The Severance (14 page)

He opened the driver’s-side door and looked around the floor of the cabin, finding what he was looking for almost immediately. The gas pedal had been forced down with a sandbag. There was a gel pen on the driver’s seat, but no other sign of occupancy. Jake put the pen in his pocket.

People had begun to pour out of the damaged building and the surrounding ones. All eyes were on him.

Jake was inundated by Slavic words from all directions. He didn’t understand the language, but he knew it was Polish. This was a Polish barracks complex and these were Polish soldiers. He had never actually worked with the Polish military, but he‘d heard horror stories about Americans who got caught alone and unarmed around their Eastern European “allies.” Jake worried now of being beaten, robbed, maybe raped, after almost being killed by a runaway truck.

More and more Polish soldiers were closing in on the scene. These soldiers could do anything they wanted to Jake at that moment, without any significant consequences. Eastern Europeans weren’t known to fill the rank and file of their militaries with upstanding members of their societies. More like armies of Kodiak soldiers, only worse—much worse. Because of their extreme cultural sensitivity, NATO allies were generally considered untouchable, so any transgression against them involving an American never ended well for the American, regardless of the facts. It was for that reason that Jake didn’t want to stick around to answer any questions, in Polish or in English.

“Wow, what an accident! Good thing no one got hurt, right?” Jake exclaimed, clapping his hands together and backing away from the wrecked truck as he snaked through some of the crowd. They weren’t trying to stop him yet, but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to.

“You—you, inside car, mister?” a Polish NCO asked.

“Yup, crazy stuff right there, guys! I’m going to go see about getting that truck out of your building.”

“No, no, you be here now. You op-op-operate truck?”

“Oh no, guys, I’m good! You guys stay here! I’ll be right back! It’s not like I’m going to Warsaw!”

“What you mean, Warsaw? Where go? No good.”

Jake could tell by their tone that the soldiers weren’t happy and they weren’t just going to let him walk away. He decided to cut his attempt to placate them and just run.

He was off like a shot. A few of the Polish soldiers tried to chase after him, but Jake was able to lose them in the darkness and the maze of the barracks complex. Finding his way to Disney Road, Jake slowed to a walk, blending into the foot traffic, and headed toward the transient-tent yard.

The plan was simple. Jake would grab a couple of his soldiers to watch his back and then go over to the Provost Marshal and report what had just happened. Someone had tried to use a pickup truck to flatten him and whoever it was might try to do it again.

Jake had no confidence that the military police could actually find out who had tried to kill him, let alone catch them, but he figured involving the authorities could act as enough of a deterrent to hinder any future attempts on his life. All he needed was time. Just a little bit of help and he was sure that he could determine who’d come after him. There were plenty of reasons for someone to want Jake Roberts dead. About two million reasons came to mind.

Sometimes, when people went into battle zones, they went nuts. Previously constrained and regulated by the rule of law, they often took advantage of the chaos and savagery of war as an opportunity to do whatever they wanted. Like launching pickup trucks at people they didn’t like. When they got back to the real world, they’d snap out of it. Maybe. Of course, Jake was no exception to “deployment insanity,” and after two combat tours he often wondered if he’d learned to control the issue or was now so combat crazed that he didn’t know what was normal.

Every few seconds, he looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. It was impossible to tell if anyone actually was, as Disney Road was always crowded. Still he was so preoccupied that, all at once, he tripped over a break in the pavement and fell flat on his face.

He’d used his hands to absorb most of his impact and his palms were a bloody mess. Jake groaned in pain. No one passing by bothered to ask if he was okay, even though more than a few took the opportunity to point and laugh. Jake didn’t fault them; if the positions were reversed, he’d be laughing and pointing, too.

Picking himself off the ground, he realized that something in one of his front pockets had poked him in the thigh. He retrieved the object; it was the pen he’d taken from the runaway truck.

Why had he taken the pen? It had been a compulsive act, without any reason, but he took a moment to study it. It wasn’t a very common type of pen, but he knew he’d seen it somewhere before. Rubbing his fingers up and down the shaft, he noticed that there was some kind of engraving on the side, so he moved over to a nearby streetlight to get a better look.

7
IST COMBAT SUPPORT HOSPITAL,
FOB SALERNO, AFGHANISTAN

He read the words aloud and looked over his shoulder again. The pen he was holding was the type that the commander of the Salerno Hospital had specially ordered for all of his nurses and doctors. The only people to have access to the pens would be hospital personnel from Salerno. The only person who would have a pen like this one and motive for possible murder was Jessica. But she was 120 miles away in Salerno. Even if she had become homicidal, there was no way she could have gotten to Bagram without flying. She had not been on his flight, and there was nothing leaving from Salerno for another 12 hours.

Looking at the pen again, Jake became frustrated. He’d watched his share of police procedurals on TV and had a propensity for James Patterson. Clues were supposed to answer questions, not generate them.

Going to the authorities didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. Jake wanted to get back to the tent and talk to Sergeant McBride. If anyone would know what to do, it would be him. Jake walked as fast as he could without seeming to hurry. Running would have attracted too much attention. When he got within sight of the tent, he noticed one of his soldiers, Parsons, sitting on a camp stool just outside the entry flap, intently smoking a cigarette. When Parsons saw Jake, he immediately pushed the flap open and poked his head inside.

“He’s here,” Parsons said gruffly. As Jake drew closer, Parsons moved to the other side of the entryway and opened the flap all the way, allowing Jake to enter.

“Good to see you, Sir,” Parsons said, as Jake passed by him. It sounded as if the soldier hadn’t seen Jake in years.

Sergeant McBride, who was sitting on his cot at the end of the tent, waved Jake over. Jake walked the length of the tent and could feel the direct looks of his soldiers as he passed them. They seemed nervous, but no one made a sound.

