The Summer House

Chapter 46

For the last forty seconds Captain Rory O’Connell’s stare at me has been steady and unyielding.

“Lucky you,” he finally whispers, “we do have a C-17 Globemaster taking off within thirty minutes, end destination Bagram, carrying additional equipment, but why in hell should I allow you to get onto that aircraft?”

“I need to get to Afghanistan,” I say.

“Why?”

“I’m convinced there’s evidence over there concerning the Rangers from Alpha Company.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“All right,” O’Connell says. “Do you have orders from your superiors in Quantico?”

“No.”

“Travel authorizations?”

“No.”

“Have you had a recent medical exam and immunization update?”

“No.”

The Fourth Battalion’s rear detachment commander waits another long second. “I don’t see a helmet, body armor, gas mask, or anything else you need for an overseas deployment, Major.”

“I’m hoping you’ll help me out.”

O’Connell shakes his lead, leans back a bit in his chair, and I see him wince from his old injuries. “Major, why in God’s name would I even consider letting you on that aircraft? No orders, no authorization, no equipment. What, you think this is an episode of NCIS, you can just hitch a ride into a combat zone? It’s a career ender for both of us. Now, please... leave me be. Fourth Battalion’s XO is still not available, there’s a missing pallet of equipment that should be in Bagram, and I’ve got a shitload of paperwork to get through. All because someone decided Fourth Battalion needed to be deployed nearly a month ahead of schedule.”

I lean on my cane. “You don’t like the Ninja Squad, do you?”

“Not many around here do.”

“But if you were in an FOB with them, with Taliban coming at you in waves, and they were next to you, and they were running low on ammo, you’d help them out, right? Even if you don’t like them, out there you’d have their backs. And vice versa.”

O’Connell’s face winces once more. “That’s different. That’s over there. Not here, in Georgia.”

I limp toward him. “That’s where you’re wrong, Captain. Something happened to them in Afghanistan. And it’s followed them to Georgia. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Afghanistan has come home here to Georgia, and those guys are low on ammo and need your help.”

I hear a distant whine of jet engines, wonder if that’s the C-17, ready to take off and make the long flight to Afghanistan, the dusty and torn-up country that has sent so many of our finest back home in shiny metal caskets.

O’Connell looks down, picks up a pen, and in one harsh move tosses it across the small office. He gets up.

“Follow me,” he says. “And even with that cane, haul ass.”

Nearly thirty minutes later, I’m practically stumbling across the flight line, leaning heavily on my cane, wearing freshly washed ACUs tagged COOK and carrying one heavy rucksack with a helmet bouncing along against my hip. Helicopters and other aircraft are lined up in neat rows before us.

The engine noise gets louder as we approach the C-17 Globemaster — dark green, squat, fat, and ugly, with four engines slung underneath its large wings — and O’Connell leans close and yells, “It’s about thirteen hours to Ramstein, and from there, another seven or so to Bagram. There’re no first-class or business-class seats aboard, Major, just the fold-down seats along the fuselage. Going to be damn uncomfortable.”

“I’ll make do,” I say, knowing there’s nothing else I can say.

He says, “Not sure where the Fourth Battalion is going to be deployed — orders change all the time — but you’ll want to get transport from Bagram to the village of Pendahar. That’s near where the... event happened with the Ninjas.”

“Got it,” I say.

“It’s the Old West in the Middle East, Indian country out there,” he says. “So watch your ass and do your best to hook up with anybody that’s got heavy firepower. And no offense, that sure as hell ain’t the CID.”

I just nod, knowing that I have nearly twenty hours of flying time ahead of me to think of where I’m going and what I’ll do when I get there.

He grabs my elbow. “You sure you can do this, limping like you do?”

The engine noise is louder. “I’ve got to.”

He says, “That IED... what happened to you over there?”

“Usual story,” I tell him, raising my voice. “Was out on a mission, three-vehicle convoy, we got hit. I was trapped in the wreckage. Took a while for me to get pried out.”

O’Connell tries to smile. “Hope it was an important mission.”

“Sure was,” I say. “I was going out to interview a goat herder whose flock was raided by an airborne unit for a cookout.”

He shakes his head, and I can tell his own pain is really riding him today.

Then he laughs. “Thanks for your service, Major.”

“And you?” I ask. “Looks like you’re still carrying a bit of shrapnel in you.”

“Nope,” he says. “Not a single piece of metal.” I’m sure he notes the confusion on my face, and he adds, “Oh, I was wounded when that mortar round struck my FOB. But I wasn’t injured by that. Our interpreter, Nadir, he took the full force of the blast. Pulverized him. And I was nearly shredded into pieces by his bone fragments.”

He slaps me on the shoulder. “Get going or you’ll miss your flight.”

I don’t tell the captain that despite my brave front, that’s exactly what I want to do. Instead I take a breath and go forward to the large aircraft that’s returning me to a deadly nightmare. Off by the airfield service buildings I see the flashing blue lights of MP cruisers.

I try to pick up my pace, ignoring the MP arrival back there, and move right along to what’s ahead for me.