by Kathy Reichs
What was Morse code for SOS?
Mother of God. Who gives a shit?
I kept pounding with pathetically small strokes, desperate to make contact with the outside world.
The shouting intensified. Drew near. I heard staccato commands. Answers. Grinding. Dull thuds.
“Careful!” I bellowed. Or whispered. “I’m okay, just be careful.”
The grinding continued. Separated into the sounds of individual rocks being shifted.
After what seemed a lifetime, a single shaft of light pierced the darkness. More grinding, then bright needles entered from all directions, a kaleidoscope sparkling dust suspended in the air around me.
Finally, a rock lifted and harsh, glorious sunlight poured in. I squinted up, blinded.
Blanton’s face hung above me, skin flushed the color of boiled ham.
“Sit tight. We’ll get you out in a jiff.”
I could only smile.
Three hours later we were on our way back to Delaram. Aqsaee and Rasekh lay in body bags in the back of the vehicle.
When the mortar hit, both marines had been positioned behind the Humvee. Same for Welsted. Though scratched by flying shards, all three escaped injury.
Ironic. Blanton’s need for nicotine saved his ass. He had also been standing clear of the impact zone. The diggers, being young and war-wise, heard the incoming round, understood, and ran.
In other words, I was the only one dumb enough to get hurt. Parked on my knees, I’d been too slow or too green to bolt. The impact of the blast had knocked me into the grave. The debris that fell on me wasn’t that deep. Though it seemed an eternity, I’d been buried roughly ten minutes. The sides of the trench had sheltered me.
“Probably an M252A1,” Welsted speculated as we rattled along. “You get so you can tell the difference. Each mortar sings its own song whistling through the air.”
“Enlightening, but irrelevant. The important point is who the hell fired the damn thing?”
“Impossible to say right now. Probably not friendly fire. Our people would have sent more than one.” Though addressing Blanton’s question, Welsted still spoke to me. “M252s are British-made, but our mortar platoons use them. Army and Marines. If troops are forced to retreat quickly, weapons can be left behind.”
“And insurgents collect them.”
Welsted nodded. “Pick them up and do what any savvy enemy would do.”
“Were we the target?” I asked.
Welsted shrugged a who-knows. “Could be a scout spotted our vehicle and saw a chance to nail it, or it could be a misfire, an incorrect triangulation on a different objective. Could be—”
“Could be a world-class screw-up. I came out here to do a job, not get my nuts blown off.”
Welsted slid a withering glance at Blanton.
“This is a war zone. Any assignment carries risk.”
“Will you investigate where the round came from?” I asked.
“A recon team’s already been dispatched, but I don’t expect much. These launchers only weigh seventy pounds. A two-man crew can fire one and haul ass in no time. And the mortar’s got a range of three and a half miles. That’s a lot of sand to search. I’m surprised the shooters only launched one round. Probably only had one shell.”
“Ain’t the Tali grand.” Blanton shook his head in disgust.
At that moment the Humvee hit a pothole. The sudden lurch sent fire from my ankle to my knee. Welsted noticed me wince.
“You ought to get that treated.”
“I can take care of it.”
“Suit yourself.”
I would. I was embarrassed enough. Thanks to my body armor and helmet, my injuries were limited to cuts and abrasions. But the sprained ankle had forced me to direct the remainder of the disinterment while seated graveside.
Shaken by the blast, the initial diggers had refused to return. Their replacements were equally young, equally strong, but a lot less enthused. The required supervision had been significant.
Twenty minutes after setting out, we reached Delaram and our waiting Blackhawk. Hobbling toward it, I saw the body bags being placed in the cargo hold. I hurried to catch up to Welsted.
“I think the bodies should ride in the main bay,” I said.
“Why?”
“Stowing them in cargo could be interpreted as disrespect. Like transporting a corpse in a car trunk.”
Blanton watched as Welsted ordered the remains moved, but said nothing.
