentagon and the Department of Veterans Affairs were, irreparably flawed and plagued by arrogant incuriosity and a pervasive myopia… The article continued stating:

After five years of denials, the Defense Department acknowledged last year for the first time the possibility that large numbers of American troops were exposed to chemical weapons…The Pentagon has since estimated that as many as 100,000 American troops…who served in the war, were exposed to low doses of the nerve gas sarin, released in the demolition of an Iraqi ammunition depot in March 1991.

I hope the story may provoke thought by the reader about some of the domestic and foreign policy problems facing the United States. One of those problems arises out of the continuing need by the U.S. for Gulf oil and the resulting support by the U.S. government of the Saudi royal family, described as insatiably corrupt in an October 21, 2001 piece in the New York Times by

Neela Banerjee titled, The High Hidden Cost of Saudi Arabian Oil. The article quotes Edward L. Morse, former deputy assistant secretary of state:

The stark truth is that we’re dependent on this country that directly or indirectly finances people who are a direct threat to you and me as individuals. They won’t give us information, won’t help track people down, and won’t let us use our bases that are there to protect them.

The Times article described the conflict between the Saudi’s internal domestic difficulties and its foreign interest as follows:

The Saudis consider themselves allies of the United States (most likely because of fear of Iran and Iraq and internal unrest ). But the glue that holds their kingdom together is a puritanical strain of Islam called Wahhabism….In fact, fear of losing power has led the Saudis to pay off just about everyone.There is the welfare state to coddle the citizenry; the toleration of extremist clerics so that they do not stir up the masses; and the payoffs to other regimes…But that protection money has not stemmed a growing restiveness. Many people in Saudi Arabia and the Middle East loathe the United States because they see it as the protector of a degraded regime in Riyadh.

I would also recommend to interested readers a February 1, 2002 National Review article by David Pryce-Jones. He claims that Bin Laden has achieved legendary status and that behind Bin Laden’s rhetorical aim of destroying the United States was evidently his own bid to seize power…from the royal family.

We must all wonder if the U.S. can remove oil dependency from its foreign policy considerations. A Christian Science Monitor article by Michael Mazarr in its October 23, 2001 edition states:

Without new sources of energy, the U.S. will be increasingly hostage to the few countries producing large amounts of oil, and frighteningly vulnerable to energy-related aggression and terrorism.Such a goal (the reduction of U.S. dependency on imported oil) is achievable. Many renewable energy technologies-solar, wind, fuel cells, biomass-are now within shouting distance of the potential for widespread use in terms of reliability, practicality, and most important, cost-competitiveness with fossil fuels. Some renewables just need scale; with bigger markets, per-user prices will drop. In other cases, rigorous research and development remain necessary.

For a brief history of Saudi Arabia, I suggest a review of the ten page Chronology of the country’s history and key events in the U.S.-Saudi relationship prepared by PBS’s Frontline. I would recommend to readers interested in the Gulf War, the Gulf War Veteran Resource Pages, which currently can be accessed at www.gulfweb.org and the information and links at www.gulfwarvets.com.

This book is dedicated to the many thousands of United States troops and the troops of their coalition partners who participated in the liberation of Kuwait.

1 

The intruder, dressed in camouflage fatigues, had been watching Daniel Wilson for more than an hour. Sprawled on his stomach and leaning on his elbows, he shifted his weight on the swampy earth leading down to the lake from the back of Wilson’s Maryland cottage and pushed the reeds and tall grasses aside for a better look. Wilson, sitting in a small wooden dinghy, cast his fishing rod towards the middle of the lake, then pulled a silver flask out of his jacket pocket and took a sip. The sun was beginning to set.

The intruder pulled the olive watch cap over his ears and peered through the sniper scope on his rifle. He was close enough to count the buttons on Wilson’s brown corduroy jacket. He couldn’t miss, but could he do it? He’d never killed anyone before.

He thought of that earlier time when he looked through a night vision scope at an Iraqi soldier while lying on his belly on the ridge of a sand dune. That was long ago when he was a different person. Then he was Second Lieutenant Clarence Davenport, fresh out of college with an R.O.T.C. commission and proud to serve his country.

Clarence stared at Wilson through the sights of his rifle. Wilson was framed in the cross hairs. He was ready. He remembered, squeeze, don’t pull.

