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The September 2 Double-Tap: A War Crime Without War Crime Consequences When the law of war applies in theory but not in practice
by Michael Lamonaca, 3 December 2025
The Geneva Convention is clear: you cannot kill combatants who are “hors de combat”—wounded, surrendering, or otherwise out of the fight. The Pentagon’s Law of War Manual codifies this as the “no quarter” rule, prohibiting operations “on the basis that there shall be no survivors.” Abraham Lincoln’s 1863 Lieber Code prescribed death for soldiers who killed “wholly disabled” enemies. On September 2, 2025, the US military struck a boat in the Caribbean, then struck it again after it was disabled—allegedly to kill survivors clinging to the wreckage. If the second strike was ordered to eliminate survivors, as the Washington Post reported Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth commanded, then by every written standard of the law of war, this was a war crime. Yet experts universally predict zero prosecutions. The reason exposes a structural flaw: war crime law applies during “armed conflict,” but the US hasn’t formally declared war on Venezuela’s narco-terrorists, so technically this isn’t armed conflict, so technically war crime provisions don’t apply—even though the military is using warships, firing missiles, and killing 83 people across multiple strikes. The result is an act that satisfies every element of a war crime—targeting disabled non-combatants, potential double-tap execution, no quarter given—but exists in a legal space where war crime accountability doesn’t reach. Senator Angus King called it “a stone-cold war crime.” Retired Brigadier General Mark Kimmitt said targeting survivors violates Day 2 of basic training. But unless someone redefines this as “armed conflict,” the September 2 strike will be investigated, condemned, and filed away—a war crime in substance, but not in law.
The mechanics of the double-tap reveal why this practice sits at the center of war crime definitions across centuries of military law. A double-tap strike means hitting a target, then hitting it again—often to ensure destruction or, in the darkest interpretation, to kill survivors or first responders. Russia has been accused of using double-taps in Ukraine to target medical personnel rushing to initial strike sites. The US faced criticism during the Obama administration for drone double-taps in the war on terrorism that killed rescuers. The practice is prohibited not because second strikes are inherently illegal, but because intent matters: if you’re striking again to sink a vessel that’s still afloat, that can be legitimate. If you’re striking again to kill people who are no longer combat threats, that crosses into murder. The September 2 incident allegedly involved exactly this distinction. According to the Washington Post, after the first strike disabled the boat, there were survivors visible in the water. Hegseth allegedly ordered a second strike specifically to kill them. The White House denies this characterization, saying the strike was conducted in self-defense in international waters. Admiral Frank Bradley, who commanded US Special Operations, is now cited as the one who ordered the strike. The factual dispute matters, but the legal framework matters more: even if Hegseth or Bradley ordered the strike to “finish the mission” or “eliminate the threat,” if that threat consisted of shipwrecked individuals clinging to debris, the order violates war crime prohibitions that date to the Civil War.
The gap between what constitutes a war crime in substance and what triggers war crime prosecution in practice turns on the definition of armed conflict. War crime law evolved to regulate behavior during wars between states, then expanded to cover civil wars and insurgencies. The Geneva Conventions and their protocols define armed conflict as protracted violence between government forces and organized armed groups, or between such groups. Drug trafficking organizations, even when designated as terrorist entities, occupy ambiguous legal space. They’re not state militaries. They’re not insurgencies fighting for political control. They’re criminal enterprises that the Trump administration has chosen to target with military force rather than law enforcement. This creates the paradox: if you use military means—carrier strike groups, missile attacks, special operations forces—but the target doesn’t qualify as a party to an armed conflict, then the law of war technically doesn’t apply. You’re using war’s tools without war’s legal framework. Daniel Maurer, the retired Army JAG officer, explained this to CNN: it’s not a war crime because we’re not in a legal state of armed conflict with these narco-terrorists, which means it’s “just” extrajudicial killing or murder under international and domestic law. The word “just” does heavy lifting—murder should trigger prosecution, but military operations exist in a jurisdiction where civilian criminal law rarely reaches, and military justice only applies to military personnel acting within lawful orders. If the operation itself sits outside armed conflict definitions, then war crime law doesn’t reach it, but neither does civilian murder law, leaving a vacuum where 83 people die and no legal framework has enforcement power.
