general placed great faith on things unseen, and he had a knack for assessing character. As a member of a select hierarchy of the army’s general staff, Shell also felt some collective guilt about McGraw’s situation. The man was clearly a decisive leader, and sometimes decisions in war get men killed. In another war, at another time, McGraw’s actions would have drawn no punishment, and perhaps even quiet praise. To lead the troops that Shell planned to put under his command, McGraw would indeed have to be an unusual and decisive leader, someone exactly willing to put a bullet into his own men, if that’s what it took to get the job done.
McGraw was escorted by armed military police to an area out of the main prison compound. He was shackled, chains dangling from his wrists and ankles. Hobbling down several corridors, his metal chains clanged and echoed in the halls like effects in a horror film. He finally arrived at a conference room where two colonels awaited him.
“Take them off,” one colonel ordered.
The escorts removed McGraw’s shackles. The other colonel pointed for him to sit in a chair at the side of a long wood laminate table. Several moisture-beaded pitchers of ice water were set on the table. The walls were mostly bare, lined only with the standard issue photographs of the chain of command—the president, secretary of defense, secretary of the army, and chief of staff of the army. The colonels stared at him with curiosity and a bit of derision. They said nothing but wondered what their general wanted with a murderer.
When three-star Lieutenant General Mack Shell entered the room, the colonels popped to attention. And right along with them, perhaps with even more pomp, Link McGraw stood to attention as well. The general was exactly what he expected—spit and polish with a chest full of medals.
“At ease, gentlemen,” General Shell ordered with a Southern accent as thick as the humidity of Fort Benning, Georgia, where he once commanded the 82 nd Airborne Division. And, as he took his own seat, he looked to McGraw, who remained standing. “Be seated, Colonel.”
With barely a nod, he dismissed the two other officers from the room. McGraw watched them leave like puppy dogs. A lieutenant general rated two colonels as gofers. McGraw knew General Shell by reputation. He was well respected by soldiers and politicians alike. His peers, and his men—when he was not within earshot—respectfully referred to him as Mack.
The general let his head fall to his chest, sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and set his arms out and palms up. Shell knew he was embarking on a task that would change the way of warfare and the role of warriors forever, and it weighed heavily upon him. McGraw felt a little uneasy. The general seemed to be praying—or meditating.
McGraw eyed the folder the general had in front of him. It had McGraw’s name on it. However, what was most interesting about the folder was that it had red-and-white striped tape on its edges. Those markings indicated that the file was top secret. What about a convicted murderer could anyone consider top secret? Then, slowly General Shell lowered his arms, lifted his head, and turned to McGraw.
“Colonel, my name is Maximillian Shell.”
He stared at McGraw. It was a bit unsettling, as if he was trying to look into his soul. Then he got to the point.
“Any excuses, son, for your actions?”
“No, sir,” McGraw replied unhesitantly. “I stand by my account as before.”
“This was not your first combat action.”
“No, sir.”
“What was different, then?”
“It’s always different, sir. I’ve smelled blood and fire many times, and each time the smell is different.”
The general was fishing, McGraw thought. But what was he fishing for?
“Any lessons learned?”
“Can’t say for sure. I could have put my men a few meters off more or less, here or there. Moving faster. Maybe it would have made a difference. But retreat wasn’t the
McGraw was escorted by armed military police to an area out of the main prison compound. He was shackled, chains dangling from his wrists and ankles. Hobbling down several corridors, his metal chains clanged and echoed in the halls like effects in a horror film. He finally arrived at a conference room where two colonels awaited him.
“Take them off,” one colonel ordered.
The escorts removed McGraw’s shackles. The other colonel pointed for him to sit in a chair at the side of a long wood laminate table. Several moisture-beaded pitchers of ice water were set on the table. The walls were mostly bare, lined only with the standard issue photographs of the chain of command—the president, secretary of defense, secretary of the army, and chief of staff of the army. The colonels stared at him with curiosity and a bit of derision. They said nothing but wondered what their general wanted with a murderer.
When three-star Lieutenant General Mack Shell entered the room, the colonels popped to attention. And right along with them, perhaps with even more pomp, Link McGraw stood to attention as well. The general was exactly what he expected—spit and polish with a chest full of medals.
“At ease, gentlemen,” General Shell ordered with a Southern accent as thick as the humidity of Fort Benning, Georgia, where he once commanded the 82 nd Airborne Division. And, as he took his own seat, he looked to McGraw, who remained standing. “Be seated, Colonel.”
With barely a nod, he dismissed the two other officers from the room. McGraw watched them leave like puppy dogs. A lieutenant general rated two colonels as gofers. McGraw knew General Shell by reputation. He was well respected by soldiers and politicians alike. His peers, and his men—when he was not within earshot—respectfully referred to him as Mack.
The general let his head fall to his chest, sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and set his arms out and palms up. Shell knew he was embarking on a task that would change the way of warfare and the role of warriors forever, and it weighed heavily upon him. McGraw felt a little uneasy. The general seemed to be praying—or meditating.
McGraw eyed the folder the general had in front of him. It had McGraw’s name on it. However, what was most interesting about the folder was that it had red-and-white striped tape on its edges. Those markings indicated that the file was top secret. What about a convicted murderer could anyone consider top secret? Then, slowly General Shell lowered his arms, lifted his head, and turned to McGraw.
“Colonel, my name is Maximillian Shell.”
He stared at McGraw. It was a bit unsettling, as if he was trying to look into his soul. Then he got to the point.
“Any excuses, son, for your actions?”
“No, sir,” McGraw replied unhesitantly. “I stand by my account as before.”
“This was not your first combat action.”
“No, sir.”
“What was different, then?”
“It’s always different, sir. I’ve smelled blood and fire many times, and each time the smell is different.”
The general was fishing, McGraw thought. But what was he fishing for?
“Any lessons learned?”
“Can’t say for sure. I could have put my men a few meters off more or less, here or there. Moving faster. Maybe it would have made a difference. But retreat wasn’t the
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