The Summer House

Chapter 103 Afghanistan

In front of me, Kurtz closes down his laptop and says, “Think it’ll work?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I say, trying to remain very, very still on a padded bunk bed in Kurtz’s communications room. From where I can stretch out my arms, I’m in the Stone Age. But a meter farther away is the twenty-first century, probably edging into the twenty-second, with computer terminals, display screens, surveillance equipment offering up views of the ridges and valleys around this observation post, as well as live feeds from two drones endlessly circling overhead.

One of Kurtz’s men steps in, speaks quickly in Pashto, laughs, and then heads out.

I say, “What do you think the Taliban are going to say about all those hand grenades your guys tossed over the side?”

Kurtz steps back and puts the laptop down among a collection of black boxes with blinking white and red lights that mean absolutely nothing to me. “Oh, that crazy American up there, losing his mind over something. As long as it helped you sell your story to that judge in Georgia, who cares? How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” I say.

“Good.”

He comes back to me, sits on a campstool. “I won’t be able to get you out of here until light.”

“I’ll manage,” I say. “What about Chief Cellucci?”

“I’ve got two of my guys with radios standing guard so the locals don’t steal his remains or screw with the Little Bird wreckage,” he says. “Either the Night Stalkers or a Ranger unit will come in sometime tonight and retrieve his body, destroy the wreckage. That’s how they roll.”

A little stab of pain makes itself known among my numbed limbs. “I got him killed.”

Kurtz reaches into a deep pocket, pulls out a Hershey bar, which he unwraps. “Nope. A two-man Taliban gun crew using a Soviet-made DShK 1938 heavy machine gun brought him down. The chief was on a mission, even if an unauthorized one.” He takes a bite and says, “Good thinking back there, pointing a Hershey bar at my guys when they found you.”

“I thought it’d work better than a pistol,” I say.

He chews for a moment and says, “Got some stateside news for you that I dug out while you were talking to the judge. I’m sorry, it’s not great news.”

“Tell me,” I say. “I think I’m about to pass out in a minute or two.”

He swallows. “There were a couple of news stories about a shooting in Savannah.”

I know exactly what’s happened. “Is she dead?”

“Nope,” he says. “Critically wounded, in an ICU at some hospital in Savannah. Funny thing is, she’s not alone. Looks like one of your guys is holding her room hostage.”

My tongue is fuzzy. Alive, I think. Connie’s alive.

“How do you hold a room hostage?” I ask.

He wraps up the Hershey bar, like he’s saving it for later. “She was shot while two gunmen killed a sheriff’s deputy in her presence. Your CID guy is protecting her, won’t let anybody into her room except doctors and nurses. You’ve got one hell of a team there, Major.”

“We do our best,” I say, and then I just close my eyes and let things slip away.