CHAPTER 5
John Puller took a sharp left-hand turn and drove down the narrow two-lane road. In the backseat of the car was his cat, AWOL, who had wandered into his life one day and would probably leave him just as unexpectedly. Puller was in the Army, formerly a Ranger, and currently a CID, or Criminal Investigation Division, special agent. He was not investigating any cases at the moment. Right now he was just returning from a protracted road trip with his cat, allowing himself a bit of R&R after a hellish experience in a small West Virginia coal-mining town that had nearly ended with him and many other people dead.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex. It was near Quantico, Virginia, where the Army’s CID headquarters was located along with the 701st M.P. Group (CID), the unit to which Puller was attached. This made for an easy work commute, although he rarely spent much time at Quantico. He was more often on the road investigating crimes that involved a person who wore the uniform of the United States Army and yet was doing bad things. And unfortunately, there were a lot of cases to work.
He parked his car, a trim Army-issued Mal- ibu, grabbed his rucksack from the trunk, opened the back door, and waited patiently for AWOL, a fat orange-and-brown tabby, to mosey out. The cat followed him up to his apartment. Puller lived in six hundred square feet of rigid lines and minimal clutter. He had been in the Army for most of his adult life and now, in his mid-thirties, his personal aversion to junk and clutter was irreversibly established.
He got food and water out for AWOL, snagged a beer from the fridge, sat down in his leather recliner, put his feet up, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually gotten a full night’s sleep. He decided to do something about it right now.
The last few weeks had not been especially kind to Puller, who was nearly six feet four and a normally solid 232 pounds. He had not gotten any shorter, but he had lost about ten pounds because his appetite had abandoned him. Physically, he was still doing okay. He could beat any test the military might offer related to strength, endurance, or speed. Mentally, however, he was not doing very well. He wasn’t sure he ever would be doing well mentally again. Some days he thought he would, others not. This was one of the other days.
Puller had gone on the road trip to try to get his head back on straight after the ordeal in West Virginia.
It had not worked. If anything, he was even worse. The time away, the miles driven had only provided him with far too much time to think. Sometimes that was not good. He didn’t want to think anymore. He just wanted to be doing something that would carry him into the future instead of transporting him to the past.
His phone buzzed. He looked at the readout on the screen.
USDB. That stood for the United States Disciplinary Barracks. It was located in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. It was the Army’s prison for its most important—that is, dangerous—criminals.
Puller knew it well. He had visited there often.
His older brother and only sibling, Robert Puller, would be stationed there for the rest of his natural life, and maybe even beyond, if the Pentagon had its way.
“Hello?”
“Please hold,” an efficient-sounding female voice said.
The next moment a familiar voice came on the line.
It was his brother, formerly a major in the Air Force before being convicted at court-martial for treason against his country for reasons that Puller neither was privy to nor would probably ever understand for as long as he lived.
“Hey, Bobby,” said Puller dully. His head was starting to ache.
“Where are you?”
He said irritably, “Just got back. Just put my feet up. What’s going on?”
“How was your road trip? Get things figured out?”
“I’m good.”
“Which means you didn’t and you’re just blowing me off. That’s okay. I can take it.”
Normally, Puller looked forward to talking to his brother. Their calls and visits were infrequent. But not this time. He just wanted to sit in his recliner with his beer and think of exactly nothing.
“What’s going on?” he said again, a little more firmly.
“Okay, I read you loud and clear. ‘Get the hell off the phone, I don’t want to talk.’ I wouldn’t be bothering you except for the call I got.”
Puller sat up in his recliner and put his beer down.
“What call? The Old Man?”
There was only one “Old Man” in the Puller brothers’ lives.
That would be John Puller Sr., a retired three- star and a fighting legend. He was an old bastard from the Patton Kicking Ass and hospital suffering from short but intense bouts of dementia and long and even more intense episodes of depression. The dementia was probably because of age. The depression was because he no longer wore the uniform, no longer commanded a single soldier, and thus felt he had no more reason left to live. Puller Sr. had been put on earth for one reason only: to lead soldiers into combat.
More to the point, he had been put on this earth to lead soldiers to victory in combat. At least that’s what he believed. And most days both his sons would have agreed with that assessment.
“People on behalf of the Old Man from the hospital. They couldn’t reach you, so they tried me. I can’t exactly up and visit the Old Man.” “What did they call about? Is he failing mentally again? Did he fall down and break a hip?”
“No on both counts. I don’t think it has to do with him personally. They weren’t entirely clear what the issue was, probably because Dad wasn’t entirely clear with them. I believe that it involved a letter that he received, but I can’t swear to that. But that’s what it seemed to be about.”
“A letter. Who from?”
“Again, can’t answer that. I thought with you being pretty much right there you could go over and find out what’s going on. They said he was really upset.”
“But they didn’t know what was in the letter? How can that be?”
“You know how that can be,” replied Robert. “I don’t care how old or out of it Dad is. If he doesn’t want you to read a letter he has, you ain’t reading it. He can still kick ass even at his age. There’s not a doctor in the VA system who could take him or would ever want to try.”
“Okay, Bobby, I’ll head over now.”
“John, all bullshit aside, you okay?”
“All bullshit aside, no, Bobby, I’m not okay.” “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m in the Army.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning I’m going to soldier on.”
“You can always talk to somebody. The Army has lots of specialists who do just that. You went through a lot of shit in West Virginia. It would screw anybody up. Like PTSD.”
“I don’t need to talk to anybody.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Puller men don’t talk about their troubles.” Puller could imagine his brother shaking his head in disappointment.
“Is that family rule number three or four?” Puller said, “For me, right now, it’s rule number one.”