The human cost of this legal ambiguity manifests in fragments: 83 unnamed dead, survivors rescued then released, families with no recourse, and a chain of command that may never face accountability. The individuals killed in the September 2 strike have not been publicly identified. No evidence has been presented that their boat carried drugs. The military’s official statements emphasize that strikes target “narco-terrorist vessels” but provide no documentation of cargo, no arrests, no seizures. Survivors from a later October strike were pulled from the water by US forces and then released to their home countries because, as officials acknowledged, there was no legal authority to detain them. This creates an impossible situation for the families of the dead: their relatives were killed by the most powerful military in the world, based on intelligence the military won’t share, under legal authority the military can’t fully articulate, and with zero opportunity for the deceased to defend themselves in any court. Defense Secretary Hegseth denies ordering troops to kill survivors. Admiral Bradley is now cited as the operational commander who made the strike decision. President Trump said he “wouldn’t have wanted a second strike” and that Hegseth told him it didn’t happen as reported. But the definitional question remains: if you target people designated as terrorists, use military force to kill them without trial, and later admit you can’t legally hold survivors because you’re not actually in a war, what legal protection did those 83 people ever have? The answer appears to be none—not because they were proven guilty of drug trafficking, but because the legal frameworks that would require proof don’t apply when you’re killed by a missile in international waters during an operation that’s neither war nor law enforcement.
Historical precedent shows that double-tap strikes and targeting of disabled combatants have triggered war crime prosecutions when political will existed to pursue them. The Lieber Code, issued by President Lincoln in 1863 during the Civil War, stated clearly: “A soldier is a prisoner of war as soon as he is disarmed” and killing such a person “shall be put to death” if convicted. The Geneva Conventions after World War II codified protections for combatants who are wounded, shipwrecked, or surrendering. The Nuremberg trials prosecuted German officers for executing prisoners and wounded soldiers. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia convicted commanders for attacks on civilians and surrendering soldiers. These prosecutions happened because the conflicts were recognized as wars, the violations were documented, and international pressure demanded accountability. The Caribbean strikes exist in a different context: no formal war declaration, targets designated as terrorists rather than soldiers, operations justified as self-defense or counternarcotics rather than combat, and domestic political support for aggressive action against drug trafficking. Senator Markwayne Mullin asked on CNN whether anyone doubts these were drug dealers or questions that cartels are killing thousands of Americans. The framing reveals the political environment: in a climate where drug trafficking is treated as an existential threat, legal niceties about proof and due process feel like obstacles rather than protections. But this is precisely why war crime law exists—to constrain military power even against enemies the public despises, because once you create a category of people who can be killed without proof or trial, the category expands.
The competing narratives about the September 2 strike reveal how different actors interpret the same potential war crime through entirely different frameworks. The Trump administration presents this as lawful military action against narco-terrorists in international waters, conducted in self-defense, targeting vessels engaged in drug trafficking that threatens American lives. From this perspective, the strike—whether single or double—was operationally justified to eliminate a threat and ensure mission success. The White House press secretary stated the action was taken “in accordance with the law of armed conflict,” implying the administration believes these operations do constitute armed conflict and therefore war crime protections don’t shield drug traffickers operating as terrorists. Congressional Republicans largely support this view, questioning why anyone would doubt the military’s judgment about threats or require proof that boats were carrying drugs when the broader pattern of cartel violence is undeniable. Opposing this narrative are military lawyers, human rights experts, and some bipartisan lawmakers who argue that if Hegseth or Bradley ordered a strike on survivors, it violates foundational principles of the law of war regardless of whether the targets were drug traffickers. Senator Angus King’s assessment—”stone-cold war crime”—reflects this view. These critics point out that the Pentagon’s own manual prohibits exactly this conduct, that no evidence of drugs has been provided for any of the 83 killed, and that survivors from later strikes were released precisely because the legal case for holding them couldn’t be made. The gap between these positions isn’t really about facts—both sides could agree that a boat was struck twice, that survivors were visible, and that a second strike occurred. The gap is about whether legal constraints apply at all when the enemy is designated as beyond legal protection.
