Major Conflict (26 page)

On the morning of the funeral, I decided to honor her by wearing my dress blue uniform with full-sized medals. This uniform is considered more formal and can be worn to black-tie and formal day events. I wanted to look impressive so that all these people who seemed to know so much about my life wouldn't be disappointed. I wanted everyone to see what a great job my grandmother had done in raising me, that I had been a good grandson, somebody of whom to be proud. And I wanted everyone to know that everything I'd achieved was due to her loving support over the years.

I tend toward the very formal when it comes to the turning points in life—weddings and funerals and such. I believe that the rituals associated with these events make them easier to cope with. Formality and structure have a way of subsuming all emotion and transforming it into something more, something accessible and edifying.

The funeral took place at the Methodist church up the block from our building. It was a fine old church that lifted your soul. Light flooded through big, gorgeous panes of stained glass on all sides. I waited to receive her on the stone steps alone in my uniform.

A lot of people turned out to bid her farewell. I had a moment of déjà vu, looking at the group of twenty or so little old ladies sitting in a clump toward the front. It was the same group, pretty much, that had come to my grandfather's funeral almost twenty years before. My entire seventh-grade class had come as well, having asked Sister Eileen if they could attend in order to be there for me. It was comforting to be reminded that my grandmother had so many friends, that her life had been so rich with people. Even Barbara (formerly Bob) came to the funeral, dressed smartly in a classic black velvet dress.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fort Bragg: Command

Standing on the parade field, the entire battery at attention before me, I watched the well-dressed guests take their seats beneath the camouflage netting. It was a stunning North Carolina morning—cool, a startlingly clear blue sky overhead, a gentle breeze ruffling the netting just slightly. I was about to assume command, having been selected to take over headquarters and service battery.

This ceremony has changed little over the past fifty years. Every commander is given a guidon—a small flag that represents the unit. Originally one of the ways to keep the troops oriented on the battlefield, the guidon today is an anachronism, though the tradition of receiving it still makes for great pomp and circumstance. The ceremony itself is relatively short. The outgoing commander gives the guidon to the battalion commander, who in turn gives it to the new, incoming commander. The torch is passed. The battalion commander then makes a brief speech thanking the outgoing commander and exhorting the new commander to do well. Then the outgoing and incoming commanders make brief speeches, and that's that.

It's a nice, precise ceremony, beautiful in its economy, and I felt tremendously honored receiving the guidon and standing before everyone in that pristine Carolina sunlight. When the battalion commander placed the guidon in my hand, all the grief and pain of the last several months slipped away, and I was filled with a deep sense of satisfaction, realizing that I'd achieved a goal I'd set for myself at the very beginning of my military career. It had been a long time coming, but it had finally happened, and I was thrilled to be leading troops again, as I had in Desert Storm. I believed in the army again. My faith in the institution was renewed as I embraced the serious responsibility the new position conferred. And it had come at just the right time, when I was desperate for reasons to continue in the army, to remain committed to the one thing that had given so much meaning to my life. Knowing that I would have to publicly represent the battery made it easier for me to throw myself into it wholeheartedly as I rediscovered within myself the idealism that had inspired me to join the military in the first place.

I would spend the next two years doing many of the same things I had done before, except now I would be called upon to offer guidance rather than merely seeking it. When it came to the unit, the buck would now stop with me.

And so I was a commander at last. And I was at Fort Bragg. Fort Bragg, North Carolina. If you are a soldier and aspire to greatness, Fort Bragg is the place to be. It's the post with the highest profile. All the hardcore assignments are based out of Bragg. And the sexy ones—Special Forces (Green Berets), the 82nd Airborne, the Delta Force—as well as the JFK School of Special Warfare, where doctrine is formed and foreign armies are trained in tactical warfare.

Bragg is a massive, insulated institution surrounded by more than a quarter of a million acres of woodlands and mountains. The terrain is rough, like the assignments based there. In a word, it's not a place for the faint of heart or mind. To be assigned to Bragg is a great honor, and I am extremely proud to have served there.

Ardennes Street runs straight through the middle of the base. Lined on both sides of the street, with high-rise barracks built in the 1950s, educational facilities, museums, a memorial chapel, and the occasional PX, it often feels more like a small town than the center of an army base that trains some of the world's finest warriors.

