Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel

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 indistinguishable 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.”

“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.”