Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  “Been here long?” I asked him.

  “Two years,” he said, which I was glad about. I needed some background, and Swan didn’t have it, any more than I knew anything about Fort Bird. Then I realized it was no accident that Simon was joining the party. Swan must have figured out what I wanted and set about providing it without being asked. Swan was that kind of guy.

  “Pleased to meet you, Colonel,” I said, and then I nodded to Swan, like I was saying thanks. We drank cold American beers from tall frosted glasses and then we went through to the dining room. Swan had made a reservation. The steward put us at a table in the corner. I sat where I could watch the whole room at once. I didn’t see anyone I knew. Vassell wasn’t around. Nor was Coomer.

  The menu was absolutely standard. We could have been in any O Club in the world. O Clubs aren’t there to introduce you to local cuisine. They’re there to make you feel at home, somewhere deep inside the army’s own interpretation of America. There was a choice of fish or steak. The fish was probably European, but the steak would have been flown in across the Atlantic. Some politician in one of the ranch states would have leveraged a sweet deal with the Pentagon.

  We small-talked for a spell. We bitched about pay and benefits. Talked about people we knew. We mentioned Just Cause in Panama. Lieutenant Colonel Simon told us he had been to Berlin two days previously and had gotten himself a chip of concrete from the Wall. Told us he planned to have it encased in a plastic cube. Planned to hand it on down the generations, like an heirloom.

  “Do you know Major Marshall?” I asked him.

  “Fairly well,” he said.

  “Who is he exactly?” I asked.

  “Is this official?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “He’s a planner. A strategist, basically. Long-term kind of guy. General Kramer seemed to like him. Always kept him close by, made him his intelligence officer.”

  “Does he have an intelligence background?”

  “Not formally. But he’ll have done rotations, I’m sure.”

  “So is he a part of the inner team? I heard Kramer and Vassell and Coomer mentioned all in the same breath, but not Marshall.”

  “He’s on the team,” Simon said. “That’s for sure. But you know what flag officers are like. They need a guy, but they aren’t about to admit it. So they abuse him a little. He fetches and carries and drives them around, but when push comes to shove they ask his opinion.”

  “Is he going to move up now Kramer’s gone? Maybe into Coomer’s slot?”

  Simon made a face. “He should. He’s an Armor fanatic to the core, like the rest of them. But nobody really knows what the hell is going to happen. Kramer dying couldn’t have come at a worse time for them.”

  “The world is changing,” I said.

  “And what a world it was,” Simon said. “Kramer’s world, basically, beginning to end. He graduated the Point in Fifty-two, and places like this one were all buttoned up by Fifty-three, and they’ve been the center of the universe for almost forty years. These places are so dug in, you wouldn’t believe it. You know who has done the most in this country?”

  “Who?”

  “Not Armored. Not the infantry. This theater is all about the Army Corps of Engineers. Sherman tanks way back weighed thirty-eight tons and were nine feet wide. Now we’re all the way up to the M1A1 Abrams, which weighs seventy tons and is eleven feet wide. Every step of the way for forty years the Corps of Engineers has had work to do. They’ve widened roads, hundreds of miles of them, all over West Germany. They’ve strengthened bridges. Hell, they’ve built roads and bridges. Dozens of them. You want a stream of seventy-ton tanks rolling east to battle, you better make damn sure the roads and bridges can take it.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “Billions of dollars,” Simon said. “And of course, they knew which roads and bridges to look at. They knew where we were starting, and they knew where we were going. They talked to the war-gamers, they looked at the maps, and they got busy with the concrete and the rebar. Then they built way stations everywhere we needed them. Permanent hardened fuel stores, ammunition dumps, repair shops, hundreds of them, all along strictly predetermined routes. So we’re embedded here, literally. We’re dug in, literally. The Cold War battlefields are literally set in stone, Reacher.”

  “People are going to say we invested and we won.”