The buzzing sound of Wilson’s cell phone echoed over the lake.

Wilson lifted the earflap of his plaid hunter’s cap and listened only a moment before he cut in. Wilson’s voice carried over the still water of the lake as if he were sitting next to Clarence. He heard Wilson say, I’m not going to talk about Desert Storm files on a cell phone. I’ll call you from the house. In a half hour. Stay there.

Clarence wondered to whom he was talking and what was too secretive to be discussed. He had examined the inside of Wilson’s cottage when he planned this assassination and remembered seeing a phone extension in the basement. He worked his way back to the house and entered through a side bulkhead and waited.

Wilson entered the cottage. When Wilson finished dialing, Clarence picked up the basement extension. A female answering voice said, Senator Davies’ office.

This is Assistant Secretary of Defense, Daniel Wilson. The Senator is waiting for my call. Moments later, Wilson said, I don’t care if the phones are encrypted. Never talk about stuff like that on a cell phone. Now what’s biting Butler’s ass.

Clarence listened as Davies said, You know Butler’s thinking about running for president?

Everybody knows. It was in the Washington Times.

He’s nervous about another Desert Storm investigation.

Come on. He knows those records were shredded and that Allen destroyed all the defective materials right after that action.

What about Rollins?

He’s been pensioned off and won’t open his mouth. The only loose end I can think of would be the Senate records.

Post took care of that.

Clarence could hear the annoyance in Wilson’s voice as he said, We’ve been through this before. What’s Butler really want?

He can get the nomination and early polls makes the election look good, but he could use some help with the campaign from the contractors.

What kind of help?

Don’t be stupid, same as before. When he’s elected, he’ll be able to do a lot for them, especially when you become Secretary of Defense.

Oh? I didn’t know he was thinking of me.

In fact, Butler’s prepared to twist the President’s arm and get you appointed to fill out Rutledge’s term.

What’s the matter with Rutledge?

Nothing. He wants to quit. What do I tell Butler?

Tell him not to worry. I’ll hit them hard and they’ll come up with plenty.

After the call ended, Wilson left the cottage and rowed back onto the lake.

Clarence continued sitting in Wilson’s basement, thinking and unable to move. Thoughts of that night on the Iraqi desert filled his mind. The scene had played out in his memory a thousand times. His assignment had been to find and destroy a camouflaged munitions depot near Kamisiyah in southern Iraq. They had located it and when they approached in the Fox vehicle, an alarm sounded. The sensor had picked up chemical contamination. He ordered a withdrawal to the ridge of a sand dune overlooking the site and sprawled on the top, observing the target as the men unloaded their protective clothing. As they started to put it on, Corporal Dorelli approached him and reported that the Plexiglas viewing eyepiece in his hood was loose. He examined it and found that Dorelli was right. He picked up another and then another. The rubber cement fastening had degraded in all of them. They were all defective.

He radioed his commanding officer Captain Terry Rollins, reported the likely presence of chemical weapons, the defective equipment and gave him map coordinates for a possible air strike. Rollins told him to wait for further instructions.

While they waited, he listened to the men. They were griping like soldiers always do. He heard Private Lionel Josephson say, What the hell we doin’ here? We gonna get our asses shot off for a bunch of rich, muther-fuckin’ A-rabs.

Josephson’s best friend in the squad, Private First Class Karl Morgan of Little Rock answered, That dumb sum’bitch Sadam started it.

Get real, you guys. We’re going in to save the cojones of the big oil companies. He recognized the Brooklyn accent of Anthony Dorelli. Meaning no disrespect Lt. Clare, sir, but you went to college. Ain’t I right?

They called him Lieutenant Davenport or Lieutenant Clare.

Yeah, what do you think, Lieutenant, Clare, sir? another voice added.

He answered, Doesn’t matter what I think.

The voice pressed on. He recognized it as belonging to Corporal Angelo Lopez. Aw c’mon Lieutenant, what do you think?

Morgan and Josephson chimed in, also urging him to say what he really believed.

He always smiled as he recalled his pretentious reply. What I really think is that it’s vital to our national interests that we have access to a stable and inexpensive supply of petroleum. Without it, life in the Western Democracies as we know it could no longer exist. We can’t allow a psychotic despot like Sadam Hussein to take over Kuwait and then Saudi Arabia and form a hostile cartel.

