The Escape

by David Baldacci

  going to get any easier. It’s only going to get worse. Trust me. If you still can.

  Robert Puller punched the gas and sped on.

  CHAPTER

  23

  JOHN PULLER CHANGED motels once more.

  At this rate he thought affordable lodging opportunities in Leavenworth might be extinguished far sooner than he would like. He spent some time with AWOL, who had taken the move better than he had. If only the feline could talk, for AWOL had been the only one other than Daughtrey to see the Air Force general’s killer.

  He didn’t know if the police had come in answer to his 911 phone call, not that it would have mattered. He wasn’t planning on reporting his kidnapping. The local cops would not be able to figure it out and Puller wanted to play all these recent cards very close to his vest.

  He did call Knox and asked her to meet him the next morning at the same diner where they’d had dinner.

  At seven a.m. he was sitting in the same booth when the door opened and she walked in, dressed as usual in a dark pantsuit with a white blouse. He watched her spot him and walk over. As her long legs ate up the ground Puller knew he had to do one of two things: trust her or not trust her. And despite her seemingly sincere and graphic display of her war wounds, he did not trust easily. That was because his trust had too often been either misplaced, outright broken, or both.

  She sat down and ordered coffee from the hovering waitress, and when the old woman had gone off to fill the request Puller leaned forward and recounted to her what had happened. He watched her closely to see if her surprise was genuine.

  He concluded that it was. But Puller also knew that whatever he was dealing with was so full of deceit and fraught with peril that even the slightest misstep could be disastrous. He was also beginning to doubt his normally reliable judgment.

  After her coffee came and the waitress drifted away she spoke. And Knox’s first question intrigued him.

  “Who fired the shot that killed the light?” she asked. “Because whoever did that probably saved your life.”

  “Shots,” corrected Puller. “At least six. I’m thinking an M4A1. The M4 has a max three-round burst option. I’ve fired enough of them to know the sound it makes. But you’re right. The shooter did save my life. And whoever did it had followed us up there.”

  “So did that person have you under surveillance or the other guys?”

  “Fair question. But I don’t have an answer.”

  “An M4 is a standard Army issue,” she noted.

  “It used to be a mainstay of Special Forces. I carried one when I was a Ranger. All infantry units use it heavily too.”

  “Do you think these guys are the ones who killed Daughtrey?”

  “I don’t know. Could be. But something about what the voice said made me think.”

  “Think what exactly?”

  “That he’s not simply a criminal,” said Puller.

  “Because he talked about having the good of the country in mind?”

  “Only what country, Knox? Maybe he’s in the intelligence field.”

  “Puller, American intelligence agencies do not kidnap and try to murder federal lawmen.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.”

  “Really? After everything that’s happened?”

  She gazed down, seemingly unable to meet his eye. She tapped her spoon against her coffee cup. “If the person is in the intel field, maybe it’s for one of our enemies, like you suggested.”

  “Maybe.”

  “There is one thing you should know.”

  “What?” he said, reading her tone to mean that whatever she was about to say would not be good news.

  “Al Jordan, the maintenance guy who had the blown transformers?”

  “Yeah, did you talk to him? Find out who took them?”

  “I tried to talk to him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘tried’?”

  “He’s been transferred.”

  “Transferred! Where?”

  “I can’t get a straight answer on that.”

  “He’s a maintenance guy. He’s been here for fifteen years. I checked his file. There would be only one reason to transfer him, Knox.”

  “To get him out of the way so he couldn’t tell anyone what he knows—as in who took the damn transformers!” she finished angrily. “And I checked the substation. All the debris has been cleaned up. Even if we go out there we won’t find anything.”

  Puller sat back and looked around the diner before giving her a piercing stare. “And you’re jacking me around for being paranoid?”

  Now she looked up at him. “Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it was possible,” she said quietly.

  “I thought in the intelligence field allies became enemies on a daily basis.”

  “That is grossly exaggerated by the press and in the movies and on TV.”

  “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “I guess you will. So where do we go from here?”

  “Fort Leavenworth.”

  “And what are we looking for there?”

  “How a guy not connected to the United States military ended up as part of the response team to the incident at DB and was found dead in my brother’s cell. And I’m not leaving there until I find an answer.”

