Jack reacher or read it. Jack Reacher or Case

Jack Reacher, or The Case

In memory of David Thompson (1971–2010),

an excellent bookseller and a good friend

The Pentagon is the largest office building in the world: six and a half million square feet, thirty thousand employees, seventeen miles of corridors, but only three street entrances, each of which leads to a secure lobby. I chose to enter from the southern facade, through the main entrance, located closest to the metro station and bus stop. This entrance was the busiest and most favored by civilian employees; and I wanted to be in the very thick of them, and it was best to get lost in a long, endless stream, so as not to be shot down as soon as they saw me. It’s never that simple with arrests, be they random or planned, that’s why I needed witnesses: I wanted to attract indifferent glances from the very beginning. I, of course, remember that day: March eleventh, 1997, Tuesday, the last day when I entered the Pentagon as an employee hired by the people for whom this building was built.

A lot of time has passed since then.

The eleventh of March 1997, by chance, also turned out to be the day exactly four and a half years after which the world changed, but on that Tuesday, as well as on the next, and on any other day from that previous time, many things, including and the guarding of this main crowded entrance remained a serious matter, without hysterical neurosis. No, the hysteria did not arise because of me. And it didn’t come from outside. I was in a class A uniform, everything clean, ironed, polished and polished to a shine; in addition, I was wearing the order strips, badges, and badges I had earned over thirteen years of service, and in my file there were also nominations for awards. I was thirty-six years old, I was tall, I walked as if I had swallowed an arshin; In general, I met the requirements for a major in the military police of the United States Army in all respects, except that my hair seemed too long and I had not shaved for five days.

At that time, Pentagon security was provided by the Defense Security Service [Department of Defense Security Service (English) Defense Protective Service, or Pentagon Police, is the agency that has, in conjunction with other law enforcement agencies (federal, state, and local), exclusive legal authority over all Pentagon premises and lands adjacent to the building, an area of approximately 275 acres (1.11 sq. km). Further in the text OSMO.]; From a distance of forty yards, I saw a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a lot in my opinion - and wondered if they were all serving in their department or if there were some of our guys working undercover and waiting for me. We would have O Most of the work that requires qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned soldiers, and generally anyone who is in need at the moment; they are masters in these matters. Their whole day's work consists of throwing on an OSMO uniform and waiting for a target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but an army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen men I had never met before.

I continued to walk, a small particle in the vast stream of people rushing through the main lobby to the desired doors. Some of the men and women were in uniform, either the Class A uniform like I was wearing, or the camouflage we'd worn before. Some, clearly from military service, were not in uniform, but in suits or work clothes; some - in all likelihood civilians - carried bags, briefcases or packages that could be used to determine which category their owners belonged to. These people slowed down, stepped aside, shuffled their feet along the floor as the wide stream narrowed, turning into an arrowhead, and then compressed even more tightly; they stretched out in a line or lined up in pairs, while crowds of people outside entered the building. I joined their stream as it took the form of a column one at a time, standing behind a woman with pale, unspoiled hands, and in front of some guy in a shabby suit with shiny elbows. Both of them were civilians - which is what I needed. Indifferent glances. It was approaching noon. The sun in the sky released some warmth into the March air. Spring in Virginia. The cherry trees growing on the other bank were about to wake up and become beautiful in bloom. Everywhere on the tables in the hall lay cheap tickets from national airlines and SLR cameras - everything you need for an excursion trip to the capital.

Standing in the column, I waited. Ahead of me, the OSMO guys were doing what security guards are supposed to do. Four of them had special assignments: two, ready to ask questions, sat at a table with an extended tabletop, and two checked those who had badges and, after checking, directed them with a hand gesture to the open turnstile. Two stood just behind the glass on either side of the door, raising their heads and looking forward, scanning the approaching groups of people with intense gazes. Four stood in the shadows behind the turnstiles; they milled around aimlessly and chattered about something. All ten were armed.

