A Far Justice (33 page)

Leon swore again when a burst of submachine gun fire echoed in the night. Jason shook his head. “Maybe a kilometer away,” he told Leon. “I hope it’s not Hon.” The Dinka had been gone for over three hours reconnoitering the area and Jason was worried. The two men walked outside as the rattle of an AK47 reached the compound. They froze as more gunfire erupted. It slowly tapered off, only to re-ignite. “They waste a lot of ammo,” Jason said.

“There,” Leon said, pointing into the night. Hon emerged out of the shadows and walked slowly towards them, exhausted but unhurt. Jason handed him a water bottle and waited while he took a long drink and caught his breath.

Hon pointed at the road. “I get close and see many soldiers. I count sixty-three but there are many more. I count eight trucks and two tanks like that.” He pointed to the Wolf Turbo.

“Armored cars,” Jason said. “Is the dirt soft or hard?”

Hon tapped the earth. “Same there, same here.”

Jason analyzed the threat. Based on the number of men Hon had counted and the eight trucks, he calculated they were facing approximately two hundred men. Besides the two armored cars, what else did they have? They had at least one mortar but were reluctant to use it. Did that mean they were short on mortar rounds? What about heavy machine guns or light artillery? He decided the heavy machine guns would be mounted on the armored cars and the soldiers would carry RPGs, rocket propelled grenades. He didn’t like the numbers.

Neither did Leon. “We can shoot the bastards on foot, but what about the armored cars?”

“Who can handle dynamite?” Jason asked.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The Hague

Gus stared into the mirror in the holding cell and carefully adjusted
his tie. He could see the worried look on Therese Derwent’s face in the reflection. “I know you will be taking the witness stand before too long, maybe today, ” the psychiatrist said. The worry in her voice was obvious. “Du Milan will try to make you angry and say rash things. But remember, she is afraid of you.”

Gus wasn’t sure if the psychiatrist was being rational. “She is?”

“Trust me, she fears you deeply. When she tries to bait you, ask her why she’s doing it.”

“A witness can’t get away with that in a court. A judge won’t allow it.”

“After all this time and you still don’t realize you are not in an American courtroom. I must go and take my seat.” She called for a guard and disappeared.

What does she know?
Gus thought. He had to get to Hank. He got his chance ten minutes later when he stepped into the dock and Hank came over for a last minute conference. “Something’s going down. Normally, prison guards escort me back and forth. This morning, the Dutch turned me over to two of the court’s security cops and they brought me here. They’ve also got Derwent as part of the team escorting me.”

Hank thought for a moment. “The Dutch know something, but what is it?” Then it came to him. “Oh. They expect Bouchard to rule on the Iraqi petition today, and are probably worried about a suicide attempt.”

“Derwent should know me better than that,” Gus said. His face turned rock hard. “Bouchard is doing a little softening up for the prosecution, weaken the opposition before the attack. So what? We knew the ruling on Iraq was coming. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a non-event.”

“I’ll have to respond,” Hank said. “Give me the high-sign if you’re upset and need a break. I’ll have a sudden case of diarrhea.”

“That’s logical, considering this is a shitty deal.”

Hank was certain the pilot was going to be fine. “Let’s do it. Just like we rehearsed.” Aly motioned Hank back to the table in time for the judges’ entrance.

Bouchard adjusted his glasses and looked at the audience, clearly savoring the moment. “The court has reviewed the Iraqi petition for transfer of the defendant to their custody to stand trial for a war crime committed prior to February 25, 1991. This request is unprecedented as the court has never been asked to transfer a person back to a member Party. Our jurisdiction is ‘complementary’ to national criminal jurisdictions, and as such, national courts have the ‘first bit of the apple.’ It is only after national courts relinquish their interest in a crime that the International Criminal Court has jurisdiction and a person is transferred to our custody. As the crime in question is not the one before the court, the court must defer to Iraq’s primacy. Therefore, the defendant will be transferred to Iraqi jurisdiction upon completion of this trial if found not guilty, or upon completion of his sentence should he be found guilty.”

For a moment, the courtroom was held in stunned silence. Then a woman gasped and started to cry as six reporters ran from the room. Gus sat in the dock, his gazed fixed calmly on Bouchard. Hank came to his feet. “Your Honor, I am stunned by this perversion of the court’s principle of complementarity. Need I remind the court that Colonel Tyler is being held as a Panamanian citizen? Iraq should request his extradition from Panama.”

“Your honor, if I may?” This from Denise. “The law is a two-way street. All member states must honor a warrant for arrest from the court. Therefore, the court must honor a warrant for arrest from any member state.”

