“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
“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.
“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
“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:
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 theory,” 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
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.”