It was these four behind the turnstiles that worried me. Back in 1997, it was quite clear that the security staff was clearly overstaffed compared to the level of threat that existed at that time, but to see four guards on duty doing absolutely nothing was in any case unusual. Complying with most of the orders given at least created the illusion that the redundant security personnel were doing something. But these four definitely had no responsibilities and were not responsible for anything. I craned my neck, raising my head as high as possible, and tried to see their shoes. Shoes can tell a lot. Undercover workers often neglect this aspect of their image, especially if they are around people in uniform. The security service played mainly the role of the police, and this circumstance fully influenced the choice of shoes. The guards would love to wear the big, comfortable shoes that cops wear. Undercover Warrant Officers from the Military Police may wear their own shoes, which also have some differences.

But I couldn’t see the shoes on their feet. It was too dark inside, and they were standing far away.

The column moved forward, slowly shuffling along the floor, at a pace that was considered quite normal before the day of 9/11. No angry impatience, no frustration over wasted time in the lobby, no fear. The woman in front of me was wearing perfume. I could smell the scent coming from her neck. I liked the perfume. Two guys standing behind the glass spotted me about ten yards away. Their gaze, moving from the woman standing in front, settled on me and, lingering a little longer than necessary, moved on to the guy standing behind.

And then their eyes turned back to me. Both guards openly examined me for four or five seconds, first from top to bottom, then back, then from left to right, and then from right to left; after that I shuffled forward, but their attentive glances followed me. They didn't say a word to each other. They didn’t say anything to any of the nearby guards. No warning, no caution. Two possible explanations. One thing that was most appropriate was that they had not seen me before. Or maybe I stood out in the column because I was taller and larger than everyone else within a radius of about a hundred yards. Or perhaps because I was wearing major oak leaves and order bars indicating participation in serious affairs, among which was the Silver Star medal [The Silver Star medal is a significant American military award. It is awarded to military personnel of all branches of the military for courage shown during combat operations.], and I looked as if I had just jumped off a poster ... but only my hair and beard made me look like a caveman, and this visual dissonance may have appeared reason enough to give me a second, lingering glance out of pure interest. Guard duty can be boring, but looking at something unusual is always pleasing to the eye.

The second thing, which was most inappropriate for me, was that they probably convinced themselves that some expected event had probably already happened and that everything was going strictly according to plan. It was as if they had already prepared, studied the photographs and were now saying to themselves: Well, he's here just in time, so now we'll just wait two more minutes for him to come inside and then we'll show him.

And all because they were waiting for me, and I showed up on time. I had an appointment at twelve o'clock, and had already agreed on the issues that I had to discuss with a certain colonel, whose office was on the third floor of ring C, and I was sure that I would never get there. Going head-on for an inevitable arrest is clearly a stupid tactic, but sometimes, if you want to know if the stove is warm, the only way to find out is to touch it.

Jack Reacher, or The Case

In memory of David Thompson (1971–2010), an excellent bookseller and good friend

A lot of time has passed since then.

At the time, Pentagon security was provided by the Defense Security Service; From a distance of forty yards, I saw a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a lot in my opinion - and wondered if they were all serving in their department or if there were some of our guys working undercover and waiting for me. In our country, most of the work that requires qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned soldiers, and generally anyone who is in need at the moment; they are masters in these matters. Their whole day's work consists of throwing on an OSMO uniform and waiting for a target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but an army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen men I had never met before.

The knife was solid, with a sharp blade, and the killing blow was powerful, confident and fast.

Turning to the doctor, Devereux said:

“We need to look at her wrists and ankles.”

The doctor responded with a gesture meaning: everything is at your service.

Devereaux took Chapman's left hand, and I took my right. The bones of her wrist were light and graceful. There were no abrasions on the leather. No sign of rope. But there was some kind of mark on the wrist, left from no one knows why. It was a strip two inches wide, and the color seemed a little bluer than the rest of the skin. A little more blue. Almost nothing - and yet something was felt. Very slight swelling compared to the rest of the forearm. There was definitely a bulge there. The exact opposite of compression.

I looked at Merriam and asked:

-What did you do with the corpse?

