The Escape (John Puller, #3)(9)

CHAPTER





5



JOHN PULLER KNEW something was wrong the minute he stepped off the elevator and onto his father’s ward.

It was far too quiet.

Where were his father’s baritone shouts that tended to explode down the hall like mortar rounds, reducing men of iron in uniform to lumps of mush? All he could hear were the normal sounds one associated with a hospital: rubber soles on linoleum, the squeaks of carts and gurneys, the whispers of medicos huddled in corners, visitors coming and going, the occasional shriek of an alarm on a vitals monitor.

He strode down the corridor, quickening his pace when he saw three men coming out of his father’s room. They weren’t doctors. Two were in their branch’s standard service uniforms, while one wore a suit. One of the uniformed men was Army, the other Air Force. Both were generals. The Air Force guy was a one-star. As Puller quickened his pace and closed the gap, he could read the Air Force guy’s nameplate: Daughtrey. The Army man carried three stars pinned to the epaulets on his shoulders and his plate read Rinehart. Puller recognized the name but couldn’t place him. The collection of decorations on his chest ran nine horizontal rows. He was a big man with his hair shaved close to his scalp. And his nose had been broken, at least once.

“Excuse me, sirs?” Puller said, coming to attention. He didn’t issue a salute since they were inside and none were under cover, meaning they did not have their caps on.

They all turned to him.

Puller eyed the generals and said, “I’m Chief Warrant Officer John Puller Jr. with the 701st CID out of Quantico. I apologize for being out of uniform, but I just got back from a mission in Oklahoma and was given some news I needed to see my father about.”

“At ease, Puller,” said Rinehart, and Puller relaxed. “You’re not the only visitor your father’s receiving today.”

“I saw that you were coming out of his room,” Puller noted.

The suit nodded and then flipped out his ID. Puller read it thoroughly. He liked to know who was in the sandbox with him.

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?