Undeclared War Page 3

  The open door of the schoolhouse was behind the two SEALs. As Bear maintained watch, Reaper went up to the door and looked inside. Light was pouring out of the door, bathing the two SEALs in a golden glow, as fires started from the broken lamps in the building spread their flames.

  Reaper pushed his AN/PVS-14 NVD up on his forehead. The light from the fire was more than enough for him to see the scattered bodies of nearly twenty villagers—men, women, and children—scattered around the room. The torn and limp bodies told Reaper all that he needed to know. There would be no refugees accepting the offer of a safe haven by the SEALs, the JSSF, or anyone else.

  Chapter Two

  A subdued Humvee full of SEALs returned to the “train,” the radio code name for their headquarters established in a house near the city of Rastosnica. The large house was isolated enough from other buildings for security’s sake, and large enough to comfortably hold all of the JSSF detachment.

  The unit’s two officers, Captain Paxtun and Lieutenant Franklin, had their quarters on the upper floor of the house, but only Paxtun was waiting when Reaper returned with his men. Two of the unit’s other Humvees were missing when the men pulled up to the house. Their vehicle was still parked where they had left it.

  The results of the night’s actions weighed heavily on the SEALs. They had gone out with the intention of simply supporting a “hearts and minds” campaign to help win over some of the locals who had suffered so much. A show of strength and solidarity to show the refugees that they were finally safe in an area they could call home.

  The SEALs’ mission had been a complete failure. It wasn’t because of any lack of action on their part. But the people they had been trying to help were dead, and there wasn’t anything that could be said to make that result easier to accept.

  One of the things that had been bothering Reaper during the entire drive back to their headquarters was just who the hell the village attackers had been. The bodies that the SEALs had searched revealed very little—but what they did find looked important.

  The Afghan Pakol hat the one raider had been wearing was odd, but the really significant find had been the pocket copy of the Koran that had been on the body, the small book neatly wrapped in waterproof cloth. There was no way that a Serb raider would have been carrying a copy of the Koran. A Serb might have considered the Muslim holy book to be a source of paper at most. He certainly wouldn’t have been carrying it carefully wrapped and protected as its owner had been. No, the raiders had been Muslims—and they had killed their own people.

  As the SEALs entered the house, Captain Paxtun was waiting in the front room. It was immediately obvious to Paxtun that his orders had not been obeyed—the tear in the front of Reaper’s vest and the damage to the weapon hanging across his chest were plain to see. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could happen to a man who was in a vehicle accident. Reaper had been in combat, against direct orders.

  “Chief Reaper,” Paxtun said, “are any of your men casualties?”

  The tone in Paxtun’s voice gave Reaper the impression the captain would have preferred that all of the SEALs were casualties. There probably would have been less paperwork for them than for the kind of attack that he and his men had witnessed.

  “No, sir,” Reaper said. “My troops and I are fine. I would like to dismiss them to stow their gear and grab some chow.”

  “Fine, Chief,” Paxtun said, “dismiss them. You and I have to have some words about the incident this evening.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reaper said.

  Turning to Bear, Reaper continued, “Clean yourselves and your gear, get something to eat and grab some sack time.”

  “Chief…” Bear started to say.

  “Belay that,” Reaper said, “you have your instructions.”

  Reluctantly, the SEALs left the front room, leaving the two officers and their chief behind them.

  “Where is Lieutenant Franklin and the rest of the men?” Reaper asked.

  “They’re out on another scouting mission,” Paxtun said. “I don’t expect them back for some time.”

  “I hope their operation goes a lot better than ours did,” Reaper said.

  “Chief,” Captain Paxtun began, “there are cause-and-effect situations here that you have no knowledge of. The political situation is at a critical stage and we cannot afford another Serb incident making the news for…”

  “Serbs,” Reaper exploded. The frustration and shock he felt since almost being killed that evening evaporated in a wave of anger and rage. “How the hell can you jump to that conclusion? Those weren’t any Serbs who killed those people. Those raiders were Muslims themselves. No Serb would ever be caught with this in his pocket.”

