The Summer House

Chapter 65

Afghanistan

For the past half hour or so, the acid knot in my stomach has been outweighing the pain in my left leg as we make the final approach to Bagram. I’ve been running through various options and scenarios in my mind of how to get off this aircraft once it lands and comes to a halt, and what to do afterward.

Bagram has grown tremendously since we got here post-9/11, and I remember talking to some old hands who were here back then, looking at all the broken-up Soviet aircraft that had been left behind. “When we eventually get the hell out,” this old Reserve colonel told me, “I can guarantee we’ll do a better job cleaning up.”

But what’s waiting for me now—

I stop thinking as the huge aircraft makes a sharp dive and turn, and I grab on to a seat strap to keep from falling over. One of the Rangers spots me and yells out, “Nothing to worry about, sir! Just a bit of evasive maneuvering, keeping any Taliban out there on their toes!”

I nod in thanks, my stomach clenched, and I think again of what’s waiting for me, which is going to be trouble. Without the proper travel authorizations and other paperwork, I’m going to be in-country quite illegally. Not only that, I’m also going to have to figure out a way of getting out of Bagram and to a village called Pendahar.

Lots of figuring. No ready answers.

The engine noise changes pitch, and there’s a heavy clunk-clunk as the C-17’s landing gear is deployed. I hold my cane in my hands. My rucksack is on the deck, my Bruce Catton book tucked back inside. Across from me, the three Rangers look to be talking among themselves.

Thump.

On the pavement. No windows to see what’s out there, but in my mind’s eye, I remember, from a Black Hawk helicopter ride I took here during my last deployment. Rows of CH-47 transport helicopters, Apache attack helicopters, Kiowa reconnaissance helicopters. Hangars. Clusters and clusters of square buildings. Heavy equipment. Concrete blast walls with rolls of concertina wire on top. Mountains in the distance. And at nearly five thousand feet in elevation, the air here is cool at night and thin.

The engines change pitch again as the pilots slow down.

What now?

Out there in Bagram is a small CID satellite office I once used for a few weeks during my last tour. If I can get there, and if Quantico hasn’t contacted them, I might be able to do some razzle-dazzle, get some cooperation from the CID warrant officers stationed here. Like back when I was in the NYPD. There were also procedures and directives to follow when interacting with other detectives in other precincts, but they were mostly ignored. You needed help, you needed information, you either picked up the phone or dropped by the other precinct house.

The C-17 continues to slow down, maneuvers again. My breathing quickens.

The small CID office is on Putnam Road in Bagram, some distance from this main runway.

I’ll be walking with a cane.

How long to get there?

And will I make it?

The C-17 sighs to a halt.

Lights flicker on inside the huge fuselage.

I unbuckle the straps and move, and I clench my teeth in agony. My cane falls, and I lean down to pick it up, breathing hard. When I sit up, the three Rangers are standing in front of me.

One squats down — African American male, a sergeant — and he says, “That true, what we heard back in Germany? You’re here to help out some Rangers from Alpha Company?”

“That’s right.”

“They being railroaded?”

“Looks possible,” I say.

“Which ones?” he asks.

“Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson and his team.”

Another Ranger snorts. “Assholes,” he says.

But the sergeant says, “Yeah, but our assholes. Come along, Major. We’re gonna help you off.”

“You don’t have to,” I say.

But he nods to the other two men and says, “You can’t hardly move. And you got something important to do.”

The other two Rangers come to me and lift me out of my seat, and the sergeant grabs my rucksack.

“Let’s get moving, Major. Time’s a-wastin’.”