What he say? Karl Morgan asked.

He says we need the oil. Josephson answered.

The Brooklyn accent reappeared. Forget about it. We just got to do it.

Minutes later, Rollins called back and told him to proceed with his mission. As he protested that the Fox alarms indicated the presence of contaminants and that their protective clothing was defective he was interrupted by another voice. It said, This is Colonel Wilson. Those Fox vehicles give false readings. You are to proceed with your assignment.

He continued to protest. I’m aware of that, sir, but I don’t think these are false and our suits are defective.

Wilson said, We know all about Kamisiyah. There are no chemical or biological materials there.

Clarence remained unconvinced. But, sir, the air even smells kind of funny.

He remembered Wilson’s next words. You listen to me Lieutenant. I’m telling you that there are no chemical weapons there. Discard the protective clothing and proceed with your assignment.

But sir, he started to say.

Wilson interrupted, That’s an order, Lieutenant. Get you ass moving or I’ll have you up on charges.

Clarence wore his suit and the defective hood, which he patched with duct tape as best he could, but most of the men discarded their protective clothing as ordered. Twelve of the sixteen men who went on the mission, including Dorelli were now dead. It was at Dorelli’s funeral that he vowed he would get even for them all. That’s why he was now here, sitting in the basement of Wilson’s cottage.

He reviewed the conversation he overheard between Wilson and Senator Davies. They mentioned Desert Storm and Rollins. Were they talking about his former commanding officer, Captain Terry Rollins? Could they have been talking about his mission? And who are Post and Allen?

He had always considered this a personal matter between him and Wilson. He remembered that Dorelli had filed compensation claims with the VA and claimed that Rollins and Wilson filed false reports with the Army and VA when he was turned down, but he hadn’t believed it. The last time they spoke, Dorelli claimed that the Senate investigation of Gulf War Syndrome claims had been a big cover-up. He hadn’t believed that either and chalked it up to Dorelli’s Brooklyn-spawned skepticism. He still didn’t want to believe it. He thought a moment. He could believe it about Rollins and Wilson, but it couldn’t be true about Butler and the Senate, or could it? Could Dorelli have been right? Did it involve more than just him and his men and Wilson and Rollins? He had to know. Killing Wilson could wait.

2 

It was early morning at the Davenport house in Alexandria, Virginia. Clarence jogged through his driveway and entered the neat, single-family ranch house. It looked like all the neighboring houses except for the wooden shutters across the windows and a sign below the Davenport nameplate that said, No Solicitors. The run had cleared his head and he quickly reviewed the thoughts that had kept him up all night.

The Rollins Senator Davies and Assistant Defense Secretary Wilson mentioned had to be his old commanding officer, Captain Terry Rollins. There was a cover-up of something, and maybe it was about the Kamisiyah mission. He had to find out. Rollins would be a good starting point. He heard that Rollins had retired with a Colonel’s pension and was living in Alexandria, almost a neighbor. Maybe he’d know if the records destroyed by Wilson related to his assignment. He might even know if Senator Butler was involved in the cover-up, and who Allen and Post are.

That night and each following night for the next two weeks, Clarence watched the Rollins house. Rollins lived alone, and judging from the weekly trash left on the curb for pick-up, spent his nights drinking. Dressed in a black jogging suit, except for white latex gloves, and with a bowie knife in a sheath strapped to the outside of his right calf, Clarence rang the front doorbell. Rollins opened the door. Clarence burst through and stared at Rollins. He had changed. The years had not been kind; he had lost a lot of weight, and was hollow-cheeked with red-rimmed blood shot eyes.

Rollins said, squinting at Clarence, That you Davenport? Clarence nodded. What do you want?

I want to know what you reported to the Army about our demolition of that Iraqi weapons depot at Kamisiyah.

Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.

Clarence pulled the knife from its sheath and pushed the blade against Rollins’ throat. He pointed to a straight-backed dining room chair and shoved Rollins towards it. He said, Sit. Rollins did.

Clarence circled in back of Rollins, leaving the knife blade resting on Rollins’ jugular vein. He whispered into Rollins’ ear, Let’s try again, Captain. What did you report about our mission?

Screw you, Davenport. I’m telling you nothing.

