“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 emailed 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 Generals 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.”
“Gross’s version differs markedly from that of Eggers’s.”
“Yes, Lieutenant Noonan. That is why we are here.”
Recognizing the rebuke, Noonan leaned back, lips compressed so tightly they blanched at the edges.
Fisher refocused on me.
“According to Corporal Grant Eggers, Aqsaee and Rasekh weren’t rushing anyone. Terrified by the blast, they were attempting to move away from the road.”
Several beats passed.
“The victims’ bio profiles are in here?” I tapped the folder in front of me.
“Yes. Rasekh was significantly taller than Aqsaee. And the two differed in age.”
“By how much?”
“Mr. Rasekh was fifty-two.”
Fisher gave a tight shake of her head.
“Mr. Aqsaee was killed on his seventeenth birthday.”
FISHER ADDRESSED A number of points concerning logistics, then, wishing us Godspeed, withdrew. Welsted took over.
“It’s essential that we dot every i and cross every t while exhuming, transporting, and examining these remains. We screw up, go off task just once, the locals have the right to pull the plug. And we’ll have eyes on us every minute.”
“Friggin’ nightmare.”
“I realize that displeases you, Mr. Blanton. But that’s the agreement. Two local nationals observe throughout.”
Blanton pooched air through his lips but said nothing.
“The team will assemble at the staging area at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Estimated flight time to Sheyn Bagh is two hours, which should put us wheels-down no later than oh-eight-hundred. Count an hour for a meet and greet with the mayor and his honchos, that puts us on-site at the cemetery by oh-nine-hundred. Wheels up by seventeen hundred. Either of you have a problem with that?”
“It’s hard to estimate how long an exhumation will take without knowing what conditions we’ll encounter,” I said.
“You’ll have eight hours.” Read: end of discussion.
“Suits me,” Blanton said. “No way I’m overnighting outside the wire.”
“NCIS has final say during the dig and analysis, with input from Doctor Brennan.” Welsted looked my way. “But any disagreement, it’s Blanton’s call.”
Though troubled, I nodded understanding.
“Blanton will oversee the actual digging. His crew will consist of two marines from Delaram and two LNs—”
“Like Ali Baba and his buddy will know how to trowel.” Disdain dripped from Blanton’s words. “Or how to keep their friggin’ sandals from crushing the evidence.”
“Lack of local participation was a deal breaker.” Welsted’s patience was wearing thin. “The Afghans insisted, the Pentagon agreed.”
“Christ.”
I looked at the NCIS agent, surprised by his contempt for the Afghan people.
But was that it? Was it the locals Blanton disliked? Or a malignancy that had taken root among them?
I try to be open-minded, to judge each individual on merit and accomplishment. I hold no bias against any belief system, sexual orientation, or skin color that differs from mine. I do not hate in stereotype.
But I have no tolerance for a creed that not only denies an education to girls, but condones, even encourages, the abuse of women. For dogma that allows men to beat, mutilate, even execute members of my gender.
My one prejudice. I despise the Taliban. And I firmly believe that the arrogance and cruelty of its followers stems from ignorance, fear, and male insecurity.
“Mr. Blanton will handle all video and photography,” Welsted continued. “Villagers wishing to observe will be allowed to do so, but will be kept at a distance of at least ten yards.”
“We gonna serve ice cream? Maybe sing a few camp songs?” Blanton slumped back in his chair. “Friggin’ circus.”
Welsted spoke to me. “You know your equipment needs?”
I pulled a list from my backpack and handed it to her.
Welsted looked around the table. “Any questions?”
I had one.
“Where will I perform my analysis?”
“At the hospital here on base.”
“I’ll need X-ray capability.”
“All arranged.”
I had another.
“Why couldn’t we do this today?”
“The army is providing transport. The Blackhawk is available tomorrow.”
Blanton started to speak. Welsted cut him off.
“Have a good one, people.”
Blanton shot to his feet and strode from the room.
I gathered my backpack and jacket and made my way outside. As I reached the sidewalk, Blanton was disappearing around a corner of the building.
