by Kathy Reichs
And then we waited.
I dozed on and off, mostly sat listlessly watching game after game.
Wisconsin lost by a field goal to Minnesota. Badgers and Gophers? Really?
Oklahoma hammered the TCU Horned Frogs.
Okay. Maybe small furry mammals didn’t make such bad totems.
The room grew thick with the smell of sweat, mildew, and dusty canvas. With the scent of exhaustion and fear.
At one point those around me began gathering their gear. Mensforth reappeared and told me to stay put. It wasn’t my flight. Mine was delayed.
Just past four, Mensforth finally led me onto a bus crammed with marines. Fifteen minutes later, we were standing on the tarmac outside a plane that looked as if it had been designed to transport shuttles for NASA.
“You’re going to be impressed.” The shriek of aircraft engines forced Mensforth to shout. “A C-130J can carry three vehicles, or close to a hundred troops.”
I eyed the plane’s interior, estimated the space was maybe forty by nine by ten.
Not exactly business class. I didn’t say it.
As I waited with what seemed like a thousand marines, crew off-loaded cargo onto palletized rollers, then flipped down flooring.
“Word to the wise,” Mensforth said. “The heads on these babies aren’t designed for our team.”
“What’s the flight time to Bagram?”
“Two, maybe three hours.”
“I’m good.” I planned to sleep.
At a signal from a camouflage-clad kid with a rag around his head, Mensforth plucked me from the line and led me onto the plane. The marines watched in hostile, exhausted, or good-natured silence.
Seating was on long benches arranged in facing pairs. Back support came in the form of red nylon latticework strapping.
Parachutes and other gear hung from the fuselage walls. Pipes, tubing, cables, and countless things I didn’t recognize snaked overhead.
“Ass to the wall, you freeze,” Mensforth said. “Ass to the center, you go numb.”
Numb sounded good.
“You can lose the body armor.”
Grateful to offload the extra poundage, I removed the hated jacket. Mensforth tossed it to the floor at the end of the bench, then showed me how to stow my helmet at my feet and my pack in my lap.
“Use ’em.” Offering a small packet containing two orange earplugs.
I nodded.
“You’ll be met at Bagram by a Captain Welsted.”
I thanked Mensforth, wondered briefly if she knew the purpose of my trip. Then she said an odd thing.
“Watch your back.”
“Got my trusty IBA.” Tapping my helmet.
“That’ll handle the bullets.” Glancing left then right, she leaned close. “Be careful.”
Before I could ask her meaning she said, “Have a good one.”
Then she was gone.
The plane filled fast. A marine the size of a linebacker took the “seat” to my left. A black kid with spectacularly white teeth dropped down on my right. Opposite, I drew a guy who had to be seven feet tall. My knees met his lower legs at about mid-tibia. Snugly.
After a final round of shouting, the crew shut the hatch. I glanced at my fellow passengers. Most were male and in their twenties.
I heard a lot of “fucking” this and “fucking” that. Bravado. We were going downrange. In Pete’s day the phrase had been “in country.” Same idea. Same apprehension. We were heading to war.
I noticed a man three over and opposite, watching me intently. Asian. Maybe eighteen.
I smiled. The man looked away.
The engines thundered to life. I inserted the earplugs.
The ungainly craft lumbered skyward. Finally leveled.
I lowered my lids. Tried to sleep.
We pitched and dipped, engines throbbing out a deafening roar. Icy air blew up my back. Though shoulder to shoulder, shin to shin with my seatmates, a penetrating cold invaded my bones. Before long I felt desperate to stretch, or at least reposition. Knew there wasn’t a chance.
Time passed. My brain lingered on that border between waking and sleeping.
Suddenly my body lurched at an angle that had to be wrong. Beside me, the linebacker tensed.
Adrenaline shot through me.
My eyes flew open.
The plane was dark as a tomb.
And plunging toward earth.
ALL AROUND ME WAS BLACK.