Hank humphed. “First bite of the apple and now two-way streets. Is justice a gastronomic endeavor or a problem in traffic control? The defense reserves the right of appeal.”

“File your motion,” Bouchard said, refusing to look at Gus.

“Indeed,” Hank said.

“Call your next witness.”

“The defense calls Henri Scullanois to the stand.”

Bouchard banged his gavel. “We’ve been over this ground before. Call your next witness.”

“Where’s Henri?” a woman called from the audience.

Gus held up his hand and mouthed the words “Thank you” to the woman. She returned his look, concern writ large on her face, as two guards escorted her out.

“The defense calls Colonel August Tyler to the stand.”

“The defendant will remain in the dock,” Bouchard ordered. Gus stood and the clerk administered the oath.

Hank turned to Gus. “Good morning, Colonel Tyler.”

“Good morning,” Gus replied, still standing.

“The defendant may sit down,” Bouchard said.

“If it’s all the same,” Gus replied, “I prefer to stand.”

“As the defendant wishes,” Bouchard grumped.

Hank led Gus through the pro forma questions documenting Gus’s background and training. The lawyer took his time establishing the pilot’s credentials and spent over an hour taking the court through the countless technical details of planning a mission and a standard pre-mission briefing. Slowly, a consummate professional emerged and the image of a fighter pilot as a devil-may-care, irresponsible cowboy was put to rest. There was no doubt that Gus Tyler was a highly trained and proficient technician who flew, and fought, by the rules.

Satisfied that he had a solid base, Hank turned to the war in Iraq and established that Gus was acting under lawful orders, and attacking trucks and vehicles was standard practice consistent with the rules of engagement. When asked about attacking the Scud and bombing the bus in the desert, Gus answered, “I intended to do a visual recce, that’s going to take a look, and report back. But when they shot at me, I was free to attack under the ROE.”

Rather than belabor that incident, Hank came to the heart of the matter. “We’re you ordered to fly a mission on the night of February 25, 1991?”

“Colonel Cannon asked me if I wanted it, and I volunteered.”

“Did you visually acquire the target before attacking?”

Gus replied, “No. It was dark and they were running without lights. We first acquired them on radar and later through the forward looking infrared when we were closer in.” Hank asked if they had seen anything, visually or electronically, that could be interpreted as a recognition signal? “They did launch two Gadflies at us. That’s one awesome surface-to-air missile that can come down into the weeds to get you. I guess that a recognition of sorts but I wouldn’t call it friendly.” A titter of laughter echoed over the courtroom.

“Was this before you attacked?”

“Yes. We were still inbound, about ten miles out.”

“At this time,” Hank said, “I would like to show the court the airborne videotape from the mission that was recorded through your aircraft’s heads-up-display.” The room darkened and the screen descended from the ceiling. The greenish image of the infrared appeared surrounded by the lighted symbology of the HUD. Gus and Toby’s voices were loud and clear over the noise of the engines.

Gus slipped back in time as the video played and, for a few brief moments, he was there, condemned to relive it again.

February 25, 1991

“Check out Riyadh,” Gus said as the F-15 Strike Eagle climbed out of the airbase at Al Kharj in Saudi Arabia. “Lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“No can say Christmas in the land of Saud,” Toby said with an Arabic accent.

“Don’t they know there’s a war going on,” Gus replied.

“Allah’s will be done.”

Gus shook his head. “Right. And I suppose it’s a good day to die.”

“They do believe that,” Toby said matter-of-factly.

Gus heard an unusual tone in his backseater’s voice, almost as if he were reciting a basic truism of life. “For them, not for us,” Gus said. There was no reply. “How’s the Arabic coming? Still talking to the locals?”

“Every chance I get,” Toby replied.

Their ground controller sent them over to the Airborne Command Post frequency. Gus checked in and they listened to the radio chatter. It was a very busy night in the air war. Then Toby saw it on his radar. “Got ‘em.” They were over sixty nautical miles away, still over the Gulf and abeam Kuwait City, but the Strike Eagle’s synthetic aperture radar had reached out and found the convoy. The digitally enhanced screen showed an extremely narrow, very long, and very bright line snaking its way northward. Toby’s left hand played with the hand controller, the joystick on his side console, while he punched numbers into the keyboard on the up-front controller with his right forefinger. The radar image cycled and became more distinct.

“Look at that,” Toby said in a low voice. “They got to be puttin’ out one humongous heat signature.” He checked the FLIR, their forward-looking infrared, but they were still out of range.

