Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  “It was good of you to leave your travel plans,” he said. “It made today easier.”

  “You think the arrest was appropriate for UA?”

  “You don’t?”

  “It was a simple miscommunication.”

  “You left your assigned post without authorization, Major. Those are the facts. Just because you had a vague expectation that authorization might be granted doesn’t alter them. This is the army. We don’t act in advance of orders or permissions. We wait until they are properly received and confirmed. The alternative would be anarchy and chaos.”

  I said nothing.

  “Where did you go?”

  I pictured my mother, leaning on her aluminum walker. I pictured my brother’s face as he watched me pack.

  “I took a short vacation,” I said. “I went to the beach.”

  “The arrest wasn’t for the UA,” Willard said. “It was because you wore Class As on the evening of New Year’s Day.”

  “That’s an offense now?”

  “You wore your nameplate.”

  I said nothing.

  “You put two civilians in the hospital. While wearing your nameplate.”

  I stared at him. Thought hard. I didn’t believe the fat guy and the farmer had dropped a dime on me. Not possible. They were stupid, but they weren’t that stupid. They knew I knew where I could find them.

  “Who says so?” I asked.

  “You had a big audience in that parking lot.”

  “One of ours?”

  Willard nodded.

  “Who?” I said.

  “No need for you to know.”

  I kept quiet.

  “You got anything to say?” Willard asked me.

  I thought: He won’t testify at the court-martial. That’s for damn sure. That’s what I’ve got to say.

  “Nothing to say,” I said.

  “What do you think I should do with you?”

  I said nothing.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  You should figure out the difference between a hard-ass and a dumb-ass, pal. You should figure it out real quick.

  “Your choice,” I said. “Your decision.”

  He nodded. “I also have reports from General Vassell and Colonel Coomer.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Saying you acted in a disrespectful manner toward them.”

  “Then those reports are incorrect.”

  “Like the UA was incorrect?”

  I said nothing.

  “Stand at attention,” Willard said.

  I looked at him. Counted One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Then I came to attention.

  “That was slow,” he said.

  “I’m not looking to win a drill competition,” I said.

  “What was your interest in Vassell and Coomer?”

  “An agenda for an Armored Branch conference is missing. I need to know if it contained classified information.”

  “There was no agenda,” Willard said. “Vassell and Coomer have made that perfectly clear. To me, and to you. To ask is permissible. You have that right, technically. But to willfully disbelieve a senior officer’s direct answer is disrespectful. It’s close to harassment.”

  “Sir, I do this stuff for a living. I believe there was an agenda.”

  Now Willard said nothing.

  “May I ask what was your previous command?” I said.

  He shifted in his chair.

  “Intelligence,” he said.

  “Field agent?” I asked. “Or desk jockey?”

  He didn’t answer. Desk jockey.

  “Did you have conferences without agendas?” I asked.

  He looked straight at me.

  “Direct orders, Major,” he said. “One, terminate your interest in Vassell and Coomer. Forthwith, and immediately. Two, terminate your interest in General Kramer. We don’t want flags raised on that matter, not under the circumstances. Three, terminate Lieutenant Summer’s involvement in special unit affairs. Forthwith, and immediately. She’s a junior-grade MP and after reading her file as far as I’m concerned she always will be. Four, do not attempt to make further contact with the local civilians you injured. And five, do not attempt to identify the eyewitness against you in that matter.”

  I said nothing.

  “Do you understand your orders?” he said.

  “I’d like them in writing,” I said.

  “Verbal will do,” he said. “Do you understand your orders?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Dismissed.”

  I counted One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Then I saluted and turned around. I made it all the way to the door before he fired his parting shot.

  “They tell me you’re a big star, Reacher,” he said. “So right now you need to decide whether you keep on being a big star, or whether you let yourself become an arrogant smart-ass son of a bitch. And you need to remember that nobody likes arrogant smart-ass sons of bitches. And you need to remember we’re coming to a point where it’s going to matter whether people like you or not. It’s going to matter a lot.”

  I said nothing.

  “Do I make myself clear, Major?”

  “Crystal,” I said.

  I got my hand on the door handle.

  “One last thing,” he said. “I’m going to sit on the brutality complaint. For as long as I possibly can. Out of respect for your record. You’re very lucky that it came up internally. But I want you to remember that it’s here, and it stays active.”

  I left Rock Creek just before five in the afternoon. Caught a bus into Washington D.C., and another one south down I-95. Then I removed my lapel insignia and hitched the final thirty miles to Bird. It works a little faster that way. Most of the local traffic is enlisted men, or retired enlisted men, or their families, and most of them are suspicious of MPs. So experience had taught me things went better if you kept your badges in your pocket.