  Simon nodded. “And they’d be correct. But what comes next?”

  “More investment,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Like in the Navy, when the big battleships were superseded by aircraft carriers. The end of one era, the beginning of the next. The Abrams tanks are like battleships. They’re magnificent, but they’re out-of-date. About the only way we can use them is down custom-built roads in directions we’ve already planned to go.”

  “They’re mobile,” Summer said. “Like any tank.”

  “Not very mobile,” Simon said. “Where is the next fight going to be?”

  I shrugged. I wished Joe was there. He was good at all the geopolitical stuff.

  “The Middle East?” I said. “Iran or Iraq, maybe. They’ve both gotten their breath back, they’ll be looking for the next thing to do.”

  “Or the Balkans,” Swan said. “When the Soviets finally collapse, there’s a forty-five-year-old pressure cooker waiting for the lid to come off.”

  “OK,” Simon said. “Look at the Balkans, for instance. Yugoslavia, maybe. That’ll be the first place anything happens, for sure. Right now they’re just waiting for the starting gun. What do we do?”

  “Send in the Airborne,” Swan said.

  “OK,” Simon said again. “We send in the 82nd and the 101st. Lightly armed, we might get three battalions there inside a week. But what do we do after we get there? We’re speed bumps, that’s all, nothing more. We have to wait for the heavy units. And that’s the first problem. An Abrams tank weighs seventy tons. Can’t airlift it. Got to put it on a train, and then put it on a ship. And that’s the good news. Because you don’t just ship the tank. For every ton of tank, you have to ship four tons of fuel and other equipment. These suckers get a half-mile to the gallon. And you need spare engines, ammunition, huge maintenance crews. The logistics tail is a mile long. Like moving an iron mountain. To ship enough tank brigades to make a worthwhile difference, you’re looking at a six-month buildup, minimum, and that’s working right around the clock.”

  “During which time the Airborne troops are deep in the shit,” I said.

  “Tell me about it,” Simon said. “And those are my boys, and I worry about them. Lightly armed paratroops against any kind of foreign armor, we’d get slaughtered. It would be a very, very anxious six months. And it gets worse. Because what happens when the heavy brigades eventually get there? What happens is, they roll off the ships and they get bogged down two blocks later. Roads aren’t wide enough, bridges aren’t strong enough, they never make it out of the port area. They sit there stuck in the mud and watch the infantry getting killed far away in the distance.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Or take the Middle East,” Simon said. “We all know Iraq wants Kuwait back. Suppose they go there? Long term, it’s an easy win for us, because the open desert is pretty much the same for tanks as the steppes in Europe, except it’s a little hotter and dustier. But the war plans we’ve got will work out just fine. But do we even get that far? We’ve got the infantry sitting there like tiny little speed bumps for six whole months. Who says the Iraqis won’t roll right over them in the first two weeks?”

  “Air power,” Summer said. “Attack helicopters.”

  “I wish,” Simon said. “Planes and whirlybirds are sexy as hell, but they don’t win anything on their own. Never have, never will. Boots on the ground is what wins things.”

  I smiled. Part of that was a combat infantryman’s standard-issue pride. But part of it was true too.

  “So what’s going to happen?” I asked.

  “Same thing as happen
ed with the Navy in 1941,” Simon said. “Overnight, battleships were history and carriers were the new thing. So for us, now, we need to integrate. We need to understand that our light units are too vulnerable and our heavy units are too slow. We need to ditch the whole light-heavy split. We need integrated rapid-response brigades with armored vehicles lighter than twenty tons and small enough to fit in the belly of a C-130. We need to get places faster and fight smarter. No more planning for set-piece battles between herds of dinosaurs.”

  Then he smiled.

  “Basically we’ll have to put the infantry in charge,” he said.

  “You ever talk to people like Marshall about this kind of stuff?”

  “Their planners? No way.”

  “What do they think about the future?”