  “And the people who kidnapped and nearly killed you?”

  “They can only surprise me once, Knox. They come after me again, someone’s not walking away.”

  “Well, let’s hope it’s not you.”

  He looked at her. “And I can count on you to cover my back?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think I had to.”

  “Yes, I’ll have your back. Will you have mine?”

  “I’ve had your back ever since you showed up, Knox.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  SINCE PULLER AND KNOX both had DoD creds they could access the fort through the east or west gates, named Hancock and Sherman respectively, after long-dead Civil War Union Army generals, rather than the main gate, which was how visitors, newcomers, and commercial traffic entered the post.

  The fort had been around since 1827, when it was established by Colonel Henry Leavenworth to be a forward base protecting the fragile and highly dangerous Santa Fe Trail. It had been named Fort Leavenworth after then Brigadier General Leavenworth in 1832. The fort had never been attacked by an enemy force, not even during the Civil War. And residing smack in the middle of the country, it never would be, unless the United States had imploded.

  They entered through the Hancock Gate. Puller had arranged to meet a representative of the 15th MP Brigade, which had responsibility for securing the fort.

  Knox looked around as they drove along the road.

  “Nearly nine square miles of Army,” she said. “Seven million square feet of space, a thousand buildings.”

  “Fifteen thousand personnel on post, thousands off post, eighty thousand-plus visitors a year,” added Puller.

  “Which equals a needle in a haystack,” she concluded.

  “A needle we’re going to find.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because failure is not an option.”

  He pointed to a building as they drove past. “Warrant Officer College. I went there when I got the promotion. It’s part of the Combined Arms Center.”

  “Fort Leavenworth, the intellectual center of the Army,” said Knox dryly.

  “They train almost all of the Army majors here, and all modern five-stars, from Eisenhower to Bradley, have passed through here.”

  She pointed out a building as they drove along. “That’s where the 902d Military Intelligence Group is located—counterintelligence protection of Army assets in a six-state area.”

  “Any ties to NSA?” asked Puller, glancing at her.

  “Do you need to know that?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if
I didn’t,” he shot back.

  “I’m afraid I can’t get into that,” she said. “Who are we meeting from the 15th MP?”

  Puller frowned and said, “Command Sergeant Major Tim McCutcheon, senior NCO.”

  “The CSM? I thought they would have rolled out the top dog for us.”

  “Well, the 15th’s commander got his butt canned when my brother escaped, and I guess his replacement was busy.”

  “Okay. And what do you really hope to accomplish here?”

  “Priority one is to identify the dead guy. Priority two is to determine how he ended up in my brother’s cell at DB.”

  “That’s a lot to ask for.”

  “Well, if you don’t ask, you sure as hell won’t have a chance of receiving.”

  A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the headquarters for the 15th MP, went inside, and were led down the hall to the office of CSM McCutcheon.

  The man himself rose from behind his desk, dressed in his ACU cammies in the standard UCP, or universal camouflage pattern, which when viewed through night-vision goggles would simply look black. The uniform was very high-tech. It minimized infrared silhouettes and had markers that would identify friendly personnel in combat zones when seen through NV equipment, and that could be covered up when not necessary. Despite all that, the uniform had been a total disaster. Troops called it “pajamas” because it did not ride well on anyone, no matter how fit they were. The gray color stood out under almost all combat environments except for a concrete parking lot—which was not usually where battles were fought—and the Velcro was badly designed and caught on objects as troops were patrolling, a potential fatal flaw. It had been a five-billion-dollar mistake by the Army, which was planning to spend another four billion to create yet another uniform to replace the barely ten-year-old UCP. But for now, until that day came, the UCP was what the Army was wearing, crap or not. They couldn’t exactly go naked.

  Riding on McCutcheon’s left arm was a simple patch with the legend “MP” in black lettering. The branch insignia was two crossed gold pistols representing the Harpers Ferry Model 1805, the first American military pistol. The branch’s distinctive unit insignia had the motto “Duty, Justice and Loyalty.”

  McCutcheon was in his early forties, nearly as tall as Puller, and outweighed him by about twenty pounds, all of it muscle. His hair was cut to nearly his scalp and he looked like he could bench-press a Stryker and squat a Bradley. They all shook hands and Puller pointed to the unit insignia.