“The cause of death was loss of blood flowing through the damaged carotid arteries,” he answered. “I was paid to determine this.”

- How much did they pay you?

– The amount of payment was agreed upon by my predecessor and the district leadership.

“Was your fee more than fifty cents?”

– Why are you asking about this?

- Yes, because your conclusion is not worth more than fifty cents. The cause of death, as they say, is obvious. So you can earn your living if you help us a little.

Deveraux looked at me with interest, I just shrugged. The fact that it was I who approached the doctor with such a proposal, and not she, seemed more reasonable to me. After all, she will have to live in the same city with this guy, but I won’t.

“I don’t like your tone,” Merriam replied.

“And I don’t like the fact that a twenty-seven-year-old woman dies on the street.” So are you going to help us or not? – I asked.

“I’m not a pathologist,” he announced.

“Me too,” I said sharply.

The doctor, after hesitating for a few seconds, sighed and took a step towards the table. Taking the soft and lifeless hand of Janice May Chaplin from my hand, he carefully examined the wrist, and then, carefully running his fingers up and down from the forearm to the elbow, he felt the swelling.

– Do you have any guesses? - he asked.

“I think she was tightly tied.” For wrists and ankles. Bruising and swelling began to appear where the braces were applied, but she did not live long enough for the bruises to become clearly visible. However, the fact that they began to form is beyond doubt. Some blood entered her tissue and remained there, while the remaining blood flowed out of her body. This is why we now see edge-shaped swellings in areas previously compressed by fixators.

- And what could she be tied to?

“Not with ropes,” I replied. “Maybe with straps or adhesive tape.” Something wide and flat. Perhaps silk scarves. Maybe something with a soft lining. In order to hide what was done to her.

Merriam didn't say a word. He walked past me, walked around the table and began examining Chapman's ankles. She was wearing tights when her body was taken to the doctor. The nylon was intact - no tears, no slips.

“They tied her down with something padded.” Maybe with sponge rubber or foam rubber. Something similar. But the fact that she was tied is certain.

Merriam fell silent for a moment.

“It’s possible,” he said thoughtfully after a pause.

– How true is this? – I asked.

– Post-mortem examination has its limitations. To be completely sure, you need a witness who has seen everything with his own eyes.

– How do you explain the complete bleeding?

“Perhaps she suffered from hemophilia.”

– What if we assume that she didn’t suffer?

“Then the only explanation could be bleeding due to gravity.” So she was hanging upside down.

– Fixed in this position with straps or ropes with some kind of soft padding?

“It’s possible,” Merriam said again slowly.

“Turn it,” I asked.

“I want to see the dents and scratches left by contact with the gravel.”

“In that case, you must help me,” he said, which is what I did.

The human body is a machine that heals itself without wasting time. When the skin is compressed, torn, cut, blood immediately rushes to the site of injury, and red blood cells form a crust and a binding fibrous structure in order to connect the edges of the wound, and white blood cells seek out and destroy the bacteria and pathogens that have penetrated it. The process begins literally immediately and continues for many hours, or even days, necessary to restore the skin to its former integrity. Graphically, this process, accompanied by inflammation, can be expressed by a normal distribution curve, the peak of which corresponds to the time of maximum bleeding, formation and thickening of the scab and the fight against infection, which reaches its greatest intensity during this period.

Janice May Chapman's lower back was completely covered with small cuts, as was the skin on her buttocks and upper forearms to the elbows. The cuts were small; they looked like thin cuts made by a sharp instrument, and were surrounded by small indentations in the skin, which, due to the complete bleeding of the body, looked colorless. These cuts, arranged haphazardly and in different directions, seemed to be caused by some kind of freely rotating objects of the same type and size - small and hard, not razor-sharp, but not completely dull either.

Typical scratches left by gravel.

Looking at Merriam, I asked:

– How long ago do you think these injuries could have appeared?

“I can’t imagine,” he replied.

“Children get cuts and scrapes all the time.” You have seen more than one hundred of both.