  I got a ride and got out two hundred yards short of Bird’s main gate, a few minutes past eleven in the evening, January fourth, after a little more than six hours on the road. North Carolina was pitch dark and cold. Very cold, so I jogged the two hundred yards to heat myself up. I was out of breath when I got to the gate. I was logged in and I ran down to my office. It was warm inside. The night-watch sergeant with the baby son was on duty. She had coffee going. She gave me a cup and I walked into my office and found a note from Summer waiting for me on my desk. The note was clipped to a slim green file. The file had three lists in it. The women-with-Humvees list, the women-from-Irwin list, and the main gate log for New Year’s Eve. The first two lists were relatively short. The gate log was a riot. People had been in and out all night long, partying. But only one name was common to all three compilations: Lt/Col Andrea Norton. Summer had circled the name in all three locations. Her note said: Call me about Norton. Hope your mom was OK.

  I found the old message slip with Joe’s telephone number on it and called him first.

  “You holding up?” I asked him.

  “We should have stayed,” he said.

  “She gave the nurse one day off,” I said. “One day was what she wanted.”

  “We should have stayed anyway.”

  “She doesn’t want spectators,” I said.

  Joe didn’t answer. The phone was hot and silent against my ear.

  “I’ve got a question,” I said. “When you were at the Pentagon, did you know an asshole called Willard?”

  He stayed quiet for a long moment, changing gears, searching his memory. He had been out of Intelligence for some time.

  “Squat little man?” he said. “Couldn’t sit still? Always shuffling around on his chair, fussing with his pants? He was a desk guy. A major, I think.”

  “He’s a full colonel now,” I said. “He just got assigned to the 110th. He’s my CO at Rock Creek.”

  “MI to the 110th? That makes sense.”

  “Makes no sense to me.”

  “It’s the new theo
ry,” Joe said. “They’re copying private-sector doctrine. They think know-nothings are good because they’re not invested in the status quo. They think they bring fresh perspectives.”

  “Anything I should know about this guy?”

  “You called him an asshole, so it sounds like you already know about him. He was smart, but he was an asshole, for sure. Vicious, petty, very corporate, good at office politics, exclusively interested in number one, excellent ass-kisser, always knew which way the wind was blowing.”

  I said nothing.

  “Hopeless with women,” Joe said. “I remember that.”

  I said nothing.

  “He’s a perfect example,” Joe said. “Like we discussed. He was on the Soviet desk. He monitored their tank production and fuel consumption, as I recall. I think he worked out some kind of an algorithm that told us what kind of training Soviet armor was doing based on how much fuel they were eating. He was hot for a year or so. But now I guess he’s seen the future. He got himself out while the getting was good. You should do the same. At least you should think about it. Like we discussed.”

  I said nothing.

  “Meanwhile, watch your step,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t want Willard for a boss.”

  “I’ll be OK,” I said.

  “We should have stayed in Paris,” he said, and hung up.

  I found Summer in the O Club bar. She had a beer on the go and was leaning on the wall with a couple of W2s. She moved away from them when she saw me.

  “Garber’s gone to Korea,” I said. “We got a new guy.”

  “Who?”

  “A colonel called Willard. From Intelligence.”

  “So how is he qualified?”

  “He isn’t qualified. He’s an asshole.”

  “Doesn’t that piss you off?”

  I shrugged. “He’s telling us to stay away from the Kramer thing.”

  “Are we going to?”

  “He’s telling me to stop talking to you. He says he’s going to turn down your application.”

  She went very quiet. Looked away.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you wanted it.”

  She looked back at me.

  “Is he serious about the Kramer thing?” she asked.

  I nodded. “He’s serious about everything. He had me arrested at the airport, to make all his various points.”

  “Arrested?”

  I nodded again. “Someone ratted me out for those guys in the parking lot.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the grunts in the audience.”

  “One of ours? Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s cold.”

  I nodded. “Never happened to me before.”

  She went quiet again.

  “How was your mom?” she said.

  “She broke her leg,” I said. “No big deal.”

  “They can get pneumonia.”

  I nodded again. “She had the X ray. No pneumonia.”

  Her lower eyelids moved upward.

  “Can I ask the obvious question?” she said.

  “Is there one?”

  “Aggravated battery against civilians is a big deal. And apparently there’s a report and an eyewitness, good enough to get you arrested.”

  “So?”

  “So why are you still walking around?”

  “Willard’s sitting on it.”

  “But why would he, if he’s an asshole?”

  “Out of respect for my record. That’s what he said.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  I shook my head.

  “There must be something wrong with the complaint,” I said. “An asshole like Willard would use it if he could, that’s for sure. He doesn’t care about my record.”

  “Can’t be something wrong with the complaint. A military witness is the best kind they can get. He’ll testify to whatever they tell him to. It’s like Willard would be writing the complaint himself.”

  I said nothing.

  “And why are you here at all?” she asked.

  I heard Joe say: You should find out who wanted you at Bird badly enough to pull you out of Panama and replace you with an asshole.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” I said. “I don’t know anything. Tell me about Lieutenant Colonel Norton.”

  “We’re off the case.”

  “So just tell me for interest’s sake.”

