In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  And you do? she wanted to ask. But she was the McCarran who had never seen war.

  BRIAN’S SILENCE ON THE drive back to Fort Bolton prompted her decision.

  They sat together in his apartment, drinking decaffeinated coffee. “You need to talk about this,” she told him. “If not to me, with a professional, or maybe a support group.”

  She could read resistance in his expression, as remote as their father’s had been. “I’ll deal with this alone,” he said. “Sometimes I can’t even remember.”

  “Can’t?” she challenged him. “Or don’t want to?”

  He stared straight ahead. “It’s not a choice. Over there, you live in the present, blanking out whatever happened the day before. Or else you don’t survive.”

  Though his voice was even, his tone bespoke something implacable—perhaps fear. “You’re not there anymore, Brian. You’re home. There’s no such thing as a perfect soldier—not even our father.” She softened her tone. “Everyone has a breaking point. If you talked with other vets, you’d see that.”

  Brian shook his head. After a time, he said, “All I feel is numb, Meg. Have you ever felt that way?”

  Yes, Meg wanted to say. When I was twelve. But she had never spoken of her mother’s death to anyone, and could not now.

  “HE WON’T TALK ABOUT Iraq,” Meg told Terry. “Maybe he can’t.”

  Terry finished his last bite of duck. “Do you know why he’s afraid?”

  Meg paused, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. “Brian’s more sensitive than most men. Maybe he’s afraid of cracking up.” She looked across the table. “In Brian’s mind, our father has no problems. Neither did his father or his grandfather, the black-and-white photographs we grew up with. Of course, dead soldiers have no problems. Only medals.”

  This was the most, Terry realized, she had said about her family. “And Brian internalized that?”

  Meg rearranged her utensils around a half-eaten dinner. “Brian’s code—the McCarran code—is to exemplify leadership and self-possession. That’s part of why he doesn’t reach out to fellow veterans: if you appear in control, then you are. I’m sure that Brian’s current company commander would have given him the highest marks. But the tension between how he tries to appear, and what he’s suffered, is chewing him up inside. Even before this, I was afraid of what might happen to him. But it feels like I’m the only one who sees it.”

  Except for the last phrase, Terry wondered if she was describing herself. Brian’s isolation, he sensed, deepened her own feeling of solitude and responsibility. “Not Kate?”

  “Kate needed him,” Meg answered. “Brian responds to need.”

  Her clipped tone made Terry wonder again about her relationship with Kate. Quietly, he said, “So you feel alone in this.”

  She gave him a look of deep regret. “Not ‘feel.’ Am. Before this, we were always close. Now it seems that I’m his closest friend, maybe his only friend. That’s why he called me after he shot Joe.” She paused, then added with quiet determination, “When someone’s hurting or in trouble, a single person can save them. For my brother, I’m that person. I’m going to get him through this no matter what.”

  For a moment Terry was quiet, parsing the implications of this for Meg and his client. “Does Brian want to stay in the army?”

  “After this?” Meg considered the question. “He says that some of his classmates from the Point are already talking about leaving. But none of them is General McCarran’s son.”

  Always that, Terry thought. He wondered who he himself might be had he grown up with a living father whose positive example was so strong that it inspired—if not demanded—emulation rather than fear. “Whatever else,” Terry observed, “this incident could be Brian’s chance to bail.”

  Meg shook her head. “You don’t understand. To cut and run in the face of hardship—whether PTSD or suspicion of murder—would be to betray the family. McCarrans suck it up.”

  Though ironic, her tone conveyed a simple fact. But Terry could feel the weight of it on Lieutenant Brian McCarran. “This may sound odd, Meg. But I’ve been thinking about something Kate D’Abruzzo said. Is there any chance that Brian is gay?”

  She contemplated the question without visible offense. “I guess you think that might help explain some things.”

  “Yes. Actually, it might help explain him.”

