The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

•   •   •   •

Through the afternoon, the court hears the story of each member of the Apocalypse Squad. They discuss the basis
for their actions and their motivations. No one shows any doubt or regret for what we did. Flynn goes last, and by the time she’s on the stand, the sincerity of her testimony is making my skin crawl. Even to my sympathetic ears, every one of us sounds like a brainwashed robo-soldier in thrall to Kendrick’s cult of personality. True believers, all of us.

It doesn’t mean we were wrong.

•   •   •   •

On Friday morning we dress for court, but Master Sergeant Chudhuri lets us know there’s a delay. We stay in our cells. It’s
1113
when we’re finally escorted upstairs. We’re brought to the conference room, where we take seats around the table. A few minutes later Major Ogawa comes in, closing the door behind him.

“Is there a problem?” I ask him.

“No.” He paces the length of the room, a picture of pent-up aggression. “Trial counsel tried to get our next two witnesses removed from the witness list, on the grounds that their testimony was not relevant to the issue being considered, that is, your guilt or innocence. We argued to the contrary, that their participation in the events of November nineteenth and twentieth offers clear proof of collusion between the chain of command and Vanda-Sheridan.”

I realize who the next two witnesses must be. “The fighter pilots. The ones who tried to shoot us down . . . on the orders of a mercenary.”

Ogawa nods. “The judge denied the motion of trial counsel. We get to talk to them this afternoon.”

•   •   •   •

Captain Aaron Gilroy, United States Air Force, is sworn in first. He’s midthirties, Caucasian, with a husky build, blond stubble on his scalp. Like most of the officers in the
jury box and everyone at the defendants’ table, he wears a well-polished stonewall expression.

Major Ogawa asks a few questions to establish Captain Gilroy’s identity and credentials. Then he asks, “As November twentieth began you were engaged in an action off the West African coast, is that correct?”

“Yes, Major. The action was part of an ongoing mission. I’d been shadowing a C-
17
for many hours, specifically Vanda-Sheridan Globemaster Eight-Seven-Z.”

“Who assigned this mission to you, Captain?”

“My commanding officer, sir.”

“And what were your orders?”

“My orders were revised several times during the mission. Initially, I was to escort the flight and protect it from foreign aggression. Later, I was to persuade the pilot of the C-
17
to land at a secure base.”

“Did your persuasion work, Captain?”

“No, sir, it did not.”

“At what point did your command issue an order to shoot down the plane?”

“My command did not issue that order, sir. The order came from another combatant. I was told by my command to fire on his order.”

“Did you know who this combatant was?”

“I did not. Identification was by code. I assumed he was special ops.”

“What happened when you fired the missile, Captain Gilroy?”

“Interference from a foreign fighter drew the missile away from the C-
17
. Subsequently, the missile’s guidance system locked on to a civilian jet. The jet was destroyed, and all aboard killed.”

He says it in a voice devoid of emotion, but there is a tightness in his face, a hollow look to his eyes, a hard set
to his mouth, that hint at masked emotions: Guilt maybe? Anger? A sense of shame? A sense of betrayal? I want to believe it. Captain Gilroy launched the missile that took Lissa’s life away. I want him to hate that fact. I want him to know he was used.

Later, Major Ogawa uses the video record to establish that the “special ops” soldier was in truth a mercenary hired by Vanda-Sheridan. The skullnet icon glows in my overlay as I listen again to the merc’s mellow, confident voice speaking poison:

“Ah, Lissa. Your Jimmy doesn’t love you as much as we thought. I think it’s the wiring that gives him a stone-cold heart.”

Maybe it is.

Fuck me, anyway.

•   •   •   •

After that there’s a short recess during which the attorneys consult with the judge. Then Monteiro addresses the jury. “If you’re paying attention, you will be asking yourselves who issued the order compelling Captain Gilroy to take instruction from a third party outside the chain of command. That question is beyond the scope of this court-martial and will be taken up in a separate procedure. You need only consider whether the defense has indeed proved that the chain of command directing the actions of Captain Gilroy was compromised, and how that relates to the argument being made by the defense.”

