Blue
"Specialist Daniels, I am Lieutenant Colonel Michael Anderson. I have been appointed preliminary hearing officer under Article 32 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice to inquire into certain charges against you."
Holmlund's sitting next to me. I can feel his tension, the slight up-and-down movement of his suited legs under the table. He's on the knife's edge now, full of that coiled, razor-sharp energy you get when preparing for battle.
Hellfire is ready for this. I am not.
"The charges allege, in general: One specification of making false official statements under Article 107, UCMJ, and one specification of misbehavior before the enemy, endangering the safety of the unit in violation of Article 99, UCMJ."
The words ricochet around the room and slam into my chest. The scars on my back are burning, the way they always burn when I'm brought face-to-face with my own cowardice.
It feels like the back of my head is on fire too, set aflame by the stares of the family members sitting behind me.
I almost sank to the floor when I walked in a few minutes ago and saw the families of Cunny, Monti, and Hud sitting in the spectator area in the back of the courtroom.
Hud's father pinned me with a look of disgust as I passed him, and my eyes slid away, focusing a few rows ahead where my mother sat just behind the table reserved for the accused. Reserved for me. Blue Traitor-Liar-Killer Daniels.
Holmlund had to grab my arm. I could barely get my legs to do their job and keep me upright until I could get to the table.
Not a single chair in the gallery is empty. Holmlund said there'd been a lottery to assign seats because so many members of the press wanted to attend.
"The name of the accuser is Lieutenant Colonel Boyd Stellar." Anderson is still talking, his voice rough and hollow like he's got a cold. He's sitting ramrod straight, of course, his reading glasses resting halfway down his nose, just above graying temples.
He goes on to list the names of the witnesses who will be called to testify at the hearing.
The first three are the officers in Afghanistan who investigated the attack on the Buffalo. Next come the names of the two officers who took my sworn statement when I turned myself in at Fort Sill.
"And finally," Anderson reads, "a Ms. Venla Ahlstrom. Hopefully, I'm pronouncing the name correctly. She's listed as a citizen of Finland."
I stiffen and look over at Holmlund. He raises an eyebrow. "Can't believe they managed to find her," he whispers to me, then shrugs. "Of course, it is the U.S. military. They have much better resources than I do, especially in Afghanistan."
Holmlund has been trying to track down Venla, both in Afghanistan and Finland, with no luck. He thought she'd be a sympathetic witness for me. But she's apparently no longer working for the same aid agency, and no one seems to know where she went.
At least, that's what we thought.
But now it looks like the Army has managed to find her and wants to use her against me.
It feels like someone put a bayonet through my belly to even think about the last time I saw Venla, just before I took off toward Aziza's village on my dumbass rescue mission.
I can't remember seeing Venla at the base afterward, after the guys were killed. But I hadn't been thinking straight then. Maybe she was there after all.
"They probably want to confirm your story with her, see if there's more to it," Holmlund says, staring intently at me.
For two years, I've worried about what happened to Venla. She'd been threatened by Aziza's brothers. And she might have gotten in trouble with the American military. I had no way to find out where she was or what had happened to her.
But if she's here at the base now, waiting to testify, then she made it out all right. And that makes me feel good, even if I dread seeing her again.
She probably isn't happy to have been tracked down. I wonder how the Army talked her into coming all the way to Oklahoma. It's not like they could force her.
She probably hates my guts though. I'd failed to save Aziza. Maybe Venla wants to make me pay.
The lead trial counsel, a forty-something major with dark, glossy hair pulled back in a tight bun, stands and raises a hand slightly to catch Anderson's attention.
"Sir, I apologize for the interruption," she says, "but in the interest of accuracy, I need to tell you that we listed Ms. Ahlstrom as a witness on the assumption we'd find her in time."She fumbles with a stack of papers while Anderson looks surprised.
"But," the major goes on, "despite our best efforts, we have not yet been able to locate Ms. Ahlstrom. She is no longer working for the Finnish aid agency that she was working for at the time the accused has stated she came to him for help. We are still pursuing our search, however, in both Afghanistan and Finland, so we'd like to keep her on the witness list."
Fuck. What the hell happened to Venla?
Anderson accepts the major's explanation, then names the two people who will be called as defense witnesses at the hearing—the two unfortunate souls expected to try to make me look, if not good, then at least less bad: Drill Sergeant James Rogers and my platoon leader, Lt. John Bering.
I dread seeing them almost as much as I dread seeing Venla. I've let them all down.
"Specialist Daniels, I am now going to advise you of your rights at this preliminary hearing. You have the right to be present throughout the taking of evidence so long as your conduct is not disruptive."
I'd love to be disruptive right about now. I'd love to scream and rage, smash my head into this table until I stop thinking or feeling or remembering. But I don't do that. I just sit there.
"You will have the right to cross-examine the witnesses who testify against you at the hearing, to present evidence in defense and mitigation on your own behalf, to make a statement in any form at the proper time, to remain silent or to refuse to make any statement regarding any offense you are accused or suspected of committing."
