Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,67
likes of the ruthless dictator who’d sheltered those responsible for bombing Pan-Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988, and killing two hundred seventy innocent passengers, was disconcerting. Especially since Walker hadn’t yet been read his rights and didn’t know precisely what charges he faced. Didn’t know if the ICC provided public defenders, either, not like some weak-kneed lawyer in a three-piece suit would care about an American warrior. Most American’s didn’t. Why should the rest of the world?
But it’d be good to know if he were being charged for war crimes. Most SEALs were. Or if the ICC was simply detaining him, pending his extradition back to the States. That was the scenario Walker hoped for, though he wasn’t sure why. Leavenworth was no picnic. It’d be a hard sentence to serve, but at least he’d be in America. The land that he loved.
Because Walker did love the country he’d bled for—the land of the free. He still upheld the concept behind that often misused ‘We the People…’ closer to his heart than did most Americans. Because he had killed for his country, and in the process, he could’ve died, too.
Everything he’d done came back to the decision he’d made the day he’d enlisted, when he’d promised: I, Walker Judge, do solemnly swear I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me, God.
The crisp slap of dress shoes on concrete interrupted the trip back in time. Interestingly, the cells across from him were both empty, and he couldn’t tell if the cell next to his was occupied. Concrete walls made good neighbors. When those footsteps ended at his cell, he looked into the face of a tired-looking middle-aged man who might be his lawyer. The guy said something to the guard, who nodded, then unlocked the cell door. Walker stayed put, his cuffed hands between his knees and his shackled feet in those ridiculous clown shoes.
“Sir,” the man said from the doorway. The round spectacles perched at the end of his nose needed a good cleaning, and he kept flicking his tongue over his lips like a nervous, pale, gray-haired frog.
“Yes?” Walker replied, keeping his voice steady, so he didn’t scare the guy more than he obviously was.
“I am Hans Koning. I am what you Americans call a public defender. I will represent you at your trial.”
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but we both know that’s not true.” Regardless, Walker extended his arms, intending to shake hands. Real men didn’t kick against the pricks. If Hans was his lawyer, he meant to be as compliant, forthright, and helpful as possible. Going caveman on pencil pushers never solved anything. Certainly hadn’t worked on Lieutenant Cameron Kroft, Walker’s JAG appointed attorney.
The man’s heels clicked together as he bowed, then straightened, instead of accepting Walker’s offer of civility. Okay then. He dropped both hands back to his knees.
“We have just received word from your government,” Hans said in perfect, quiet English. Flick, flick went his tongue.
“Finally,” Walker breathed. They might not like him, but someone from the States was coming for him. Small consolation, but he was relieved nonetheless. The Navy had no doubt sent a couple Masters-at-arms to escort him home, where they’d march his ass to Leavenworth. It wasn’t the best scenario given the evidence he’d found on the yacht, but he had contacts in the States. One of his guys would eventually find where the Azoreans had docked Persia Smiles. Maybe they could also locate the evidence and the bastards behind those kidnapped women and girls. “When will they be here?”
“Who?” Hans cocked his head, the light from the florescent tube overhead reflecting off his glasses, giving him a deer in the headlights look. “Excuse me? No. You misunderstand. Yes, we have received word from the United States, but no one is coming for you.” He pulled a piece of paper from an inside suit pocket and held it for Walker.
Still seated, he stretched forward and took the single sheet, then quickly read the Navy’s response. DISAVOWED had been stamped across the paper in deep, dark, blood-red stencil font. Like an insult. He should’ve known. The USN had betrayed him yet again.