  With that statement, Reaper threw the Koran that he had in his pocket down onto a chair next to where Paxtun was standing.

  “And just where in the hell do you think a Serb would have gotten this?” Reaper said and he threw the Pakol hat into the captain’s face.

  Ducking to the side, Paxtun dodged the cloth hat and allowed it to fall to the floor behind him. The officer was almost shaking with rage at the SEAL chief standing in front of him.

  “Chief,” Paxtun snapped out. “You will get hold of yourself right now, soldier.”

  “Wrong, sir,” Reaper growled, “I’m a sailor.”

  Being corrected by the SEAL chief enraged Paxtun even more. “You will stand at attention when addressing me…sailor,” Paxtun snapped. “I don’t care what service you’re in, you can be brought up on charges of insubordination and assaulting an officer right now. This minor material you’ve brought in from somewhere could come from anywhere, and mean anything.”

  Taking a moment to get control of himself, Paxtun looked at the SEAL chief and the hat on the floor.

  “Chief Reaper,” Paxtun said in a much calmer voice, “there has been no Serb activity reported in this area for some time. It was just the villagers’ bad luck that an incident took place while they were all in the same building. It’s possible that the Serbs heard of the meeting and decided to stage a raid disguised as Muslims. Maybe we were simply due for some action breaking out in this area again. Any thought that there was a group of rogue Muslims attacking their own is just supposition on your part. The present political situation among the local Muslim groups is far too sensitive to allow such inflammatory suspicions to be voiced without solid proof.”

  Reaper just looked at Paxtun with astonishment. He was denying the evidence that was right there in the room. Just what in the hell was going on here? Reaper thought.

  “Suspicions?” Reaper said. “Just what do you mean, suspicions? How the fuck can you deny what happened tonight? That wasn’t a raid, it was a planned slaughter of those refugees and the villagers who were putting them up.

  “Those raiders knew where everyone would be and surrounded most of the area. That wasn’t a schoolhouse—it was a killing zone. If you hadn’t called me back to the vehicle, my men and I might have been able to save a few of those poor people. As it is, they’re dead and the bulk of the raiders got away. If we had taken the route you originally planned for my patrol, we wouldn’t have gotten there until well after…”

  Reaper paused at the realization that Paxtun’s intent may have been just what he was about to say—he had wanted the SEALs to miss the incident. They were just supposed to have shown up and count the bodies.

  “That’s it, isn’t it, sir?” Reaper said as he closed the distance between himself and Paxtun. “You made some kind of deal with those assholes. We were never supposed to have ever even seen them, were we? My men and I were just to be witnesses to the aftermath of another Serb slaughter.”

  “That’ll be enough of that shit, Reaper,” Paxtun almost shouted. Paxtun rarely swore and that told the big SEAL chief that his words were hitting home.

  “Just what is it,” Reaper said, “you have cooked up with the people who sent those raiders? Just what were you supposed to get out of the deal? Intelligence? Some kind of informati
on that would make your career?”

  Reaper looked deeply into Paxtun’s eyes as he spoke. He didn’t see enough of a reaction to tell him that he had guessed right yet. Paxtun was angry, but the captain remained cagey and in control.

  “If not intelligence, what?” Reaper said. “Money? Guns? Drugs? Just what the hell could someone offer you that would be worth the lives of all those people?”

  “Take control of yourself, Chief,” Paxtun said sharply.

  “Sir,” Reaper said as he drew himself rigidly to attention, “I respectfully request permission to report to SFOR headquarters in Tuzla. I will personally deliver a full report on the incident this evening to the authorities there. The relocation project is their responsibility and they can make the final determination of the situation and which parties might be held accountable.”

  Paxtun looked shocked as he realized just how close he was coming to losing control of the situation. It was now obvious to anyone who may have seen them standing there that he didn’t want Reaper reporting anything to anyone. There was suddenly near panic showing in the officer’s face. Whatever the situation was, Reaper knew from looking at Paxtun that something was wrong and he was up to his asshole in it.