“Then use your education and guess.”

“Four hours,” said the doctor.

I nodded in agreement. I myself assumed that four hours was exactly the time, judging by the scabs on the cuts, which looked not completely fresh, but not yet fully formed. The process of their creation was continuous, but it suddenly stopped when the victim's throat was cut, the heart stopped, the brain died and the metabolism stopped.

-Have you determined the time of death? – I asked.

“It’s very difficult to do,” Merriam replied. - Almost impossible. Bleeding the body disrupts normal biological processes.

– But can you guess?

“A few hours before she was brought to me.”

- About how much?

- More than four.

“You can see it from the scratches left by the gravel.” So how much more than four?

- Don't know. But no more than twenty-four hours. This is the most accurate I can guess.

– There are no other injuries. No bruises. “No signs of struggle or defense,” I said to myself.

“I agree,” Merriam confirmed my words.

“Perhaps she didn’t resist,” Deveraux suggested. “Perhaps they put a gun to her head.” Or a knife to the throat.

“Perhaps,” I agreed. Turning to Merriam, I asked, “Have you done a vaginal exam?”

- Of course.

“I believe that shortly before her death she had sexual intercourse.”

– Did you find any bruising or lacerations in this area?

“I didn’t find any external damage.”

“Then why did you decide that she was raped?”

– Do you think it was consensual? Would you lie down on gravel to make love?

“Perhaps I would lie down,” I replied. - Depends on who.

“She had a house,” Merriam said. - And it has a bed. Yes, and a car with rear seats. Any of her supposed boyfriends must also have a house and a car. In addition, there is a hotel in the city. And there are plenty of other similar cities. So it is absolutely not necessary to choose the street as a date place.

“Especially in March,” Deveraux supported the doctor.

There was silence in the small room, which continued until Merriam asked:

- So are you finished?

“We’re done,” Devereaux replied.

- Well, then I wish you success, chief. I hope this case goes better than the last two.

Devereux and I walked out onto the driveway leading to the doctor's house, walked past the mailbox, past the plaque with the name on it, onto the sidewalk and stopped next to her car. I understood that she was not going to give me a lift. This is not democracy. At least not now.

– Have you ever seen a rape victim’s pantyhose remain intact? – I asked.

– Do you think this circumstance is important?

- Certainly. After all, when she was attacked, she was on the ground covered with gravel. Her tights should have been torn to shreds.

“Maybe she was forced to take off her clothes first.” Slowly and carefully.

– The gravel scattering has edges. She was wearing something. Something filmed over the head, something filmed through the legs, but she was partially dressed. And after that I changed clothes. This is possible, because she had four hours at her disposal.

“Don’t go too deep into this,” Devereux said.

– Don’t go deeper into what?

“You’re trying to blame the army only for rape.” And you want to blame the murder that happened later on someone else, without connecting these two events.

I didn't answer.

“Don’t try in vain,” Devereux continued. “You come across someone who commits rape, and within the next four hours you come across a completely different person who cuts your throat, is that how you see it?” This is truly an unlucky day, isn't it? The most unlucky one can be. There are just too many accidents. No, this is the work of one person. But he devoted as much time to this as necessary. Without looking at the clock. He had a plan and everything he needed. He had access to her clothes. He made her change clothes. Everything was thought out and planned in advance.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“That’s right,” I agreed. “But they don’t often let you go on leave for the whole day.” Moreover, to a city located close to the place where you train. This is not accepted in the army.

“But Kelham is not just a place where training camps take place, right? My assumptions are not related to those who arrived at the training camp. There are still a couple of battalions stationed there, under arms and replacing each other on a rotation basis. Some leave when others return. And the last one is the weekend. Lots of days off. And in a row, one after another.

I didn't answer.

– You should call your superiors. Report that everything looks bad.

Elizabeth, after a short silence, said:

– I want to ask you a favor.

- And about what?

- Let's go look again at what's left of the car. Perhaps we will be able to find a license plate or serial number. Pellegrino found nothing there.

- Why do you trust me?