Gus turned on their airborne videotape recorder that captured whatever he saw through the heads-up-display and heard through his headset. He keyed the transmit button and called the airborne command post. “Moonbeam, Driver One. Any word on my wingman?” Gus’s wingman, Skid, had to switch aircraft for a maintenance problem and was late taking off. Gus was hoping he could catch up before they entered the target area.

“Negative, Driver One,” Moonbeam replied.

“Rog,” Gus acknowledged. He and Toby were going to attack the convoy alone.

Toby was all business as he worked the radar and described the target. “The main convoy is about two to three miles long, pretty well bunched up, moving at about fifteen miles an hour. Got some fast runners out front beating feet for home.”

“Probably the high rollers in the Ferraris they stole from the Kuwaitis,” Gus allowed.

Toby ignored him. “It looks like the head of the convoy is already across the border but there’s a whole lot of slow pokes falling behind.” He decreased the range on the radar and the long, bright string broke into a string of dots and dashes. “I’m breaking out the bigger stuff, probably trucks or tanks.”

“Or mobile SAMs,” Gus said. The Iraqis were reported to have Soviet-made SA-9 and SA-16 surface-to-air missiles, both highly dangerous to low-flying aircraft.

“No one said this would be easy,” Toby replied.

“Never fly in the same cockpit with someone braver than yourself,” Gus decided.

Toby moved the crosshairs on his display over a very bright return at the head of the main mass of vehicles. “That’s our target.”

“Fence check,” Gus said as he descended into the cloud deck below them. Both men ran a checklist, readying the Strike Eagle for attack. Most of it was a double check to make sure all the switches were in the right position, but it was also a mental trigger, focusing them on the task at hand, which in this case was to destroy as many of vehicles and enemy soldiers as they could. Gus called up the armament display and selected bombs. “Ripple three Snakes,” he told Toby.

“Sounds like a plan,” Toby replied. The Mark-82 Snake Eyes they were carrying might have been ‘dumb’ but the two men and the Strike Eagle were not.

Gus dropped the big jet down to three hundred feet and flew up the Khwar ‘Abd Allah, the estuary leading into the marshes of southern Iraq. “Moonbeam,” he radioed when they were over the marsh, “Driver One feet dry.”

“More or less,” Toby quipped from the backseat.

“Roger, Driver One,” Moonbeam replied. “You’re cleared hot into the area.” Gus nudged the throttle forward and the airspeed marker on his HUD touched 500 knots. Every second, they were three football fields closer to the fleeing convoy.

“Forty miles out,” Toby said. Then, “Four minutes.” The jet’s TEWS, the tactical electronic warfare suite, came alive and shrieked, warning them that a hostile radar was tracking them. “It’s a monopulse radar,” Toby said tersely. “Probably a SA-11 Gadfly.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Gus wondered. The Gadfly was a very dangerous surface-to-air missile because of its guidance and tracking radar and ability to follow an aircraft down to fifty feet above the ground.

“A little lower would be nice.”

“It is night out there,” Gus muttered.

“The TFR is working fine,” Toby said. The TFR was the terrain following radar. “And nothing is wrong with the FLIR.”

It was true. The contrast on the forward-looking infrared display was unusually good. Gus squeaked the jet down to a hundred feet above the terrain. The TEWS protested louder. “Sweet Jesus,” he said.

“He ain’t gonna help,” Toby said. “Just row the boat and I’ll deliver the mail.” Gus dropped to fifty feet and nudged the throttles forward until their airspeed was rooted on 540 knots. Now they were eating up the distance to the convoy at 911 feet a second. Toby updated the system, constantly refining the targeting solution. He hit the EMIS switch, putting the radar in standby and cutting off the electronic signature they were broadcasting. The TEWS shifted signals, warning them that a radar-guided SAM was locked on and coming their way. The TEWS automatically sent a burst of energy out to jam the hostile radar and dropped bundles of chaff in their wake. The missile flashed by their left wing, missing them by eighty feet. It exploded harmlessly behind them.

Gus scanned the sky, looking for a second missile. He found it at their four o’clock position just as its rocket motor burned out. He lost visual contact but he knew where it was. He turned into the missile, putting it at his two o’clock position and waited a fraction of a second for the missile to follow. He pulled up sharply, turned into the missile, and loaded the Strike Eagle with eight
G
s as he slammed the big jet back down to earth. Gus never saw the missile as it tried to turn with them and tumbled. He did see the flash as it detonated well above and behind them.