We hear the same story from the second pilot. By then it’s late, and I expect the judge to dismiss us for the weekend—two more days locked up alone in my cell—but I underestimate the fortitude of Judge Monteiro.

“These are unusual times and they call for unusual measures,” she says. “We will meet tomorrow in a Saturday
session. Defense, I trust you will be able to complete your presentation within the morning session?”

Ogawa looks startled. “One moment, Your Honor.” He consults his tablet, then gets a worried nod from my uncle. “Yes, Your Honor. That should work.”

“Then we will hear closing arguments in the afternoon. Is that satisfactory?”

The attorneys seem stunned, but they agree. We finish tomorrow.

•   •   •   •

That night I lie awake in my bunk, the dim red glow of the cellblock’s nocturnal illumination limning the concrete walls and I wonder:

Have we done what we intended? Have we shed a bright enough light on the corruption and the collusion that protected Thelma Sheridan, enough to provoke additional investigations, legitimate investigations that won’t get buried?

Maybe.

The attorney general has made promises.

Judge Monteiro has implied there will be an investigation into the origin of Captain Gilroy’s orders.

But will anyone ever be called to account? Has anything really changed?

People have to give a shit, or it won’t matter.

I’m thinking it won’t matter.

If Thelma Sheridan really is dead in a third-world prison the evidence against her will likely never come to light, and the collective memory of this incident will be overwritten by a new scandal or an engineered act of terrorism so that when further investigations go unfunded, no one will notice.

No one will be held accountable.

Same old story.

•   •   •   •

Saturday morning begins with expert testimony filling in details on our case; it ends with legal scholars trying to legitimize what we did.

Honestly, their arguments don’t convince even me.

•   •   •   •

Monteiro calls an extended lunch recess. We won’t reconvene until
1400
. Chudhuri feels more secure with us in the cellblock than on the fourth floor, so after consulting with Guidance, she decides to take us downstairs. Handcuffs go on, and then we form up as always with Chudhuri, Omer, Vitali, and Phelps surrounding us. We march quickly and quietly down the restricted hallway past the judges’ offices. I long for one of those office doors to open so I can steal another glance through the tall windows, glimpse the world outside: the Mall, the Capitol Building.

It doesn’t happen. We reach the waiting elevator, step aboard, and about-face. The doors are closing when my uncle appears at the opposite end of the hallway. “Master Sergeant Chudhuri!” he calls in an eager undertone as he hurries toward us. “Hold up! Hold the elevator.”

Chudhuri puts out an arm to block the doors from closing, but she’s on edge. Anything out of the ordinary is cause for suspicion. “Omer. Vitali. Step outside. Cover the corridor.”

They do so, flanking the elevator doors. Their sidearms are not drawn, but their hands rest on their pistols. “Mr. Shelley,” Chudhuri says in a cold command voice, “please halt where you are. Do not approach.”

I do not need to end this week by seeing my uncle gunned down in a courthouse hallway. “Master Sergeant! He’s our attorney, not our enemy.”

She ignores me.

Some thirty feet from the elevator my uncle stops, looking confused, then concerned, then annoyed. He’s never been an easy man to intimidate. “Jimmy, we’ve got news. We want everyone back in the conference room.
Major
Ogawa’s orders.”

“I need to confirm those orders, sir,” Chudhuri says. Then I hear her murmuring to her handler. “What the hell is going on? What happened to procedure? Goddamn, yes, I understand!

“Forward!” she snaps. “We are to return to the conference room.”

•   •   •   •

Major Ogawa is stalking back and forth outside the conference room as he waits for us to file in. “Get those handcuffs off,” he orders Chudhuri.

We take seats. Feeling protective, I sit beside my uncle. “What’s going on?” I whisper to him.

He nods to Ogawa as the major enters. “Good news.”

Ogawa moves to the head of the table. Still standing, he says, “Command has issued an official confirmation: Thelma Sheridan is alive.”

There’s a general sigh of relief; smiles flash around the table. I’m the only one who’s worried. “Is she still in custody? Is she still in Niamey?”

“Roger that.”

It’s my turn to sigh and shake my head, while my uncle claps me on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Jimmy. I told you it’s good news.”