  Meg placed her napkin on the table. “The woman thing has been sporadic,” she said after a time. “That’s not surprising, given the Point and his assignment to Iraq. And there’s been no sign that he isn’t straight. But the truth is that I don’t know. Maybe Brian doesn’t either.” Her voice softened. “I’m not sure it’s time to get into that. It will be hard enough piercing his defenses about the war. I pray to God we don’t have to.”

  “So do I,” Terry answered. “That would mean that Flynn has found whatever he’s looking for.”

  They both fell quiet, aware of each other, yet mulling their own separate thoughts. Toward the end of the evening, he realized that Meg was studying him again. “What is it?” he asked.

  She looked oddly disconcerted, as if he had caught her at something. Then she covered this with a smile. “I was thinking about you and my father, trying to imagine you both in the same room. I’m sorry to be missing that.”

  seven

  THE NEXT MORNING AT SEVEN A.M., CAPTAIN PAUL TERRY arrived at the Pentagon to meet with the chief of staff of the army, General Anthony McCarran.

  Terry was escorted by Colonel Jed Marsh, McCarran’s executive officer, down a long corridor flanked by oil paintings of former chiefs of staff of the army reaching back before Terry’s birth. Along the way, he reviewed all he knew about General McCarran—much the stuff of army lore, the rest gleaned from Meg or the public record.

  He had graduated from West Point in 1969, fourth in his class, a leader among cadets. Within six months he was a platoon leader in Vietnam, ensnared in heavy fighting near the Cambodian border. His best friend from the Point, Jack Gallagher, was killed two months after arriving in Vietnam. McCarran was himself wounded while trying to save three wounded men, the citation later said, “without regard to his own life.” For this he received a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star with “V” device for heroism in combat. As a junior officer he had passed a crucial test: under fire, some young lieutenants lose their men; others lose their judgment. Anthony McCarran had excelled and, unlike his father and grandfather, lived.

  This experience exemplified the hallmarks of McCarran’s rise—a willingness to risk his life, and the mettle to lead in battle. Until the invasion of Iraq, he had fought whenever the army went to war, distinguishing himself as a commander in the Gulf War, when his battalion decimated its enemies in the Euphrates River valley. But McCarran’s gifts transcended combat. He had a versatile intelligence that, combined with a subtle grasp of strategy and diplomacy, won the respect of influentials within Congress, the State Department, the media, and foreign governments. Known for his judgment, he opposed the reflexive use of force, and it was rumored that he had questioned the recent invasion of Iraq. That no one could trace this rumor was testament to his discretion.

  This aura of intellect and courage was complemented by charisma. Instead of the theatrical pretensions of a MacArthur, McCarran had an unwavering self-possession enhanced by the ability to speak with a persuasiveness and clarity suitable to the occasion, whether addressing the Senate Armed Services Committee or inspiring enlisted men to face combat in harsh conditions. And his competence seemed unfailing: a brilliant administrator, as chief of staff he effectively ran the United States Army, overseeing the budget, training, and governance of the largest military force on earth.

  But Brian’s father was more than the sum of these considerable gifts. To the men he served with, Tony McCarran embodied honor. He never lied or dissembled, whether as superior or subordinate. No one ever doubted that, in any circumstance, McCarran would do right as a good man saw it. Long a widower, he was noted for
self-discipline, self-denial, and a Catholic faith that was deep and abiding. More than one observer had called him a priest in uniform, and now he seemed about to become the pope—chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the apex of the American military.

  All of which, Terry thought as he approached McCarran’s office, would make him a hard father for a young lieutenant. Terry, who had spent much of his youth envying sons with living fathers, did not envy Brian McCarran. Nor, despite his own resolve, could he quite repress his sense of awe at meeting Anthony McCarran.

  Colonel Marsh led Terry to a corner office, where Anthony McCarran rose to meet them. “Sir,” Marsh said, “this is Captain Terry.”

  Marsh’s quiet gravity bespoke the tragedy that had enveloped McCarran’s son. “Thank you, Jed,” McCarran answered simply, and Marsh left the room, closing the door behind him.

