Escape from the Pentagon

By Roy F. Sullivan

Following their helicopter evacuation during the fall of Phnom Penh to the Khmer Rouge communists, Sam Bristol and his bride, Beth, returned home to the United States. Following an excruciating illness, Beth dies, leaving Bristol a sad, disgruntled Army colonel assigned to a sensitive position in the Pentagon. Sams work, particularly his writing a highly classified nuclear manual, makes him the prime target of several foreign attempts, led by two voluptuous females, to filch the manual from the distraught widower. Sam is duped, eventually realizing the depth of his near-treasonous dilemma, and asks for agency assistance to extricate him. How the agency plan enables his escape from the Pentagon--requiring vast personal changes in Sam--and an awesome climax vastly different from his previous flight from Phnom Penh. Can he ever revert to his old self after this latest escape?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456746612

Roy F. Sullivan

Author Roy Sullivan, retired from the Army and State Department, lives in the Texas Hill Country; locale of this book, "The Red Bra and Panties Murders.” Aside from lingerie, he also writes about Texas history.

Book preview

Prologue-November

The chapel at Fort Myer, Virginia, is conveniently close to highway 50, the concrete and asphalt snake hurrying to the north, anxious to be across the Potomac River and safely into the District of Columbia.

Today’s summer weather was typical Northern Virginia, hot and humid as a deep-south cotton field. The outside temperature reflected in the strained faces of the drivers along highway 50, who looked as if they’d just been released from a feisty five-hour town hall debate.

Turn left, she snapped, as if I didn’t know where to turn. The taut command reinforced her role as my demanding, yet statuesque and blonde boss sitting in the suicide seat of the van I steered toward the Army’s Fort Myer Henry Gate alongside route 50.

And be nice to the military policeman, she added, her hand steadying my foam cup of coffee as I braked at the MP’s outstretched hand. Starched khakis, polished boots—even a silken neck scarf in MP green—he looked as uncomfortable as I felt. My name is Tex…sort of. I’ll explain that in just a minute.

Lips pursed, I tried to grin at Sue Reevers, my pert (five foot two by my reckoning) caretaker and coffee provider. To sweeten the deal, she delicately balanced one of her homemade cinnamon bear claws on the edge of my foam cup. Sue’s bear claws are famous throughout her division of the agency (its acronym begins with C, and it’s not the chamber of commerce). Like her, I suspect, the bear claws are ingeniously sweet without being sticky. A mighty talented, as well as fetching lady.

I tried the smile again, this time at the military policeman studying our van bearing Army and Air Force Exchange Service markings. The magnetic decals touting AAFES were as phony as the identification card dangling from my sweating blue coverall-clad neck.

Sue leaned over me, her beatific smile almost causing the MP to drop his clipboard. I’ve an appointment with your post-exchange manager, she puckered her lips, studying her watch. In ten minutes, she added wistfully, flashing another knockout smile.

Handing me a temporary pass to place in the windshield, the MP grinned back at her. Yes, ma’am. Welcome to Fort Myer. With that he waved us through the gate onto Sheridan Avenue without a vehicle search or even a second glance. He probably would have given her the keys to post headquarters had she asked.

Fort Myer’s big, circular modernistic hewn-stone chapel, our objective despite the AAFES trappings and announced—but imaginary—appointment with the PX manager, is directly across the street from the post exchange mall containing the usual PX, commissary, snack bar and concessionaires. I swung into the massive PX parking lot, getting as close to the chapel side as I could. Then I backed the van into an empty perimeter space so the agency technicians in the back of the van with their cameras, pick-up antennae and recorders could have a clear shot at the chapel’s elaborate carved stone entrance.

Sam, Joe and Mosby, the three techs in the back of the van, busily adjusted headsets, spilling their coffees in unison. After snarls and quick wipe-ups, they assembled, aimed and tuned their delicate instruments toward the main door of the chapel.

