The Accused (10 page)

As the conversation ended and Will put the phone down, he turned and saw Fiona staring at him from across the kitchen.

She pulled her sunbonnet off. There was a funny look on her face.

“Who are you calling?” she asked gently.

“DC police. Just trying to keep tabs on their investigation.”

Fiona pursed her lips together, but said nothing.

“Okay—say it,” Will said.

“You know,” she began, “we were outside and you kissed me. And you said how glad you were we had this weekend together. Just the two of us. With the difficulties in our schedules and in our lives, having this kind of time is precious. But we really aren't having this weekend together, are we? It's not just the two of us, is it?”

She tossed her gloves and sunbonnet on the chair and walked over to the stove.

“How about I make us a big brunch—I'm starving.” She did not turn around.

“How about if I help you?” Will said, stepping over toward her.

She wheeled around quickly.

“Don't bother. I'm glad to do it. Why don't you go back and finish splitting the logs?”

He could see the look in her eyes. Although they'd only been married a short time, he knew that look. She was trying to be patient—to be the dutiful wife—but she was stretched to the breaking point.

Walking over, Will put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

“I do love you, Fiona. I love you more than life itself.”

She partially turned toward him and, with a glance to the side, smiled a half-smile.

“And I love you,” she said with no expression in her voice.

Will turned, left the kitchen, and began walking up the hill to the woods.

It all seemed so awkward, the see-saw cycles of their relationship. Married, he was now wandering in the wilderness of intense human interaction, a place where there were no clean fact patterns, no precisely worded black-letter rules—no detailed, codified regulations. Those things belonged to the abstractions of law—not the realities of love. He thought back to the first time his father had taken him out,
as a young boy, to learn how to hit a golf ball. The ball had seemed so ridiculously small, and the golf swing his father was trying to teach him had seemed so laughably unnatural.

I guess I just need to keep my focus—and keep swinging,
he thought to himself.

14

“S
O—YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER THAT
an Article 32 hearing is not a general court-martial. It is simply an investigation conducted by an investigating officer—an IO—who investigates the charges to determine if they are in proper form, if there is sufficient evidence to support them, if there are additional potential charges—and finally, he makes a recommendation as to disposition. Those findings and recommendations are then forwarded to the convening authority—in this case, the base commanding general—who then makes the decision on whether or not to make a referral to a general court-martial.”

Will Chambers nodded to Major Hanover, who, with Caleb Marlowe beside him, continued laying out the legal geography.

“And because this is only a preliminary investigation to determine whether the matter should be referred to the general for a general court-martial, we have to face the question of whether or not Colonel Marlowe should testify in his own behalf. He cannot be compelled to do so. That's a decision we have to make.”

Will nodded again and then chimed in, addressing Marlowe.

“Colonel, Major Hanover and I have discussed this. We both feel, at least at this point, that you have nothing to gain—and everything to lose—by testifying at the Article 32 hearing. If this goes to a court-martial, you could present your defense through your own testimony at that time. We're hoping we can get these charges dropped before then.”

“One thing bothers me with your recommendation,” Marlowe responded, “about my not testifying at the Article 32.”

“What's that?” Will asked.

“I'm the only person on this planet…the only one that went into that house and saw Carlos, and his wife, Linda, and his two little children.
I'm also the only one who talked to Carlos the day before the assault, when he told me that safe house was where the AAJ would be hiding. That makes my testimony absolutely critical. And if that's the case, then maybe I should testify.”

Hanover and Will both shook their heads simultaneously.

“Colonel, I don't think so,” Will said. “Although we're trying to get dismissal of these charges, we also want to get discovery of the trial counsel's case. Beyond that, we don't want to tip our hand before the court-martial case about the theory of our defense.”

“Well, if we don't get my side of the story through my testimony at the Article 32,” Marlowe said, “then how is the general going to rule in our favor and keep this case from being referred to a court-martial?”

“Sir, what the Colonel has to understand,” Hanover explained, “is that the general has a little discretion in deciding whether or not this matter should be referred. He looks at the evidence, he looks at the extenuating circumstances, he looks at the appropriateness of the charges—the whole context—in making that determination. Mr. Chambers here and I both believe we can do a fairly good job of presenting your defense without locking you in by testifying.”

Marlowe nodded. But he had a look on his face that indicated that he was deferring—reluctantly—to the advice of his two legal counsel.

Will leaned forward and picked up on something that the colonel had said.

“But your comments do raise a question. And that is, what you really did see that night.”

The lawyer turned to Major Hanover.

“What is the status on that gag order based on national security? Has DOD waived its prior restriction on us discussing all of those matters with Colonel Marlowe?”

“Not entirely,” Hanover answered. “I received a message today from DOD indicating we are free to discuss the occurrence at Chacmool, but nothing that preceded it—and absolutely nothing about the military designation of Colonel Marlowe's team—or the chain of command that led, ultimately, to the colonel's order to open fire on the house.”

After only a moment of reflection, it became very clear to Will what the parameters were regarding his ability to get information from his client. And it was equally obvious where he needed to start first.

“All right, Colonel—this is it,” Will began. “Start from the point where you and your team were getting into position at Chacmool. Start there.”

There were a pitcher of water and a few cups on the table in the defense conference room. Marlowe took the pitcher and filled one of the styrofoam cups halfway.

He said nothing, but took a few gulps from the cup and then set it down. After looking into Will's face he turned and studied Major Hanover, but still said nothing.