Clarence moved back in front of Rollins, leaving the blade pressed against Rollins’ throat and increased the pressure on the blade. You ready to talk now? A drop of blood spattered onto Rollins’ lap.

Rollins pulled back. Are you, crazy?

Maybe. It’s up to you. Clarence increased the pressure and another drop of blood stained Rollins’ lap.

Rollins looked away. What do you want to know?

Did you report the nerve gas and that the toxicological hoods were defective?

I don’t remember.

Clarence pressed the knife harder against Rollins’ throat and said, Come on, you remember.

Okay, okay, he said, I reported that you said they were defective.

Clarence scowled at Rollins. I brought them back to the base. You saw them. You know they were.

I’m not an engineer, and I wasn’t in charge.

Davenport lifted Rollins’ head with the blade of his knife. Don’t bullshit me. You examined those hoods and the ones like it in the supply depot. You know they were defective. Did your report say so?

They were lost so nobody could prove anything and the Army decided they were okay.

Who? I want to know who made that finding. Rollins evaded Clarence’s stare for a moment. Who? Clarence whispered, Who, or so help me I’ll cut your throat right now.

The Army inspectors were under Allen’s command. That’s all I know.

Who’s Allen?

Colonel Oswald Allen. He was the colonel in charge of procurement for those hoods. He’s a big shot General now.

What happened to the Army procurement records, and what happened to the record of the orders you and Wilson gave for the completion of our mission. Were they produced when the VA claims were filed?

I don’t know.

You got to know. Tell me. Now.

They were lost.

Bullshit.

What about at the Senate hearings. Were they produced then? I don’t know.

Clarence moved the blade back under his chin.

Honest to God. I don’t know.

What did you testify to at the Senate investigation?

I said what I was expected to say.

What does that mean?

What do you think it means?

Did Wilson give you a script?

No.

Was it Allen?

No. It wasn’t like that.

How was it.

Rollins’ eyes dropped down to his chest avoiding Clarence’s glare. I said how was it? Clarence pressed the blade of the knife against Rollins’ eye-lid.

Rollins jerked his head back. Jesus, I’ll tell you. The knifepoint was withdrawn. I never saw Wilson or Allen. A lawyer for the Army prepared me to testify. He said, ‘I wasn’t there, but if I were there, I imagine Lieutenant Davenport would have said such and such and then you would have answered so on and so forth.’ I got the point. I said what I was expected to say. Which was?

You know, I said that Wilson never ordered you and your men to complete that assignment.

Was Butler or any of the other Senators involved in the cover-up? I don’t know.

Don’t give me that crap. Clarence pressed the blade of the knife against Rollins’ eye again.

Take it away. You are crazy. I swear I don’t know, but some of them must have been in on it. Why?

"I don’t know for certain, but they had to know.

Clarence stood back. He stared at Rollins. Why? Why’d you do it?

Rollins pleaded with his eyes. Wilson was a bird colonel when the mission went down and was Assistant Secretary of Defense, for Christ sake, when the investigation started. Rollins looked down, unwilling to return Clarence’s stare. I was ready for retirement. They raised me two grades to Lieutenant Colonel and I retired with a full colonel’s pension.

You miserable son of a bitch. Because of you and Wilson, Josephson, Morgan, Dorelli and all the others are dead. They’re dead because of you bastards.

Rollins looked up at Clarence. I’m sorry, Clarence, but it’s too late to do anything about it. We just have to forget it and go on.

Clarence stood over Rollins and stared at him, I ought to put you out of your misery right now. As Clarence glared at him, Rollins arched his back and then slumped forward in his chair. Clarence stared at him, then poked at him with the toe of his sneaker. Rollins didn’t move. Clarence reached down and felt his pulse. The son of a bitch is dead. He pushed him and Rollins slid off the chair. Clarence picked up the chair and put it back at the dining room table.

Clarence started to leave, but instead went into Rollins’ bedroom. He found a strong box tucked away in a corner of the top shelf in the closet. He rummaged through Rollin’s pockets, found his key ring and opened the strong box. Underneath a folder containing insurance policies, he found a manila envelope. It contained twenty thousand dollars in twenties. In a second envelope, he found a sheaf of papers. The first sheet was a letter from an assistant counsel for the Senate investigating committee.

