Chapter 6 - The General's Secret
Mercer didn't move.
For several seconds, the only sound inside the Freightliner was the faint hiss from Emma's phone speaker.
Then he said, “That's a lie.”
Peter Lang laughed nervously.
“No, General. It's the truth.”
Mercer's face became stone.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere I've stayed alive for twenty-four years.”
“You're officially dead.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because dead men don't testify.”
Grant stepped closer.
“Mr. Lang, this is Special Agent Leah Grant. We can arrange protection.”
“No.”
“If you have evidence—”
“I called Carter.”
“Why him?”
“Because he's the only one who never lied about Blackwood.”
Mercer's jaw flexed.
I watched him closely.
The man had saluted me.
Praised me.
Called me a hero.
But Blackwood had taught me something about trust.
You don't trust words when bullets are flying.
You trust what people do next.
“Peter,” I said, “tell me what happened.”
“I was running secondary communications. Voss ordered me to prepare the new extraction grid.”
“On whose authority?”
Silence.
“Peter?”
“Lieutenant Mercer's.”
Emma stared at the general.
Mercer stepped forward.
“I was unconscious before the extraction change.”
“Not the first change.”
Mercer frowned.
“What first change?”
Lang exhaled.
“That's what nobody understood.”
He explained.
The unit had originally been scheduled to extract at Site Raven.
Hours before the crash, a message had redirected the supporting aircraft to Site Blackwood.
That message carried Mercer's authentication code.
Then, after the crash, another altered transmission sent rescue forces away from the team's actual position.
The second change used Voss's authentication.
Two changes.
Two officers.
One mission turned into a disaster.
“I never sent the first order,” Mercer said.
“I know.”
Mercer went still.
“What?”
Lang's voice became quieter.
“Your code was stolen.”
“By Voss?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I don't know.”
Mercer looked almost angry enough to crush the phone.
“You've had twenty-seven years to figure this out.”
“I spent most of them trying to stay alive.”
I stepped in.
“Why fake your death?”
“Because in 2002, someone came to my house.”
“What did they want?”
“The backup communications book.”
“Did you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it now?”
Lang paused.
“Safe.”
Grant asked, “Can you meet us?”
“No.”
“Then we cannot protect you.”
“You can't protect me from people inside your own system.”
Mercer snapped.
“This isn't 1999.”
“No,” Lang said. “That's exactly why I'm calling.”
The line went silent for several seconds.
Then Lang said something that changed everything.
“Someone else knows.”
“Who?” I asked.
“James Holloway's sister.”
Sarah.
Emma's eyes widened.
“She contacted me three years ago.”
“Why?”
“She found something inside James's glove.”
I looked at Mercer.
The carbon copies.
“Where is she?”
“Iowa.”
“Is she safe?”
“Not anymore.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Because she saw your ceremony video.”
That made no sense.
“So?”
“And she posted a comment.”
Emma was already searching.
“What did it say?”
Lang answered.
“She wrote, ‘My brother knew the truck driver was telling the truth.’”
Grant swore.
“Public account?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“I called her thirty minutes ago. No answer.”
Grant turned away and began making calls.
I climbed toward the driver's seat.
Emma grabbed my arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Iowa.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You've been awake almost thirty hours.”
“I'll sleep when somebody else drives.”
“I'll drive.”
“You've never driven a semi.”
“I meant a car.”
Mercer spoke from behind us.
“I'll arrange aircraft transportation.”
I turned.
“No.”
His expression tightened.
“You think I changed those coordinates?”
“I think somebody used your code.”
“That's not what I asked.”
I looked at him.
For the first time since he saluted me, I saw the young lieutenant again.
Scared.
Desperate to be believed.
“I don't know what I think.”
That hurt him.
I could see it.
“Fair enough.”
He walked toward the truck door.
“General,” Emma said.
Mercer stopped.
“If somebody used your code, who could access it?”
“Very few people.”
“Voss?”
“Yes.”
“Lang?”
“Possibly.”
“My father?”
“No.”
“Who else?”
Mercer stared outside.
“Our operations commander.”
“Name?”
He hesitated.
“Colonel Warren Pike.”
I remembered Pike.
Everyone did.
Commanding presence.
Silver hair even at forty.
A man who talked about loyalty constantly.
He had visited me once in the hospital.
Put his hand on my shoulder.
Told me good soldiers sometimes had to accept responsibility for ugly outcomes.
He retired in 2004.
Then became a defense contractor.
Then a television military analyst.
He'd died eight years ago.
“Pike's dead,” I said.
Mercer nodded.
Emma frowned.
“Then why hesitate?”
Mercer looked at her.
“Because Adrian Voss married Pike's daughter.”
Everything suddenly became clearer.
Voss hadn't just been a subordinate.
He had been family.
A young ambitious captain married to his commander's daughter.
Protected.
Connected.
Untouchable.
Grant returned.
“Local police are heading to Sarah Bennett's address.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Everyone froze.
I answered.
“Carter.”
No response.
Then breathing.
“Who is this?”
A woman whispered.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sarah Bennett.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Are you safe?”
“No.”
I felt Emma step closer.
Sarah was crying.
“Someone came to my house.”
“Where are you now?”
“I got out through the back.”
“Call police.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
“No. You don't understand.”
“What?”
“They weren't burglars.”
“How do you know?”
“They showed identification.”
Grant leaned toward the phone.
“What kind?”
“Federal.”
Grant's face changed.
“What agency?”
“I couldn't see. I panicked.”
“What did they ask for?”
“My brother's baseball glove.”
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
Relief.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “Do not give it to anyone unless Agent Grant verifies them.”
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes?”
“I opened it.”
My heart jumped.
“The lining?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“Paper.”
“What does it say?”
“I don't understand most of it.”
“Read anything you can.”
Paper rustled.
Then Sarah read a date.
A frequency.
Coordinates.
And finally a handwritten sentence.
Her voice shook.
“‘Pike knows Voss changed second grid to cover first unauthorized redirect.’”
Mercer closed his eyes.
There it was.
Not complete proof.
But a path.
Sarah kept reading.
“There's another sentence.”
“What?”
“‘Mercer not involved. Code cloned.’”
The general's eyes opened.
Emma exhaled.
I looked at him.
“I guess I owe you an apology.”
Mercer shook his head.
“Not yet.”
Sarah continued.
“There's one more thing.”
“What?”
“James wrote a name.”
“Whose?”
“He wrote... ‘Ask Lang who got paid.’”
The phone went silent.
I looked at the screen.
“Sarah?”
Nothing.
“Sarah!”
The call ended.
Grant immediately dialed back.
No answer.
Mercer looked toward me.
Then Emma whispered the thought we were all having.
“If Holloway trusted Lang, why would he write that?”
I looked at my daughter.
Because maybe Peter Lang hadn't called to help us.
May you like
Maybe he called because after twenty-seven years, the evidence was finally moving.
And he needed to know exactly how much we knew.
