Part 52 (2/2)

”He's a Richard also. Personal hobby . . . sorry. You know we got two William Clintons in theater? A George Bush, too. How'd you like to be that poor schlub? I'll bet he takes a world of s.h.i.+t, and--” He saw my face and said, ”Sorry. I get carried away.” He added, ”Our Kembles and Kimbles are all enlisted--no Marks, no majors.”

”Is your system inclusive?”

”It's connected directly to unit SIDPERS,” he explained, referring to the Army's computerized personnel system, which I knew was updated daily. ”But maybe your guy DEROSed,” he hypothesized, meaning he rotated back to the States. ”Or,” he suggested, frowning, ”could be he's in a cla.s.sified a.s.signment. I've run into this before. These black unit types--Delta Force, Task Force 160, various snake-eaters-- they think they're too good for the theater database.”

I could see that this upset his clerkish sensibilities. I said, ”So those are the possibilities. What do we do?”

”What I always do.” He giggled. ”Kick it downhill.” He picked up the phone, read off the number for his counterpart in the First Armored Division from a sheet on his desk, dialed, and then we waited. He identified himself to whoever answered, and handed me the phone. I explained to whomever I was talking to who I was looking for. After a few moments, the voice said, ”There's no Mark Kemble in the division.”

”This is a notification issue. Help me out here.”

He said, ”Let me talk to my boss. Hold on.”

A new voice came on, a major named Hardy, who said, ”Sir, could you tell me what this is about?”

”As I informed your sergeant, notification. Major Mark Kemble's fiancee was kidnapped in Badhdad yesterday.”

There was a long pause. Mention the word ”notification” and even the most bloodless military bureaucrat turns into a human being. As military people, we are all sensitive to, and sympathetic toward, the need for speedy notification, not for the soldier, who is beyond caring, but for the families left behind. The Army tends to treat living soldiers like dirt--it may screw up their pay, short them on body and vehicular armor, force them to spend their careers in places they don't want to live, working for bosses they hate, abusing their families with pay and housing that are a joke--but die, and the Army turns on a dime into the most sensitive, caring organization on earth.

I have often wondered if the Army doesn't have it backward-- treat the living well and short-shrift the deceased--but honoring our dead is part of our tradition, and in an eerie way, it is a comfort for the living soldiers as well. ”You know what . . .” he finally said. ”You got bad info.”

”Do I?”

”Yes. Mark Kemble was KIA five months ago.”

”I think you're mistaken.”

”I think not. We lost only two majors this year. I personally handled the corpse evacuation for both officers.” He added, ”Karbala. That's where Kemble bought it. Bullet through the heart.”

I suppose I must've been in shock, because the next thing I knew the major was asking, ”Sir . . . sir sir . . . Are you still with me?” . . . Are you still with me?”

”Uh . . . yes. An administrative glitch, I'm sure and--” I hung up. All I could do was stare at the floor. Mark Kemble . . . dead. For the past five months . . . dead.

Bian had lied. But, why why? Further, if her two days in Baghdad weren't spent in the loving arms of her fiance, where had she been, and what had she been doing? The sergeant was staring at me, and I composed myself enough to ask him where the corps G2's office was located--meaning the chief intelligence officer and staff for the ground war in Iraq.

He gave me the directions, and I walked as quickly as my feet would carry me, first out of the building, and then toward the skiff he had described. It was a controlled facility with a buzzer by the door, which I pushed, and there was a camera over the entrance into which I smiled.

Somebody inside electronically unlocked the door and I entered a square building, specifically into a small anteroom that was spa.r.s.ely furnished. This time, the receptionist was a female buck sergeant who was studying a men's fitness magazine with considerable intensity, for the articles, I'm sure.

I interrupted her education and told her I needed to speak with any senior officer who had been here for six months or longer, and who remembered an officer named Major Tran. She told me she would see who she could find, and left.

She returned about two minutes later, accompanied by a good-looking lieutenant colonel with the emblem of military intelligence on his collar. I introduced myself, he stuck out his hand, and we shook. He said, ”Kemp Chester. How can I help you?”

”Do you have an office?”

He shook his head. ”Only generals have offices. I have a carrel. That okay?”

”Not okay. Let's walk.”

He gave me an odd look, but out of courtesy or curiosity he followed me, first out of the skiff, and then we began walking slowly around the Green Zone compound. There were a lot of ways to get into this, but I needed to cover my tracks, and without preamble I asked, ”You knew Major Bian Tran?”

”Yeah. We worked together. She left . . . oh, two, three months back.” He asked, ”Why?”

”I'm part of the investigating staff for a 15-6 investigation.” He understood that this was a pre-court-martial investigation, the Army equivalent of a grand jury. In response to his raised eyebrows, I a.s.sured him, ”Relax. She's not the accused.”

He seemed relieved to hear this and nodded.

I continued, in my most lawyerly, officious tone, ”Major Tran now works in an investigatory agency in the Pentagon. She's a critical witness for what looks likely to turn into a court-martial. The questions I'll be asking are in the nature of a background check.” At least this last part was true.

”I see. Well . . . would a few general observations help?”

”They would. Please proceed.”

”All-round great officer. Brilliant. Competent. Honest and hardworking, and--”

”Excuse me . . . Kemp, I can read her efficiency ratings myself. What did you think about her personally?” . . . Kemp, I can read her efficiency ratings myself. What did you think about her personally?”

”Well . . . everybody liked her. Ask around. You won't find a soul with a bad word to say.” He smiled at me. ”But if you do, give me his name, so I can lump him up.”

People get nervous about legal investigations, and I purposely made no response, which usually has the effect of making witnesses nervous and more talkative.

After a moment, he said, ”I don't know if you've seen her. Absolute knockout. Incredible body, gorgeous face, and--” He stopped in midsentence and cleared his throat. ”That sounds s.e.xist, doesn't it? I'm just saying--”

I offered him a manly smile--”She's hot”--and we ended up manly smiling at each other. I make-believe jotted in a make-believe notebook, and intoned, ”Under physical description, the colonel stated, without the slightest innuendo, that the major maintained her body and fitness at Army standards.”

”Hah . . . that's a good one.”

So much for guy bonding. I asked Colonel Chester, ”What was Major Tran's a.s.signment here?”

”She was a.s.signed to a special cell. Part of G2, the theater intelligence office, but not, if you get my drift.”

”Sensitive stuff?”

”Oh . . . very.”

”Like what?”

By his expression, you'd think I had just told him I slept with his mother and then bragged to everybody at school about it. ”That's none of your business.”

”Unless I have a Top Secret clearance, which I do. And unless it's directly relevant to my investigation, which it is. Please answer my question.”

LTC Chester, however, was n.o.body's fool, and replied, ”After I see the written authorization, and after you're read on. I'm not some cherry second lieutenant, Drummond. Don't blow smoke up my b.u.t.t.” He asked, ”What's this 15-6 about, anyway?”

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