As I was buckling into my harness, the village trio pulled up in a rusted jeep. The tall man and the one with the mole got out and walked toward the chopper. They would travel with us to oversee the autopsy, as per the agreement. I wondered if Uncle Sam was providing round-trip transport, or if the driver would go overland to Bagram to collect them.
I stole glances at the men as we flew. Both sat grim-faced, staring at their hands. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking. Couldn’t even guess.
We made good time but still arrived after sunset. The base glowed as a grid of light in a sea of unending darkness.
I was exhausted and my ankle hurt. Not unbearable, just a dull throb. My body felt gritty and leeched of moisture by the sun and wind.
But still there was work to be done.
“I’ll accompany the remains to the hospital,” Welsted said. “You don’t have to go.”
I wanted to remove my IBA and filthy BDUs, shower, drink a gallon of water, and collapse into bed.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“It’s late. Let’s move.” From Blanton.
Surprised, Welsted and I both turned.
“I can take it from here,” Welsted said.
“Not on your life.”
Blanton strode toward a low-slung, retrofitted jeep and climbed in. I limped after him. When the body bags had been safely transferred to a van, Welsted joined us and told the driver to proceed. The LNs would follow.
“Growlers.” Welsted slapped the side panel through her open window. “Two hundred thousand bucks a pop. Your tax dollars at work.”
If Welsted wanted a shocked reaction, I disappointed her. Hadn’t I read that the army paid six hundred dollars for a toilet seat?
En route, we removed our protective gear. Welsted opined that the fifty-bed facility to which we were headed rivaled any modern hospital stateside.
“The difference is they see fewer gunshot wounds here than back home in Texas.”
Jesus. Where did the woman find the energy for humor? If it was a joke.
The Heathe N. Craig Joint Theater Hospital was located in a well-lit compound on the western edge of the base. The main structure was a squat, tan affair with a half dozen smokestacks pumping on the roof. An Afghan flag hung on a pole beside Old Glory. Both standards looked indifferent to their surroundings.
The van pulled into a covered bay, followed closely by our Growler. Everyone got out. As the body bags were transferred to gurneys, I looked around.
An enormous American flag covered the ceiling above our heads. Vertically stenciled letters spelled out WARRIOR’S WAY on a pillar. Signs with slashed red circles warned of weapons not permitted beyond the doors.
The village overseers arrived in a second Growler. They alighted as the gurneys were rolled into the ER.
The hospital’s interior was so cold I felt goose bumps pucker my flesh. The staff we passed watched with open curiosity, nurses and orderlies in fatigues or scrubs, doctors with surgical caps on their heads and masks half tied around their necks.
Aqsaee and Rasekh were wheeled down a long tiled hallway to a cooler not that different from the one back home at the MCME. They would remain there awaiting my examination.
I glanced at the village delegates, then turned to Welsted.
“It would speed things up tomorrow if a series of X-rays was done on each individual tonight. I need to know what’s inside before I unwrap the shrouds.”
“You could use some serious rack time.”
“We all
could,” I said.
Welsted looked at me a very long moment. “If I’m present, do you trust a radiology tech to shoot your films?”
It was what I would do at home.
“Yes,” I said.
Welsted crossed to the villagers, returned after a brief exchange.
“They’re good with that. As long as we leave the bodies facing Mecca.”
“I can stay,” I said.
Welsted looked at her watch. “You call it a day.” To everyone. “That’s a wrap. We’ll reconvene here at oh-seven-hundred hours.”
Back at my B-hut, I dumped my IBA, removed my outerwear, and peeled off my sock. My ankle was a tequila sunrise of mottled flesh and abraded skin.
I knew I should ice down the injury. Hadn’t the time to worry about swelling. Telling myself it could have been a whole lot worse, I changed to jeans and a sweatshirt, tied my boot as tightly as I could bear, and headed out, hoping I wasn’t too late.
