The Escape (John Puller, #3)(51)

“Read the inscription,” he said.

Knox glanced down. “Thomas W. Custer. Two Medals of Honor. Captain 7th Ohio Cavalry.”

Puller said, “He was the first of four double Medal of Honor winners in the Civil War, and one of only nineteen in American history. Both of his medals came from charging enemy positions and capturing Confederate regimental flags. With the second one he took a shot right to the face, but grabbed the regimental colors and rode them back to his line with blood all over him.”

She looked up at Puller. “Wait a minute. Custer? Was he—”

Puller knelt on his haunches in front of the tombstone. “He was George Armstrong Custer’s younger brother. He died at age thirty-one with his big brother and a battalion of men from the 7th Cavalry at Little Big Horn. Also killed was their younger brother, Boston Custer. From a tactical perspective George Custer blew it. He knowingly split his force and refused additional soldiers and firepower. He went up against an opposing force that dwarfed his in number of men and guns, and also held the better ground. But his brother Tom won a pair of Medals of Honor. He was a good soldier. Maybe a great soldier. He’d been in innumerable battles and he could see what his brother could see. And more.”

Knox’s brow furrowed as she thought about this. “But he still went into battle with his brother…even though he knew they would…lose,” she said haltingly.

“Even though he might’ve known they were going to be massacred,” amended Puller.

“So family trumps brains?” said Knox.

“Family just is,” replied Puller.

“Are you saying you’re Tom and Robert Puller is George? You’re following your older brother blindly to disaster?” Her voice rose as she spoke.

He glanced up at her but said nothing in response to her statement.

She looked at him sternly. “And your objectivity? Your role as investigator searching only for the truth, regardless of where it takes you? Or regardless of who is ultimately held accountable?”

Puller suddenly stood, towering over her. She took a step back as he stared fiercely down at her. “I gave an oath when I put on the uniform, Knox. Bobby is my family, but so is the United States Army. I will follow this investigation objectively and I will hold people accountable. All people.”

“So what was the point of bringing me here, then?” she asked, looking mystified.

“To remind you that I’m willing to sacrifice my brother or anybody else if it means doing my job and seeing that justice is done.” He paused, but only for a moment. “So what are you willing to sacrifice?”

Her eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about? How did this get turned around to me?”

“Are you willing to sacrifice your loyalty to INSCOM, NSA? And whoever else you work for?”

“Puller, I thought we already had this discussion. You dressed me down and I said I’d work with you. So what’s the problem?”

In a voice like a drill sergeant he barked, “I asked you whether the 902d Military Intelligence Group stationed here had ties to the NSA. And your response was, ‘I’m afraid I can’t get into that.’”

“Look, you’re pissed and maybe you have a right to be, but bringing me to a cemetery is a little melodramatic, don’t you—”

Puller interrupted, “So I’m asking you for the last time, do you have my back under all conditions? Because if you don’t then you are useless to me, Knox. And we’re just going to go our separate ways.”

There was a long moment of silence before she broke it. “Puller, I told you I hate deceiving people like you. And I meant that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What do you want from me?”

“All I want is an answer to my question. It’s that simple.”

“I can give you an answer, just not the one you so obviously…want,” she said, her voice dying out at the end.

He said, “Well, that’s answer enough.” He spun on his heel, marched back to his car, and drove off, leaving her still standing on the final resting place of Thomas Custer, loyal brother extraordinaire.





CHAPTER





27



ROBERT PULLER SAT in his motel room and stared down at the image he’d drawn, photographed, and then transferred onto glossy paper. It was the dead man back in his cell. Puller had gotten no hits on any database that he could hack into. He had finally stopped trying. The man was definitely not in the military. He was not in the federal bureaucracy. He was not a government contractor with a security clearance. He was not in law enforcement. He was not on a terrorist watch list. They would all be in a database somewhere. These days everybody was in a database somewhere.

So who the hell was he? And how did he end up in my prison cell?

Puller moved his face closer to the photo. He had spent years of his life examining the smallest details, looking for something of value, sometimes just a speck within a mountain of digital data. He was a twenty-first-century gold prospector, only his equipment was a computer and a bandwidth pipe the size of New Jersey.

Then his eye caught something, transmitted that something to his brain, and his brain retrieved the necessary information from memory. He looked down at the image with renewed energy and a fresh perspective.