I always took my morning run on Ardennes Street, which was closed every day between six and seven-thirty A.M. to all vehicular traffic for just that purpose, so that army personnel like me had a place to run. Having an entire stretch of road closed off for your morning run was just one of the many perks that came with serving in what some called, with little irony, gladiator land. I was never a particularly graceful or fast runner, so I was always grateful that Ardennes Street was flat. In a word, I'm no gazelle, and that's an understatement. I'm closer to, say, a moose on ice skates, actually. But I knew that the surest way to develop endurance for the field was by simply placing foot to ground four miles a day, every day. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it got the job done.

And so it was that I made my daily run one gorgeous spring morning in 1997. North Carolina mornings are truly spectacular, and this one was no exception. I knew I was about halfway done when I looped around the giant bronze statue of the Green Beret standing sentry in front of the JFK School of War. I was always hit with a sudden, strong wave of pride when I passed this statue. To wear a beret was special. It meant that you were highly sought after when the shit hit the fan. I wasn't a Beret, but I was Airborne, which has its own special cachet, so it was a great feeling knowing that you and the men you commanded were thought of as somewhat indispensable. The bronze figure usually gave me the second wind I'd need to get back to the office.

My office was pretty comfortable by army standards. I had a rather large oak desk, a nice couch, and my own bathroom, complete with shower, an amenity that distinguished me from the other officers in my building who had to share showers with the troops. It was just one of the perks that came with command.

After finishing my run, I showered and changed and settled down at my desk to try to get some paperwork done. I had an open-door policy with my troops. I enjoyed being at the center of my battery's daily activity. My men were hardworking, and I felt it was important that they know I was there for them if they wanted to talk. On this day, though, I really didn't want to be disturbed since I had so much paperwork to get through. As I began reviewing soldier promotions and organizing inventories of battery equipment, my phone rang.

“Captain McGowan,” I said automatically, expecting one of the usual problems or requests from subordinates that come with being “the boss with the open-door policy.” But when I heard the voice on the line, I knew right away that this call was different. The man seemed annoyed, and he was speaking loudly. Turns out this was the call no boss in the army ever wants to receive.

“Yes, hello, sir,” the voice said, blunt, uptight, professional, “My name is Sergeant First Class Johnson. Are you the battery commander, sir?”

“I am. How can I help you?”

“Sir, I'm with CID,” he said, his voice thickening with a measured authority that filled me with a dreadful, sinking feeling. My stomach dropped. “We need to see one of your NCOs.”

It's never a good thing to have the acronyms CID and NCO in the same sentence. You might think of the CID as the FBI of the military world. They wear plain clothes and work undercover, and there's a terrible aura of secrecy about them. They're extremely no-nonsense in demeanor, dealing largely with the nastier, more serious crimes, unlike the standard MPs, who deal mainly with misdemeanor crimes, generally involving too much liquor.

“Well, of course you can see one of my men, Sergeant,” I said, “that is, after you tell me what it is you'd like to see him for.” I was nervous, but I didn't want the sergeant to hear it in my voice. The stronger I seemed, the more likely it was that I'd get some information out of this guy. The truth was, he didn't have to tell me anything. CID doesn't have to reveal anything about an open investigation. And their jurisdiction runs all the way up to the Capitol Building, and I don't mean the capitol in North Carolina. Anything I could get out of the sergeant would be helpful in keeping the chain of command informed and would invariably simplify the whole process. If it was serious, and when CID called it almost always was, my bosses would be upset if I couldn't explain to them what was happening, so that they could explain the matter to their bosses, and so on and so on.

“Captain, I'm not at liberty to give that information.” His peevishness sounded tempered by the awareness that I outranked him.

“All right, Sergeant Johnson,” I said, “let's start over, shall we? Who is the man in question?”

“Sergeant Lopez, sir.”

I was somewhat relieved when I heard Lopez's name. He was an exemplary soldier and one of the hardest workers in the unit.

“And?” I asked.

“And, sir?”

“C'mon, Sergeant, tell me what this interview is all about?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I can't divulge any information in regards to an ongoing case. You as a captain should know that.”

The word
captain
had a little snide lilt to it. This guy is an asshole, I thought. And Lopez was a good man, I knew that, and one of my soldiers, so I wasn't going to give up so easily.

“Well, Sergeant,” I said, a little malice in my voice now, “tell you what. If you can't tell me what all this is about, well, then I'm afraid I'll just have to inform the chain of command before I send him to you.”

“Sir, that really won't be necessary. I—”

“I'll be the judge of that,” I cut in. “You'll hear from me by late this afternoon.” And I hung up the phone, cutting off the defensive response about military justice and the law.