The verification challenge at the heart of this controversy exposes the impossibility of adjudicating war crime allegations when evidence remains classified and operational details are withheld. The Washington Post and CNN reported that Hegseth gave an order to kill everyone on the boat, sourcing this to unnamed officials familiar with the incident. The White House denies this characterization. Admiral Bradley is cited as the actual commander who ordered the strike. President Trump says he was told it didn’t happen this way. Without access to the operational communications, the rules of engagement in effect that day, the intelligence that designated the boat as a target, or the battle damage assessment conducted after the strikes, independent verification is impossible. This is standard for military operations—tactical details are classified, intelligence sources are protected, operational communications are restricted. But war crime investigations require exactly this evidence. Did Hegseth or Bradley specifically order the killing of survivors, or did they order the completion of the mission to sink the vessel? Were survivors visible and identifiable as non-threats, or did operational conditions make status unclear? Was the boat actually disabled, or could it have posed continued risk? These questions have legal significance—the difference between legitimate military action and murder—but only the military has the evidence to answer them, and the military is the institution being accused. The Pentagon Inspector General could investigate, Congress could demand testimony, international bodies could seek accountability, but none have jurisdiction over operations the US claims were lawful self-defense in international waters. The result is familiar: serious allegations, official denials, expert assessments that violations occurred, and no mechanism to compel disclosure of the evidence that would prove or disprove the accusations.
The consequences of treating this incident as a one-time controversy rather than a systemic accountability failure extend far beyond the Caribbean. If military commanders can order strikes that kill 83 people without presenting evidence of wrongdoing, then the burden of proof for lethal force has effectively disappeared. If double-tap strikes on disabled vessels generate congressional inquiries but no prosecutions, then the “no quarter” prohibitions in the Geneva Conventions and Pentagon manuals exist as aspirational guidelines rather than enforceable law. If the distinction between “armed conflict” where war crime law applies and “counterterrorism operations” where it doesn’t can be manipulated through designation decisions, then war crime protections become opt-in rather than universal. The September 2 strike is either an isolated incident where rules of engagement were violated and will be corrected, or it’s a template for how future operations will be conducted when targets are designated as beyond legal protection. The evidence suggests the latter: 83 people killed across multiple strikes since September, zero prosecuted, survivors released because detention couldn’t be legally justified, and a political environment where questioning the operations is framed as siding with drug traffickers. This precedent matters globally—if the United States, which created much of modern war crime law and prosecuted others for violating it, now conducts operations in a space where those laws technically don’t apply, other nations will cite this as justification for their own extrajudicial killings. Russia’s double-taps in Ukraine, China’s potential operations against Taiwanese vessels, any military powerful enough to strike targets in international waters can point to the Caribbean strikes and say: you defined the targets as terrorists, we define ours as separatists; you used military force outside armed conflict, so will we; you provided no evidence and faced no accountability, why should we?
When military strikes kill 83 people without evidence, target survivors without prosecution, and generate universal expert agreement that war crimes occurred but no legal framework can reach them, the law of war reveals itself as conditional—applying fully only when powerful nations choose to be bound by rules they wrote to constrain others.
Tags: War Crimes, International Law, Caribbean Military Strikes, Pete Hegseth, Geneva Convention, Double-Tap Strikes, Law of War, Armed Conflict, Extrajudicial Killing, US Military Operations