The Enemy (34 page)

"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 goodnight 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. rn. 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 grey 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, towards Russia. It was wide and straight, made from reinforced concrete. The curb stones 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 towards 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 fast pattering 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 MIA1 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 armour made out of a depleted uranium core sandwiched between rolled steel plate. The armour 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 towards us. It was a shoot-and-scoot Humvee armed with a TOW-2 anti-tank 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 passenger 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-storey 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.

"Major Marshall took a civilian flight at 2300," he said. "Frankfurt to Dulles. Seven-hour layover and on to LAX from National. I issued the vouchers myself."

"When?"

"As he was leaving."

"Which was when?"

"He left here three hours before his flight."

"Eight o'clock?"

The captain nodded. "On the dot."

"I was told he was scheduled for night manoeuvres."

"He was. That plan changed."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure."

I'm not sure seemed to be XII Corps" standard-issue answer for everything.

"What's the panic at Irwin?" I said.

"I'm not sure."

I smiled, briefly. "When were Marshall's orders issued?"

"At seven o'clock."

"Written?"

"Verbal."

"By?"

"General Vassell."

"Did Vassell countersign the travel vouchers himself?" The captain nodded. "Yes," he said. "He did."

"I need to speak to him," I said.

"He went to London."

"London?" I said.

"For a short-notice meeting with the British Ministry of Defence."

"When did he leave?"

"He travelled to the airport with Major Marshall."

"Where's Colonel Coomer?"

"Berlin," the guy said. "Souvenir hunting."

"Don't tell me," I said. "He went to the airport with Vassell and Marshall."

"No," the captain said. "He took the train."

"Terrific," I said. Summer and I went to the O Club for breakfast. We got the same corner table we had used the night before. We sat side by side, backs to the wall, watching the room.

"OK," I said. "Swan's office called for Marshall's whereabouts at 1810 and fifty minutes later he had orders for Irwin. An hour after that he was off the post."

"And Vassell lit out for London," Summer said. "And Coomer jumped on a train for Berlin."

"A night train," I said. "Who goes on a night train just for the fun of it?"

"Everybody's got something to hide," she said.

"Except me and my monkey."

"What?"

"The Beatles," I said. "One of the sounds of the century." She just looked at me.

"What are they hiding?" she said.

"You tell me."

She put her hands on the table, palms down. Took a breath. "I can see part of it," she said.

"The agenda," she said. "It was the other side of the coin from what Colonel Simon was talking about last night. Simon was salivating about the infantry taking Armored down a peg or two. Kramer must have seen all of that coming. Two-star generals aren't stupid. So the Irwin conference on New Year's Day was about fighting the opposite corner. It was about resistance, I guess. They don't want to give up what they've got."

"Hell of a thing to give up," I said.

"Believe it," she said. "Like battleship captains, way back."

"So what was in the agenda?"

"Part defence, part offence," she said. "That's the obvious way to do it. Arguments against integrated units, ridicule of lightweight armoured vehicles, advocacy for their own specialized expertise."

"I agree," I said. "But it's not enough. The Pentagon is going to be neck-deep in position papers full of shit like that, starting any day now. For, against, if, but and however, we're going to be bored to death with it. But there was something else in that agenda that made them totally desperate to get Kramer's copy back. What was it?"