Well done, Tex, Sue said, using my agency handle. I may even mention your driving prowess and willing attitude in my dispatches, she struggled to turn sideways to slide out the passenger seat alongside me.

Reverently, I kissed the hem of her tailored skirt as she turned to the rear to join the techs.

I felt that, she warned in her best supervisory voice, trying not to giggle. In the back of the van S, J and M already wore looks of patient expectancy while waiting for the show, in this case the parade of funeral mourners to begin across the street at the chapel.

As Sue settled into her reserved chair behind the driver’s seat, she turned and whispered into my ear. "Remember. Don’t leave this van under any circumstance.

Don’t even unbuckle your seat belt, she cooed. Or unlock that door. If you do, I’ll have to shoot you. Then she bit my ear lobe, hard.

And I’m an expert shot with the Glock. She tapped her hidden underarm holster ominously.

Sighing I slouched down in the driver’s seat as far as I could and repeated her rhythm, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Our job—rather their job because I was plainly excess baggage—was to observe and record the people attending a memorial service across the street at the chapel. It was supposed to begin in one hour, but Sue and her techs wanted to see and identify early shows as well as any late arrivals.

Why was I there? Given the choice, I much prefer driving a fake AAFES van containing lovely Sue and a bunch of smelly techs than continue under Northern Virginia house arrest. Lonely, boring, debilitating, nothing–to-read, not-even-TV, house arrest.

I’m on probation, to put it mildly. However Sue and her bosses concluded I could be handy in identifying the memorial service attendees. My role was akin to a pet pooch being walked outside on a short leash. So there I was, driving the van.

They have good reason to think I could identify some of the mourners.

The memorial service across the street at the Fort Myer chapel is for me.

A memorial service for me, not Tex. My real name is Sam Briscoe. Formerly colonel (P) (for promotable) Samuel A. Briscoe, Regular Army, doctor of philosophy, and man-about-towns (Washington, DC, and Northern Virginia). I emphasize the key word formerly.

Sure, I admit to more than a fleeting curiosity about who was coming to this memorial service to bid Sam Briscoe fond farewell. In several cases, I knew the farewells would be sighs of relief. And I knew there would be plenty of sympathy for my recent bride, now a widow. A knockout, she’d be demurely dressed in black if and when she showed up across the street at the chapel door.

My former self, Sam Briscoe, charming, black-haired, green eyed, tallish guy, is gone. Officially. The agency said so. Now I’m nondescript Tex, driving a loaded AAFES vehicle badly needing a wash. The van, not me.

Since the back of the van was filled with bodies and equipment, I had to peer in the driver’s outside mirror to see the big burnished door of the chapel across the street.

Who’s that? Sue purred in my still-numb ear.

I squinted in the mirror. Colonel John Forsythe. I used to play poker with him on Wednesday nights. AA I added as a tease.

Alcoholics…? she began, pulling my ear away from the mirror. I didn’t see that in your file.

No, I smirked, trying to ease my tension.

Army Allowing. I adjusted the rearview mirror fractionally, wondering if beautiful Sue Reevers would be as compelling were our circumstances different. I sighed.

Unknown personnel just drove up in a big green Mercedes, one of the techs announced, looking through the one-way window with binoculars at the newly arrived monster sedan.

Get a shot of that license tag, Sue instructed, squirming back toward the van’s one-way side viewing-window. She punched me. Know that car?

Nope, I admitted. I have to see a face.

And here comes a Maryland telephone company van hustling into the church lot, another tech aimed a camera at the newcomer. Out of place over here in Virginia, ain’t he?

Get the license number, Sue repeated needlessly. Looking at me, Any idea who they are?

Sorry, I shook my head, staring at the other van as it made a wide turn into a space several parking aisles away.

I slid deeper into the driver’s seat. I was not supposed to be seen by anyone other than my passengers. Only Sue knew I was the recently departed Colonel Sam Briscoe. The techs presumed I was Tex the ragman, the role in which I seemed to be excelling. The agency calls the techs’ ignorance of my true identity required by their lack of need to know.