“We’ve got problems,” McBride said, as Jake approached.

“What now?” Jake asked.

McBride handed Jake a piece of paper. Directly centered on the page, printed in 12-point Times New Roman, in capital letters, was one sentence:

KODIAKS, CUT ME IN OR
I WILL CUT YOU OUT. USAU78934223

Jake handed the paper back to McBride and sat down.

“Where’d you find it?” Jake asked.

“Found it posted on the front flap, in a manila envelope,” McBride replied.

“The container is here in Bagram?” Jake asked, rubbing his temples, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, Sir, it was moved up here last week. It’s in a secure holding yard, waiting to make the flight to the States. We have 48, maybe 72 hours, before it flies,” McBride replied.

Jake looked at the note that McBride held. Life was becoming more and more complicated.

“Do we know who posted it?”

“No, McNeil and Yeager were on tent guard, but they were inside the tent. No one noticed it until I got back tonight,”

“Are we sure about Yeager and McNeil?” Jake asked, lowering his voice. McBride rolled his eyes and motioned to the back tent entryway. They would have to continue their conversation outside. Both men rose to their feet. Jake turned in the entryway to face his soldiers, who were still staring at him.

“Relax, guys! Everything is under control. Stop worrying so much,” Jake said. The platoon’s mood seemed to instantly lighten, as if someone had pumped air into the tent.

“Told ya the Cap would know what to do!” Ramirez said to Bena, slapping him on the back.

The two leaders walked in silence until they were out of earshot of the tent or of anyone who might be listening.

“Sir, I wish you wouldn’t question the boys’ integrity in front of them,” McBride said.

“Sorry,” Jake said.

“Don’t be sorry, Sir. This shit has them stressed out and we need them calm. To answer your question, yes, I trust McNeil and Yeager.”

“Okay, what about Olsen?” Jake asked. Sergeant Olsen was the only guy in the platoon who had not been brought in on the millions of dollars of stolen money. Someone like Olsen couldn’t be trusted for a two-dollar hustle, let alone a two-million-dollar caper.

“Couldn’t have been him. Checked him out real close to be sure.”

“Where is he now?”

“He went to the talent show with Nelson and Lopez. They’ll keep him busy for a few hours. He doesn’t know anything.” McBride said.

“Good,” Jake said, taking McBride at his word.

“Look, Sir,” McBride said, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, “There is someone around who knows about The Severance package we have stashed in that container, and right now we don’t know who that is or how to deal with it.”

“I’ll think of something,” Jake said, at the same time wondering if he could.

“I know you will, Sir. You always do.”

“The one thing that sticks out in my mind is that whoever wants The Severance has the container serial number that we stashed it in. Only you and I have that num—” Jake stopped mid-sentence.

“What is it?” McBride asked.

Jake said nothing. It was his fault, all his fault. Only Jake and McBride knew the container serial number. There had been one minor problem—Jake could never remember numbers. No matter how important. In a flash, he remembered his notebook with the missing pages. “Jessica—you know—the nurse—” his voice trailed off.

“Whatcha got? McBride asked.

“Someone else could have the serial number,” Jake said, sounding defeated.

“You told your girlfriend about our money?” McBride asked, leaning in. When they had planned The Severance, everyone was sworn to secrecy. Jake had insisted on it. McBride he trusted; none of the boys had said a word, they had declared. Everything had worked perfectly so far, even with a snitch like Olsen in the platoon. Now, with only about a week before the big payout, it was Jake who was blowing the secret.

“No, I didn’t tell her about The Severance. She got ahold of my notebook and thought it was hers. She said she wrote a few things down, before she figured out it was mine. She must have ripped the pages out,” Jake said.

“So?” McBride asked.

“One of the pages had the container’s serial number on it. I’d completely forgotten about it until now,” Jake said.

“Why in the fuck would you write that down, Sir?” McBride asked.

“Holy shit, man! Are you forgetting that you were the one that told me to write it down so we wouldn’t forget?” Jake shouted back.

“I didn’t tell you to leave your notebook with your psycho fucking whore!”

“You’re right, Greg! Its all my fault, God damn it! I screwed us up plenty,” Jake said.

McBride paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I’m always right and you never listen. What’s new?”

Jake tried to clear his mind of anger and frustration. They weren’t going to help him think of a solution.

He proceeded to tell McBride exactly what had happened to him on his walk back from the phone center and also showed him the pen that he’d retrieved from the truck.

“It can’t be her. There is no way she could be here, I’m sure of it,” Jake said. McBride let out a deep sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“What?” Jake asked.

“She
is
here,” McBride replied.

“How’d she get here? Teleport?”

“That’s not important. I saw her down at the airfield while you were getting us a tent. She was scoping us out. Probably looking for you specifically,” McBride said.

“So you saw the girl who assaulted me with a stapler and you didn’t give me a heads up?”

“At the time, when I saw her, I couldn’t be sure. I’d never actually seen her before. I didn’t want to get you all riled up over something that could be nothing. Then when I got back to the tent tonight, I overheard Ramirez talking to Bena about how he’d seen her down at the airfield, too.”

“Jeez, man, I wish you’d told me earlier. I could have avoided being potential roadkill,” Jake said.

“I know. I thought I was looking out for you. I’m sorry,” McBride said.

“Enough with the apologies. We’ve got to figure this out,” Jake said.

The two men got down to the business of comparing the information they had, and piecing together the most logical answers. McBride suggested that Jessica had convinced a Chinook pilot to bring her to Bagram via helicopter. Chinooks didn’t normally fly directly to Bagram from Salerno because of the always-perilous weather conditions, but it could be done. Jake was unconvinced.