“No thanks.”
“Okay, let’s talk. Lieutenant Dorne got in touch with somebody in JAG HQ. He’s pretty green, but he called somebody who called somebody else, and it landed way up at the top of the food chain. I’ve been assigned to sort it all out. That’s why it took a couple of days for us to find you, captain.”
“You were sent down by the Pentagon?” I asked.
“Not precisely. The Army JAG office is in Arlington, but not in the Pentagon itself. Nearby, though. That doesn’t matter, though. Just be glad Dorne was able to call home. He was under orders not to, but he knew enough to know those were illegal orders. I flew down on a C-11. That’s what I had you flown out on, too.”
What the fuck was a C-11? “What’s a C-11?” I asked.
“Military version of a Gulfstream II. Sweet little bird! They have a newer and bigger version called the Gulfstream III now, a C-20. Sort of like a Learjet. That’s not important. I had them load you and a doctor on it and had it fly you here, to Gitmo. That got you out of Hawkins’ reach and under the care of the Navy and the Marines,” Featherstone said. He dropped his cigarette butt in the cup of water and pulled another from the pack. He was a chain smoker.
“Huh.” That explained the funny looks when I called the doctor ‘Colonel’. He was actually a Navy Captain. I looked at the colonel. “So this was all Hawkins’ idea? He’s the one on my ass?”
Colonel Featherstone gave me a pained look. “Captain, how can you say such a thing! Brigadier General Hawkins knew nothing about your problems! Why he was shocked, shocked that there was gambling going on there!”
I rolled my eyes at the reference to Casablanca. Outstanding movie, although Marilyn never appreciated it all that much. Featherstone had just told me that Hawkins was in it up to his eyeballs.
Featherstone went on to explain, “The general was very disappointed in your improper radio procedures, but certainly didn’t consider that much of an offense. Instead, he ordered the Provost Marshal, Major Carmichael, to investigate. It was Carmichael who decided you had violated every precept of good military order and needed to be punished, not the general.”
“Uh, huh,” I muttered.
“Yes. Major Carmichael explained, however, that he never knew what was happening in the basement. He had told Staff Sergeant Walsley that he wanted you to confess, but not that you were to be harmed. He just wanted him to talk to you, and convince you of the error of your ways.”
“Shit flows downhill, huh, Colonel?”
“You seem to have a succinct grasp of the situation, Captain Buckman,” agreed Colonel Featherstone.
“Crap!”
“Needless to say, once I began investigating, General Hawkins allowed me to clear up all the confusion. I was able to interview all the men who dropped with you, your commanding officer, your regular troops, even the helo crew that pulled you out. That’s where I’ve been for the last few days, after I put you on the plane here. Chasing down everything. That’s why I couldn’t let you talk to anybody until I got things settled down.”
“Is that your job? Pentagon fixer?”
Featherstone gave me a ghostly smile. “Why? You need any tickets taken care of, Captain?”
I snorted at that. Featherstone was the Army JAG Corps hammer, sent out to fix problems. Every outfit has one. He’d never make general, but nobody, not even generals, wanted to piss him off. “So what happened to my men?” I asked.
“Which ones? Battery B or Company C?”
That made me start for a second. I had almost forgotten about Battery B, my regular outfit! “Both.”
“Lieutenant Fletcher took the battery back to Bragg a few days ago. They left their 105s behind as a gift to the Honduran Army. They’ll be getting new ones back at home.”
I nodded at that. I had heard that was under consideration. Now they would have new toys to play with, even if they were the same model as before. “And Company C?”
“They’ve gone home, too. Private Smith is probably medicalled out, but you saved his leg and his life. The doctors said another day and he’d have lost the leg for sure. The other guys just got some sprains and strains mostly.”
“Good. They’re damn fine troops, all of them,” I replied.
“They thought quite highly of you, too. By the time I talked to them, Company C was considering an assault on the headquarters building, and Battery B was going to provide artillery support. That idiot second john they had wasn’t very popular, that’s for sure. What’s your take on him?” asked Featherstone.
“I’m guessing that he’s the one who filed the complaint with the Provost Marshal.”
Featherstone nodded. “He was filing charges before he even made it to the hospital. He barely had a scratch on him.”
I just nodded, and then sighed. “Have you ever heard about the four types of officers? I think it was one of the German generals who named them, Von Manstein or Clausewitz, maybe one of the Von Moltkes.”
Featherstone looked puzzled for a second and then his eyes lit up. “Ah, yes, I take your meaning.”
The specific source is somewhat debatable. The basic truism, though, is that an officer can be either smart or stupid, and either lazy or energetic. Smart and lazy officers make the best combat commanders. Smart and energetic officers make the best staff officers. Stupid and lazy officers are harmless; you can always make them the regimental historian or something, but are otherwise incapable of doing any damage. The only ones you have to worry about are the stupid and energetic officers — like Second Lieutenant Fairfax!
“You said they had him?”
Featherstone nodded. “Second Lieutenant Fairfax has been transferred to a training post with the Rwandan Army,” he said drily.
When the military wants to get rid of an officer, without going through the process of a court martial, the usual technique is to give the officer a lousy OER and then assign him to the ass end of the world until he resigns or retires. Alaska and Greenland in the winter, Saudi Arabia in the summer, that was the perfect way to tell Fairfax his next promotion would be a long time coming. The middle of Africa was certainly an interesting dumping ground.
As would be mine. “Maybe I’ll say hello when I see him. Am I doing the Rwanda tour, too?”
“Hmmm?” commented Featherstone neutrally.
“Come on, Colonel, no matter what happens, my career is trashed. I was arrested in front of my men and taken away in handcuffs. The entire division knows I’m a mutineer and a murderer by now! How long before the rest of the Army knows?”
The colonel shrugged and dropped his cigarette butt into the makeshift ashtray. What was it, his fourth or fifth? He must have lungs that were as black as my soul! He pointed at my leg. “Captain, the reason your career is over is your leg. I talked to the doctor before I saw you. You’ll never jump again. Hell, you’re going to need two or three operations and three months of rehab just to be able to walk! You’re history no matter what!”
And just like that I was out of the Army. No major at 28, no Fort Sill and CGS, no battalion or regiment or brigade command. Medicalled out at 26, and don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.
I simply shook my head in disbelief. “So, Colonel, tell me what happened? How the hell did we end up in Nicaragua anyway?”
Featherstone gave me a very serious look. “You are mistaken, Captain Buckman. You were never in Nicaragua. Your Honduran pilot got lost and dropped you in Honduras, not in Nicaragua. Is that clearly understood?” I snorted and rolled my eyes. “I asked if you understood me!”