There’s General Treffer from the Pentagon going into the service. She cranked her head around to me, blue eyes questioning. I’m impressed! You… she lowered her voice to a whisper must have had several talents. Or is the general just sentimental about one of his former worker-bees?

This time I volunteered before being asked. And the next four guys in uniform entering the chapel worked in my inspection division there, I whispered in kind.

Here comes a big sedan, maybe with the widow, someone called out while focusing a camera.

I couldn’t tell who in the crowded van whistled first as Stephanie, my widow (or was she technically still my wife since I’m alive?) stepped out of a dark blue town car and quickly entered the chapel without waiting for her female companion.

That’s Stephanie, all right, I thought. Long legs, strong stride, emanating independence and sensuality. In black, which she seldom wore, she exuded the kind of aura that interrupts conversations and makes guys stare and mumble aloud. Some even cross themselves.

I’m impressed, Sue said softly. Obviously a strong lady as well as a beautiful one.

She paused as she spotted Lois getting out the other side of Stephanie’s Lincoln. Who’s that?

You know, I chided. Lois Steele, my State Department buddy. Your guys have been watching her for months. Ever since that accident.

Her too-fast response gave Sue away. Never heard of her, Tex.

Instead of arguing, I watched Stephanie through the mirror, catching a familiar flash of sunlight off her auburn hair as she hurried inside for my memorial service. Even the black veil couldn’t hide that lustrous sheen.

I wiped a moist eye with my hand. Sue spotted it, seeing it in the front seat mirror. Pretty tough, Tex, she commiserated softly.

Take a good look, cowboy, ‘cause you won’t be seeing your wife again! Ever!

Chapter 1

The previous April had been too cold for the cherry trees circling Washington’s tidal basin to blossom on time. They seldom do. Due to the unexpected chilly weather, shivering tourists were as rare as the trees’ famous white blossoms.

Across the Potomac at the Pentagon concourse, a shopping mall inside the lower floor of the sprawling building, Colonel Sam Briscoe, U.S. Army, hesitated in front of the window at Brentano’s bookstore, staring at a just released book touting gold investing.

My own book, I thought to myself with some satisfaction, is due out later this month, and will be advertised, stocked, and sold by this prestigious bookstore. My tome is about guerrilla cavalry operations west of the Mississippi during the Civil War, one of my favorite studies, post-military academy, and also the guts of my doctoral dissertation.

Maybe not relevant, but that dissertation gave me something to focus on during the dismal gray days while Beth, my cherished wife, was slowly dying from cervical cancer. It had been more than just another scholarly paper about a microcosm of history. It had been my life buoy in a flood of personal, raw misery. I blinked at the memory.

A young, attractive female employee behind the Brentano bookshop window excitedly motioned to me.

I’m on lunch break, I said aloud, to remind myself of the 1300 hours office appointment with my immediate and new boss of the Inspections Division, Office of the Inspector General of the Army, where I work. The beckoning female looked like a studious, round-spectacled Britney. I grinned at her as I pried-open the heavy glass door and stepped in.

Well, just for a minute, I promised myself.

The girl looked even more like Britney up close. Colonel Briscoe? her lips pouted as they hit the question mark.

Yes, ma’am? I looked into her contact layered eyes. You must have pretty good corrected vision to read my name tag at 40 paces. I smiled at her near-sighted focus. How do you do it?

Ms. Smathers gave me a detailed description of you, she explained over her shoulder, hustling me back toward the manager’s office.

If I recall correctly, she paused, turning and facing me, six foot something, broad shoulders, black hair, blue eyes, and a beguiling smile for the ladies.

Britney—probably not her real name—paused to see if I liked her teasing description. Sure I did, looking foolish to prove it.

I straightened my black uniform tie. I barely knew Ms. Smathers, the Brentanos book store manager, except to nod at her through the big plate glass window looking onto the Pentagon concourse’s bustling military and civilian crowds.