It was brief. Enclosed is a transcript of your testimony before our committee corroborating the testimony of Secretary Wilson, and General Allen. Please review the same and let me know if you desire any corrections or additions.

Clarence skimmed through the papers. He stopped when he saw his name. Rollins had testified that the decision to proceed with the assignment had been made by the field commander, Lieutenant Davenport, that the hoods were examined and were found to be not defective. He stated that the men in Clarence’s command decided not to wear them because it made them look like members of the KKK. Later in his testimony, Rollins testified that there was no evidence that biological or chemical weapons were stored at the site where Davenport’s men carried out their demolition assignment. Davenport stuffed the papers in the waistband of his jogging suit and left the bedroom. He stopped a moment in front of Rollins’ corpse. He went back upstairs to the hall bathroom, got a Band-Aid from the medicine cabinet, affixed it over the nick on

Rollins’ neck and then left, running slowly through the Alexandria suburbs until he reached his house.

He read the remainder of Rollins’ testimony and noted that the transcript identified Jordan Post as the clerk at the Senate hearings. Another small mystery was solved. He read on. After he finished reading the transcript, Clarence sat in a flowered armchair in his living room staring out the picture window. It was where he always sat when he had to think about things that puzzled him. He wondered how he could have been so stupid. Dorelli was right. Rollins and Wilson had lied to the VA and the Senate. Rollins said he thought some of the Senators were involved in the cover-up. That wasn’t good enough. Clarence had to know.

3 

Clarence sat at his computer and brought up the New York Times archive coverage of the first and second set of Senate Hearings on Gulf War Syndrome. He saw witness lists and noted that three men from his demolition squad testified, in addition to Josephson, Morgan, Dorelli and Lopez. Like Wilson, Allen and Rollins, they testified at closed sessions at both hearings and their testimony was unreported by the media. Senate counsel announced that all testimony given in closed session was classified.

General Allen also testified at public sessions about the Army’s procurement and inspection procedures. He stated that it was unlikely that the hoods were defective as claimed, and that he examined identical hoods in the warehouse purchased from the same source at the same time and found none of them to be defective. On the final day of the hearings, Allen entered in evidence an unsigned report stating that an examination of the demolition site at Kamisiyah referred to by some of the witnesses as a site that contained chemical and biological weapons, showed no evidence of that kind of contamination.

Clarence leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Wilson and Rollins lied, and so did Allen, but what about Butler and the other Senators? Had they participated in the cover-up? Clarence still didn’t know.

The next morning, Clarence was back at his computer. He quickly learned that Post lived in a Georgetown townhouse and was near retirement age. He hacked into Senate personnel records and saw that Post had suffered a slight heart attack six months ago and was currently still out on paid disability leave. An article in the Washington Times indicated that Post was expected to retire without first returning to work.

Clarence began observing Post’s movements. Post looked like one of that army of faceless, Washington, petty bureaucrats that no one ever remembers, but Clarence soon discovered, that Jordan Post wasn’t what he appeared to be. According to the scuttlebutt on Capitol Hill, Post was well known by the most trusted staff assistants of the most powerful members of the United States

Senate. The word was, if you wanted a file lost, mail misdirected or a mistaken address put on a subpoena, see Jordan Post, providing you knew how to show your appreciation for a small favor.

Each morning Clarence observed Jordan Post back his Lincoln Town Car out of the two-car car garage under his townhouse, point it down the road and drive off to McDonald’s for a double order of hot cakes to go. His unfailing ritual was to return home, and then about forty-five minutes later, drive to the Doughnut Emporium where Jordan would sit alone for a half-hour consuming a large regular coffee and three jelly doughnuts while reading a free copy of the Washington Times. He would then return to the house again and spend the day, undisturbed by anyone, watching TV. After two weeks of observing Jordan’s routine, Clarence was ready.

He telephoned Jordan. Mr. Post, my name is Pat Mellon. I’m writing a novel about the way Washington really works. People tell me you’re someone that really knows this town. You can get a credit in my book or remain anonymous if you prefer.

Post said he was not interested.

Clarence said, Before you decide, you ought to know that it’s mainly background information that I need and that I’ll pay one thousand dollars for not more than two hours of your time.

Post agreed that he should come over the next day at eleven A.M.

