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  CODE NAME CAMELOT

  Copyright © 2016 by David Archer.

  All right reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published by: David Archer

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

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  One evening an old Cherokee Indian told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

  He said, “My son, the battle is between two ‘wolves’ inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

  The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”

  The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

  PROLOGUE

  Juarez, Mexico

  The street was one of the seedier places in Juarez, a place where gringo tourists didn't usually show their faces. The tall American who was leaning against the bar was out of place, but as long as he didn't mind spending fifteen dollars for a bottle of beer, the bartender wasn't going to object to his presence. He was already on his third bottle, and Felicita had been sitting with him for quite some time. She liked the gringos, and seemed to have a special knack for getting them to pay attention to her.

  As long as she also got them to pay the twenty dollars required for one of her blowjobs, that was fine.

  This gringo had been coming around for several days, and Eduardo Hernandez, the bartender, had gotten to know him pretty well. The white man was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with neatly trimmed blonde hair and blue eyes, and it was obvious from his general condition that he worked out regularly. His name was John Baker, he’d said, and he was in town on business. Considering that the town was Juarez, Mexico, it was no secret that the business involved drugs.

  Again, that didn't matter much to Eduardo. A substantial number of his customers were in that same business, which suited him fine, since that meant they could afford the ridiculous prices he had to charge just to stay afloat. He had seen more than a few of them having private conversations with John the gringo, and though he hadn't seen money change hands, he knew without a doubt that it had.

  John hooked a finger at Eduardo, and when the bartender looked, he pointed at the glass in front of Felicita. Eduardo grinned, then reached for the special bottle reserved for the drinks the customers bought for the whores, the watered-down drinks that cost Eduardo only pennies, while he charged the customers as high as ten dollars each. He was fully aware that John liked to keep the girl happy, and since the girl went back to his hotel with him almost every night, he suspected that they may have come to some private arrangement that was cheating the bartender out of his cut of the money she made.

  She knew how things worked, though, and as long as she could keep John buying those drinks, she knew Eduardo wouldn't complain about her keeping the extra money she made in the night. She made it her business to keep John smiling, flirting with him and promising even more exciting pleasures to come. It was working, and her glass was staying full, which meant that her purse would not be as empty as it often was.

  ONE

  Nine Months Earlier

  Noah Foster had been an exemplary soldier for more than five years. After joining the Army shortly before turning eighteen, he had demonstrated a willingness and ability to learn his craft that very few had ever matched, at least in the opinion of his instructors. He’d also demonstrated an incredible ability to adapt to almost any situation, to remain calm even in the face of overwhelming problems, and to carry out his orders without hesitation or delay.

  Second Lieutenant Abigail Mathers, of the Judge Advocate General's office, read through his file with interest. Sergeant Foster was sitting in the stockade at that moment, preparing to face a court-martial that would almost certainly find him guilty of multiple counts of murder and other crimes, and sentence him to die. Lieutenant Mathers had been assigned as his defense counsel and was fervently wishing that she had never even heard his name.

  It was a hopeless case. Sergeant Foster, according to the witnesses against him, had willingly and with malice aforethought killed First Lieutenant Daniel Gibson, Corporal James Mathis, Pfc. Charles Mason, Pfc. Jack Lindemann, Pfc. David Clark and Pfc. William Gould, apparently to try to conceal other crimes. The biggest problem was that there was no question of whether he had killed them, because he had already admitted to it in his own statement. The only matter to be settled in court-martial was whether he had done so in order to cover up the fact that, as some members of his unit had reported, he had killed five civilian females, or because—as he claimed—his platoon leader and several other members of his unit had engaged in the recreational rapes and murders of several young Iraqi girls, girls whose only offense was the fact that they were alone and unprotected when Gibson and the others came upon them.

  Mathers read through the general details of Foster's statement, essentially the report that he had made after walking into his unit's rear area with several members of his platoon disarmed and under arrest.

  His story was that he had been assigned as cover fire, positioned as a sniper as his unit advanced in suspected ISIL territory, but there had been no firefight. Instead, the platoon had found five unaccompanied civilian females, who seemed to be engaged in some sort of agricultural chores.

  Foster had made his report, he said, with the assumption that the guilty would be punished. He claimed he had absolutely no idea that it would be turned around and used as evidence to charge him with committing murder to cover up the very crimes he said he was trying to report.