- Because you are the son of a Marine. And because you know that if you hide or destroy evidence, I will put you in prison.

“What did Dr. Merriam mean when he wished you that this case would go better than the last two?” – I asked.

The sheriff didn't answer.

– What do you mean “the last two”?

She was silent for a while and when she spoke again, her beautiful face tensed slightly.

– Last year two girls were killed. The same way. Their throats were cut. And I didn't find out anything. Now it's "hanging". Janice Mae Chapman's third in the past nine months.

Without saying anything more, Elizabeth Devereux got into her Caprice and drove away. Making a sharp turn, she headed north, back into the city. Having lost sight of her, I stood for a long time in the place where we parted, and then moved forward. After walking for ten minutes, I passed the last turn of the suburban part of the road, after which the road, having become wider, lay directly in front of me, turning into Main Street - in every sense. The day was beginning. Shops were opening. I saw two cars and a couple of pedestrians. That's all. Carter Crossing was by no means a center of business activity. I was more than sure of this.

I walked along the sidewalk on the right side of the street, past a hardware store, past a pharmacy, a hotel and a cafe; walked past the undeveloped vacant lot located behind them. I didn’t find Devereux’s car near the sheriff’s department building. There wasn't a single police car there at all. Instead, there were two civilian pickup trucks in the parking lot, both looking more than modest, old and dented. In all likelihood, these vehicles were driven by the recorder and the dispatcher. Both of them were probably local, which meant no union membership and no associated privileges. I thought again of my friend Stan Lowry and his desire to find a job through an advertisement. I was sure that he would apply for more significant positions. There is no other way. He had girlfriends—lots of girlfriends and lots of hungry mouths to feed.

When I reached the T-junction, I turned right. In daylight, the road, straight as an arrow, literally spread out in front of me. Narrow shoulders, deep ditches. The traffic lanes reached the railroad crossing and crossed it; there the roadsides and ditches appeared again, and the road itself rushed further forward, but among the trees.

There was a truck parked on my side of the road before the crossing. The windshield is pointed directly at me. A big, blunt-nosed car, brush-painted dark. There are two shaggy guys in the cabin. They stared straight at me. Furry arms covered in blue tattoos, dirty, greasy hair...

Two friends I met last night.

I walked forward, not fast, not slow, just strolling. They were twenty yards away. The distance is quite close, from which you can see faces in detail. Close enough for them to see me too.

This time they got out of the car. The cabin doors opened simultaneously, and the guys jumped to the ground and stood in front of the radiator grille. Same height, same build. Possibly cousins. About six feet two inches tall and weighing two hundred, maybe two hundred and ten pounds. Their arms were long and knobby, and their palms were large and wide. He wears heavy work boots on his feet.

I kept walking. He stopped ten feet short of them. From this distance I could smell their sickening smell. Beer, cigarettes, sweat, dirty clothes.

The guy standing opposite my right hand said:

- Hello, soldier, here we meet again.

Alpha male. Both times he sat in the driver's seat and both times he was the first to start a conversation. It was possible that the second guy was some sort of silent mastermind leader, but that seemed unlikely.

I didn't say anything, of course.

- Where are you going? – the guy asked.

I didn't answer.

“You are going to Kelham,” he said. “Where else can this damn road lead?”

The guy turned and with a wave of his hand made an extravagant gesture, showing the road, its undisturbed straightness and the absence of alternative end points on it. Turning to me again, he said:

“Last night you said you weren't from Kelham. So you lied to us.

“Maybe I live on the other side of town.”

“No,” the guy shook his head. “If you had tried to settle on that side of the city, we would have already visited you.”

- For what purpose?

– Explain to you some facts from life. Different places for different people.

He came a little closer. His partner followed him. The smell became stronger.

“You know what,” I said, “you urgently need to take a bath.” Not necessarily together.

The guy standing opposite my right hand asked:

– What did you do this morning?

“You don’t need to know that,” I answered.

- No, it is necessary.

- No, you really don’t need to know this.

“But this is a free country,” I said.