Jordan had bought a half dozen of jelly doughnuts and two large regular coffees at the doughnut shop. When Clarence arrived, Jordan ushered him into the living room saying, I’ve got a nice little fire going in the fireplace and we can be comfortable in here. He offered the coffee, still in its paper cup and the doughnuts still in the doughnut store bag. I got regular. Hope you like it that way. If it’s cold I could pop it in the microwave.

Clarence took a sip. It’s fine. I’ll get right to it. At five hundred an hour I don’t want to waste time.

Jordan frowned. It’s a thousand dollars whether it’s ten minutes or two hours.

Agreed.

Jordan smiled and took a doughnut. Go on. Ask away.

Clarence took out a notebook and pen. "I’m interested in knowing what the actual duties of the clerk are during a Senate investigation. We see witnesses coming and going, evidence produced, lawyers in and out, and even some of the

Senators failing to attend some of the hearings. Throughout it all, there’s the clerk who seem to be the only one who knows what’s going on."

That’s partially but not totally true. Jordan spent the next ten minutes describing the duties of a clerk presiding at a Senate Investigative hearing. When he finished, Jordan munched another doughnut as he said, Anything else you want to know or are we done?

We’ve got lots more. I want to draw your attention to hearings where Senator Butler presided. There are rumors that he’ll be running for President and I think my readers would find that interesting.

Post nodded. Understand, I’m not going to say anything negative about him.

Of course, and I told you I’d keep your name out of it. One of the ones I know he chaired were the hearings on the Desert Storm veterans’ claims.

Why you interested in that?

I saw something on the Internet that says we used plutonium loaded antitank shells, that our men didn’t know it and that they made our guys sick.

I wasn’t the clerk for that investigation.

Clarence pretended to look at his notes. Which one were you the clerk for?

The one about the demolition of some munitions depot.

Okay, tell me about that.

Jordan shook his head. No way on that.

How about complete anonymity and an extra five hundred.

Post frowned. Two thousand, cash in advance, right now, and I never heard of you and you never heard of me. If anyone ever comes back to me on this I’ll testify different on a stack of bibles.

Clarence smiled. Tell you what. I’ll give you Fifteen hundred now and another thousand at the end of the interview if you level with me. Post nodded in agreement. Clarence handed an envelope to Post.

After Post counted the money, he got up, excused himself and disappeared up the stairs to the second story of the town house. He reappeared a minute later. I put it in my safe, so don’t get any funny ideas.

Post admitted that Butler’s aides had instructed him to do everything he could to hamper the presentation of evidence by the complaining servicemen. Clarence asked Post why no one ever called the field officer that commanded that operation. Post said, I remember that. They told me to lose his address.

Are you saying that Butler or Davies told you to lose that address?

Post shook his head. Neither one of them spoke to me. That’s not the way it’s done. Butler’s aide came to see me and told me that a certain witness wasn’t trustworthy. I’m not stupid, you know. That’s all I had to hear.

What about Davies?

He wasn’t chairman at the first hearing. He became chairman later, but I’ve done things like that for him and plenty of others.

Other Senators’ aides ask you to do the same kind of thing?

Nothing unique about it. That’s the way it was before I got there and it’ll be that way when I’m gone.

Did President Parsons know about it?"

I don’t know. He was never in the Senate, so I don’t know, but the rumor is the Vice President is going to resign because of ill health and the party wants Parsons to appoint Butler to fill out the term. I hear he’ll do it and that Wilson will get Secretary of Defense. So, if he didn’t know, perhaps it’s because he didn’t want to. I leveled with you. Now you level with me. What’s your interest in that investigation.

Does the name Clarence Davenport mean anything to you?

A puzzled frown spread across Post’s face. Who’s he?

He’s the officer whose address you lost. He’s me.

Post frowned. What do you want from me?

You’re going to tell the truth about what happened to the press and the FBI.

The hell I am. Post stood up. I told you nothing.

I taped the interview. Clarence exhibited the small tape recorder he had secreted in the inside pocket of his jacket as he rose and started towards the door.

Post heaved himself to his feet, grabbed a fireplace poker and lunged at Clarence as he shouted, You lousy bastard.

Put it down before you get hurt.