“Dr. Brennan?”
I turned. Welsted was coming through the door.
“Do you have plans right now?”
“Got a date with a case file.”
“Are you qualified with a weapon?”
“I’ve done some shooting at Quantico, but—”
“I’m heading to the firing range. How about coming along?”
“Guns aren’t really—”
“A woman needs skills, especially over here.”
Taking my silence as assent, Welsted elbow-steered me toward the van that had brought us. During the drive, she exhibited an unsettling level of enthusiasm for, and encyclopedic knowledge of, firearms.
“You have your M16, M4 carbine, M27 automatic rifles. Sniper rifles like the M110, M40. The M1014 semiautomatic shotgun. Used by forces in Britain, Australia, Malaysia, Slovenia, the L.A. cops. Nice. Under a yard long. Less than nine pounds.”
Welsted had never met a weapon she didn’t like.
“I’ll stick to handguns,” I said.
“More useful stateside, if you get my meaning.” Welsted actually winked.
The range was open-air and located on the periphery of the base. Beyond the uprights serving as targets, past the outer fence, stretched mile after mile of barren rock and sand. In the far distance, a walled village rose like a tiny, wavery bump in the endless expanse.
“Be right back,” Welsted said after checking us in.
She was. With a weapon familiar to me.
“Beretta M9. Semi. Range of fifty meters. Fifteen-round detachable magazine.”
I took the Beretta. Remembered why I liked it. Not too large, not too heavy. Nice heft. Grip that felt good in my hand.
“Reuben will assist you. See you in sixty.”
Welsted moved to a target four down from mine.
Reuben was large and mustached, and definitely not a talker. He handed me earplugs and goggles, then set up a target and watched me shoot. After a few corrections to my grip and stance, he disappeared.
An hour after starting, I was leaving a tight circle of holes in the black bull’s-eyed human form.
I was removing my earplugs when Welsted reappeared, face flushed either from heat or excitement.
“Good?”
“Good,” I said.
Reuben materialized as Welsted called for the van. I handed over the Beretta and protective eyewear. Thanked him.
&
nbsp; We were barely rolling when Welsted began punching keys on her mobile. Her end of the conversation suggested firming up of arrangements for the next day. Politeness was not the woman’s strong suit.
I checked my iPhone. No signal.
“Pain in the ass dealing with these people.” Welsted shoved the phone into a pocket of her fatigues. “Customs vary from tribe to tribe, subtle differences mostly. Pays to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”
“No surprises,” I said.
“It’s rare that a surprise here brings good news.”
General rule or personal recollection?
After another two calls, Welsted turned and jabbed a thumb toward the window.
“You gotta try the Green Bean. Awesome coffee.”
Except for the weapons, fatigues, and sign stating NO SALUTE AREA, I could have been viewing a gathering spot on any college campus.
Painfully young men sipped from paper cups in the shade of a gazebo. A couple held their heads close while reading something in their laps. A woman wrote alone at a picnic table, sun sparking her short brown hair.
Were the men just back from a convoy? Preparing to set out? Was the couple deciding what movie to see? Was the woman composing a postcard home?
In a year, how many would still be alive and intact?
My eyes began their reflex search for Katy.
And the guilt surged anew.
“Cup of java now?” Welsted asked.
“I should go back to my quarters and read the case file.”
And check for messages.
“Your call.”
Back in my room, I logged on to the dusty old PC. Found no word from either Katy or Blanton. No voicemail.
What the hell?
I checked my watch.
12:40.
I paced, agitated to be doing nothing. Anxious about my daughter.
I’d been at Bagram for twelve hours. Where was Katy? Why hadn’t Blanton located her?
More senseless back-and-forth across the floor.
Why hadn’t I brought Welsted into the loop?
I knew Katy’s unit. Could find her myself.
No, a tiny voice advised.
For once, I listened.
Pulling a bottle of water from the cabinet, I shoved aside papers and magazines, pulled the Gross file from my backpack, and began reading.