The cherry blossoms had long since bloomed down on the Mall, and the streets were now crowded with tourists, flocking to the nation’s capitol to visit the museums, historic locations, and the seat of power. Halls of the Capitol building teemed with overpaid suits and power-hungry politicos, who had too often turned their backs on the military volunteers fighting fierce, brutal wars while those same politicians sat comfy before a fireplace, feet up, drink in hand, as they cut benefits and dug into the heart of the warriors defending their country with their very lives.
The same was true now as Trace sat stiff backed at a table with General Haym Solomon before a select committee assembled by the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. Seated at the elevated area was Chairman Steve Moller, who had called the assembly at the behest of General Marlowe. Also among the committee members was Mike Souza, the chairman of the Subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations. Souza, a former Army Ranger had stepped into politics after his team suffered a deadly blow because of budget cuts that sliced right into the supply of equipment to defend themselves. But Trace knew it’d be a mistake to consider Souza an ally; the man would be harder on Trace simply because they both served. Because neither wanted anyone else to see them as allies in what should be a neutral, fact-finding mission.
“It’s been five years,” Chairman Moller began once the meeting had been called to order, “since the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence and the select committee on the Misrata incident found no proof that Trace Weston had willingly or knowingly endangered the lives of twenty-two innocent civilians there in Libya.”
Yes, five years ago he’d been in this same position, having his career and every decision dissected. Now Trace sat here again.
“We’ll move to United States Representative Mike Souza, the chairman of PSCI to begin,” Moller said.
Souza sat forward, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short as if he still served in the Army. His bearing, his tenacity, and his sharp wit had given him the nickname, The Wolf. “Thank you, Senator Moller,” Souza said as he adjusted his microphone and opened his folder. “In the last six weeks, it seems the lid has blown off the Misrata incident.” He peered over his invisible-frame glasses at Trace. “Including the deaths of three soldiers involved in the strike on the warehouse. Is that right, Colonel Weston?”
Trace eased toward the table and turned on his microphone. “It is.”
“The Subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations has received the testimony in a classified briefing from eight individuals, two of whom investigated each of the three murders. Chairman Moller has asked for a detailed timeline of the events, and the Honorable Ellen Dunne will respond to that.” Souza turned a page and scanned it. “We will hear from Colonel Weston, General Haym Solomon, General Marlowe, and Lieutenant Francesca Solomon in the course of this investigation. Our purpose here is to determine once and for all whether Colonel Weston, then a captain, was directly responsible and therefore negligent in attacking a civilian warehouse in Misrata.
“Briefly,” Souza said, meeting Trace’s gaze again, “Colonel Weston, please relate the events of 29 April as you recall them.”
As I recall. . . Trace gritted his teeth. As if what he recalled wasn’t the truth. But Souza knew how to play the pundit game. “Five days before arriving in Misrata, I was contacted by General Haym Solomon. SOCOM had been tracking a shipment of weapons that were slated for destruction but were rerouted from the location where they would be disposed of. Due to previous caches of weapons being stolen in this manner, SOCOM had tagged these. They were in Libya, being prepped for a shipment, they believed. My team was tasked with inserting, locating, and destroying said cache.
“We arrived in Misrata on 27 April at 2200 hours. The team made quick progress of locating the warehouse. After a two-day stint of surveilling the location, it was determined through communication with SOCOM and the opinions of my team that we destroy the weapons with explosive charges, since the warehouse was abandoned.”
Trace spent the next forty-five minutes going over minute details and carefully protecting the identities of Zulu and wording his explanation in a way that would not condemn himself or anyone else involved.
“Would it be fair,” Chairman Souza began, “to say that your team was confident the warehouse was a safe target in terms of casualties?”
“We had every confidence as the charges were set that the warehouse was abandoned and there were no civilians nearby.”
“And yet,” Chairman Moller of the Oversight and Intelligence subcommittee interjected, “the warehouse wasn’t empty. Was it, Colonel?”
“It was not, sir,” Trace said in a stiff, decisive manner.
“What happened, Colonel?” Moller looked at him, lifting a file. “We have an update from you on how that warehouse came to be occupied that night. Would you share its contents with the committee, please?”
