would ask for them, eventually. And things can disappear, on a
big base like Bird, which can be embarrassing. Then I walked
over to the O Club and looked for MPs eating late breakfasts or
early lunches. They usually cluster well away from everybody
else, because everybody else hates them. I found a group of
four, two men and two women. They were all in woodland
pattern BDUs, standard on-post dress. One of the women was a
captain. She had her right arm in a sling. She was having
trouble eating. She would have trouble driving, too. The other
woman had a lieutenant’s bar on each lapel and Summer on her
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nametape. She looked to be about twenty-five years old and she
was short and slender. She had skin the same colour as the
mahogany table she was eating off.
‘Lieutenant Summer,’ I said.
‘Sir?’
‘Happy New Year,’ I said.
‘Sir, you too.’
‘You busy today?’
‘Sir, general duties.’
‘OK, out front in thirty minutes, Class As. I need you to hug a
widow.’
I put my own Class As on again and called the motor pool for a
sedan. I didn’t want to ride all the way to Virginia in a Humvee.
Too noisy, too uncomfortable. A private brought me a new
olive-green Chevrolet. I signed for it and drove it around to post
headquarters and waited.
Lieutenant Summer came out halfway through the twenty
eighth minute of her allotted thirty. She paused a second and
then walked towards the car. She looked good. She was very
short, but she moved easily, like a willowy person. She looked
like a six-foot catwalk model reduced in size to a tiny miniature.
I got out of the car and left the driver’s door open. Met her on
the sidewalk. She was wearing an expert sharpshooter badge
with bars for rifle, small bore rifle, auto rifle, pistol, small bore
pistol, machine gun and sub-machine gun hanging on it. They
made a little ladder about two inches long. Longer than mine. I
only have rifle and pistol. She stopped dead in front of me and
came to attention and fired off a perfect salute.
‘Sir, Lieutenant Summer reports,’ she said.
‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘Informal mode of address, OK? Call me
Reacher, or nothing. And no saluting. I don’t like it.’
She paused. Relaxed.
‘OK,’ she said.
I opened the passenger door and started to get in.
Tm driving?’ she asked.
‘I was up most of the night.’
Who died?’
‘General Kramer,’ I said. ‘Big tank guy in Europe.’
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She paused again. ‘So why was he here? We’re all infantry.’
‘Passing through,’ I said.
She got in on the other side and racked the driver’s seat all
the way forward. Adjusted the mirror. I pushed the passenger
seat back and got as comfortable as I could.
‘Where to?’ she said.
‘Green Valley, Virginia,’ I said. ‘It’ll be about four hours, I
guess.’
‘That’s where the widow is?’
‘Home for the holidays,’ I said.
‘And we’re breaking the news? Like, Happy New Year, ma’am,
and by the way, your husband’s dead?’
I nodded. ‘Lucky us.’ But I wasn’t really worried. Generals’
wives are as tough as they come. Either they’ve spent thirty
years pushing their husbands up the greasy pole, or they’ve
endured thirty years of fallout as their husbands have climbed it
for themselves. Either way, there’s not much left that can get to
them. They’re tougher than the generals, most of the time.
Summer took her cap off and tossed it onto the back seat. Her
hair was very short. Almost shaved. She had a delicate skull and
nice cheekbones. Smooth skin. I liked the way she looked. And
she was a fast driver. That was for damn sure. She clipped her
belt and took off north like she was training for Nascar.
‘Was it an accident?’ she asked.
‘Heart attack,’ I said. ‘His arteries were bad.’
‘Where? Our VOQ?’
I shook my head. ‘A crappy little motel in town. He died with
a twenty-dollar hooker wedged somewhere underneath him.’
‘We’re not telling the widow that part, right?’
‘No, we’re not. We’re not telling anyone that part.’
‘Why was he passing through?’