At 2200 hours the base was as busy as during the day. The roads rumbled with Humvees, pickups, jeeps, and bikes. Pedestrians hurried to or from meals, USO centers, or showers. Radio towers and light stanchions flickered against the night sky.
The air was cool, the wind fresh off the mountains. Insects swarmed the streetlamps overhead.
Asking directions, I made my way to a two-story yellow structure with a banner saying LIGHTHOUSE above its front door. A few patrons lingered outside, cigarette tips glowing orange in the dark.
“Mom! Mom, here!”
I looked up.
Katy was waving at me from the second-floor terrace.
“Come on up!”
Yes! Oh, yes!
Ankle forgotten, I beelined through the door and up the stairs.
The place was packed, only one free table. I was worming toward it when Katy swooped in, beaming, arms spread wide.
As we hugged, I was astounded by my daughter’s strength. By the new hardness of her biceps.
“Holy fuck, Mom. You really are here.”
“I really am.”
“I went by your B-hut, but you were out.”
“Yeah,” was all I said.
A Marine lance corporal approached the empty table behind us. A look from Katy and he reversed course. We both sat.
“Something wrong with your foot?”
“Pulled a muscle.”
“Wuss.”
“Right. I got your note. Did Scott Blanton contact you?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Katy had cut her hair very short. Not required, but my daughter has never been a fan of half measures.
“I got your e-mails.”
“And didn’t reply?”
“Our unit’s been outside the berm. Just got back.”
“Doing what?” Casual as hell.
“Can’t say. You’re cool to that. Besides, we both know how you get.”
“How I get?”
Katy bugged her eyes, opened her mouth, and slapped her cheeks with her palms. “Crazoid!”
“I do not get crazoid.”
“Fine. But you worry too much.”
“Or you don’t worry enough.” The fatigue. The ankle. I regretted the words as soon as they were out.
Katy’s jaw set.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a long day.”
“I’m doing my job, Mom, same as you do yours. You came here. I came here. We both knew we weren’t heading to Club Med.”
“You’re right. Crazoid. I’m sorry.”
Katy’s expression softened.
“Don’t be sorry. I’d be crushed if you didn’t worry. Who else will do it for me?”
We ordered snacks and coffee strong enough to give a pachyderm the shakes. Ongoing conversation was confined to safe subjects. Happenings back in Charlotte. Pete’s upcoming wedding to Summer.
Before long Katy put her hand on mine.
“Early day tomorrow. And you look like you’re flying on fumes.”
“I am. And I also have to be up at dawn.”
I paid the bill. We rose. Katy turned to go. Turned back, mischief in her eyes.
“And thanks.”
“For what?” I had no idea.
“For not dissing my hair.”
When Katy left, a good chunk of my heart went with her. But I would see her again soon.
Walking through the dark, I debated. Shower? Hit the DFAC for more food and ice to pack my ankle?
Screw it.
Back at the B-hut, I set my iPhone alarm, removed my jeans, and slipped into bed.
I drifted off to the sound of engines screaming overhead.
I AWOKE TO the sound of engines screaming overhead.
My ankle was better but my head throbbed, a combination of jet lag, lack of proper dinner, and thin desert air.
I dressed hurriedly and checked e-mail. Nothing from Larabee. Eight days since the girl had been found. I feared my hit-and-run case was rapidly cooling.
At the DFAC, I scored eggs and hash browns, poured coffee, and found an empty table. I’d barely started eating when Blanton slumped into the chair opposite, a dark crescent under each of his eyes.
“Another day in paradise.”
Bits of bacon clung to the stubble above Blanton’s lip. I considered telling him. Didn’t.
“Sleep well?”
Blanton pulled down a lower lid to expose the bloodshot sclera. “Like a baby.”
“That going to be a problem, Mr. Blanton? Lots of detail work today.”
“By you, not me.”
“I’ll need everything documented.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, my dear.” Blanton smiled, saluted, and headed off.
As I finished my coffee, I considered. Did this jerk actually make Slidell look good? My mug hit the tray. No. But the gap was closing.