Trace nodded, moving to the file in front of him, the one that detailed Berg Ballenger’s involvement. He spent the next five minutes explaining about the newest discovery. Tedious stuff, considering they had a full, fifty-something page report detailing every fact and nuance. Trace had been meticulous in crafting that report. But it was a sad fact that many in this room would not read it. He’d seen it too many times—senators or representatives out for someone’s throat, out to advance their careers, and they plunge ahead with their machetes to hack their way to success on the lives and backs of those who did nothing but their duty.
“So, why didn’t you find Ballenger and question him before now?” Senator Hastings, a member of the SOI asked.
“He didn’t want to be found, sir. We searched. I’ve been searching for the last five years.”
“Why do you think you found him now?”
“He wanted to be found, sir. He came to us, asked to meet.”
“What do you think spurred that contact?”
Maybe Ballenger has a hand in the hand of someone’s pocket in this room. But Trace knew saying that would only tighten the noose Marlowe wanted to hang him with. “I have no idea, sir.”
“Do you think he knew about the recent assassination of your team members?”
“I’m not sure how he could, sir. Their names were not nor have they ever been known, because their hands were clean.”
“But yours weren’t,” Hastings said.
“That’s what some in this room would have you believe,” Trace said.
“So, you don’t believe you’re responsible?”
“I am responsible to carry out my duty and lead my team to the best of my ability. I did that, sir, and I have no regrets.”
“No regrets?” Hastings’ voice pitched. “Twenty-two innocents are dead at your hand!”
Trace had handled worse accusations and more testy politicians than Hastings. “They are dead, sir, because of a tragic mistake—Ballenger moved those people into the warehouse that night. The charges were already in place.”
Questions came and went. A few more accusations were tossed out and quickly doused with truth and fact.
“Colonel Weston,” Souza interrupted. “Let’s get back on track here. Your team—where are they now?”
“Two are dead, one is nearly dead.”
“And the other three, plus”—Moller glanced at his notes—“Sergeant Gray and then-Staff Sergeant Ramage?”
“Location unknown of the three,” Trace said, citing the only information he’d give of One, Two, and Six. “Gray and Ramage maintain vigil over the dying member in an undisclosed hospital.”
The monotony of the next several hours that involved questions about him and Haym nearly did Trace in. Though he’d been trained to withstand torture, they ought to consider placing recruits in a hearing like this and make them endure the ridiculous claims of men who’d never served. Men who would have an income for the rest of their lives regardless of whether they worked. Men who made three and four times as much as the average soldier.
And where was the justice they always harped about?
“We’ll adjourn for today and pick up next time with the Honorable Ellen Dunne, General Marlowe, and Lieutenant Francesca Solomon.”
Funny how only one name on that list bothered and stressed Trace—the last one.
Released for the day, Trace walked with Solomon out of the hearing room. As they rounded a corner, Trace felt his gut cinch. At the end of the hall, backlit by the early evening sun, Francesca Solomon stood talking with a group of uniforms. She wore a skirt with her dress blues. Hair tightly secured at the back of her neck, she possessed the same fire in her eyes as her father.
“When I taught her to fight for what she believed in, I didn’t expect to be fighting against her.”
Trace said nothing, noting who she stood with. Not just soldiers. General Marlowe. Secretary Dunne. His gaze met hers and he had to admit—she was pretty. Beautiful, if you wanted to be technical. But it was a lot like Delilah. Her attention shifted to her father, then back to Trace. Finally, she broke away from the huddle and started toward them with what he could only describe as a smug, satisfied expression.
Right, because ruining someone’s life and career was satisfying.
“I’ll see you,” Trace muttered to Haym.
“Wait,” Haym said, catching his arm and striding right past his own daughter without so much as a glance.
In his periphery, Trace noted that she slowed, looked to him, and almost acted like she expected him to say something.
He had nothing to say. This hearing, this fiasco, was her fault. She’d gone digging. She’d fueled a fire that should’ve been smothered. Now his time and efforts were divided from protecting Annie, Téya, and Nuala. He made his way to the parking garage, grateful for the temporary pass so he could avoid reporters and the like. In his car, he started the engine then backed out and left Capitol Hill. At the first light, he looked up.
In his rearview mirror, a foreign face appeared in the backseat. Trace’s heart jammed. He reached for the weapon beneath his seat.
“It is not there,” the man said, holding Trace’s gaze steady and firm. “And I am not here to harm you or endanger you.”
Someone behind honked, and Trace’s gaze flipped to the light. Green. He eased through the intersection, pulse thrumming. “Who are you?”
“Please, just drive. I promise it will be worth your time.”