  “Always thought those were good words to live by.”

  McCutcheon nodded and smiled. “Heard you came up through the ranks.” He motioned for them to sit down and he sat down behind his desk. “What can I do to help you two?”

  Puller explained the issue and McCutcheon nodded.

  “I’ve been briefed, of course. The team that responded was made up of all MPs. We pulled from both the 40th and the 705th. It was a full company plus the CO and the first sergeant.”

  “A hundred and thirty-two soldiers?” inquired Puller.

  “Plus Captain Lewis and First Sergeant Draper,” McCutcheon added.

  “Right, for a total of one hundred and thirty-four personnel.” Puller leaned forward. “But what if I were to tell you that on the video feed from that night I counted one hundred and thirty-five MPs climbing off those trucks?”

  McCutcheon looked stunned. “I don’t see how that would be possible. We called up four platoons. At Leavenworth an MP platoon has thirty-three soldiers. No MP would report for a mission unless he was called up. It was a potential crisis situation at DB, but we didn’t call for an all-hands response. Four platoons, one company. It’s the way the Army works. You know that.”

  “And yet there was one extra soldier who did show up at DB,” persisted Puller.

  “Could you have miscounted, Chief Puller?”

  “I went over it a dozen times in slow motion. Knox here did the same.”

  McCutcheon glanced at her and she nodded. “It’s true, Sergeant Major.”

  “So maybe under the circumstances a roll call or head count wasn’t conducted,” said Puller. “Four platoons on six different trucks in the middle of the night—who would notice if an extra guy covered head to foot in riot gear is along for the ride? And I’m sure everyone was under intense pressure to get the MPs to the prison.”

  “They were,” conceded McCutcheon. “I wasn’t even on duty and I got a call right away. They were scrambling to fill out the response team.”

  “Who gave the order for four platoons to form the response team?” asked Knox.

  “Colonel Teague.”

  “The 15th’s commandant, until he was put on admin leave,” said Puller.

  “And he was also the head of DB,” added Knox. “And he was on duty that night, right?”

  “Yes. When the backup failed and everyone heard the explosion and the gunfire, he got right on the direct line here and ordered up the company of MPs.”

  “And those noises were only heard in pod three?” said Puller, and McCutcheon nodded. “And no source for those noises has been found?”

  “No,” said McCutcheon.

  “When I asked Captain Macri, she said that she had chosen not to search the guards at DB for any device that might have been the source of the explosion and gun noise.”

  McCutcheon said nothing and neither did Puller. If the command sergeant major wanted a staring contest to see who would blink first, Puller was certainly ready to accommodate him. When Knox started to say something, Puller flicked his knee against hers. Finally McCutcheon said, “I’m not pointing fingers.” He waited for Puller to nod his assent before continuing. “But I’m sure if she had it to do over again the captain would have chosen differently.”

  “Meaning she would have searched all the guards?” said Puller.

  “Yes.”

  “Water under the bridge now,” said Knox. “We can’t do it over. But it is possible then that an extra guy was in the mix?”

  McCutcheon leaned back in his chair. “If your numbers are right, then yes. I can check to see if an extra man reported for duty, but that’s highly unlikely. So you think the dead guy that’s unaccounted for was the extra man? A bogey in the mix?”

  “Right now I don’t see any other explanation,” replied Puller. “Unless you have one.”

  “I don’t,” admitted McCutcheon.

  “We’ll need to talk to Lewis and Draper,” pointed out Knox.

  “I believe that Captain Macri spoke to them about you. I’ll make sure you hook up with them today.” Puller said, “Macri also told me that there were no personnel unaccounted for here.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But have you had any personnel leave recently?” asked Puller.

  McCutcheon said, “This is an active base, sir. Personnel get assigned and reassigned all the time. Other folks come and go. We have soldiers, DoD civilian contractors, foreign military students, reservists, Air Force exchange—”

  Puller interrupted. “Back up to foreign military students. I’d forgotten you had that element here.”

  “Right. At the Foreign Military Studies Office.”

  “How many students do you have currently?”

  McCutcheon turned to his desktop computer and clicked some keys. “As of this morning, forty-five.”