My left side was smashed against the linebacker. The kid with the teeth was smashed against me. Knowing it was pointless to fight gravity, I made no attempt to right myself.
Then the whine of the engines dropped. Our three-person sandwich unzipped slightly.
The wheels hit hard. Hit again, with less force. Again.
My heartbeat settled. We were rolling on terra firma.
After a short taxi, the plane jerked to a stop. The lights came on, the hatch opened, and outside air filtered into the fuselage, bringing with it the smell of fuel and exhaust.
We waited as pallets of cargo were unloaded, and then, row by row, collected our gear, moved rearward, and hopped onto the tarmac. My eyes swept a three-sixty arc, anxious for a sense of the strange land I’d heard so much about.
Overhead, a universe of stars winked in a boundless black dome. On the ground, nothing but darkness.
We all waited for the luggage pallets to be opened. Collected our gear. Then, unsure what to do, I followed the marines toward a square black shape on the horizon.
As we drew close, the shape crystallized into a one-story building. Standing at its door were a man and a woman, the former in civvies, the latter in camouflage fatigues and eight-pointed utility cover.
The woman was about my age, tall and solid but attractive in a no-nonsense, no makeup way. Her dark hair was knotted at the back of her cap.
Like Katy’s.
No way. Focus.
The woman took the lead. “Dr. Brennan?”
I nodded, thinking the question pointless. How many fortysomething civilian females arrived at Bagram by military transport?
When the woman extended a hand, double bars were momentarily illuminated on her fatigues.
“Maida Welsted, base ops.”
“Captain.”
We shook.
The man shifted his feet. Signaling impatience? Annoyance? Welsted ignored him.
“I’ll be handling field ops for the exhumation in Sheyn Bagh. All mission assets—team, vehicles, armaments, air transport.” Welsted’s English was softly accented. British? Anglo-Indian? Spanish? “You need anything, you go through me.”
“Dr. Brennan has had a long flight.”
The man was tall, maybe midthirties. A blue athletic cap covered what I suspected was a hairline heading south.
Welsted looked at the man. In the dim light escaping the door, I couldn’t read her expression. But the man seemed to stiffen.
“I’m just saying, we can do this in the morning. She’s been on a plane for four hours. Probably wants dinner and rack time.”
The man’s hand shot my way. “Scott Blanton, Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”
Blanton’s grip was firm, but no match for Welsted’s.
Without a word, Welsted turned and crossed to a pair of men standing outside the depot at our backs. The younger wore jeans and a windbreaker with a White Sox logo. The older was in baggy linen pants, knee-length shirt, and voluminous sweater. Both had beards and unkept hair.
“Captain Welsted can be a bit stiff.” Blanton smiled, revealing one upper incisor overlapping the other. “Texan, you know.”
Not sure how to respond, I said nothing.
Behind Blanton, the men listened to Welsted, both overnodding. In less than a minute, she rejoined us.
“Let’s get you to your B-hut.” Without waiting for a reply, Welsted strode off.
Blanton shrugged, and, despite my repeated protests, took my duffel.
We boarded a van whose driver was i
ndistinguishable from the pair at Manas. A short ride and a long security check brought us onto a base that, in the dark, appeared similar to the one I’d just left in Kyrgyzstan.
With one big difference.
Here I would enjoy no dorm-room comfort. No toilette down the hall.
My quarters consisted of one half of a B-hut, a plywood box in a maze of identical boxes, all squatting in a field of kiwi-size gravel. The interior, maybe eight by ten, contained two bunks, two slapped-together nightstands, a wooden wardrobe filled with shrink-wrapped cases of bottled water, and a table heaped with dusty magazines and ancient copies of Stars and Stripes. And, miraculously, a PC terminal that looked twenty years old.
That was the good news. The bad news?
The bath facility was an ankle-twisting football field away.
After informing me that we’d have a briefing with the head of base ops at 0900, Welsted took her leave.
“You want to get some chow?” Blanton asked.
Though exhausted, I’d had nothing but granola bars and Diet Coke since breakfast.