  “I have no idea. And I don’t care. The future belongs to the infantry.”

  Dessert was apple pie, and then we had coffee. It was the usual excellent brew. We slid back from the future into present-day small talk. The stewards moved around, silently. Just another evening, in an Officers’ Club four thousand miles from the last one.

  “Marshall will be back at dawn,” Swan told me. “Look for a scout car at the rear of the first incoming column.”

  I nodded. Figured dawn in January in Frankfurt would be about 0700 hours. I set my mental alarm for six. Lieutenant Colonel Simon said good night and wandered off. Summer pushed her chair back and sprawled in it, as much as a tiny person can sprawl. Swan sat forward with his elbows on the table.

  “You think they get much dope on this post?” I asked him.

  “You want some?” he said.

  “Brown heroin,” I said. “Not for my personal use.”

  Swan nodded. “Guys here say there are Turkish guest workers in Germany who could get you some. One of the speed dealers could supply it, I’m sure.”

  “You ever met a guy called Willard?” I asked him.

  “The new boss?” he said. “I got the memo. Never met him. But some of the guys here know him. He was an intelligence wonk, something to do with Armor.”

  “He wrote algorithms,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Soviet T-80 fuel consumption, I think. Told us what kind of training they were doing.”

  “And now he’s running the 110th?”

  I nodded.

  “I know,” I said. “Bizarre.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “Obviously someone liked him.”

  “We should find out who. Start sending hate mail.”

  I nodded again. Nearly a million men in the army, hundreds of billions of dollars, and it all came down to who liked who. Hey, what can you do?

  “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  My VOQ room was so generic I lost track of where I was within a minute of closing my door. I hung my uniform in the closet and washed up and crawled between the sheets. They smelled of the same detergent the army uses everywhere. I thought of my mother in Paris and Joe in D.C. My mother was already in bed, probably. Joe would still be working, at whatever it was he did. I said six A.M. to myself and closed my eyes.

  Dawn broke at 0650, by which time I was standing next to Summer at XII Corps’ east road gate. We had mugs of coffee in our hands. The ground was frozen and there was mist in the air. The sky was gray and the landscape was a shade of pastel green. It was low and undulating and unexciting, like a lot of Europe. There were stands of small neat trees here and there. Dormant winter earth, giving off cold organic smells. It was very quiet.

  The road ran through the gate and then turned and headed east and a little north, into the fog, toward Russia. It was wide and straight, made from reinforced concrete. The curbstones were nicked here and there by tank tracks. Big wedge-shaped chunks had been knocked out of them. A tank is a difficult thing to steer.

  We waited. Still quiet.

  Then we heard them.

  What is the twentieth century’s signature sound? You could have a debate about it. Some might say the slow drone of an aero engine. Maybe from a lone fighter crawling across an azure 1940s sky. Or the scream of a fast jet passing low overhead, shaking the ground. Or the whup whup whup of a helicopter. Or the roar of a laden 747 lifting off. Or the crump of bombs falling on a city. All of those would qualify. They’re all uniquely twentieth-century noises. They were never heard before. Never, in all of history. Some crazy optimists might lobby for a Beatles song. A yeah, yeah, yeah chorus fading under the screams of their audience. I would have sympathy for that choice. But a song and screaming could never qualify. Music and desire have been around since the dawn of time. They weren’t invented after 1900.

  No, the twentieth century’s signature sound is the squeal and clatter of tank tracks on a paved street. That sound was heard in Warsaw, and Rotterdam, and Stalingrad, and Berlin. Then it was heard again in Budapest and Prague, and Seoul and Saigon. It’s a brutal sound. It’s the sound of fear. It speaks of a massive overwhelming advantage in power. And it speaks of remote, impersonal indifference. Tank treads squeal and clatter and the very noise they make tells you they can’t be stopped. It tells you you’re weak and powerless against the machine. Then one track stops and the other keeps on going and the tank wheels around and lurches straight toward you, roaring and squealing. That’s the real twentieth-century sound.

