Never Go Back: (Jack Reacher 18)

CO.’
    ‘No, Major Turner is your CO.’
    ‘And she’s not here either.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘Our guys in Afghanistan missed their second radio check. It’s forty-eight hours since we heard from them. And therefore we need to do something. But Morgan’s not here.’
    Reacher nodded. ‘He’s probably having a new poker fitted. Up his ass. It’s probably a lengthy procedure.’
    He moved on, into the ground-floor corridor, to the second office on the left. Room 103. The duty officer’s station. The guy was in there, behind his huge desk, handsome, Southern, and worried. His doodles were bleaker than ever. Reacher asked him, ‘Didn’t Morgan tell you where he was going?’
    ‘Pentagon,’ the guy said. ‘For a meeting.’
    ‘Is that all he said?’
    ‘No details.’
    ‘Have you called?’
    ‘Of course I have. But it’s a big place. They can’t find him anywhere.’
    ‘Does he have a cell phone?’
    ‘Switched off.’
    ‘How long has he been gone?’
    ‘Nearly an hour.’
    ‘What would you want him to do?’
    ‘Authorize a request for a search party, of course. Every minute counts now. And we have lots of people over there. The 1st Infantry Division. And Special Forces. And helicopters, and drones, and satellites, and all kinds of aerial surveillance.’
    ‘But you don’t even know where your guys are supposed to be, or what they’re supposed to be doing.’
    The duty officer nodded and jabbed his thumb at the ceiling. At the upstairs offices. He said, ‘The mission is in Major Turner’s computer. Which is now Colonel Morgan’s computer. Which is password-protected.’
    ‘Do the radio checks go into Bagram?’
    The guy nodded again. ‘Most of them are routine data. Bagram sends us the transcript. But if there’s anything urgent, then they’re patched through to us, right here in this office. On a secure phone line.’
    ‘What was it the last time they transmitted? Routine, or urgent?’
    ‘Routine.’
    ‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Call Bagram and get an estimate of their range, from that last time.’
    ‘Will Bagram even know their range?’
    ‘Those radio guys can usually tell. By the sound, and the signal strength. By a gut feeling, sometimes. It’s their job. Ask for their best guess, to the nearest five miles.’
    The guy picked up a phone, and Reacher walked back to Leach at the reception desk in the lobby. He said, ‘Get on the line for the next ten minutes and hit up everyone you know at the Pentagon. Full court press, to locate Morgan.’
    Leach picked up her phone.
    Reacher waited.

    Ten minutes later Leach had nothing. Not altogether surprising. The Pentagon had more than seventeen miles of corridors and nearly four million square feet of office space, all occupied by more than thirty thousand people on any given workday. Trying to find a random individual was like trying to find a needle in the world’s most secretive haystack. Reacher walked back to 103 and the duty officer said, ‘The Bagram radio room figures our guys were about two hundred and twenty miles out. Maybe two hundred and thirty.’
    ‘That’s a start,’ Reacher said.
    ‘Not really. We don’t know what direction.’
    ‘If in doubt, take a wild-ass guess. That was always my operating principle.’
    ‘Afghanistan is a big country.’
    ‘I know it is,’ Reacher said. ‘And it’s unpleasant all over, from what I hear. But where is it worst?’
    ‘The mountains. The border with Pakistan. Pashtun tribal areas. The northeast, basically. No one’s idea of fun.’
    Reacher nodded. ‘Which is the kind of place the 110th gets sent. So get on the horn to the base commander and ask him to order up an air search, starting two hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of Bagram.’
    ‘That could be completely the wrong direction.’
    ‘Like I said, it’s a wild-ass guess. You got something better?’
    ‘They won’t do it anyway. Not on my say-so. A thing like this would need a major or better.’
    ‘So take Morgan’s name in vain.’
    ‘Can’t do it.’
    Reacher listened. All quiet. No one coming. The duty officer waited, his hand curled into a fist, halfway between his lap and his phone.
    You’re back in the army, major.
    You’ll retain your former rank.
    You’re assigned to this unit .
    ‘Use my name,’ Reacher said.

TWELVE

    THE DUTY OFFICER made the call, and then the military machine took over, distant and invisible and industrious, on the other side of the world, nine time zones