was very beloved by the rank and file. Although not by me. Not at that moment. Clapper just happened to be the guy who threw my name into the hat to head this pre-court-martial investigation, and I knew he was calling to assuage his guilt. I wasn’t about to offer him any clemency. I wanted his guilt to be so massive it gave him walloping headaches.
The next call came about an hour and a half later, and the caller identified himself as Jeremy Berkowitz. Even at 3:30 A.M., I recognized the name. Berkowitz was a reporter for the Washington Herald who had earned a handsome reputation by exposing lots of embarrassing military insights and scandals. That call went something like this:
“You’re Major Sean Drummond?”
“Says so on my nametag.”
“Heh, heh, that’s a good one. My name’s Jeremy Berkowitz. A common friend gave me your number.”
“Name that friend, would you? I’d like to choke him.”
This resulted in another nice chuckle, and it struck me that everyone in that time zone back in Washington was filled with good humor that day.
“Hey, you know the rules. A good reporter never discloses his sources.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been assigned by the Herald to cover the Kosovo massacre. I thought it would be a good idea for us to get to know each other.”
“I don’t.”
“You ever dealt with the working press before?”
“A few times.”
“Then you should know that it’s always a good idea to cooperate.”
“And in turn, you’ll cooperate with me, right?”
“Exactly. I’ll make sure your side of things gets printed, and I’ll make sure you’re well treated in our stories.”
Click! Oops, the phone accidentally fell into the cradle.
Actually, it landed in the cradle because I don’t like being threatened, and if you read between the lines that was exactly what he was trying to convey. Of course, it was a dumb, petulant thing to do. On my part, that is. I should’ve soft-pedaled and let him down gently. But then I would have had to act like a tease, because I wasn’t about to leak any damned thing.
Not that I have anything against reporters. The military needs good watchdogs for it to remain the marginally healthy institution it is, and the press happens to fulfill that function. It doesn’t pay to antagonize or mistreat them, but like I said, I was tired and not thinking straight.
My mood had not improved when, at 6 A.M., I entered our wooden building, where Captains Delbert and Morrow were hovering over a couple of steaming cups of coffee and awaiting my arrival. Both looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and I resented that.
“Morning,” I said, or barked or growled. Whatever.
“Ouch,” said Morrow.
And wouldn’t you know that at just that moment the phone rang again.
“Hello,” I said, lifting it up.
“Major Drummond, this is Captain Smith. Remember me? We met yesterday.”
“Yeah, I think I remember you. You’re the short, chubby guy with the screechy voice, right?”
“I called Colonel Masterson, the military judge with jurisdiction over this command. I told him you blocked me from representing my client and asked for his judgment on this matter.”
“And he said?”
“That if you ever do that again he will personally register a complaint with the District Court back in D.C. and seek to have you disbarred.”
“I’m deeply ashamed of myself,” I boldly admitted.
“You should be. Now my client told me you taped the interrogatory. I would like a copy delivered to my office first thing this morning.”
“Did the judge say I had to do that?”
“I didn’t ask him. I will, if you insist.”
“I insist.”
“Have it your way,” he said, almost choking with anger, and then hung up.
Now it might sound perverse, but Smith’s call really brightened my mood. The thing about big investigations like this one is that you have to get people’s attention. You have to show people you’re a rampaging barbarian, and then anybody with any inkling of guilt immediately starts racing for the nearest lawyer and looking for protection. Lieutenant Colonel Will Smothers had done exactly that. His troops watched him like a hawk and by now there were very few people on this compound who did not know he’d been called in and interrogated. And Captain Smith was now doing more of my work, making sure the local legal community was aware that I play hardball. Pretty soon, everybody around here was going to be walking on eggshells. And when people walk on eggshells, if you listen real close, you can hear all those little cracking sounds.
“What was that about?” Delbert asked.
“Wrong number,” I said.
The door crashed open and in came the mobile hurricane known as Imelda, followed by two more assistants carrying trays piled high with steaming eggs and bacon, and something the troops disparagingly call shit-on-a- shingle, which truly does resemble its namesake but is actually a dried-out muffin covered with greasy gravy and chunks of ground beef. In the entire arsenal of Army foods, this is the one most likely to get you a quadruple bypass.
Imelda gave Delbert and Morrow a dreadful look and had her assistants carry the trays to a conference table that had been set up in a spare office. Morrow and Delbert traded conspirational glances, and I could tell they had cooked up something the night before. Wasn’t all that hard to figure out, either. They’d obviously considered the proposition that a unified front might be enough to overpower Imelda. She stared back at them through her gold wire-rimmed glasses and said not a word, but her tiny little fists began clenching and unclenching. It was kind of a watered-down version of the OK Corral.
I walked to the table and launched voraciously into my Army-prepared breakfast, watching out of the corner of my eye to see who’d crack first. Actually, that’s not true. I knew damn well who’d succumb. I just wanted to see how long it took Delbert and Morrow to figure that out and how ungracefully they extricated themselves: with their tails stuck between their legs, or dripping blood all the way to the conference table.
Imelda said, “Are you two gonna eat those damned breakfasts, or act like a coupla spoiled pussies?”
The good defense attorney acted as though she were speaking to nobody in particular. “I usually have yogurt, oatbran muffins, and juice for breakfast.”
Imelda said back to her, “You want me to tell that mess sergeant to whip you up a cup of that latte crap, too?”
Delbert started to open his lips, wisely thought better of it, and just stood there shuffling his feet.
Morrow’s eyes darted down in time to see Delbert’s feet do their little retreat dance, and then she covered her own defeat with a halfhearted, “But there was a time when I really loved eggs and bacon.”
“Then you learn to love it again, because that’s all that mess sergeant makes.”
Not two seconds later, Delbert and Morrow were seated beside me, taking mighty bites and silently praying Imelda would go away and die.
“What’s on for today?” Delbert asked, diverting his eyes from Morrow’s, which were at that moment bathing him with a world-class gutless weasel look.
I said, “I thought we’d spend our morning talking with the group chaplain, then the group commander.”
“The chaplain?” Morrow asked, still staring at Delbert.
“Sure.”
“Why the chaplain? When are we going to talk to Sanchez and his men?”
“Soon enough.”
They both nodded. They didn’t agree, but they nodded. That’s one of the things I love about Imelda. She sucked all the feistiness right out of them.