  We heard the XII Corps’ Abrams column a long time before we saw it. The noise came at us through the fog. We heard the tracks, and the whine of the turbines. We heard the grind of the drive gear and felt fastpattering bass shudders through the soles of our feet as each new tread plate came off the cogs and thumped down into position. We heard grit and stone crushed under their weight.

  Then we saw them. The lead tank loomed at us through the mist. It was moving fast, pitching a little, staying flat, its engine roaring. Behind it was another, and another. They were all in line, single file, like an armada from hell. It was a magnificent sight. The M1A1 Abrams is like a shark, evolved to a point of absolute perfection. It is the undisputed king of the jungle. No other tank on earth can even begin to damage it. It is wrapped in armor made out of a depleted uranium core sandwiched between rolled steel plate. The armor is dense and impregnable. Battlefield shells and rockets and kinetic devices bounce right off it. But its main trick is to stand off so far that no battlefield shell or rocket or kinetic device can even reach it. It sits there and watches enemy rounds fall short in the dirt. Then it traverses its mighty gun and fires and a second later and a mile and a half in the distance its assailant blows up and burns. It is the ultimate unfair advantage.

  The lead tank rolled past us. Eleven feet wide, twenty-six feet long, nine and a half feet tall. Seventy tons. Its engine bellowed and its weight shook the ground. Its tracks squealed and clattered and slid on the concrete. Then the second tank rolled by. And the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. The noise was deafening. The huge bulk of exotic metal buffeted the air. The gun barrels dipped and swayed and bounced. Exhaust fumes swirled all around.

  There were altogether twenty tanks in the formation. They drove in through the gate and their noise and vibration faded behind us and then there was a short gap and a scout car came out of the mist straight toward us. It was a shoot-and-scoot Humvee armed with a TOW-2 antitank missile launcher. Two guys in it. I stepped into its path and raised my hand. Paused. I didn’t know Marshall and I had only ever seen him once, in the dark interior of the Grand Marquis outside Fort Bird’s post headquarters. But even so, I was pretty sure that neither of the guys in the Humvee was him. I remembered Marshall as large and dark and these guys were small, which is much more usual for Armored people. One thing there isn’t a lot of inside an Abrams is room.

  The Humvee came to a stop right in front of me and I tracked around to the driver’s window. Summer took up station on the passenger side, standing easy. The driver rolled his glass down. Stared out at me.

  “I’m looking for Major Marshall,” I said.

  The driver was a captain and his passenge
r was a captain too. They were both dressed in Nomex tank suits, with balaclavas and Kevlar helmets with built-in headphones. The passenger had sleeve pockets full of pens. He had clipboards strapped to both thighs. They were all covered with notes. Some kind of score sheets.

  “Marshall’s not here,” the driver said.

  “So where is he?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “You can read,” I said. I was wearing last night’s BDUs. They had oak leaves on the collar and Reacher on the stencil.

  “Unit?” the guy said.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Marshall went to California,” he said. “Emergency deployment to Fort Irwin.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Try to be.”

  “Last night sometime.”

  “That’s not very specific.”

  “I’m honestly not sure.”

  “What kind of an emergency have they got at Irwin?”

  “I’m not sure about that either.”

  I nodded. Stepped back.

  “Drive on,” I said.

  Their Humvee moved out from the space between us, and Summer joined me in the middle of the road. The air smelled of diesel and gas turbine exhaust and the concrete was scored fresh white by the passage of the tank tracks.

  “Wasted trip,” Summer said.

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Depends exactly when Marshall left. If it was after Swan’s phone call, that tells us something.”

  We were shunted between three different offices, trying to find out exactly what time Marshall left XII Corps. We ended up in a second-story suite that housed General Vassell’s operation. Vassell himself wasn’t there. We spoke to yet another captain. He seemed to be in charge of an administrative company.