  McCarran stood a shade over six feet two. His frame was lean and erect, his features aquiline, his eyes gray-blue, his short, curly hair completely silver. This air of command was leavened by a surprisingly gentle voice. “I appreciate your coming, Captain Terry. Please have a seat.”

  Everything about him was economical—his words, his movements, the absence of fat on his body. His eyes, unmoving, appraised the lawyer in front of him. From the evidence of his photographs, they could maintain a flinty stare or, in better humor, glint with a bright, surprising smile that transformed his face. But for now, McCarran used them to invoke his psychic force field, taking stock while taking his time.

  Terry was prepared for this. By reputation McCarran knew the uses of silence. Speaking too much or too quickly can lead to mistakes; quiet induces others to blurt things out. But Terry, too, had mastered the human need to fill a void with words. With considerable effort, he pretended to pass the time perusing the bookshelf behind McCarran’s desk, spotting tomes on geopolitics, history, and Catholic philosophy as well as a leather-bound copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls. At length, McCarran said, “I hear you’re one of our best.”

  Terry managed to smile. “If not, sir, I keep trying.”

  “And winning, it seems. Even on the defense side. I’m told you’re very inventive, with a keen grasp of the psychology of a military jury.” McCarran’s voice softened. “How do you assess my son’s situation?”

  Terry hesitated, measuring his words. “With the greatest respect, sir, we should review the ground rules for this conversation.”

  All expression vanished from the general’s face. “Please do, Captain.”

  “I understand your concern for Lieutenant McCarran. But I literally don’t work for you. My conversations with Brian are privileged; ours are not. So I can’t tell you everything I know, or even what I’m thinking. Protecting my client has to be all that matters to me.”

  McCarran absorbed this in silence; in an institution grounded in hierarchy, his relationship to Brian’s lawyer was a novelty. “I accept that, Captain Terry. At the risk of mouthing pieties, the army relies on the integrity of its institutions—including the military justice system.” He sat back, eyeing Terry across his polished desk. “I’m curious, though, as to what made you choose the JAG Corps.”

  Meg’s report, Terry gathered, had been thorough. “ROTC helped pay for college,” he answered. “I don’t like owing people. But I do like trying cases, and JAG is the place for that.” Terry paused, then decided to say the rest. “I’m no combat hero, sir. But I’ve got no time for cocktail-party patriots—the ones who talk about ‘supporting the troops’ they’ve never met in a war their kids will never see. Compared to that, at least, I like to think I am supporting our troops.” Terry paused, measuring his words. “When it comes to Brian, I deeply respect his service. I don’t want to see him shafted by a self-righteous prosecutor who’s far too certain he not only represents the army but God.”

  McCarran’s eyes became more probing. “I also understand, Captain, that you don’t like this particular war.”

  There was no point in mincing words. “No, sir. Even less because of what it’s doing to our soldiers.”

  “Including Brian?”

  “Perhaps. That’s part of what I wanted to ask you.”

  For a moment, McCarran’s gaze turned inward. “Brian faced unique pressures,” he said quietly. “Because of me, it was inevitable that people would look out for him. The flip side was that everyone would be watching his performance. Brian’s only recourse was to excel.” His voice hinted at pride and regret. “Brian sought out combat. From what I understand, his baptism was harsher than my own.”

  “What do you know about that, General?”

  McCarran paused to organize his response, then recounted the facts in a dispassionate tone. “Seven months after his graduation, Brian arrived in Iraq. He was posted to Sadr City, where Muqtada al-Sadr, the Shiite cleric, had just sanctioned his Mahdi Army to kill Americans and murder Sunni civilians at random. His tactic was to create such chaos that Iraqis would blame us for the misery he inflicted.

  “Brian’s company was assigned to fight the Mahdi Army, and to help pacify Sadr City. From the reports I received, he insisted on sharing whatever risks he asked his men to take. Judging by the dead and wounded, they were considerable.”

  This laconic account suggested undescribed horrors. “Has Brian ever talked about that with you?” Terry asked.