  Mathers closed the file and got up from her desk, then left the JAG offices and headed acros
s the compound toward the stockade. Foster was a prisoner there, and she wanted to look him in the eye and hear his story for herself.

  The duty officer at the stockade said it would take a few minutes to get Foster up to the interview room, and invited her to have a cup of coffee. She passed, and went to wait in the interview room for her client. Foster was brought in about ten minutes later, and took the seat across the table from her.

  “Sergeant Foster,” she began, “I'm Lieutenant Mathers, with the JAG office. I've been assigned as your defense counsel, and I've just started working on your case. Looks pretty nasty, so far. Can you tell me your side of the story?”

  “I've already told it several times. Isn't it in the file?”

  Mathers nodded. “I read it,” she said. “Reading a formal statement and hearing it straight from the man's mouth are two different things. Personally, I'm inclined to think that I can discern the truth more easily by watching your facial expressions while you speak. So how about it? Gonna tell me what happened?”

  Noah shrugged his shoulders. “I had been assigned as a sniper that day,” he said, “to provide covering fire as my unit moved in on what was supposed to be an outpost of ISIL terrorists. Instead, the lieutenant and the platoon found a number of civilian females, and decided to let off some steam with them. Some of the girls, judging from their bodies after I got there, looked to be as young as twelve, maybe thirteen, and only one of them was still alive by then. Lieutenant Gibson had called me down from my position and offered me the opportunity to join in the fun with the last one, but instead, I attempted to put a stop to the situation.” He smiled, sarcastically. “The lieutenant didn't want to hear my objections.

  “ ‘Sergeant Foster,’ he said, ‘these are ISIL sympathizers, and as such they are to be treated exactly the same as enemy combatants. As it happens, we decided to attempt interrogation and met with resistance. Now, I'm offering you the opportunity to engage in some interrogation of your own.’

  “I stared at him, and tried to figure out what was going on. I said, ‘Lieutenant, we can't be doing this.’

  “He acted like I hadn't said anything of importance. ‘And why not, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Do you see anyone else around here, to make any objections? How I run my unit is up to me, and this looked to me like an opportunity to let my men get some much-needed R&R. There's one left, are you going to take advantage?’

  “I looked down at the girl that was being held by both arms, and I could see the look in her eyes, pleading with me to do something to save her life. I turned back to the lieutenant.

  “ ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I can't be a participant—’ but he cut me off. He held up a hand to stop me, then called out, ‘Anyone else?’ When no one answered, he looked back at me, shrugged his shoulders, and then shot the girl through the head.”

  “Wait a minute!” Mathers said. “You're saying your platoon leader actually murdered this girl, right in front of your eyes. Is that what you're telling me?”

  Noah looked at her, one eyebrow lifted. “I thought you said you read my interrogation report? That would've been in it.”

  Mathers nodded slowly. “Go on,” she said.

  “Well, I stepped back, because I was startled at what just happened. The guys who had been holding the girl, they jumped back, wiping off the blood that splattered them, and I stared at them all.

  “ ‘Have you guys gone nuts?’ I asked. ‘Are you all crazy?’

  “Lieutenant Gibson turned around and grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and pulled me down so that he was looking me dead in the eye. ‘Sergeant Foster,’ he said, ‘you will stand down. What happened here today was something these men have needed for a while, and something that will stay between us all. Not one word will be said when we get back to the rear, do you understand me? Not one single word.’

  “I looked down at the girl he had just murdered, and then at the bodies of the others who had been with her. I doubted any of them was over sixteen, and probably were out there doing whatever their fathers had told them to do. Now, they were all dead, raped and murdered by a bunch of guys I thought I knew, guys I had fought beside, people I trusted. And the one who should have kept them all under control was the one who told them they could get away with it, and even he participated in rape and murder. Hell, even while I stood there protesting what he was doing, Lieutenant Gibson murdered that last girl right in front of me.”

  “And that's when you took action?”

  “Yes. I did what, to me, was the only logical thing to do. I drew my side arm and shot him the exact same way. Corporal Mathis objected—he said, ‘Jesus, Sarge! What the hell,’ or something like that, and I started yelling, ‘Just stop it! I want all of you to just stop, right now. What you're doing is wrong, and could be construed as an act of war against Iraq itself. These are civilians, the people we're supposed to be here to protect.’ I kept my service pistol in my hand, as I looked at Mathis and the others. ‘I have to make a report on this, and I want to know who was actively involved before I got down here.’