  “It isn’t her. She’s got an alibi. She was at a party in a bar off-post. All night long. About a hundred people were there with her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Psy-Ops instructor. She’s a psychosexual Ph.D. who specializes in attacking an enemy’s internal emotional security concerning his feelings of masculinity.”

  “She sounds like a fun lady.”

  “She was invited to a party in a bar. Someone thinks she’s a fun lady.”

  “Did you check who drove Vassell and Coomer down here?”

  Summer nodded. “Our gate guys list him as a Major Marshall. I looked him up, and he’s a XII Corps staffer on temporary detached duty at the Pentagon. Some kind of a blue-eyed boy. He’s been over here since November.”

  “Did you check phone calls out of the D.C. hotel?”

  She nodded again.

  “There weren’t any,” she said. “Vassell’s room took one incoming call at twelve twenty-eight in the morning. I’m assuming that was XII Corps calling from Germany. Neither of them made any outgoing calls.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Totally. It’s an electronic switchboard. Dial nine for an outside line, and the computer records it automatically. It has to, for the bill.”

  Dead end.

  “OK,” I said. “Forget the whole thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Orders are orders,” I said. “The alternative is anarchy and chaos.”

  I went back to my office and called Rock Creek. I figured Willard would be long gone. He was the type of guy who keeps bankers’ hours his whole life. I got hold of a company clerk and asked him to find a copy of the original order moving me from Panama to Bird. It was five minutes before he came back on the line. I spent them reading Summer’s lists. They were full of names that meant nothing to me.

  “I’ve got the order here now, sir,” the guy on the phone said.

  “Who signed it?” I asked him.

  “Colonel Garber, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and put the phone down. Then I sat for ten minutes wondering why people were lying to me. Then I forgot all about that question, because my phone rang again and a young MP private on routine base patrol told me we had a homicide victim in the woods. It sounded like a real bad one. My guy had to pause twice to throw up before he got to the end of his report.

  eight

  Most rural army posts are pretty big. Even if the built infrastructure is compact, there is often a huge acreage of spare land reserved around it. This was my first tour at Fort Bird, but I guessed it would be no exception. It would be like a small neat town surrounded by a county-sized horseshoe-shaped government-owned tract of poor sandy earth with low hills and shallow valleys and a thin covering of trees and scrub. Over the post’s long life the trees would have imitated the gray ashes of the Ardennes and the mighty firs of Central Europe and the swaying palms of the Middle East. Whole generations of infantry training theory would have come and gone there. There would be old trenches and foxholes and firing pits. There would be bermed rifle ranges and barbed-wire obstacles and isolated huts where psychiatrists would challenge masculine emotional security. There would be concrete bunkers and exact replicas of government offices where Special Forces would train to rescue hostages. There would be cross-country running routes where out-of-shape boot camp inductees would tire and stagger and where some of them would collapse and die. The whole thing would be ringed by miles of ancient rusty wire and claimed f
or the DoD forever by warning notices fixed to every third fence post.

  I called a bunch of specialists and went out to the motor pool and found a Humvee that had a working flashlight in the clip on the dash. Then I fired it up and followed the private’s directions south and west of the inhabited areas until I was on a rough sandy track leading straight out into the hinterland. The darkness was absolute. I drove more than a mile and then I saw another Humvee’s headlights in the distance. The private’s vehicle was parked at a sharp angle about twenty feet off the road and its high beams were shining into the trees and casting long evil shadows deep into the woods. The private himself was leaning up against its hood. His head was bowed and he was looking down at the ground.

  First question: How does a guy on motor patrol in the dark spot a corpse hidden way the hell out here, deep in the trees?

  I parked next to him and took the flashlight out of the clip and slid out into the cold and immediately understood how. There was a trail of clothing starting in the center of the track. Right on the crown of the camber was a single boot. It was a standard-issue black leather combat boot, old, worn, not very well shined. West of it was a sock, a yard away. Then another boot, another sock, a BDU jacket, an olive drab undershirt. The clothes were all spaced out in a line, like a grotesque parody of the domestic fantasy where you get home and find abandoned lingerie items leading you up the stairs to the bedroom. Except that the jacket and the undershirt were stained dark with blood.

  I checked the condition of the ground at the edge of the track. It was rock hard and frosted over. I wasn’t going to compromise the scene. I wasn’t going to blur any footprints, because there weren’t going to be any footprints. So I took a deep breath and followed the trail of clothes to its conclusion. When I got there I understood why my guy had thrown up twice. At his age I might have thrown up three times.

  The corpse was facedown in the frozen leaf litter at the base of a tree. Naked. Medium height, compact. It was a white guy, but he was mostly covered in blood. There were bone-deep knife cuts all over his arms and shoulders. From behind I could see that his face looked beaten and swollen. His cheeks were protruding. His dog tags were missing. There was a slim leather belt cinched tight around his neck. It had a brass buckle and the long tail looped away from his head. There was some kind of thick pink-white liquid pooled on his back. He had a broken tree limb rammed up his ass. Below it the ground was black with blood. I guessed when we rolled him over we would find that his genitals had been removed.