You rat bastard. Butler’s going for the brass ring. Post glare at him as he stood between Clarence and the foyer. You think he’s going to let a nobody like you stop him. Post lumbered towards Clarence. I got powerful friends in this town. They’ll take care of everything, but first I’m going to get that tape.

Post took a wild baseball swing at Clarence’s head. He missed, but connected with the tape recorder and knocked it into the fireplace. Post swung the poker again. This time Clarence ducked under the poker, grabbed it, wrestled it out of Post’s hands and threw it onto the sofa. Post rushed at Clarence. Clarence sidestepped the charge, punched Post in the stomach and then pushed him against the back of the living room sofa. Post fell over into the sofa and grasped the poker Clarence had thrown there. Post got up holding the poker and stood in front of Clarence. Post again lunged, swinging the poker. Clarence dodged the wild swing, then grabbed the middle of the poker and twisted it back towards Post. As he did, Post’s momentum carried him towards Clarence and he slipped and fell forward. The point of the poker pierced Post’s throat and exited through his left eye. Post writhed on the floor a few seconds and a few minutes later, lay quietly on the floor. Clarence looked into Post’s remaining eye. It was open and staring at nothing. He searched for a pulse. There was none. Clarence sat for a minute. He had felt satisfaction at the death of Captain Rollins. This time, nothing. He wondered why. He dragged Post’s body to the short flight of stairs leading to Post’s bedroom and arranged the body to look like Post fell up the stairs holding the poker, accidentally killing himself.

Clarence thought as he drove back to Alexandria that now he had to believe what he didn’t want to believe. He couldn’t deny the truth any longer. His government, the one he had loved and fought for, was riddled with corruption.

Sitting in the flowered armchair in his living room, he stared out the picture window of the split-level ranch style house and thought about what he should do. The flowered armchair brought no answers. He remembered the years following his discharge from the service. His health had deteriorated, and he spent years in this house recuperating from a mysterious illness. He had known that some vets blamed their health problems on Gulf War Syndrome, but he had always accepted the government denials. He stubbornly continued to accept them even when his own father didn’t. He thought about his father. He had also served during time of war in Vietnam, the officer in charge of a Red-Eye Missile Launch Group who claimed that he and his men had been made ill by exposure to Agent Orange. Clarence’s father had always maintained that Clarence’s health problems resulted from exposure to Iraqi chemical weapons his unit destroyed. At first, Clarence thought it was some kind of a psychological transfer that accounted for his father’s opinion. When the government finally admitted that there might have been chemical or biological weapons at Kamisiyah so many years later, he apologized to his father. The admission came too late to help his men. He wished he could talk with his father now so he could help him decide what he should do.

Clarence got up from the armchair and knocked on the door to his mother’s room. There was no response. He eased the door open and stuck his head in the door. His mother was sleeping. Her leukemia had returned and she had gotten weaker by the day. He couldn’t talk to her right now, but he felt like he had to talk to someone. He had to share the turmoil he felt. He needed someone to listen. He went out to his car, drove into the quiet Virginia countryside and stopped at the Shady Knoll Cemetery. He went in and searched for the right tombstone. There it is. Kneeling in front of the grave, he bowed his head. Chiseled into the stone was the name, Clarence Davenport. Born June 3, 1946, died September 11, 2001.

Clarence looked at the stone and said, "I wish you could be here, Dad. I wish I had told you I understood how disappointed you were with the lousy treatment you and other Vietnam vets got, especially the men like you who were affected by Agent Orange and those other herbicides you told me about. I wish you were here to tell me how to handle the anger and frustration I’m feeling. I’m sure there was a cover-up in the Senate and that it involves powerful people in the government. I’m pretty sure Senator Butler was involved and he might even become President of the United States. I had this tape of a Senate Clerk admitting it, but it got ruined and now he’s dead. I don’t know what to do. You managed to live with your disappointment, I don’t know if I can. Should I just try and forget about it or what?

Clarence sat in front of the tombstone a long time. When he left, he was as confused as when he first arrived. While driving home he decided he would talk with his mother. She was a really smart and well-informed woman. When he arrived, he poked his head in her room again. She hadn’t moved. He approached the bed and looked down at her. She was very still. He took her hand. It was cold and there was no pulse. He felt a tear running down his cheek and brushed it aside. He glanced at the night table beside her bed and saw a small, white envelope addressed to him in his mother’s unmistakable scrawl. He opened it and pulled out the single sheet of his mother’s jasmine scented stationery. The letter read:

Dear Clare,

When you read this, I will be gone. Do not grieve for me long. The pain had become unendurable and it was better that I go.