  “Just a moment, Chief,” Paxtun said in a reasonable tone. “Any reports coming from this unit will be made by myself or my executive officer. It is obvious that you are too upset by the action today to think clearly. The accusations you are making are outrageous. I’m sure you’ll see just how wrong they are after a night’s sleep. You make out your report tomorrow and I will see to it that it reaches the proper people.”

  “I will be making my own report to Warcom, my own Navy command, sir,” Reaper said with a special emphasis on the last word. “And I will make it tonight. I do not require your permission to do so.”

  The anger that washed through Paxtun showed plainly on his face. As the big Navy SEAL turned to leave the room, the shorter officer said, “This is my command, Chief, not yours. And I am the intelligence professional. Any reports that come from this unit will come directly from my desk. I will inform command in Tuzla of the situation—and of your part in it.”

  “My part in it?” Reaper said.

  “Obviously, Chief,” Paxtun said, “the strain of working under these conditions was too much for you. Something at the refugee village must have simply set you off and you opened fire on them. I would of course expect your men to say whatever they had to in order to cover for their chief, but you have obviously lost control of yourself. That is what I will tell both the Tuzla command, and your own people.”

  Relief swept across Paxtun’s face as he thought that he had taken control of a situation that had threatened to get completely out of hand. The blame for the slaughter would be put on the head of what he could say was an undisciplined SEAL who had lost control. He had disobeyed specific orders as to how he was supposed to have approached the village and what path he was to have taken. What other standing orders may he have ignored? Their story would fit the facts well enough to confuse the issue badly. A small smile slowly spread across Paxtun’s face.

  For a moment as he stood there, Reaper no longer could see the smirking face of the officer in front of him. What he saw was a small bundle of rags being tossed through a schoolhouse window. And all he heard was a child’s whimpering cry suddenly cut off. He had to get out of that room now, before he did something he would regret.

  “The hell you will,” Reaper said very softly. “I’ll be making my own report, and it will be going through Navy channels.”

  Reaper turned to leave the room without another word. The soft tone of voice Reaper had used had a lot in common with a quiet wind blowing through a graveyard—they both were heard mostly by the dead. If the intelligence officer had learned more about the Navy SEAL chief, he would have known to be afraid of that voice. What Paxtun did realize was the seriousness of what Reaper was threatening to do.

  The smirk that had been on Paxtun’s face just a moment before had been replaced with something that looked a lot like sudden fear. Paxtun wasn’t a big man, just a little over five feet six. And he certainly didn’t have the build of the six-foot-tall, 215-pound Reaper. But he still tried to physically stop Reaper from leaving the room.

  “Don’t you turn your back on me, mister,” Paxtun said. “I am not done talking to you yet!” He grabbed at Reaper’s left shoulder and tried to twist the big man around.

  An iron-hard right fist, toughened by years of exercise, salt water, and rough use—the same hand that had rubbed the short hair of a six-year-old son back in the States months before—shot up from behind the SEAL’s right hip and smashed squarely into the officer’s jaw. Paxtun flipped over backward and landed flat on the floor. The angle of his jaw was anything but natural as the nearly unconscious officer groaned from where he lay sprawled. The broken jaw would keep the man from eating solid food for some time—and it spelled the death knell for Reaper’s military career.

  Chapter Three

  Months after the JSSF incident in Bosnia, a blue Pontiac Firebird sped along the northbound lanes of I-395, heading in to Washington, D.C. At the wheel of the car was Navy captain Alan Straker. For a high-ranking officer, Captain Straker’s deeply tanned skin and heavy muscular build made him stand out as someone who hadn’t spent his career behind a desk.