  “Mathis stood there for a moment, with Gould and Lindemann beside him. He said, ‘Foster, come on, man, Jesus, Sarge, you can't report this! Okay, things got a little out of hand, but God, you just killed the lieutenant!’

  “I said, ‘Corporal, what I'm seeing here is the rape and murder of civilian girls, some of them barely even old enough to be classified as teenagers. I think that's a little more than just things getting out of hand. When we get back to the rear, I'm going to have no choice but to place you all under arrest and file a complete report.’

  “That was as far as I got. Mathis raised his rifle and pointed it at me. He said, ‘We can't let you do that, Sarge.’ I saw that his eyes were wide, and he seemed frantic. I watched Gould and Lindemann out of the corners of my eyes, and saw that each of them was nervously clutching his rifle, watching me.

  “I looked back at Mathis, and realized that he was on the verge of killing me in his panic over being punished for what he and the others had done. I thought I would try to defuse the situation, so I lowered my pistol and shrugged. I said, ‘Maybe we can put this off on the LT, we can say he wigged out, killed all these girls himself. No need to put any other names on it.’

  “Mathis stood there for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He was trying to decide whether to trust me or not, whether to believe that I'd really let it go at that. If I reported that it was only the lieutenant who was actually involved in the murders, and the others made sure their stories agreed with mine, there would be no investigations, no charges. Of course, the trouble was I had just made the statement that I would be placing them all under arrest when we got back to the rear. He knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't have said that unless it was exactly what I meant to do.

  “He grinned, and then he said, ‘Sorry, Sarge, you're like a bulldog; you don't let go of something once you got it in your teeth.’ He raised the barrel of his rifle so that it was aimed at my head, rather than my chest, and I figured I had about a split second to live.

  “The pistol was in my right hand, and its added weight would slow that arm, no matter how insignificantly, so I swung my left in an arc that brought it around and into contact with the barrel of his weapon. I slapped it to the left, at the same time leaning my head to the right, just as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet that was meant to take my life flew past my ear, but the flecks of burning powder didn't miss it. I could feel them, like tiny grains of flame that peppered my ear and cheek.”

  Mathers suddenly stood, and leaned across the table with her palms flat on it. “Show me,” she said.

  Noah leaned forward and tilted his head to one side so that she could look at his left ear. There were tiny black marks inside the cup of the ear, and on the earlobe.

  Mathers nodded, and took out her iPhone to snap several pictures. “Those look like powder burns to me, alright,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, while he was trying to shoot m
e again, I brought up my pistol and fired twice, taking Mathis in the gut with the first round, and through the heart with the second. While all that was going on, Lindemann reacted by leveling his own M-16 at me, so I continued to swing my right hand around until it was in line with his body, and then squeezed the trigger once more. Lindemann fell back, but his rifle was set to three round bursts, and he squeezed the trigger in reflex as he went down. His bullets missed me, but they hit Private Mason, who was standing behind me, in the face.”

  “Mason was an accidental casualty, then?”

  “Yeah. Then Gould freaked out; he spun and ran, while a couple of the other guys began firing in my direction. We'd been standing in the middle of a little group of small buildings, probably related to whatever they call farming in that area, and I threw myself behind one of them. Gould yelled out, ‘Come on, Sarge, there's no point in this. We're all on the same side, remember?’

  “I wasn't interested in trying to argue with him, or anybody else, for that matter. There was a hole in the wall that I was hiding behind, leading inside the small structure. From what I could see, it looked like it might be some sort of simple shelter, maybe a place to get out of a sandstorm. Whatever it was, it offered me a chance to improve my position without being seen, so I crawled through the hole and into the building. There were a number of holes in the walls, some of them just big enough to peek through, while others were as big as the one I had used to get inside. I moved from one to the other, being careful and keeping out of sight, and was able to get a fair idea of where the rest of the men were; then I rolled out and across the little lane between the buildings, and got behind a different one. A couple of shots were fired at me, but none got close.

  “Funny thing was, my new position gave me a clear view of one of the men, but he didn't see me. That was Clark, and since I had no choice but to consider him a hostile at that point, I took him out with a single shot from my M4. Instantly, the rest of them opened fire on the little building I was using for a shield, so I had to run behind another. Gould yelled out, ‘It didn't have to be this way, Sarge.’ I could tell the general direction his voice came from, but couldn't pin it down because of echoes.