There is one thing I almost told you, but I knew Dad didn’t want me to. I almost did after you returned from the Gulf and I learned that you suspected your illness might have been a result of bad genes inherited from us. I didn’t because you decided that was untrue on your own.

I almost did again after Dad was killed at the Pentagon on September 11, but I had always promised him I wouldn’t.

Here’s what I had wanted to tell you that I think you have a right to know.

Something happened to Dad in Vietnam so that we couldn’t have any children. You were adopted as a baby. Forgive me for not telling you before. If you are interested in finding your biological parents, all the necessary information is in the bank vault with all our other important papers.

Love,

Mother

After his mother’s funeral Clarence went to the bank with the family attorney. From the documents in the safe, he learned that his biological mother was Laura Lombard Hammonds, then of Baltimore. No one was listed as his father. After the funeral he learned that he had inherited the Alexandria house free and clear and was the sole beneficiary of a life insurance policy for two and one half million dollars payable on the last to die of his mother and father. He was a wealthy man. He could forget about everything and just enjoy life, but could he. He hadn’t been brought up that way.

A week later, Clarence got on his computer and located a man named Walter Hammonds still living at that same Baltimore address. He called him, explained who he was, and two days later, went to see him. Hammonds was an old man with a fringe of white hair surrounding the back of his head. He greeted Clarence in friendly fashion. Leaning on a metal, adjustable, cane, Hammonds escorted him into his den. After Clarence showed Hammonds the letter his mother had written and the adoption documents, Hammonds acknowledged that he had a daughter named Laura Lombard Hammonds who had a baby that she gave up for adoption, explaining that Lombard was his wife’s maiden name. He smiled at Clarence as he said, She’d be your grandmother. She was a wonderful woman. Too bad you didn’t ever get to know her. Hammonds looked Clarence over and said, I always wondered whatever happened to you and so did she. I think she would have liked you.

Clarence smiled back at Hammonds. I was wondering, what can you tell me about your daughter, my mother?

"I want you to know, your mother, was a good girl. She wasn’t a tramp or nothing like that. Laura was in high school and she had this after school job as a waitress three nights a week to make a little extra money. She met this guy, he was at college here, a foreign student, very rich. He romanced her, and well, he took advantage of her. When she got pregnant, they was gonna get married, but his family came into town and took him back to Arabia. They sent some Arab lawyer to see her and told her they’d give her twenty-five thousand if she wouldn’t name the father. Seems he’s some kind of royalty over there. I didn’t want nothing from them, but Laura wouldn’t listen to me. She got herself a lawyer and they upped the offer to seventy-five thousand and Laura took it. The lawyer took a third and she got to keep fifty thousand, put you up for adoption, and that was that. She was just a kid, but she had a mind of her own.

I’d like to meet her. Would you arrange it?

I called Laura after you called. She don’t want to see you right yet. Give it some time. I think she’ll change her mind.

Clarence stifled his disappointment. How about my father. Do you know how I might find him if I want to?

No, he had one of those funny names, but I think I kept the letter from the lawyer if that would help.

Could I see it?

Hammonds nodded, got up and hobbled over to a roll top desk in the corner of the den. He rummaged around one of the little drawers and returned clutching a yellowed envelope that he turned over to Clarence.

The letter didn’t say much. It was addressed to Laura and just contained an offer to pay twenty-five thousand dollars to bind the arrangement he had discussed with her. Clarence noted the lawyer’s name and address.

Clarence and the old man chatted comfortably. Clarence learned that his grandfather went up to Canada and enlisted before the U.S. became involved in World War II. Hammonds had been a British commando and transferred to the U.S. army where he became a bazooka man in time to participate in the D Day landings on Normandy. Hammonds smiled, tapped his artificial leg and said. Got this as a souvenir at the Battle of the Bulge. It used to fit better before I shrunk a little, and they turned me down for a new one. Can’t say as I blame them that much for not spending money on someone my age.

The more they talked the more Clarence got to like and admire his grandfather. He was especially