A little late for that, considering I already swore out a detailed confession at this very base just a few weeks ago. There is no point in me denying anything.
But Holmlund and I have already decided I won't testify at the preliminary hearing and probably not at the court-martial, if there is a court-martial.
Of course there's going to be a court-martial.
"You are advised that any statement made by you might be used as evidence against you in a trial by court-martial. Do you understand what I've said?"
"Yes, sir, I do." My voice doesn't even sound real to me.
"As the preliminary hearing officer," Anderson goes on, "it is my duty to ascertain and impartially weigh the evidence presented in support of the charges against you that are relevant to the limited scope and purpose of this hearing. This preliminary hearing will include inquiries as to whether there is probable cause to believe offenses have been committed under the UCMJ and whether you committed the offenses, whether a court-martial would have jurisdiction over the offenses and you, the form of the charges, and to make a recommendation as to the disposition of the charges."
Someone behind me coughs. My back is still burning.
"I can recommend that the charges against you be referred for trial to general court-martial or to a different type of court-martial, or that charges against you be dismissed or disposed of other than trial by court-martial. It is not my purpose during this preliminary hearing to act as a prosecutor, but only as an impartial fact finder."
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I do."
Anderson pulls off his glasses and straightens the stack of papers in front of him. "Does government counsel desire to make an opening statement at this time?" he asks.
The major stands. "Yes, sir."
"Proceed."
I can't help turning to look at Mama. She gives me a slight smile that she's trying her best to make comforting, and I nod, swallowing hard. My throat feels like I've spent hours outside in a sandstorm.
Then I see General Chisholm, sitting in the back row, his face stern. His eyes lock on mine, and I feel myself flushing with a sick shame. Chisholm looks away.
I keep swallowing as the major—according to the paper in front of me, her name is Margaret Carlin—describes the government's case against me.
It's a strong one.
She advances slowly, step by step, dramatically recounting my actions and their consequences in present tense, as if we're watching the whole thing in a movie theater.
"These are the facts," she says, finally, raising her chin and standing a little taller, "and they are undisputed. At the end of the government case, the evidence will show that the accused acted with deliberate disregard for the consequences of his actions, that he displayed a callous and cowardly indifference to the lives of his fellow platoon members, and that there is probable cause he committed misbehavior before the enemy in violation of Article 99 and made false official statements in violation of Article 107."
For the next couple of hours, my throat fills up with a grit that I cannot wash away, no matter how many times I swallow.
One after another, the government's witnesses take the stand and describe what happened, what I did and what I said.
Carlin presses the investigating officers who interrogated me. "How did Specialist Daniels explain the unauthorized mission in the Buffalo route clearing vehicle?"
"Ma'am, Specialist Daniels was badly burned and initially appeared to be in shock. We weren't able to speak to him for a few days. When we did, he said he could not remember why they were out there or what happened."
"He couldn't remember," Carlin recites slowly. "He said he couldn't remember." She looks down at her notes, then up at me for a moment, and I can't help flushing again. "And yet..."
She looks down again and stabs with her finger at something on the page in front of her. "And yet, just last month—more than two years after the attack— Specialist Daniels shows up at this very base and admits that he did know what happened."
She pauses, and I hear what sounds like a stifled sob coming from where the families are sitting.
I do not dare look over my shoulder.
"He admits that he lied because he did not want anyone to know the real reason Sergeant Richie Cunningham, Specialist Jonathan Monti, and Corporal Kyle Hudson were approaching the village of Malak on an unauthorized mission when they were attacked. He has admitted that he made false statements about how and why his three fellow platoon members were killed."
I do remember, of course. I remember every sight, every sound, every smell.
I close my eyes, as if that will prevent the slideshow flashing through my mind of eviscerated bodies and smoke moving in a thick current over them.
I open my eyes. Major Carlin is still speaking.
"Specialist Daniels admits that, under cover of darkness, he snuck off to supposedly rescue a fourteen-year-old Afghan girl from some kind of domestic situation." She pauses for a second.
"An alleged domestic situation."
I can't help shifting around in my chair.
Alleged domestic situation, my ass.
They were going to kill her.
Resisting her arranged marriage was dangerous enough for Aziza. But once she appealed to Venla for help and spent a couple of weeks living on an American base, Aziza was doomed. In her brothers' minds, she'd dishonored her family, and there was only one fitting punishment for a girl who did that.
Venla had tried to talk Aziza out of going back home. But she was just a kid, and she believed her brothers' assurances that all was forgiven. I knew better, though, and so did Venla. It was only a matter of time.
Holmlund puts a hand on my arm and gives me a warning look. So I take a deep breath and stop fidgeting.
I sit there as still as possible, listening to all of the testimony against me.
Carlin draws out each witness, highlighting detail after detail, until I think I'm going to be sick right here in front of all these people.
But I don't get sick. I keep sitting, fists curled, staring down at the table.
It seems to take forever, but finally I hear Anderson, his voice even raspier, ask Carlin if her case is complete. "Do you rest, counsel?"
Carlin clears her throat. "Correct, sir. The government rests."
~~~
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