I sat for a moment at my desk and took a deep breath. I dreaded the phone calls I now had to make. First, I called Colonel Fazio, my battalion commander at headquarters, and that call went over like a sack of bricks. The second call was to my company first sergeant to get him to tell Lopez to report to my office. I figured maybe Lopez would know what this was about. Then I made a few more calls to higher command at HQ , and everyone agreed that we would cooperate and not interfere. We'd find out sooner or later what they were up to. Just as I hung up the phone, there was knock at my door. It was Lopez.

Lopez was about twenty-seven, with thinning blond hair, a clipped mustache, and a solid build. He was one of the last soldiers in the unit I would've expected to get into trouble. I liked him a lot. He worked hard, did his job well, often went beyond the call of duty, and obeyed the rule of my command to the letter.

“Good morning, sir, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, come on in and close the door.” I smiled at him as he walked in, raised up slightly, closed the door behind him, and stood at parade rest. I shook my head.

“No, Sergeant Lopez, no need for that, sit on the couch.”

He walked to the couch. I noticed nothing that would indicate he knew why he'd been called into my office, which only confirmed my suspicion that something else was going on. There was no point wasting any more time.

“All right, Sergeant, let me get right to the point. CID called earlier, and they want me to take you to their command post for an interview ASAP.”

Lopez's face turned pale, which concerned me. He was normally an easygoing, cheerful guy—straightforward, I'd always thought, forthright. If he knew what it was they had on him, he'd tell me. That's what I thought, at least. Now it appeared he knew what was going on and was terrified. And apparently he didn't plan on letting me in on it, which was totally out of character for him.

“So is there something you want to tell me, Sergeant?”

“Sir, I haven't done anything wrong . . . that I know of.” His voice quivered just slightly, and I suddenly began feeling a little sorry for the guy, though I had no idea why.

“That you know of?” My tone was impatient and annoyed, though I was truly baffled now. “Listen to me, Sergeant. I am going to find out eventually what it is they're looking for. So whether it's you or them, I'm going to get to the bottom of it. At this point I might be the only person who can still help you. But the only way I can do that is if you tell me what's going on. These guys don't play games, Lopez.”

He studied me for a moment, carefully, as if he were searching for something, and I thought he was about to open up when suddenly he simply dropped his head into his hands and said nothing.

“Okay, Sergeant. I hope for your sake it's all a mistake. I gave you an opportunity to confide in me and you passed on that chance. Fine. You will report to CID tomorrow at thirteen thirty hours. Have a good day.”

He saluted me and walked out, turning his head as he passed through the door and looking back at me with a strange sad look on his face.

Lopez bore heavily on my mind all the next day. That look on his face as he walked out of my office haunted me. It had felt like a wordless accusation. I decided to become proactive in the investigation. He was a good man, after all, and he'd worked hard for me under my command, earning, at the very least, I thought, the benefit of my doubt. So I went to CID.

I had never been in the CID building. It was quite an impressive place. As I entered the sleek, modern lobby, I was reminded of one of the obscene truths of military life—that the farther away from the front lines you get, the more luxurious things become. There were fancy glass partitions and doors and high-tech security cameras all over the place. If it hadn't been for the twelve-foot holding cell, the place could've been mistaken for any big-city office. I was relieved to see that they weren't holding Sergeant Lopez in the cell. It was empty, shining in the soft glare of the indirect lighting.

I slid my ID card into the lock. I was sure that the card had been scanned and that my every move was now being digitally captured by one or all of the cameras. The door clicked open, and I was greeted silently by an attractive woman about my age, a civilian, I was convinced, judging from the expensive clothes she wore. She led me down a pristine white corridor to a sparsely appointed waiting room. A TV attached to the wall in the upper-right-hand corner of the room was tuned into CNN and muted. As I sat down and looked up at the set, I noticed yet another camera situated above the TV, aimed directly at me. A red light at the base of the camera glowed brightly.

The room spooked me. Poor Lopez must be terrified, I thought. I tried not to look at the camera but found myself increasingly self-conscious about it, imagining myself centered on some screen amid a bank of black-and-white monitors, being watched by a group of strangers. Then a man of medium height with closely cropped hair entered and extended his hand to me. He wore a button-down Izod shirt and khaki pants. I felt as if I'd tumbled down the rabbit hole and found myself in some alternate army universe.