"Objection!"
Colonel Paul Pitts, Roddy's defense counsel, rose to his feet. He was tall and thin and as tense as a bowstring. Though a competent attorney, he had specialized in contracts, not the Uniform Code of Military Justice or the tricks of lawyers who regularly practiced in the courtroom. But he knew hearsay when he heard it. "I submit that what Major Bolivar may or may not have said is hearsay."
"Sustained," said Colonel Wilburn Gridley, a beatle-browed legal officer who served as the military judge.
As if taking that as his cue, Colonel Finch called Major Juan Antonio Bolivar to the witness stand.
Roddy watched closely as the stocky young officer was sworn and took his seat. He noted the random gestures that betrayed the obvious tension the major was under, a darting tongue that moistened parched lips, hands that twisted nervously in his lap. The dark eyes shifted warily behind gold-rimmed glasses.
To Roddy, it clearly signified the officer's intention to lie again, though he realized others in the room might not perceive it in that light. What he could not understand was why Major Boliver had lied in the first place. Initially, he had thought Bolivar might be covering up his own failure to pass along the satellite information. But the Major had just come from talking with General Patton. Taking that into consideration, it made no more sense than the premise that Roddy himself had forgotten to act on it or to pass it along to his copilot.
He recalled how, after the briefing, Bolivar had gone out to the C-20B Gulfstream jet that had brought him from Washington to call General Patton. The Major returned shortly to say that everything was still "go," then gave him a personal message from Patton that had nothing to do with the alternate frequency.
Now Roddy listened as Bolivar, under Colonel Finch's careful questioning, recalled General Patton's message. Nervously clearing his throat, he lowered his head slightly, looked over the top of his spectacles and added, "Then I told Colonel Rodman about the new FLTSATCOM satellite and the changed alternate channel."
The prosecutor removed some papers from his briefcase and handed them to Bolivar. "Do you recognize these?"
"Yes, sir. It's the Air Tasking Order for the mission. The copy I took with me from Washington."
"And is this your handwriting on the back?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell the court what you wrote there and when."
Bolivar cleared his throat and swallowed hard. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The air conditioning system clearly could not cope with the state of his nervous system. "It's the information General Patton gave me on the new alternate channel for the mission. I wrote it down while talking to him in the aircraft, just before going back into the hangar to tell Colonel Rodman."
Actually, he had written it after returning to Washington and being confronted by a man sent by General Patton, a menacing stranger who convinced him that he had no choice but to do as instructed. The message was clear. Should he fail to cooperate, not only would he find himself out of the service, but his father, a government employee in Texas, would also be haunting the unemployment lines. Or worse.
Colonel Finch entered the order as evidence, then continued with a raised eyebrow. "Did Colonel Rodman write down the information when you gave it to him?"
"No, sir," said Bolivar, almost in a whisper.
"Did you not think that unusual?" Finch's voice echoed an exaggerated disbelief. Like most good trial attorneys, he was an accomplished actor.
"Yes, sir. Very unusual. I… I thought maybe he was one of those people with a photographic memory."
To Roddy, Bolivar sounded like a very lousy actor, somebody throwing out rehearsed lines, and doing it poorly. He turned and whispered harshly to Paul Pitts, "The bastard's lying through his teeth. The whole damned thing is a farce."
Somebody had coached him on this, Rodman thought. But who? Any why?
Finch called as his next witness Captain Peter Schuler.
Dutch winced as he walked into the room and saw his old commander and tennis pupil seated grim-faced at the defense table. He wanted to offer a smile of encouragement, but he wasn't sure how it might be taken. Instead, he gave only a nod of recognition, a feeble acknowledgement that all was not well with the world, but what the hell could he do about it?
It had been a month since Colonel Finch had flown in to see him at Hoover's Haven, the rustic lodge hidden back in Idaho's River of No Return wilderness area, where the Air Force had exiled him to soothe his emotions and replenish his strength. The doctors had done all they could. He had never heard of any banged up officer being farmed out to a place like this, but he offered no objection. For a bachelor who loved the outdoors, it was like turning a kid loose on a new playground. He soaked up the clear mountain air, watched the wild deer that wandered through the grounds and, weather permitting, hiked the trails that meandered along in partnership with the musical rush of waters of the Salmon River's Middle Fork.
The setting was ideal for healing. The meals were sumptuous, served ranch style at long tables, and he took advantage of the heated swimming pool to help whip the old body back into shape. He followed the exercise routine prescribed by the therapists. In April, rafters began to appear on the river. With no radio, no TV or telephone, the only news he received came by letter from home or through the newspaper that arrived via twice weekly flights into the small airstrip beside the river.
Since he bypassed the newspapers most of the time, choosing to enjoy his ignorance of the world's current problems, he was caught completely off guard when Colonel Ralph Finch appeared in the middle of April. He accepted the colonel's vigorous handshake with little emotion, figuring him for another Air Force shrink here to check his mental reflexes. But as soon as they were seated at the heavy wooden table in the oak paneled card room, Colonel Finch dropped a bomb.
The short, chubby officer sat back with arms folded and calmly announced, "You'll be one of our key witnesses at Colonel Rodman's court-martial next month, Captain." When he saw the shock on Schuler's face, he added, frowning, "Does that look mean we have a problem, or have you not read the papers lately?"
"What are you… court-martial?" Dutch stammered.
"You've been out here in the sticks since February, and nobody's told you a damn thing, right?"
Dutch fought down a growing sense of outrage. "Sir, what the hell is this court-martial business about?"
"For your information, Captain, the illustrious Colonel Warren Rodman was directly responsible for the fiasco that landed you in this godforsaken place."
Obviously Finch, a product of Phildelphia's Main Line, was not a connoisseur of the backwoods. But he was a master of painting his quarry black, and when he had finished his tale, Dutch Schuler sat in a daze, unsure what to believe. It seemed almost incomprehensible that Roddy could have done what they claimed. Yet considering what Colonel Finch had said, what other explanation could there be? He recalled the strange line of questioning by the OSI agents just before he had left the hospital.
Dutch had wanted to call Eglin and hear Colonel Rodman's side but never had the chance. The only means of communication at the lodge was a shortwave radio used to maintain contact with the Hoover's Haven office in Boise. During the weeks that followed, he sometimes found himself squeezing both palms against the sides of his head, as if somehow that might concentrate his thoughts and summon every ounce of memory from that September night of horror.
Had there been any distraction, any sign that Roddy might have been preoccupied, any evidence of confusion that could account for such a lapse of memory? Dutch recalled that the Colonel had been unusually quiet while he chatted with Major Hardin about Desert Storm. But when they climbed into the cockpit, Roddy had a typical wisecrack. "The President and the Chief of Staff send their warmest regards, and have a nice flight." Then he had turned strictly business, meticulously scrolling down the checklist item by item. They had made the normal communications checks, including a test of the national command authority channel. He had queried Sgt. Nickens about a rise in engine temperature but was satisfied with word that Barry had checked it out after the flight from Saudi, confident it was only a gauge "running hot."