  McCarran grimaced. “His own experience? No. But he’s quite vehement about the impact on his men.”

  “In what respect, sir?”

  McCarran looked off into the distance. “He spoke of one sergeant in particular. The man’s closest friend had been blown apart by a rocket-propelled grenade, within feet of where this sergeant was walking. The man insisted on bagging the remains, piece by mutilated piece, and taking them to a storage site to be returned for proper burial.” McCarran’s tone was weary but factual. “As Brian described it, the sergeant receded within himself. His marriage was already troubled; shortly after he returned, his wife asked for a divorce.

  “The man began talking about suicide. My son sent him to the VA for a mental health evaluation. Instead, they put him on a six-month waiting list. Three weeks later, the man hung himself in his wife’s garage. I’d never seen Brian so filled with rage.” McCarran shook his head. “In great part I agree with him. ‘Supporting our troops’ includes caring for them after they return. But Brian seemed to lump me with those who had failed his men.”

  Terry waited a moment. “Was he critical of D’Abruzzo?”

  McCarran looked somber. “After Iraq,” he replied slowly, “I don’t think my son mentioned Joe at all. He became part of Brian’s silence.”

  “But you also had your own relationship with D’Abruzzo.”

  For the first time, McCarran looked down, his head slightly bowed. “Yes.”

  “Did you see him after he returned?”

  McCarran hesitated. “Only once.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “It was about Kate,” the general finally answered. “She came to me, saying there was trouble in their marriage.”

  Terry heard a tangible reluctance. “This could be very helpful, sir. How did she describe their problems?”

  “Joe had become mercurial and withdrawn, she told me, including with the children. She wanted him to get psychiatric help. I tried to urge that on Joe, less as a general than an older member of the family who cared about them both.” McCarran’s tone was flecked with regret. “Obviously, I did no one any good.”

  “How did D’Abruzzo seem to you?”

  “Defensive. Kate had told me to expect that. Joe had never felt he quite belonged, but he was even touchier than before.”

  “Did she mention physical abuse?”

  McCarran looked up. “She was frightened, Captain. That was clear.”

  It was equally clear that McCarran found the subject painful—he had failed his surrogate daughter, his manner suggested, and in doing so had ensnared his own son. Quietly, Terry asked, “How would you assess Brian’s rela
tionship with Kate?”

  McCarran gave him a cool, level glance. “They’ve always been very close. Is that what you’re asking?”

  “The question was open-ended, sir.”

  McCarran held his gaze. “If I’m to free-associate, the first phrase that comes to mind is ‘younger brother.’ Except that it seems Brian wound up looking out for her.” Abruptly, the intentness vanished from McCarran’s eyes. “When they were young, I could never have imagined all this. Let alone when I stood in for her father at Kate’s wedding.”

  Terry nodded his sympathy. “He was your closest friend, I gather.”

  “And always will be.” McCarran paused, then asked with surprising reticence, “How did Kate seem to you? There’s so much we can’t talk about, it seems, until this thing is over.”

  “I’d say she’s coping, General. She seems pretty strong. Having two kids may help to keep her that way.”

  McCarran nodded. “She also has Rose, her mother. You’ve not met her, I believe. But she’s a remarkable woman.”

  The words held something close to reverence. “I mean to see her,” Terry said, “if only to help me delve into Brian’s life. Who would you say knows him well?”

  “Well?” McCarran’s voice became rueful. “Perhaps the men he served with. Certainly the women in our family—Meg, Kate, and Rose. I’m not so sure that I do anymore.”

  “You agree that Brian’s changed, then?”

  “Yes.” McCarran searched for words. “He’s jumpy or distracted, and then a veil falls across his eyes. Suddenly he’ll watch you like he’s examining a slide beneath a microscope. It feels like staring into the eyes of a bird.”

  The quiet with which he said this suggested that McCarran rarely discussed such feelings, and never with a man he did not know. This violation of self, Terry sensed, was an offering to his son.