Welsted and the village delegates were already at the hospital when I arrived.
“The remains have been X-rayed.” Welsted filled me in as we walked to the room we’d been assigned. “Shall I have them brought here?”
“Please. Where are the films?”
“On one of the gurneys.”
When she’d gone I looked around.
White tiles, two spare gurneys, a floor-stand surgical light, portable illuminator boxes, two deep-basin steel sinks with counter, a small collection of cutting tools, calipers, and a magnifying lens. Not what I had in Charlotte or Montreal, but it would do.
Blanton joined us as an orderly wheeled the remains through the door and, without comment, began setting up his camera equipment. The two villagers observed, bodies tense, eyes never resting. Each looked jumpy enough to need pharmaceuticals.
I crossed to Welsted and spoke in a whisper. “It might be better if they watched from next door.” I tipped my head toward an observation window in the wall above the sinks.
“I’ll go with them,” Welsted offered.
Moments later a light went on and the three appeared on the far side of the glass.
Nodding encouragement to them, I slipped Rasekh’s X-rays from their envelope and popped them onto light boxes.
As I moved from plate to plate, flicking switches, my heart sank.
Rasekh had been aboveground when the mortar hit. We’d spent close to an hour re-excavating the body bag from under fallen soil and rock. All night I’d worried that the avalanche had damaged the bones.
I studied the remains glowing white inside the shroud. The long bones looked reasonably intact, but the torso was a jumble and the skull was crushed. Nothing was articulated. Rasekh was in much worse shape than I’d feared.
I sent a confident smile toward the faces in the window. Confidence I didn’t feel.
“You ready?” To Blanton, as I blew into a latex glove.
“All systems go.”
Blanton started the camcorder. I pulled out my iPhone and dictated the time, date, place, and names of those present. Then I masked.
As I unzipped Rasekh’s bag, a musty, earthy sm
ell wafted out. With cautious fingers, I unwound the shroud.
In a year, Mother Nature had worked her inevitable magic. Some remnants of ligament remained, the odd band that had once connected phalanges, a swatch that had once covered a joint capsule. Otherwise, the flesh was gone.
But what time and the desert had left, the landslide had demolished in seconds.
No part of Abdul Khalik Rasekh’s skull or lower jaw measured more then five square centimeters, six max. I recognized an orbital ridge, a sliver of zygomatic arch, a mastoid process, a mandibular condyle, isolated teeth.
The postcranial skeleton had fared little better. While the femora and tibiae were whole, the rest of the leg bones were badly fractured. The pelvis was shattered.
The chest and upper limbs had taken the worst beating. The arm bones, clavicles, scapulae, sternum, vertebrae, and ribs were virtually pulverized.
Which wasn’t good.
Marines are taught to aim for the center of mass on a target. Picture a human torso. Draw a line nipple to nipple, then another from each nipple to the throat. Any round striking this area will cause incapacitation due to paralysis, shock, or death.
The Triangle of Death.
Due either to the impact of the bullets or to the barrage of falling debris, Rasekh’s triangle had been turned into hamburger.
Deep breath. Nod at the observers.
I began picking out recognizable elements and arranging them in a macabre sort of skeleton. As I positioned each fragment, I checked for evidence of gunshot trauma.
To keep focused, I ran through some basics in my head.
Gunshot wounds are categorized according to the distance between the shooter and the victim. A contact GSW, in which the gun is pressed to the flesh, can leave soot, a muzzle imprint, or even a laceration due to the effect of the bullet’s propulsive gases. An intermediate GSW, in which the gun is fired at close range, can leave a zone of stippling, called a powder tattoo. A distance GSW is one in which the range of powder tattooing is exceeded.
But all that was irrelevant. There was no flesh. And witness statements already placed Gross approximately ten to fifteen meters from Aqsaee and Rasekh.
And I was seeing zip.
“What kind of weapon did Gross fire?” I asked. I remembered the NCIS file, but was confirming essential facts.
