Dutch found he had been left in the dark on just about every aspect of the case. He was unaware of the trial date until the day before, when word came by radio that a plane would pick him up that afternoon. He was flown to the F-111 base at Mountain Home, then hustled aboard a C-20B for the flight to Eglin.
Roddy watched his former copilot stand in front of the witness chair to be sworn. Appearance-wise, Dutch had recovered almost completely from his ordeal, though he looked considerably thinner than before. He seemed to have no difficulty raising his right hand. Maybe he would be able to play tennis again after all.
At Colonel Finch's prompting, Schuler confirmed Major Bolivar's account of calling the aircraft commander aside following the briefing. And, in a dispirited voice, he acknowledged that the Colonel had not mentioned any change in the alternate channel nor had he adjusted the radio to alter the originally briefed frequency.
"How would you describe the Colonel's mental state prior to the mission?" Finch asked. "Was he nervous, apprehensive… perhaps skittish or anxious… maybe so preoccupied that he could have forgotten a vital part of his briefing?"
"Objection." Colonel Pitts rose behind the defense table. "This witness is not qualified to testify as to the defendant's mental state or what might have resulted from it."
"Sustained," said Colonel Gridley.
"Just tell us how Colonel Rodman acted before the flight," Finch countered, knowing he had already made his point.
"He wasn't nervous," Schuler said, shaking his head. "Unusally quiet, maybe. He didn't say if anything was bothering him."
Roddy winced, remembering his bad feelings about the mission.
Under cross examination by Colonel Pitts, Schuler gave an emotional endorsement of his former aircraft commander. "I've never known him to lie," the captain testified. "He's the most competent pilot I've ever flown with."
The case for the defense began appropriately on a clouded, cheerless morning. It consisted primarily of character witnesses, colleagues who had flown with Roddy, served under him and over him. In calm, sincere voices, they painted a picture of a skilled, conscientious officer and pilot, a commander who was both liked and respected by his men, a professional who knew the rules and treated them with biblical respect. Last to take the stand was Colonel Rodman himself.
He described the scene before the mission, agreeing with everything Major Bolivar had testified to except for the part about the alternate channel change.
"What would you have done if the major had given you new alternate channel instructions?" Pitts asked pointedly.
"The same thing any aircraft commander would have done. Written it on my pad and told Captain Schuler during the preflight."
Colonel Pitts asked him to describe the injuries he received in the crash, and then, softening his voice, he added, "Do you feel any responsibility for the deaths of the four airmen and the soldiers killed in that ambush?"
Roddy's eyes turned watery and his voice choked as he answered. "Those young men… my aircrew… they were some of the finest young people on the face of this earth. I would never have done anything to endanger their lives." Roddy took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. "You ask me about responsibility. The only responsibility I feel is for having chosen them to take part in that mission." As he spoke, all the hurt and hate that had been gathering inside him these past few months, like storm clouds in a summer sky, suddenly reached the saturation point. It could no longer be contained. Something had to give. And as with storm clouds, it would inevitably be violent. In his brain a tiny warning light flashed red, but his rational self was no longer in control. His eyes hardened into black stones and his words spewed out like a stream of venom.
"Somebody screwed up this damned operation somewhere, and caused those deaths, and they're trying to railroad me for it. And, by God, I'm bitter as hell!"
A hushed silence filled the room as eyes suddenly widened with displeasure along the table where Roddy's peers sat in judgment. Colonel Pitts' jaw sagged noticeably. It was something he had not anticipated, but it was out and there was no way he could cram those words back into Roddy Rodman's mouth. He knew if there was one thing the military couldn't countenance, it was a sore loser, someone who covered his misfortune by taking a swipe at the system. A proper career professional should open his mouth only to swallow his medicine.
Considered in the aggregate, the case was essentially a stand-off. One man's word against the other. The character witnesses had scored a sizeable number of points in Roddy's favor, and his record as a pilot in and out of combat was impressive. But there were enough extenuating circumstances, which seemed to back Major Bolivar's story, to allow sufficient justification for the court to go either way. To a man they would have denied it, but the final decision was undoubtedly influenced by Colonel Rodman's untimely outburst.
When the deliberation ended and Roddy stood facing the court, the verdict resounded in his ears like a sinister pronouncement from some ancient Greek oracle. As to the charges and specifications, on both counts, "Guilty!"
PART II
THE RUSE
11
A burly militiaman, his black hair coarse enough to have been cut from a horse's mane, leaned against the doorway of the small apartment and stared impassively at the body sprawled in the hallway. A police photographer was busily reducing the victim to a series of 35mm negatives, as close to immortality as the luckless man would come. It was the fifth floor of a colorless high-rise, typical of the massive monuments to Marxist-Leninist tedium that housed most of Minsk's million-and-a-half population, stark reminders of the dark era that most people believed had ended with communism's demise. Chief Investigator Yuri Shumakov was not so sure, particularly with all the uncertainty about the future course of his country's big bear of a neighbor, Mother Russia.
As the photographer stepped aside, the investigator stooped for a closer look at the fatal head wound. His expressive gray eyes held a questioning look as they peered out through large, horn-rimmed spectacles. Then, as he bent closer to the body, the strong odor of alcohol assaulted his nose. So what's new, he thought? Careful to avoid the blood that had pooled on the floor, now darkened like weathered red paint, he turned the man's head to check the back of his scalp.
"His brother-in-law had the gun," said the militiaman, eager to show that he had the situation well in hand. "He's inside the apartment with Detective Kahn. He's an absolute wreck. Both of them had been drinking. Seems he was showing the gun when this fellow reached out to take it. He thinks his finger must have caught on the trigger. Anyway, the gun went off. I was down the street when they called."
Shumakov stood up. "How tall is he?"
"Who?"
"The man with the gun."
The militiaman frowned thoughtfully. "He's… ah… about your height, I'd say."