- Not for people like you.

After this he fell silent; his gaze suddenly changed direction and began to peer intently at something far behind my shoulders. The oldest trick described in many books. Only this time it didn't work. I didn’t turn around, but I heard the sound of a car engine behind me. Far. A large car, it moves almost silently on wide tires for driving on highways. And not a police car, because I didn’t notice any anxiety in the guy’s eyes. And there was nothing to indicate that the car was familiar to him. He had never seen this car before.

I waited, and then she quickly drove past us. Black city car. Exactly urban. Tinted windows. He overcame the rise in front of the rails, crossed the tracks and, again sliding onto a flat road, moved forward. A minute later it became small and barely visible in the atmospheric haze. Soon the car completely disappeared from sight.

An official guest traveling to Kelham. In rank and with prestige.

Or in a panic.

The guy standing opposite my right hand said:

– You need to move back to base. And stay there.

I said nothing.

“I’m not from Kelham,” I said.

The guy took another step forward.

“Liar,” he said.

I took a deep breath and pretended to say something, but instead I headbutted the guy in the face. Without warning. I simply tensed my legs and, moving my body forward above the waist, cracked his nose with my forehead. Bang. It was done wonderfully. And in terms of time, and strength, and the blow itself. All this was present in full. Plus surprise. Nobody expects such a blow. People don't hit things with their heads. Some innate instincts confirm this. A header changes the game. He adds to the confusion of feelings a certain unbalanced intemperance. An unprovoked headbutt is like a short-barreled shotgun suddenly appearing in a knife fight.

The guy fell to the ground as if knocked down. His brain told his knees that it was over; he crouched and then stretched out on his back. Consciousness left him even before he hit the ground. I realized this by the sound with which the back of his head hit the road. No attempts to soften the blow. The head simply fell onto the road with a dull thud. He may have suffered several more injuries to his back in addition to the blow I gave him from the front. Blood flowed profusely from his nose, which had already begun to swell. The human body is a machine that heals itself without wasting time.

The second guy stood still. The silent inspirational leader. Or the leader's servant. He didn't take his eyes off me. Taking a wide step to the left, I hit him with the same headbutt. Bang. Double bluff, or rather, a repetition of the first bluff. The guy was completely unprepared for my blow. He expected me to use my fist and fell to the ground like a sack. I left him lying on his back six feet from his friend. I could use their truck to avoid walking and save time and effort, but I couldn't stand the stench that permeated the cab. Therefore, I walked towards the railway, and when I reached it, I walked along the sleepers in a northerly direction.

I left the railway track a little earlier than the previous night and approached the edge of the area where the wreckage of the deceased car was scattered. Small and light parts were lying at a closer distance from the canvas. Less moment of inertia, I assumed. Kinetic energy is also less. Or maybe there is more air resistance. Or some other reason. But I discovered smaller shards of glass and pieces of metal first. They broke away from the body, flew through the air, fell and stuck into the ground much earlier than the heavy parts, which, having received a higher initial speed, flew further.

It looked like it was a really old car. It exploded from the collision - this was visible, as in the drawing - but some parts became unusable even before the explosion. The underbody was replete with large rusty bald spots; in some places there were simply flakes of rust. All the lower nodes were covered with a thick layer of petrified mud.

An old car that has been used for a long time in cold climates where the roads are salted in winter. But obviously not in Mississippi. This car was constantly transported from place to place - six months here, six months there; this was repeated regularly, and it seemed that there was no time to prepare her for riding in new conditions.

Perhaps this is the car of a soldier.

I walked forward and then turned, trying to determine the main direction of flight of the machine parts. The fragments scattered as if they were being blown away by a stream of air from a fan: first narrow, then wide. I imagined the plate with the registration number - a small rectangle of thin lightweight alloy, torn from three mounting bolts, flying in the night air; Now she loses speed, falls, perhaps turns over several times. I tried to determine the place where she landed, but I could not choose anything suitable - neither inside the area, strewn with parts and details as if carried by an air stream of a fan, nor along its edges, nor outside it. But then, remembering the howling sound made by a rushing train, I expanded the search area. I imagined a plate caught by a tornado accompanying a train: it was picked up and twisted in the air flow, driven forward, and perhaps thrown back.

