“Two Mexican nationals were shot and killed in Three Rivers, a town adjacent to Kenedy,” Denton says, speaking in a low and surprisingly calm voice. “There was no immediate identification of the shooter, but a black Jeep Wrangler was seen leaving the area.”

Wenner can’t help himself. “Shit.”

Denton goes on. “So far our intelligence officer’s possible involvement in this horror show hasn’t made the news. But when and if it does…there’ll be a hammer coming down on the 297th Military Intelligence Battalion that will make the Abu Ghraib prison scandal look like a fraternity prank gone awry. Do you understand? I’ll be gone, you’ll be gone, and probably every line officer in the unit. The investigation into that Afghan prisoner Cornwall supposedly killed? Forget it. The American media don’t care about one more dead Afghan.”

He pauses. “But have something violent happen in this country, by what appears to be a rogue American military officer, brutally killing two innocent Mexican nationals…holy God, the media, the bloggers, the columnists…they’ll camp out at the base’s gates until I’m crucified, and you’ll be right there next to me. It’ll be more than a story, it’ll be a sociological event, representing the evil American military empire, the vicious nature of our intelligence services, blah blah blah. All because of one bitch who’s gone crazy.”

Wenner doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He knows he should probably stand up for Captain Cornwall, but this is neither the time nor the place, not with his commanding officer so spun up.

Denton asks, “Have I ever told you about my uncle Willard?”

Say what? Wenner thinks. “No, sir.”

“He was a nineteen-year-old draftee, sent to Vietnam, assigned to the Twenty-Third Infantry Division, the Americal Division.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, the one with the platoon that committed the My Lai Massacre. Uncle Willard didn’t take part in that, thank God, but he got there a year later. A terrible time. The policy back then was that troops and officers were rotated out after a year’s service…which meant no unit cohesion. And let’s say you’re a poor kid, you’ve got a month left in-country, and some hard-charging fresh lieutenant comes in and starts risking your life and the lives of your buddies for stupid missions. What do you do then?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Wenner says.

“Yeah. Fragging. Know the term?”

“Ah…”

Denton says, “You got a green lieutenant who’s about to get you and others killed, he goes into a latrine, somebody tosses in a fragmentation grenade. Boom. The official story is that he was hit by a VC mortar round or the latrine blew up because of a methane gas buildup, but the new L-T who came in will no longer be a problem, as brutal as it is. And his replacement will catch the news of what happened to his predecessor and will act accordingly.”

Denton picks up the piece of paper he had been reading from and crushes it in a hand, tosses it in a nearby black wastebasket. The crumpled-up piece of paper hits the rim and falls to the carpet.