Дэвид Балдаччи - The Escape

James Schindler, with the National Security Council.

Puller had never dealt with anyone from there before. The NSC was a policy group and their people normally didn’t go around investigating things. But these folks were also wired right to the White House. It was heady stuff for a humble chief warrant officer. Then again, if someone wanted to truly intimidate him he would need to have placed a gun muzzle against Puller’s skull. And even that might not be enough.

Rinehart said, “You received ‘news’? I’m sure it’s the same news that prompted our visit here today.”

“My brother.”

Daughtrey nodded. “Your father was not particularly helpful.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know anything about this. And he has a condition.”

“Dementia, we were told,” said Schindler.

Puller said, “It’s beyond his control now. And he hasn’t been in contact with my brother since before he went to prison.”

“But patients with dementia have their lucid moments, Puller,” noted Daughtrey. “And with this case no possible lead is too small to follow up. Since you were next up on our list, why don’t we find a quiet place where we can talk?”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you want, but only after I see my dad. It’s important for me to see him now ,” he added, acutely aware that he was collectively outranked by a country mile.

The one-star was clearly not pleased by this, but Rinehart said, “I’m sure that can be accommodated, Puller. There’s not a soldier in uniform today who doesn’t owe Fighting John Puller due deference.” As he said this he glanced sharply at Daughtrey. “There’s a visitors’ room right down this hall. You’ll find us in there when you’re done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Puller slipped inside his father’s room and shut the door. He didn’t like hospitals. He’d been in enough of them while wounded. They smelled overly clean, but they were actually more full of germs than a toilet seat.

His father was seated in a chair by the window. John Puller Sr. had once been nearly as tall as his youngest son, but time had robbed him of nearly two inches. Yet, at over six-one, he was still a tall man. He wore his usual uniform these days – white T-shirt and blue scrub pants and hospital slippers. His hair, what was left of it, was cottony white and surrounded the crown of his head like a halo. He was fit and trim, and his musculature, while not at the level of his prime, was still substantial.

“Hello, General,” Puller said.

It was usually around this time that his father started jabbering on about Puller being his XO here to receive orders. Puller had gone along with his father’s delusion, though he didn’t want to. It seemed a betrayal of the old man. But now his father didn’t even look at him and didn’t say a word. He just continued to gaze out the window.

Puller perched on the edge of the bed.

“What did those men ask you?”

His father sat up and tapped the window, causing a sparrow to lift into the air and fly off. Then he settled back against the fake leather.

Puller rose and walked over to him, gazing over his head at the outdoor courtyard. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had been outside. He’d spent the majority of his military career out of doors, more than holding his own against enemies doing their best to defeat him and his men. Virtually none of them had succeeded. Who could have predicted it would be a defect in his own brain that would finally bring him down?

“Heard from Bobby lately?” asked Puller, being intentionally provocative. Usually the mention of his brother’s name sent his father into spasms of vitriol.

The only reaction was a grunt, but at least it was something. Puller stood in front of his father, blocking his view of the courtyard.

“What did the men ask you?”

His father inched up his chin until he was staring directly at his youngest child.

“Gone,” said his father.

“Who, Bobby?”

“Gone,” said his father again. “AWOL.”

Puller nodded. This wasn’t technically correct, but he wasn’t holding it against his father. “He is gone. Escaped from the DB, so they say.”

“Bullshit.” The word wasn’t uttered in anger. There was no raised voice. His father just said it matter-of-factly, as though the truth behind its use was self-evident.

Puller knelt down next to him so his father could lower his chin.

“Why is it bullshit?”

“Told ’em. Bullshit.”

“Okay, but why?”

He had caught his father in these moments before, though they were growing less frequent. It was like the one-star general had said: Lucidity was still possible.

His father looked at his son like he was suddenly surprised he wasn’t actually talking to himself. Puller’s spirits sank through the floor when he noted this look. Was that all the old man had in his tank today?

Bullshit?

“Is that all you told them?” asked Puller.

He waited in silence for a minute or so. His father closed his eyes and his breathing grew steady.

Puller closed the door behind him and headed down to confront the stars and suit. They were seated in the otherwise empty visitors’ room. He sat next to Rinehart, the Army three-star, figuring the bond within the same branch of service might be stronger by the physical proximity.

“Nice visit with your father?” asked Schindler.

“In his condition the visits are rarely nice, sir,” said Puller. “And there was no lucidity.”

“We can’t discuss this here,” said Rinehart. “You can drive back with us to the Pentagon. After the meeting we’ll get you transport back here for your car.”

The drive took about thirty minutes before they pulled into one of the parking lots of the world’s largest office building, though it comprised only seven floors, two of which were basement-level.

Puller had been to the Pentagon countless times in his career and still didn’t know his way around very well. He had become lost more than once when he had strayed from his regular route. But everyone who had ever been here had gotten lost at least once. Those who denied doing so were lying.

As they were walking down one broad corridor they had to quickly move to the side as a motorized cart sped toward them carrying stacks of what looked to be large oxygen tanks. Puller knew that the Pentagon had its own emergency oxygen supply in case of an enemy attack or attempted sabotage. The attack against the Pentagon on 9/11 had raised security here to unprecedented heights, and no one foresaw it ever being lowered.

In getting out of the way of the cart Rinehart stumbled a bit, and Puller instinctively grasped his arm to steady his military superior. They both watched as the motorized cart zipped past.

Puller said, “The Pentagon can get a little dangerous, sir. Even for three-stars.”

Rinehart smiled. “Like jumping foxholes sometimes. As big as this place is, sometimes it seems too damn small to contain everything and everybody.”

They reached an office suite where the name “Lieutenant General Aaron Rinehart” was on the door. The three-star led them inside, past his staff, and into an interior conference room. They sat down and water was poured out by an aide, and then the door closed and they were alone.

Puller sat across the table from the three men and waited expectantly. They had not spoken about anything significant on the drive over, so he was still in the dark about what they wanted.

General Daughtrey leaned forward, seemingly pulling the others along, for they all mimicked his movement. “What we got from your father was one word: ‘bullshit.’”

“He’s nothing if not consistent, then,” replied Puller. “Because that’s the same thing he told me.”