I finally found it attached to the chrome bumper I saw the night before. The bent bumper, to the surface of which a plate was attached, was stuck into the ground and in this position was half hidden by the bushes. Like a harpoon. I shook it, pulled it out of the ground, turned it face up and saw a plate hanging on one black bolt.

The number was issued in Oregon. Below it I saw a drawing of a salmon. Something like a call to take care of wildlife. Protect the environment. The sign itself was valid and not expired. I remembered the number and “reburied” the bent bumper, sticking it into the previous recess. After that, I went further, to where the bulk of the debris was burning among the trees.

Pellegrino was right. In the bright daylight, it became clear that before its destruction the car was blue, with a slight tint, as if imparted by powder, such as the color of the winter sky. Maybe this was the original color of the car, or maybe it became this way because it faded over time. I found an intact interior element in which the glove box was located. Under the melted plastic trim of one of the doors, I found a stripe applied with an aerosol. Almost nothing else survived. No personal items. No papers. No trash or waste. No hair, no fabric. No ropes, no belts, no tape, no knives.

Notes

Security Service of the Ministry of Defense ( English Defense Protective Service, or Pentagon Police, is the agency that has, in conjunction with other law enforcement agencies (federal, state, and local), exclusive legal authority over all Pentagon premises and lands adjacent to the building, an area of approximately 275 acres (1.11 sq. km). Further in the text OSMO.

The Silver Star medal is a significant American military award. It is awarded to military personnel of all branches of the military for courage shown during combat operations.

Amateur Hour is an American radio and television program, as well as the song of the same name by the group Sparks.

Actions do not make a person guilty if his intentions are not guilty ( lat.).

We are talking about the 75th Ranger Regiment, an elite light infantry unit in the US Army. Reports to the US Army Special Operations Command. Headquarters are located at Fort Benning, Georgia.

“Goodwill” is a system of charity shops that sell used and donated items at bargain prices.

“Beans and Bullets” is the name of a series of posters from the Second World War, calling for the supply of the army and the population with everything they needed.

A bus operated by Greyhound of America, a national bus company serving intercity and transcontinental passenger routes. The company logo features a running greyhound.

In West Point, pc. New York, home of the United States Military Academy.

The Major League is the main association of professional baseball leagues in the United States. The main base (aka “house”) is a pentagonal white rubber tile with an area of 900 square meters. cm.

The balance of probabilities is one of the criteria of proof in Anglo-Saxon law. Interpreted as a probability greater than 50%, or simply as “more likely than not.”

Parris Island is a Marine Corps recruit center and the primary training center for Marines. Located in the state of South Carolina. The name of the center is similar to the name Paris ( English Paris).

Union - a term from the American Civil War, when the Confederacy of the southern states was opposed by the Union of the northern states, which included the state of Mississippi. Nowadays this name is used less frequently, although it has been preserved in modern language in the title of the president’s report “On the State of the Union message.”

Reindeer goats are a device for slaughtering deer. It is a folding table on four legs, the tabletop of which consists of two parts, located in the working position at an angle to each other. A deer is placed and tied into the resulting longitudinal depression, its head hanging over the edge of the goat. In this position, the animal’s throat is cut, collecting the blood in a container placed under the stream of blood.

Jack Reacher - 16

In memory of David Thompson (1971-2010), an excellent bookseller and good friend

A lot of time has passed since then.

At the time, Pentagon security was provided by the Defense Security Service; From a distance of forty yards, I could see a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a lot in my opinion - and wondered if they were all serving in their department or if there were some of our guys working undercover and waiting for me. In our country, most of the work that requires qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned soldiers, and generally anyone who is in need at the moment; they are masters in these matters. Their whole day's work consists of throwing on an OSMO uniform and waiting for a target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but an army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen men I had never met before.