Sit down, Colonel. Smathers watched me over half-glasses. Make yourself comfortable while Britney gets us a cup of decent coffee. A shake of Smather’s head emphasized to Britney—who for some reason seemed to be nudging my coat pocket—the coffee had better be good.

I only have a moment, ma’am. My new boss is awaiting me upstairs. I nodded toward the retreating coffee-bearer. Is Britney really her name?

Smathers scooted her chair toward me and crossed long, silky legs. Ignoring my question, she snapped, It’s about your book signing session with us on the twelfth, Colonel. We expect to receive the first copies of your illustrious work from the publisher next week.

She drew a deep breath as if a strap somewhere was too tight. So you and I need to go over a few details to make sure the book-signing does your incredible book justice.

My jaw dropped. You read it?

The tight smile piqued. The publisher’s advances, of course. She sniffed, already bored with me or my questions. Or both.

I suggest you be in full uniform, as you are today. And wear all your medals or ribbons, whatever, of course. She looked at me appraisingly, as if I was beef on the hoof entering an empty auction ring.

How long will the book-signing take, ma’am?

Usually four hours. If there are enough buyers lined up for you, naturally we’ll go into the evening.

Then I’d better ask my boss for the whole day off as leave of absence. I rubbed my nose to set my memory calendar in motion.

Her gesture stopped in midair. Why would you do that? It’s not as if you were off in New York or somewhere.

Because I’ll be off-duty, Ms. Smathers. And I can’t wear my uniform to the book signing. It’s not ethical. The book is personal business, not the Army’s.

Irritated, she lit a cigarette with a gold Dunhill and blew smoke at the ceiling. I do wish you’d call me Marla. ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Ms. Smathers’ make me feel so … maternal. She re-crossed her legs, looking for my reaction. I tried not to blink.

Fine, Marla. I really must get upstairs. Rain check on the coffee?

Ethical, huh? Quickly she sat up straight in her leather covered executive chair. Didn’t know we still had boy scouts in this building!

I anticipated her next move would be to airily wave me out the closed polished teak door.

Since you’re so damned puritan, maybe I should take advantage of your passionless objectivity, she whispered huskily, leaning forward, unblinking eyes on me.

"I’d appreciate your unvarnished answer to this question, which I’m only asking once. So pay attention, Colonel.

Do you think I need implants?

She peered inquiringly at me over the edge of her blouse, which she deftly had raised so I plainly could see the objects in question.

–

My reception on the E ring of the Pentagon was quite different from Brentanos’. Newly promoted Brigadier General Maxwell Adcock III just had been assigned as Chief of the Inspections Division, where I hung my hat. He was my new, unknown, and, from his glare, unhappy boss.

I’ve been going over your inspection plan for this special nuclear unit at Fort Bragg, he began without returning my salute, offering a hand across the big walnut GSA desk at which he sat or pointing me toward a chair.

He stared at my nametag for confirmation. Frankly, Briscoe, I don’t get it. This sounds like the old-fashioned compliance-type inspection I thought we Inspectors General abandoned years ago.

I breathed deeply, catching a whiff of Marla’s lingering cologne. You’re right, General. The first two days of the inspection of this particular unit are to afford our inspection team an overview of the unit before they begin the nitty-gritty of the nuclear proficiency examination.

I fidgeted with my academy ring. New, glaring bosses usually have that effect. Then I swallowed and started afresh. If we don’t begin these technical inspections this way, our inspectors get lost in the fog. They sometimes forget they’re in a real, live unit and allow themselves to be overcome by the detail work of a nuclear proficiency inspection.

Adcock drummed his fingers on the top of the desk glass. As he did, I hoped his sense of smell wasn’t as acute as his displeasure.

A lanky six-footer just promoted from commanding a brigade at Fort Bragg, he was clearly more comfortable doing the airborne shuffle around a cinder track than shuffling papers here in the Pentagon. And—to boot—in the Office of the Army Inspector General.

Doesn’t it beat all? his pained expression seemed to say.