  The brilliantly shining gold Trident, the Naval Special Warfare breast insignia, in plain view on the upper right side of Straker’s uniform, was a big giveaway as to just how he developed that tan and those muscles. The Trident could be worn officially only by men who had passed through training and been accepted as active SEALs by their peers in the Teams. That symbol on his chest proclaimed him to be a Navy SEAL operator—no matter what his rank or assignment.

  Not all of his muscles came from having been in the SEAL Teams. Straker’s bright blue eyes had looked out from under a sweating mass of thick black hair at a number of opponents during his days on the wrestling team at the U.S. Naval Academy. He had always accepted a challenge, and reveled in overcoming them. The challenge he was facing right now was simply the irritation of having to maneuver through D.C. traffic.

  Straker decided on parking at the Pentagon and grabbing a ride in on the subway. He could make his appointment at the huge Department of State building between Twenty-first and Twenty-third Streets by just getting aboard the Metro at the Pentagon and getting off at the Foggy Bottom stop south of Washington Circle. The walk was only about half a mile down Twenty-third Street, and the late September weather in D.C. wasn’t so bad that he would arrive in a sweat-soaked uniform. Besides, finding a parking spot at the Pentagon was going to be one hell of a lot easier than conducting a parking search in downtown Northwest D.C.

  While standing at the subway stop at the bottom of the very long escalators at the Pentagon, and during the ride itself, Captain Straker maintained a pensive look. At only slightly over five ten, but carrying 245 pounds on his broad-shouldered frame, Straker wasn’t jostled a lot by the other passengers on the subway. Certainly no one poked at the big SEAL to see if there was a soft spot indicating flab instead of muscle. Only his six-year-old niece would ever think of doing such a thing anyway. A small smile slipped onto the face of the SEAL as he thought of his sister’s youngest, the smile evaporating as his mind went back to his mission at hand.

  At present, Captain Straker’s assignment in the Teams was a general one. He was working TAD (temporary assigned duty) at Special Warfare Group Two at Little Creek, Virginia. His present position was only to last until the confirmation of his promotion to rear admiral (lower half). Once at flag rank, he would go on to the Special Operations Command in Tampa for a tour of duty there.

  With the temporary duties at Group Two, also came a job that no SEAL ever wanted—investigating the possible wrongdoing of a fellow operator. Straker had been ordered to investigate the incident of a SEAL chief petty officer being accused of willfully disobeying orders, assaulting a superior officer, and the murde
r of foreign nationals. The charges were seriously inflated in Straker’s opinion, and the situation a foul one.

  Only the classified seal the State Department had thrown over the whole affair had so far kept it out of the hands of the Judge Advocate General’s office. Somebody at State wanted a SEAL’s ass as a sacrifice over this one—and they wanted all of their ducks in a row before final charges were brought. Straker intended bringing the situation to a close before the JAG’s office became inextricably involved. State wanted a straightforward guilty plea, and Straker was going to play that desire for all it was worth.

  As he walked south to the State Department Building Straker reflected how, at his rank, politics had become another battleground. In this fight, words did more damage than any bullets ever could. If the present situation burst in his face, that admiral’s star was going to go back into the box. But no SEAL had ever been left behind, living or dead. Even if all you could do was go back and bring out a body, if that’s what it took that’s what you did. It had been a mantra in the Teams since well before Lieutenant (j.g.) Straker had gone through training. He certainly was not going to be the first one to break that tradition by abandoning a Teammate to the military-hating cookie-pushers at the State Department.

  It took some time to travel through the huge building to locate the conference room that Straker had been told to report to. Already in the room and busily shuffling papers was Martin Rosacrantz, the midlevel State Department bureaucrat who was pushing ahead with the case against Ted Reaper. Rosacrantz was a tall, thin individual with a receding hairline and a superior attitude. Straker wasn’t surprised. He had yet to meet any people from State who didn’t feel they were superior to the military. Even though it was the military who had to keep cleaning up the messes or carry through the ideas of the moment for the present administration.

  “Thank you for being prompt, Captain Straker,” Rosacrantz said. “Please have a seat and we’ll get right to business.”