Diamondhead by Patrick Robinson
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, War & Military, Political, Iraq War; 2003-, Assassination, Weapons industry
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combat boots for a while. And then to try to get al-Jazeera, the U.S. media, and all the appalling fabrications of the Islamist militants off the back of the Pentagon. The JAG, for a thousand reasons, must always be seen by all parties to be scrupulously fair on behalf of the U.S. military.
The JAG currently on duty in Camp Hitmen had his back to the wall. His current inquiry involved a very special man, Mackenzie Bedford, Honor Man in his BUDs Class, a decorated SEAL commander, beloved by almost every man who had ever served under his command. And worse yet, a man currently trying to cope with the most awful personal problem involving his only son, Tommy.
The JAG, Cdr. Greg Farrell, was not loving it. Not one bit. He had known Mack Bedford for many years. No matter how hard he struggled, though, he could never take away the atmosphere of prosecutor and prosecuted in their interviews together.
Even more unsettling was the reaction he was receiving from the other SEALs who had witnessed the murder of their colleagues. He could see it in their eyes: You bastard—you’re trying to court-martial our commander, and just for openers, don’t look for any help from me.
Greg Farrell understood the ramifications. He had worked in the navy’s legal department for several years. He had graduated from law school, passed the bar, and gone into private practice with a big Boston firm. But after a very messy divorce at a very young age, he had effectively elected to run away to sea, and joined the navy.
He blasted his way into officer training school almost immediately after he completed boot camp. He was a highly intelligent student and passed all tests the first time he took them. But at heart he was still a lawyer, a man who strove to see both sides of the equation. He always imagined first what he would plead if he were defending, and then what he would allege if he were prosecuting. Like many lawyers, this iron-clad training left him somewhat light on common sense.
In this particular case he understood one thing clearly: in terms of a popularity contest, he would earn the gratitude of the entire camp if he decided that the SEAL commander on the Euphrates Bridge that day had no case to answer.
However, on the other hand —the words that are engraved on every lawyer’s heart—the political climate was immensely problematic. There were new Middle Eastern peace talks coming up. Pakistan, which, up on the Northwest Frontier, had become the cradle of rabid Islamic fervor, was trying to enter a nuclear nonproliferation pact with India and China.
And right here, in his, Greg Farrell’s, backyard, there were a dozen dead Iraqi tribesmen, the supporters of whom were prepared to swear to Allah they had meant no harm to anyone and had never owned a firearm between them. Even the new Iraqi president had begun to refer to the incident on the bridge as the Massacre.
The JAG was nonplussed. The legal issue was in danger of being shunted aside between the two warring factions, the men on the ground and the powers that be. It was nothing short of a no-win situation, hereinafter to be known as “a sonofabitch.”
Commander Farrell decided that whatever the case against the SEAL commander was, it could not be shelved. The profile was too high; there was too much at stake. The Pentagon was insisting the case be put to rest, in a way that presented the United States in the best possible light. And that could not be done by sweeping it under the carpet.
Everyone involved in the Foxtrot Platoon disaster was leaving for San Diego in three weeks. And at 0800 hours, on a clear desert morning, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford was formally told the case would be going to the U.S. Navy Board of Inquiry at SPECWARCOM. The recommendation was that he be court-martialed on charges of reckless conduct in the face of the enemy and, very possibly, with the murder of twelve Iraqi tribesmen.
CHAPTER 2
The
The JAG currently on duty in Camp Hitmen had his back to the wall. His current inquiry involved a very special man, Mackenzie Bedford, Honor Man in his BUDs Class, a decorated SEAL commander, beloved by almost every man who had ever served under his command. And worse yet, a man currently trying to cope with the most awful personal problem involving his only son, Tommy.
The JAG, Cdr. Greg Farrell, was not loving it. Not one bit. He had known Mack Bedford for many years. No matter how hard he struggled, though, he could never take away the atmosphere of prosecutor and prosecuted in their interviews together.
Even more unsettling was the reaction he was receiving from the other SEALs who had witnessed the murder of their colleagues. He could see it in their eyes: You bastard—you’re trying to court-martial our commander, and just for openers, don’t look for any help from me.
Greg Farrell understood the ramifications. He had worked in the navy’s legal department for several years. He had graduated from law school, passed the bar, and gone into private practice with a big Boston firm. But after a very messy divorce at a very young age, he had effectively elected to run away to sea, and joined the navy.
He blasted his way into officer training school almost immediately after he completed boot camp. He was a highly intelligent student and passed all tests the first time he took them. But at heart he was still a lawyer, a man who strove to see both sides of the equation. He always imagined first what he would plead if he were defending, and then what he would allege if he were prosecuting. Like many lawyers, this iron-clad training left him somewhat light on common sense.
In this particular case he understood one thing clearly: in terms of a popularity contest, he would earn the gratitude of the entire camp if he decided that the SEAL commander on the Euphrates Bridge that day had no case to answer.
However, on the other hand —the words that are engraved on every lawyer’s heart—the political climate was immensely problematic. There were new Middle Eastern peace talks coming up. Pakistan, which, up on the Northwest Frontier, had become the cradle of rabid Islamic fervor, was trying to enter a nuclear nonproliferation pact with India and China.
And right here, in his, Greg Farrell’s, backyard, there were a dozen dead Iraqi tribesmen, the supporters of whom were prepared to swear to Allah they had meant no harm to anyone and had never owned a firearm between them. Even the new Iraqi president had begun to refer to the incident on the bridge as the Massacre.
The JAG was nonplussed. The legal issue was in danger of being shunted aside between the two warring factions, the men on the ground and the powers that be. It was nothing short of a no-win situation, hereinafter to be known as “a sonofabitch.”
Commander Farrell decided that whatever the case against the SEAL commander was, it could not be shelved. The profile was too high; there was too much at stake. The Pentagon was insisting the case be put to rest, in a way that presented the United States in the best possible light. And that could not be done by sweeping it under the carpet.
Everyone involved in the Foxtrot Platoon disaster was leaving for San Diego in three weeks. And at 0800 hours, on a clear desert morning, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford was formally told the case would be going to the U.S. Navy Board of Inquiry at SPECWARCOM. The recommendation was that he be court-martialed on charges of reckless conduct in the face of the enemy and, very possibly, with the murder of twelve Iraqi tribesmen.
CHAPTER 2
The
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