“Sure.”
I dumped my gear. As we walked, I told Blanton about Katy. He said he’d look into tracking her down.
A quick burger and chips and I was back at the B-hut.
“Breakfast at oh-eight-hundred?”
“I can find my way.”
“Things look different in the light.”
“Sure. I’d appreciate an escort.” I did.
“Maybe I should have contact info in case there’s a change of plans?”
Doubting they’d be functional, I gave him my mobile number and e-mail address.
After a touchdown run to the toilet, I set my alarm, positioned my flashlight on the nightstand, and collapsed into bed.
My last thoughts were these.
You will not need to pee before morning.
Why the tension between Welsted and Blanton?
• • •
I awoke to the sound of boots on plywood. Male voices beyond the partition to my left. Aircraft shrieking overhead.
I checked my watch.
6:50. How long had I slept? Not long enough.
I looked around, hoping I’d underestimated the dismal room the night before. I hadn’t.
Naked walls, linoleum flooring, here and there a tacked and curling USO poster or photo. No window. One electrical outlet per bed. Typical barracks hut. Easy up, easy down. Life expectancy three to four years.
I dressed, gathered my toiletries and flashlight, and set off for my hundred-yard hike.
And got my first stunning glimpse of Bagram.
Mountains soared in a circle around me, high and commanding, their snowy peaks white against a sky slowly oozing from dawn into day.
Crunching past rows of B-huts, I remembered Katy’s e-mailed comments. Not the Hilton, she’d said, but better than tents. Her main problem had been bugs. No Hershey bar remnants could be left around. No half-drunk sodas. I smiled at the thought of my daughter cleaning house every day.
And found myself searching. A pair of slim legs climbing the stairs. A blond head disappearing into a stall.
Could I bump into Katy in the dressing room? At the DFAC? Walking down a street?
While showering, I distracted myself by pulling up what I’d learned about Bagram before leaving home. There was little to pull.
Built as an airfield by the U.S. in the 1950s, the base was now the size of a small town. Its population of roughly six thousand military and twenty-four thousand civilians was composed of allied troops, international contractors, and Afghan day workers.
In addition to standard amenities, Bagram had coffee shops, fast-food joints, a tower left over from the days of Russian occupation, and a bazaar in which local vendors sold their wares. Disney Drive was the main drag, named in honor of a fallen soldier, not Uncle Walt.
Bagram Air Base lay close to the ancient Silk Road city for which it was named. And light-years distant.
Showered and shampooed, I hiked back to my quarters. And was delighted to find that the old PC actually allowed me Internet access.
Having twenty minutes to kill, I checked my e-mail. And found nothing from anyone I actually knew. I shot a note to Larabee, asking for an update on the hit-and-run case. Sent another to Slidell, knowing I’d get no response.
Blanton arrived at eight on the dot. While ingesting enough carbs to lay a rugby team flat, I learned that he held a BA in history, that he’d never been married, that he’d worked briefly as a cop, and that he was in his fourteenth year with NCIS.
Blanton was heading stateside as soon as the exhumation and analysis were completed. Surprisingly, he’d been born and raised in Gastonia.
Funny world. Come seven thousand miles and meet someone from right near home.
Blanton learned that I was board certified by the ABFA. And that I have a cat.
Why not share more? It might have been the way Blanton looked at me, never shifting his gaze, rarely blinking. Or the superior tone he used in phrasing some things. If asked, I couldn’t articulate a reason. But an inner voice advised against candor.
I wondered if I’d been wise in talking about Katy. I’d been brain-dead from exhaustion. Too late. That was done.
When we returned, Welsted was leaning against a van outside my B-hut. Seeing us, her eyes went to her watch.
“Good morning, captain,” I said brightly.
“Good morning.” Welsted didn’t smile or acknowledge Blanton. “Ready?”
“And eager.” That was the third coffee talking.
Five minutes later, we arrived at a corrugated-metal building with a sign that identified it as the headquarters for base operations. We entered and climbed to the second floor.
