“My mission was to kill him. I carried out my orders. The abort came too late. I was the commander on the ground, I saw the opportunity, I made the decision, and I completed the mission. That’s what you’re going to argue. If higher can’t make up their minds about what to do, then it’s my job to make that decision.”
“They’re not going to see it like that. You’re asking them to take responsibility for their broken system, and as you’ve implied, even General Keating can’t save you now.”
I snort. “Is there anything else you need? Did you get it all? Because I’m going to be very busy for the rest of the day, trying to get drunk.”
She rises and pushes her glasses farther up her nose. “Off the record, Captain, I’m very sorry about what’s happened to you. In some respects you’re a victim of the system, but you had a choice. You could have at least tried to take Zahed into custody. And they’re going to argue that, too. You simply shot him. They’ll argue that you wanted to kill him.”
“You’re damned right I did.”
She starts to say something, thinks better of it. “I’m going to review all of this with my colleagues, and I’ll contact you tomorrow.”
I shrug and lead her to the door. She looks back at me, a deep sadness filling her eyes, as though she’s glimpsing a man at the gallows.
Then she just leaves. I get another drink, plop into the recliner, and turn on ESPN, where I learn that even the Reds lost their game, 9–4, damn it.
I must’ve dozed off and the knocking at my door continues for a while until I suddenly rush up and answer it.
“Holy shit.” The curse escapes my mouth before I can censor it.
It’s General Keating himself, out of uniform, wearing a golf shirt and Dockers. He pushes past me, slams shut the door, then lifts his voice. “What the hell are you doing here? Feeling sorry for yourself?”
“I’m confined to quarters.”
He goes over to my window and snaps open the blinds, letting in the late-afternoon sun. “I flew in this morning. Then I spent the whole day in a videoconference with those assholes in Langley.”
“Well, I’m sorry I upset your day.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, son. Some of your tactics might give me heartburn, but you ain’t got enough horsepower to put a dent in my day. I think you underestimated Harruck. That boy went to bat for you big-time.”
“What do you mean?”
“He used his friend, the humanitarian worker, to do some digging. Turns out that little girl you saved witnessed Bronco and Mike on the scene of Warris’s torture, and they failed to report any of it.”
I frown. “Then Warris can burn them, maybe get me off?”
He shakes his head. “We called in Warris. He made a deal with the CIA to keep his mouth shut, so long as they helped him burn you.”
“He admitted that?”
“No, Bronco and Mike did. I can’t get to those two, but I’m kicking Warris out of the Army for conduct unbecoming.”
“So Warris wanted to bring me down with the CIA’s help. His plan backfires, and he gets burned himself.”
“Enough justice for today.”
“Ramirez might disagree. Doesn’t he count?”
“An Article 118 murder charge is out of the question. However, integrity’s what you do when nobody’s looking. You won’t find that in the UCMJ. That’s why Warris is history.”
“What about me? Am I free?”
“You’re going on temporary duty to Walter Reed for evaluation.”
“What? You think I’m crazy?”
“Nah. I might if you’d answered that phone. Scott, you bivouacked a long time in that fucking valley of woe. Let’s placate them for now, okay?”
I sigh deeply.
“Look, son, this has been tough for all of us.”
“Tough? A hangover is tough. This has been a goddamned nightmare, and yeah, maybe I should sit my ass in a psych ward so I can decide whether I want to do this anymore…”
“Are you kidding me? When you get out of the hospital, I’m promoting you to major. You’ll be general by the time I get through with you. I told you the Army’s changing, and we old-school boys need to adapt.”
I couldn’t hide my twisted grin. “One minute I’m going to Leavenworth, the next I’m being promoted. I’m crazy. The system’s crazy…”
Keating crosses to the kitchen, lifts my empty scotch bottle. “You’re crazy drinking this crap. We only drink Glenfiddich single malt. Didn’t I teach you that?”
“You did, sir.”
“All right, then, pack your bags, soldier.”
“I will. But first I want you to read something.”
I hand him the note written by James McNurty, Jr.
He reads it, then looks up, a sheen now in his eyes.
“Being a soldier is a great honor,” I remind him. “But are we honoring the profession? Or maybe, just maybe, they’re asking too much of us. Just a little too much.”
He takes a deep breath, returns the letter, then says, “Hurry up and pack. Then we’ll get some real scotch.”