Jeffrey McGowan - Major Conflict

“All right, Sergeant, let me get right to the point. CID called earlier, and they want me to take you to their command post for an interview ASAP.”

Lopez’s face turned pale, which concerned me. He was normally an easygoing, cheerful guy—straightforward, I’d always thought, forthright. If he knew what it was they had on him, he’d tell me. That’s what I thought, at least. Now it appeared he knew what was going on and was terrified. And apparently he didn’t plan on letting me in on it, which was totally out of character for him.

“So is there something you want to tell me, Sergeant?”

“Sir, I haven’t done anything wrong… that I know of.” His voice quivered just slightly, and I suddenly began feeling a little sorry for the guy, though I had no idea why.

“That you know of?” My tone was impatient and annoyed, though I was truly baffled now. “Listen to me, Sergeant. I am going to find out eventually what it is they’re looking for. So whether it’s you or them, I’m going to get to the bottom of it. At this point I might be the only person who can still help you. But the only way I can do that is if you tell me what’s going on. These guys don’t play games, Lopez.”

He studied me for a moment, carefully, as if he were searching for something, and I thought he was about to open up when suddenly he simply dropped his head into his hands and said nothing.

“Okay, Sergeant. I hope for your sake it’s all a mistake. I gave you an opportunity to confide in me and you passed on that chance. Fine. You will report to CID tomorrow at thirteen thirty hours. Have a good day.”

He saluted me and walked out, turning his head as he passed through the door and looking back at me with a strange sad look on his face.

Lopez bore heavily on my mind all the next day. That look on his face as he walked out of my office haunted me. It had felt like a wordless accusation. I decided to become proactive in the investigation. He was a good man, after all, and he’d worked hard for me under my command, earning, at the very least, I thought, the benefit of my doubt. So I went to CID.

I had never been in the CID building. It was quite an impressive place. As I entered the sleek, modern lobby, I was reminded of one of the obscene truths of military life—that the farther away from the front lines you get, the more luxurious things become. There were fancy glass partitions and doors and high-tech security cameras all over the place. If it hadn’t been for the twelve-foot holding cell, the place could’ve been mistaken for any big-city office. I was relieved to see that they weren’t holding Sergeant Lopez in the cell. It was empty, shining in the soft glare of the indirect lighting.

I slid my ID card into the lock. I was sure that the card had been scanned and that my every move was now being digitally captured by one or all of the cameras. The door clicked open, and I was greeted silently by an attractive woman about my age, a civilian, I was convinced, judging from the expensive clothes she wore. She led me down a pristine white corridor to a sparsely appointed waiting room. A TV attached to the wall in the upper-right-hand corner of the room was tuned into CNN and muted. As I sat down and looked up at the set, I noticed yet another camera situated above the TV, aimed directly at me. A red light at the base of the camera glowed brightly.

The room spooked me. Poor Lopez must be terrified, I thought. I tried not to look at the camera but found myself increasingly self-conscious about it, imagining myself centered on some screen amid a bank of black-and-white monitors, being watched by a group of strangers. Then a man of medium height with closely cropped hair entered and extended his hand to me. He wore a button-down Izod shirt and khaki pants. I felt as if I’d tumbled down the rabbit hole and found myself in some alternate army universe.

“Captain McGowan, pleasure, sir, I’m Sergeant First Class Johnson. Thank you for coming to pick up Sergeant Lopez.” Here was my officious CID sergeant in the flesh.

Of course I hadn’t come by simply to pick up Lopez. He didn’t even know I was here. But it was clear that that’s what Izod Johnson thought. It was clear he intended simply to fetch Lopez for me without any sort of explanation. It was clear he felt I had no right to one. His whole demeanor seemed condescending to me, to me personally and to my rank as well, and I almost snapped and dressed him down right there. But I held myself back, though not entirely.

“Sergeant Johnson, before you leave, I must tell you how concerned I am and have been; you know protocol does not warrant a senior officer,” I pointed to myself and smiled, “to relieve himself from post to drive an NCO back to base, needless to say, and I’m sorry for repeating myself, but I have the utmost concern for the matter at hand.”

I’d drawn up very close to the man. I wanted to make it clear to him that no matter how deep his jurisdiction ran, he wasn’t leaving the room without briefing me on the situation. He thought for a moment, then curtly nodded his head.

“Very well, Captain, have a seat.”

We sat. He folded his legs and clasped his hands on top of them.

“Sir, there has been an ongoing investigation into a prostitution ring on post.”

I let out a sigh of relief. The most he’d be looking at behind that charge would be an Article 15, a reduction in rank, perhaps, and the whole thing would stay in-house. There would be no court-martial. But Johnson wasn’t finished.

“We have uncovered and broken up the ring, which has been doing business out of Moon Hall. The prostitutes were doing an organized business out of the bar in the lobby, sir. During the course of the investigation we discovered that the ring was not only female—” He stopped talking abruptly. It took me a moment to register what he’d just said. Finally, I said, “So, what is it that you’re saying, Sergeant, that Lopez is what—a prostitute?”

“Prostitute, sir? No sir, not exactly. We set up a sting to try to lure in some of the male prostitutes. We, in fact, accomplished our mission and arrested several soldiers. We questioned them and acquired evidence that they were involved in procuring pornography.”

The more he tried to explain it to me, the more confused I became. I forged on.

“So Lopez is a pornographer?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

I’d had all I could take. I took a deep breath and looked Johnson straight in the eye.

“Give me the charge that you intend to levy against my sergeant; that’s all I want from you, Sergeant Johnson.”

Johnson looked a little startled. He hesitated before speaking. Then, giving in, reluctantly, he said, “Sir, we questioned the subjects who were arrested, and they gave us the names of everyone who was involved. Through this process we were able to ascertain those soldiers who are known to be… homosexual.”

Now I thought I might explode. “What is the charge, Johnson?” I said, raising my voice, still looking directly into his eyes. “For the last time, what are you charging Lopez with?” Then, slowly, and more intensely, “What is the charge, Sergeant?”

“There is no charge as of yet. He’s part of the inquiry is all, sir, however… there is the homosexual issue, sir, and that is where it gets a little complicated.”

I stood up. I now had what I needed. There was no charge against my sergeant.

“We believe all of the homos should be chaptered, as I’m sure you do, sir.”

I looked away from him. This last bit seemed unnecessary, as if he’d thrown it in in order to prove that his own sexuality was beyond reproof, that he was on the winning team. Replace “homo” with “Commies,” and that sentence could have been torn straight from the pages of recent history, the 1950s, say, when unmitigated hatred of communism and Communists was seen as a badge of one’s patriotism.