The phone stayed quiet.
‘Generals are mortal,’ I said. ‘Same as anyone else.’
No reply.
‘There was nothing suspicious,’ I said. ‘He croaked, is all.
Heart attack. Probably had gout. I didn’t see a reason to get
excited.’
‘It’s a question of dignity,’ Garber said. ‘We can’t leave a
two-star lying around belly-up in public without reacting. We
need a presence.’
‘And that would be me?’
‘I’d prefer someone else. But you’re probably the highest
ranking sober MP in the world tonight. So yes, it would be you.’
‘It’ll take me an hour to get there.’
‘He’s not going anywhere. He’s dead. And they haven’t found
a sober medical examiner yet.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Be respectful,’ he said.
‘OK,’ I said again.
‘Be polite,’ he said. ‘Off post, we’re in their hands. It’s a
civilian jurisdiction.’
Tm familiar with civilians,’ I said. ‘I met one, once.’
‘But control the situation,’ he said. ‘You know, if it needs
controlling.’
‘He probably died in bed,’ I said. ‘Like people do.’
‘Call me,’ he said. ‘If you need to.’
%Vas it a good party?’
‘Excellent. My daughter is visiting.’
He clicked off and I called the civilian dispatcher back and
got the name and the address of the motel. Then I left my coffee
on my desk and told my sergeant what was up and headed back
to my quarters to change. I figured a presence required Class A
greens, not woodland-pattern BDUs.
14
I took a Humvee from the MP motor pool and was logged out
through the main gate. I found the motel inside fifty minutes. It
was thirty miles due north of Fort Bird through dark undistinguished
North Carolina countryside that was equal parts
stip malls and scrubby forest and what I figured were dormant
sweet potato fields. It was all new to me. I had never served
there before. The roads were very quiet. Everyone was still
inside, partying. I hoped I would be back at Bird before they all
came out and started driving home. Although I really liked the
Humvee’s chances, head-on against a civilian ride.
The motel was part of a knot of low commercial structures
clustered in the darkness near a big highway interchange.
There was a truck stop as a centrepiece. It had a greasy spoon
that was open on the holidays and a gas station big enough to
take eighteen-wheelers. There was a no-name cinder block
lounge bar with lots of neon and no windows. It had an Exotic
Dancers sign lit up in pink and a parking lot the size of a football
field. There were diesel spills and rainbow puddles all over it. I
could hear loud music coming out of the bar. There were cars
parked three-deep all around it. The whole area was glowing
sulphurous yellow from the street lights. The night air was
cold and there was fog drifting in layers. The motel itself
was directly across the street from the gas station. It was a
run-down swaybacked affair about twenty rooms long. It had
a lot of peeling paint. It looked empty. There was an office at
the left-hand end with a token vehicle porch and a buzzing
Coke machine.
First question: why would a two-star general use a place like
this? I was pretty sure there wouldn’t have been a DoD inquiry
if he had checked into a Holiday Inn.
There were two town police cruisers parked at careless
angles outside the motel’s last-but-one room. There was a small
plain sedan sandwiched between them. It was cold and misted
over. It was a base-model Ford, red, four cylinder. It had skinny
tyres and plastic hubcaps. A rental, for sure. I put the Humvee
next to the right-hand police cruiser and slid out into the chill. I
heard the music from across the street, louder. The last-but-one
room’s lights were off and its door was open. I figured the cops
were trying to keep the interior temperature low. Trying to stop
15
the old guy from getting too ripe. I was anxious to take a look at
him. I was pretty sure I had never seen a dead general before.
Three cops stayed in their cars and one got out to meet me.