“So what’s the background? What happened?”

Major Ogawa answers. “There was an attempted coup in Niamey. I imagine Command has been aware of it all week but they’ve kept it quiet. The bulletin they finally
released today implies there was some local collusion, but the coup was staged primarily with foreign mercenaries, using foreign funding. During the initial stage of the incident there was an assault on the prison where Thelma Sheridan was being held, and the rumor that got out was that she’d been killed. Maybe Command knew differently. We’ll never know. But the loyalists must have been better organized than the mercs anticipated, because the coup was put down and all participants killed or arrested within twelve hours. Since then, Matugo has reassessed his command structure.”

“And Sheridan?” Jaynie asks. “What’s her condition? Is she still going to trial?”

“The bulletin notes that during the prison assault she tried to escape—”

“So the coup was a cover?” Harvey blurts out. “Vanda staged it, didn’t he? To get her out of there?”

Ogawa scowls at the interruption. “I do not have that information, Specialist.” Then he cracks a cold smile. “Though it sounds like plausible speculation to me.”

“What’s her condition?” Jaynie repeats. “Is she wounded?”

“Bruising and indication of some rough handling according to the official bulletin. A French diplomat was allowed to see her and confirms she is alive and fit and able to stand trial. Despite the week’s drama, Matugo is determined to go ahead, and an international panel of judges has agreed to assemble on Monday to begin hearing the case.”

“Hoo-yah!”

The yell goes up with no one coordinating it.

Thelma Sheridan will get her trial after all, and the evidence implicating her will no longer be hidden safely away behind a top secret designation.

•   •   •   •

As soon as Judge Monteiro calls the court back into session, Major Ogawa is on his feet. “Your Honor, additional information has come to light that would answer an inquiry lodged earlier in this proceeding by the defense. We would like to request that the government provide that information now for the court record.”

The lines to be spoken by counsel and by the judge were predetermined in conference. It’s now Judge Monteiro’s turn to speak her part. “Please state for the record the details of your request.”

“Defense requests that the government read into the court record Thelma Sheridan’s current status and condition.”

Fong has the document on her table. Defense and trial counsel affirm they have reviewed and approved this newest piece of evidence; it’s logged into the record. Then Fong reads aloud the bulletin issued by Command, and it’s done.

Closing arguments follow. They are passionate, but the faces of the twelve officers in the jury box give nothing away. By
1450
we have retired to our conference room to await their verdict.

•   •   •   •

For the first half hour it’s all restless motion. Nolan brews coffee that no one drinks. We take turns in the bathroom. I pace, until Jaynie tells me to please sit the fuck down. We all wind up around the table. Harvey tries to crack a few jokes—gallows humor—but it cuts too close to the bone and she gives it up. By the end of the first hour we sit in frozen silence, hollowed out by a fear we’re pretending not to feel.

This waiting is worse than any mission we’ve been on. My skullnet icon flickers faintly. I scowl at it, and feel a childish pride when it fades away again, pleased I am handling this on my own.

Thirty more minutes creep past. Then the door opens. Chudhuri leans in. “They want you back in the courtroom.”

My heart hammers and I stand up too quickly; the chair legs scrape. I gesture at Chudhuri, palm out. “Give us one minute.”

She nods behind her transparent visor—“One minute, sir”—steps back and closes the door.

I turn to my soldiers, still seated around the table. They’re silent, watching me with anxious eyes. What can I tell them? We’re about to go over a cliff and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I try to find words anyway. I hope they mean something. “I want you all to remember that we came back from Niamey for a reason. We could have stayed there, been granted asylum, made a new life, but we chose to come back, not because we expected to be rewarded, but because it was our duty.

“No matter what happens in that courtroom, no matter what the verdict is, know that we did the right thing when we returned home. Be proud of that, today and afterward, no matter what follows.”

Nolan stands, straightens his uniform. “Roger that, LT,” he says in a somber voice. Tuttle echoes him while the rest of the squad rises to their feet. Moon and Flynn both look scared, but they murmur, “Yes, sir.” And then, to my shock, Harvey steps back from the table, squares her shoulders, and offers a respectful salute. “It’s been an honor, sir.”