Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

This airfield and those photos and the men and women out there in this hot Georgia heat, they’re the real Army. The records of the four Rangers they all examined this morning were certainly eye-opening, with the listings of their duty stations, schools attended, and deployments conducted. The records also displayed what the four accused Rangers overall have achieved: Combat Infantry, Pathfinder, Parachutist, and Air Assault badges, ribbons denoting the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star Medal, plus various other recognitions.

At the time, Connie felt embarrassed. She’s known as a slick sleeve, her uniform bare of service medals and overseas campaign ribbons. Waiting now for Lieutenant Colonel Marcello, that feeling comes back, of being an imposter among these real soldiers.

Major Moore is wearing camouflage fatigues, and his ink-black hair is closely trimmed. He says, “I still can’t believe you’re here, and that Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were arrested. It must be some kind of mistake.”

After seeing and hearing all the evidence this Sunday morning, Connie doesn’t want to burst the major’s bubble, but Cook says, “That’s what we’re hoping, too. Tell me, do you know them well?”

Moore shakes his head. “They’re in Alpha Company. I never interacted much with them, but, man, the stories about them…They’re called the Ninja Squad.”

“Really?” Cook asks. “Why’s that?”

Moore says, “They’re superb at moving at night. I mean, everyone can move at night; with NVGs on, it’s hard not to. But Sergeant Jefferson and his crew, they take it a step further. It’s like…like they’re goddamn shadows or something. And Sergeant Jefferson, he’s tight with his men. All teams are tight, but Jefferson, his men trust him and follow him, no questions asked. Once I heard how he weeds out newbies who want to be in his section. They go on a night hike, through some deep woods, and Jefferson marches right off a cliff…into a swamp. Fall isn’t much, but for Sergeant Jefferson, those who fall with him into the swamp with no hesitation, no questions, they get in. The others…don’t.”

Connie says, “Sounds impressive…for training.”

Moore shakes his head. “Same thing out on deployments. His fire team always gets the tough jobs because they can get them done, no bullshit. He and his team can approach a target farmhouse, even with dogs and Taliban guards around, and they can still slip into a compound without anyone noticing, breach the door, and kill everyone before someone can pick up a weapon.”

Shit, Connie thinks, doesn ’t that sound familiar, and Moore says, “Thing is, when they get stateside, wow, can they get into—”

When his phone buzzes Moore gives the two of them a big smile. He picks up the receiver and says, “Moore,” and after a few nods, he says, “Yes, sir, straightaway.”

He hangs up the phone.

“The lieutenant colonel will see you now.”

Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello is standing behind his desk, an impressive piece of furniture that Connie thinks is bigger than her bed back at Quantico. The desk is brightly clean, and Marcello continues to stand as he looks down upon a piece of paper. There are the typical in and out baskets, two telephones, and a computer monitor. It’s a corner office, filled with light, and souvenirs, plaques, and photos are up on the wall.

Marcello is huge, bulky, like under his camo uniform there are slabs of muscle, and he’s bald, the only hair being two bushy black eyebrows.

Without lifting his head, he says, “Major Cook, why are you here?”

After half a beat, Cook says, “Colonel Marcello, my team and I were ordered here to conduct an investigation into—”

“I know that, Major,” he cuts in, voice louder, head still bowed down. “But I have a very competent investigator here, Colonel Tringali of the Third MP Group. I trust her and her CID investigators. She even has a positive working relationship with Sheriff Williams over there in Sullivan County, the scene of the crime. So why are you here?”

“Orders, sir.”

Marcello finally lifts his head. There’s a pink scar running down his right cheek. Connie is suddenly glad that her boss is the focus of the colonel’s anger and attention.

“A special squad for a special case?”

“You could say that, sir. We investigate those matters of high priority and high attention, to make sure the accused’s rights are preserved but also to ensure that justice is done. Sir.”

Marcello stares at her boss. “In other words, you big-foot right in and take over the investigation.”

“Not entirely accurate, sir.”

“If you say so.”

Marcello picks up a pen, signs the document before him. “Well, you’re here. You have questions, I’m sure. Ask away.”

“Sir, we’d like to interview fellow members of their platoon, to see if—”

“Not going to happen.”

From Connie’s vantage point, it seems like Cook is really leaning on his cane. The pain in his left leg must be awful this afternoon, with all the walking and standing.

“Sir?” Cook asks.

“Oh, didn’t I make myself clear? You cannot and will not interview members of that team’s platoon.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“Certainly,” Marcello says, opening his center drawer and carefully putting his pen inside, then closing the drawer. “Because we are this nation’s firefighters, ready to go anywhere when the president tells us to go. We’re trained and equipped to deploy to anywhere in the world within eighteen hours. And in approximately”—he glances at a large watch on his large wrist—“two hours Alpha Company is boarding C-17s to go overseas. And those men don’t have time to talk to you. Nor do I, for you see, Major Cook, I’m leaving with them, to join them and Bravo and Charlie Companies.”

Connie is growing angrier and angrier with each passing second, hating how the lieutenant colonel is completely ignoring her.

Cook says, “With your deployment, sir, who will be assigned as rear detachment commander?”

A long second or two passes. Marcello says, “Not bad for a former NYPD cop. The rear detachment commander will be Captain Rory O’Connell. He has a few months left before his ETS, so he’ll be handling personnel issues and other routine matters for the battalion.”

“I’d like to arrange to interview him, sir,” Cook says.

“You don’t need my permission, Major. But he’ll be a busy man, dealing with the battalion’s affairs.” Another glance at his watch. “You have time for one more question, Major. Make it a good one.”

Cook says, “Sir, these four men under your command, they are in serious trouble, having been arrested in connection with the violent deaths of seven civilians. At some point in our investigation would you consider being a character witness for them?”

Connie is surprised at how quickly and violently Marcello delivers his one-sentence answer. “Not on your life.”

Cook says, “Sir…if I may…why is that?”

Marcello looks at his watch one more time. “In the field, there is no squad that I’d rather have at my back than Sergeant Jefferson’s. But we’re not always in the field. Since they’ve been CONUS, they’ve been a constant pain to me. Some years ago, Major, a predecessor to my battalion command saw his career ruined because his Rangers acted wild on post and off. That’s not going to happen to me. As far as I’m concerned, the quicker those four are convicted and sent off to prison the better.”

Cook says, “I see, sir.”

“Glad you do,” the colonel says.

Chapter 15

EVEN WITH HIS rental car’s air-conditioning, Special Agent Manuel Sanchez has sweated through his suit coat, shirt, and trousers, and his miserable day out in rural Georgia is not even close to being over. Following the tour of The Summer House—now forever to be known in their official paperwork as the murder house —Major Cook and Special Agent York headed off to Hunter Army Airfield. Lieutenant Huang and Captain Pierce were sent to the nearby town of Ralston to interview the four jailed Rangers.