Daylight (Atlee Pine, #3)(62)

At least we all have closure.

Puller glanced at his father’s still-broad shoulders and visualized seeing the three stars on them. There should have been a fourth star, but politics had gotten in the way of that. And Puller knew there wasn’t a four-star in the Army who felt Fighting John Puller didn’t deserve that last bit of shiny career acknowledgment. But it wasn’t to be. Just like the Medal of Honor wasn’t to be, another sacrifice to politics over merit. But his old man was a legend, and legends didn’t need stars or medals. They lived on in the thoughts and memories and myths of everybody who came after them.

“It’s Junior, sir. Not Bobby.”

His father straightened in the bed, sat up against the pillow, and looked around at probably the last room he would occupy on earth. By his expression, he didn’t seem to recognize it at all. He lay back, stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then turned his head to the side and stared at his youngest son.

“You in the Army, soldier?”

“Yes sir. Chief warrant officer.”

“What are those?”

Puller’s heart sank because his old man was pointing at his rows of ribbons. Puller had been a combat stud. He had earned every major wartime commendation the Army offered, several more than once. And with all that, his rows of “guts and glory” would have paled in comparison to his father’s, whose commendations had run to a dozen horizontal rows. They could have made a blanket out of them. But then again what did you expect from someone who had tried to enlist to fight in a war while in his sixties?

“Just something that came with the suit,” replied Puller.

“They’re nice,” said his father.

“Yeah, thanks. I think so, too.”

“Who are you again?”

“I work here. Anything you need?”

“Better chow. The crap they serve here I wouldn’t feed to a damn dog, that is if I had one. Do I have a dog?”

“No sir.”

“Well, the food still sucks.”

“Yes sir, I’ll check on that.”

“I don’t know how I even got here. I was at work and now I’m here.”

“Yes sir. I think it was complicated.”

“And they put this here and I have no idea who she even is.”

Puller glanced at the framed photo of his mother, Jackie.

“You know her name, son?” asked his father.

“I . . . No.” Puller didn’t know what his father’s reaction might be if he mentioned his mother’s name.

“Doesn’t seem right, putting a strange woman’s picture in here. My wife might get angry.”

“Do you remember your wife?”

“What?”

“Your wife?”

His father turned the photo on its face and settled back against his pillow.

Puller glanced at the window and hurriedly changed the subject. “Your bird still around? Outside the window. There was a nest last time.”

His father looked at him blankly. “Bird?”

“Yes, I . . . Do you need anything, sir?”

His father stared more intently at him. “You look familiar. You remind me of somebody.”

Puller’s gut clenched. “Is that right, sir? Who might that be?”

“Guy I went to school with, least I think. Didn’t like him very much. Can’t recall the name of the place right now.”

“You went to West Point.”

His father looked confused. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure, sir,” said Puller quietly.

“Yeah?”

“You did very well there. You became quite the leader of men.”

His father just grunted at this.

Fighting John Puller had never lost a battle. He had taken enormous risks, thrown out the Army playbook when it suited him, demanded everything from his men and given even more of himself. He pissed his superiors off beyond belief, and then handed them one improbable victory after another to take credit for. There were two generations of warriors in this country who would fling curses at the mere mention of the name “Fighting John Puller,” and those who would go anywhere he would lead them, convinced of victory because of the man at the helm.

And the two groups would be one and the same.

“The men respected you, sir. We . . . we all do.”

Another grunt was the response to this. And then his father curled up and fell back asleep while his son was standing at attention next to him.

Puller would take the father he remembered, the screamer, petty and vindictive at times, relentlessly pushing his sons when he was home, which was almost never, the iron man of the Army, but also the man of smiles and encouragement and moments of pride in his sons, over this disoriented shell of a man.

Puller covered up his father with a blanket and then marched out with his heart split right in half. But with his face unblemished by tears, his spine still straight, and his focus back on the mission at hand. Coming to grips with the fact of his rapidly failing father was the only enemy John Puller had ever been afraid to face.





CHAPTER





40





PULLER VALETED HIS CAR at the front entrance to the Army and Navy Club on Seventeenth Street in northwest DC and headed inside. The building was old, with architecturally classic lines that mirrored the interior he was just about to enter. It was run efficiently and quietly by a devoted team, with many serving here for decades. There was a large dining room on the main floor, private meeting rooms and more intimate dining areas on the second, and, because this was a military outpost of sorts, a bar. Of course.