Then he turned to look at Will again. But now the marine tilted his head just slightly as he did. As if he were a time traveler who was about to explain some ancient and horrible event, one that his attorneys would never fully grasp. Colonel Marlowe was about to unveil a bloody enigma of sacrifice and death.

15

M
ARLOWE BEGAN RECOUNTING
the incident that had occurred deep in the Yucatán jungle of Mexico. His hands were quiet in his lap and he stared straight ahead. He spoke precisely, calmly—but his voice was monotone.

He and his team had been given the mission of tracking down and killing the surviving members of the group of terrorists who had kidnapped Secretary of Commerce Kilmer. From what they could tell, there were four remaining members of AAJ—al-Aqsa Jihad. The fleeing men had been traced to an area near the ancient Mayan ruins of Chichén Itzá. According to information made available to Marlowe, a few miles northwest of Chichén Itzá, just outside a small village called Chacmool, there was a probable safe house that the AAJ cell group was using.

The colonel had been in contact with Special Forces Command in Tampa, Florida, and with a navy vessel off the Yucatán Peninsula, to coordinate incoming intelligence leading up to the attack…

As he and his squad were being airlifted across the shadowy canopy of the Yucatán jungle, Marlowe studied the faces of the men. Master Sergeant Mike Rockwell had already served on several missions with him—Afghanistan and Operation Allied Forge in Kosovo, as well as Operation Desert Thunder in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, and more recently in classified operations in Iraq and North Korea. Rockwell, as usual, was expressionless, but he nodded ever so slightly toward the colonel when their eyes met.

Next to him was Staff Sergeant Billy Baker, a much younger but lean and tough warrior. Next to Marlowe on the helicopter bench was Corporal Hank Thompson, the least experienced but the best
marksman among the five of them…and an expert in explosives. At the end of the bench was navy Chief Petty Officer Mark Dorfman. The colonel had handpicked them from the ranks of the Navy Seals, Delta Force, Army Rangers, and Marine Expeditionary Units. As the helicopter skimmed over the top of the trees, the crew chief gave the five-minute sign.

Marlowe gave the five-minutes-out signal to the team and motioned for them to check their equipment.

The members of his team adjusted their slim-line headsets, and the colonel gave a test to all four. All gave affirmative signs that their headgear was hot and communications were open.

The leader then snapped open his laptop computer, punched in the key code, and waited. After only a few seconds, the screen suddenly gave him the message he was waiting for.

INTEL OP CF CONFIRMS SAFE HOUSE JUST NORTHWEST OF CHICHÉN ITZÁ, ON THE EDGE OF CHACMOOL VILLAGE. COORDINATES FOLLOW. STILL WORKING ON SECOND CONFIRMATION VIA SIGINT.

The colonel knew who the “intel op cf” was. This was CIA agent Carlos Fuego, a longtime friend. In fact, Marlowe had been the best man at Carlos's wedding to his beautiful bride, Linda. The agent was a Mexican national with a long record of faithful service to the CIA, primarily within Mexico. Fuego and Marlowe had first met during the Persian Gulf War when the agent had been temporarily assigned to assist special operations forces. He would trust his life to him—and he knew his information was absolutely credible.

He had known only, with few details, that the agent had had the safe house under surveillance for some time. Fuego had also managed to penetrate deep within an AAJ–Mexico connection that had developed. And, unlike many CIA operatives, Fuego had actually been encouraged to proceed with his marriage plans and raise a family so he would blend more easily into the Mexican culture.

The second confirmation of the location of the safe house had not yet arrived. The NSA—National Security Agency—had its ECHELON system programmed to identify and immediately alert its operators to any cell-phone transmission intercepts from the group's leader,
Abu Adis—the successor of Abdul el Alibahd—because Carlos Fuego had managed to obtain Adis's cell-phone number. Any attempt by the terrorists to use that cell phone would be detected by one of NSA's SIGINT satellites. For this operation, the Advanced Orion satellite positioned high above Latin America was expected to make the intercept.

The helicopter was nearing the drop zone: the courtyard of the Mayan ruins of Chichén Itzá, which lay between the main plaza, the ancient ball court, and the sacred well—
cenote sagrado
—which was approximately two hundred yards to the north.

Then suddenly the computer screen flashed a message.

CELL-PHONE CONFIRMATION NUMBER ORIGINATING FROM SAFE HOUSE—LOCATION CONFIRMED—COORDINATES MATCH.

That was it. Adis had made a call from his cell phone from within the safe house, and it had been instantly picked up and located from above the Earth. Now, with two confirmations, one from Carlos and the other from satellite hardware, the team was ready to strike.

Marlowe gave the signal for the team to prepare to fast-rope from fifty feet up when the helicopter reached the drop position. The team rappelled down with lightning speed. Behind them, in the pale moonlight, stood the huge pyramid with its steps leading up to the area where, fifteen hundred years before, the Mayans had sliced out the hearts of their victims and presented them, still drenched in blood, to the stone statue of the god Chacmool.

The warriors moved swiftly and inconspicuously through the jungle and within thirty minutes they were nearing the small house occupied by the terrorists.

On command from Marlowe, the other four took their positions.

Dorfman, armed with an M240G machine gun, began to work his way around the left side of the house, while Thompson, armed with an M16 rifle/M203 grenade-launcher combination, crawled toward the right and occupied a concealed firing position under some bushes. Both Dorfman's and Thompson's task was to prevent any terrorist from escaping. The other three comprised the assault team. Rockwell was armed with a 12-gauge Mossberg. He would blow the door open with the shotgun. Baker would then toss in a single concussion
grenade and those two—joined by Marlowe in the lead—would make entrance.