Read Online Diamondhead by Patrick Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, War & Military, Political, Iraq War; 2003-, Assassination, Weapons industry
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formidable news editor, Geoff Levy, a former military staff reporter in the San Diego navy yards. Geoff knew his way around both the service and the law. He also knew what he called a “rattling good yarn” when he heard one. And the fact that the Silent Service had apparently turned on one of its own had a special, private journalistic glory all its own.
It is a remarkable achievement for the navy to keep anything quiet, considering it owns dozens of warships chock-full of knowledgeable, and extremely talkative, sailors. For Levy to be handed a leak as significant as Mack Bedford’s court-martial was a fantastic coup. Geoff knew what he had, and he knew he was about twenty-four hours, plus several light-years, ahead of the opposition.
When the Telegraph came out, every major news organization in the United States found itself playing catch-up—which was extremely difficult since the navy would neither confirm nor deny the story. And this put the nation’s newshounds in a quandary, since their only options were, effectively, to believe the truth of the San Diego paper, steal the information and proceed accordingly, or to ignore the story altogether. The latter option was out of the question. But the former was fraught with peril. What if the story was untrue? What if Geoff Levy was wrong? What if no court-martial was planned?
All of the above were troublesome issues, but not nearly as troublesome as missing out on the story altogether. The Fox twenty-four-hour television news channel was quickest into its stride and decided to round up Geoff Levy for an interview, ASAP. Exclusive, please. But the news editor for the Telegraph was too shrewd for that. No exclusives, and a fee of five thousand dollars, or you can all stop bothering me. Fox paid and put Geoff Levy on a telephone link in the very next slot, with a camera in a private telegraph office.
What he said confirmed, albeit unknowingly, the master journalist’s craft—bearing in mind he had already scooped the world. “I have been either gathering or preparing stories about the United States Navy in San Diego for a dozen years now. And this story about this court-martial was entrusted to me by a very senior commander. He revealed it to me not because he wished for extra publicity for the navy, because that’s the last thing they want with an issue like this. The officer gave it to me because of the outrage, the feeling of pure indignation felt by fighting men who put their lives on the line and then are told they are, somehow, murderers because they attacked and killed their enemy. In all my years, I have never sensed such outrage in the U.S. Navy, right here in San Diego. That applies especially to the SEALs, who give everything, and say almost nothing.”
The interviewer was a dazzling blonde in her late twenties who was a lot more likely to become Miss California than News Reporter of the Year. “But, Geoff,” she said, “surely the man had to face a court-martial if he just shot innocent civilians. I mean, that is murder, right?”
Levy sighed the sigh of the truly exasperated. “Ma’am,” he said, “picture the scene, if you will. We’re in hostile desert country; the temperature is 110 degrees. We’re nine thousand miles from home. We got maybe four tanks on fire, we got men, American men, husbands, sons, and lifelong friends, either dead or burning to death. We got the screams and whispers of the dying. We got fear, terror, outrage, and shock. We got young troops in tears. We got a goddamned horror story right there in front of our eyes. And suddenly an American officer races out of the pack and opens fire on the tribesmen who committed these acts of war. He guns them down, perhaps in rage, perhaps in grief and sadness for his lost brothers. But he hits back, as he’s been trained to do, amidst all the blood and carnage. In the middle of a gruesome and terrible specter the likes of which most of us will never see . .
It is a remarkable achievement for the navy to keep anything quiet, considering it owns dozens of warships chock-full of knowledgeable, and extremely talkative, sailors. For Levy to be handed a leak as significant as Mack Bedford’s court-martial was a fantastic coup. Geoff knew what he had, and he knew he was about twenty-four hours, plus several light-years, ahead of the opposition.
When the Telegraph came out, every major news organization in the United States found itself playing catch-up—which was extremely difficult since the navy would neither confirm nor deny the story. And this put the nation’s newshounds in a quandary, since their only options were, effectively, to believe the truth of the San Diego paper, steal the information and proceed accordingly, or to ignore the story altogether. The latter option was out of the question. But the former was fraught with peril. What if the story was untrue? What if Geoff Levy was wrong? What if no court-martial was planned?
All of the above were troublesome issues, but not nearly as troublesome as missing out on the story altogether. The Fox twenty-four-hour television news channel was quickest into its stride and decided to round up Geoff Levy for an interview, ASAP. Exclusive, please. But the news editor for the Telegraph was too shrewd for that. No exclusives, and a fee of five thousand dollars, or you can all stop bothering me. Fox paid and put Geoff Levy on a telephone link in the very next slot, with a camera in a private telegraph office.
What he said confirmed, albeit unknowingly, the master journalist’s craft—bearing in mind he had already scooped the world. “I have been either gathering or preparing stories about the United States Navy in San Diego for a dozen years now. And this story about this court-martial was entrusted to me by a very senior commander. He revealed it to me not because he wished for extra publicity for the navy, because that’s the last thing they want with an issue like this. The officer gave it to me because of the outrage, the feeling of pure indignation felt by fighting men who put their lives on the line and then are told they are, somehow, murderers because they attacked and killed their enemy. In all my years, I have never sensed such outrage in the U.S. Navy, right here in San Diego. That applies especially to the SEALs, who give everything, and say almost nothing.”
The interviewer was a dazzling blonde in her late twenties who was a lot more likely to become Miss California than News Reporter of the Year. “But, Geoff,” she said, “surely the man had to face a court-martial if he just shot innocent civilians. I mean, that is murder, right?”
Levy sighed the sigh of the truly exasperated. “Ma’am,” he said, “picture the scene, if you will. We’re in hostile desert country; the temperature is 110 degrees. We’re nine thousand miles from home. We got maybe four tanks on fire, we got men, American men, husbands, sons, and lifelong friends, either dead or burning to death. We got the screams and whispers of the dying. We got fear, terror, outrage, and shock. We got young troops in tears. We got a goddamned horror story right there in front of our eyes. And suddenly an American officer races out of the pack and opens fire on the tribesmen who committed these acts of war. He guns them down, perhaps in rage, perhaps in grief and sadness for his lost brothers. But he hits back, as he’s been trained to do, amidst all the blood and carnage. In the middle of a gruesome and terrible specter the likes of which most of us will never see . .
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