Hearing boots, an Air Force sergeant popped from a doorway and led us to a conference room that would have looked right at home in a midsize law office. Blond oak table with chairs for a dozen. Blackboard. Sideboard with a coffee setup. Only the rough walls looked out of place.
A man was already present, filling a thick white porcelain mug. Navy. Lettering on his fatigues told me his name was Noonan. A Velcro patch told me he was with JAG, the Judge Advocate General’s Corps.
Blanton took a seat at the table. Welsted and I crossed to Noonan.
Like Blanton, the Navy lawyer had hair that was fast parting ways with his scalp, and pale skin peeling from his nose and cheeks.
“Ruff Noonan, JAG.” We shook. “I won’t be going downrange for the festivities. Just sitting in on the briefing.”
Hearing the door open, we all turned.
A black woman entered the room, short and large-breasted, with posture that made the most of her stature.
Dumping a pair of corrugated brown files on the table, the woman gestured us to sit.
“Shall we get started?”
Those standing took chairs.
“First off, let me introduce myself, Dr. Brennan. The rest of you know me.” Quick smile. “I’m Gloria Fisher, commander of base operations here at Bagram. My staff and I are working to facilitate your mission. I trust your travel went well?”
“Yes.”
“And that your quarters are satisfactory?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Captain Welsted is taking good care of you?”
“She’s been very helpful. Everyone has been very helpful.”
“And you’ve met the rest of your team?”
Assuming she meant Blanton and Noonan, I nodded.
“Good.”
Fisher laced her fingers on the tabletop. Her nails, though uncolored, were better polished and manicured than mine.
“As you are undoubtedly aware, the tasking for a mission such as this is extremely complicated. And sensitive. The unearthing of an Afghan national is of concern not only to the DOD, but to the State Department, even the White House.”
As Fisher spoke, Blanton eyed me without embarrassment. I met his gaze and, though listening to the colonel, stared back.
“Negotiations for this exhumation began almost immediately after accusations were laid. Only recently have discussions proved fruitful. It is my intent that all phases of this operation proceed smoothly and successfully.”
Apparently no one felt the statement required feedback. Or those present knew Fisher would want none.
“So. Background.” Fisher drew papers from the top file. “The incident took place in the village of Sheyn Bagh, twelve kilometers east of FOB Delaram.”
“Forward operating base,” Blanton explained for my benefit.
Fisher’s eyes rolled to him, back to the page she was skimming.
“The accused, Marine Second Lieutenant John Gross, was at that time a platoon commander with the RCT 6, the 3/8.”
Not wanting to interrupt, I made a note to obtain translation later.
“Intel had it that insurgents were storing illegal weapons in the village. Gross’s mission was to perform a cordon-and-knock.”
That one I knew. Surround the area and go house to house, banging on doors.
“Here is the full file.” Fisher disengaged the bottom folder and slid it my way. “Mr. Blanton, I assume you have a copy? Lieutenant Noonan?”
Blanton and Noonan nodded.
Fisher directed her next comments to me.
“To summarize, on the day in question, a six-vehicle convoy rolled out of Delaram just before sunset. Upon arriving at Sheyn Bagh, Second Lieutenant Gross ordered his men to gather the villagers outside. Then, while some undertook a weapons search, others began interrogation. As the op was proceeding, an RPG detonated on the road outside the village wall, badly damaging a Humvee and injuring two of Gross’s men. According to multiple witnesses, pandemonium ensued.”
Fisher speed-read, choosing what she considered salient points.
“As per Lieutenant Gross’s statement, at the time of the explosion he was covering two LNs, local nationals, who’d been identified as possible insurgents.”
Fisher brought her eyes closer to the file.
“Ahmad Ali Aqsaee and Abdul Khalik Rasekh.”
She straightened.
“According to Second Lieutenant Gross, Aqsaee and Rasekh ran at him. Though he ordered them to halt in English and Pashto, both continued in a threatening manner. Fearing for his life, he opened fire.”
