The Summer House

Chapter 56

When I wake up, my Bruce Catton book on the Civil War is on the floor of the C-17 and I hear the whine of the engines as we prep to leave Ramstein after the hour-long refueling stop. I would love to bend down and pick up the book, but right now my body is in dull-ache mode, and it’s the best I’ve felt in the last few hours, so I stay still.

The interior of this transport aircraft is huge, eighty-eight feet in length and eighteen feet in width, and most of the inside is taken up with pallets and containers of equipment for the Fourth Battalion, tied down with webbed straps. Also along as cargo are three Rangers from Beta Company of the Fourth Battalion, and in the flight to Germany, they sat as a group on the starboard side of the aircraft. Only once did they pay attention to me, when they realized I had no food or water, and one of the specialists gave me a bottle of water and three energy bars.

The aircraft sighs to a halt.

We wait.

Wait some more.

In a forward area is a door marked LAVATORY, and beyond that is a small corridor leading to a galley. Next to that, a steep set of stairs leads up to the flight deck. The overhead curved ceiling is crammed with wires and conduits.

On this mission the craft has a loadmaster and three pilots, one acting as a reserve so each one can get some sleep, and across from me, one Ranger nudges another, who nudges the third.

I look over.

One of the pilots is coming down the stairs from the flight deck, not looking happy. I check my watch. It’s almost 3:00 a.m. in Ramstein, on Wednesday.

The pilot comes over to me, leans down. He has captain’s bars on his Air Force flight suit.

“Got a problem here,” he says, voice loud over the sound of the four idling engines.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, knowing that whatever it is, it’s all on me.

He says, “Got a flash message from the control tower. They want to know if I’ve got an Army officer aboard named Cook. What did you say your name was again, back at Hunter?”

I don’t know why I do it, but there’s something in the pilot’s tone of voice and I casually move my left hand over to the right side of my chest, give it a good scratch.

“I didn’t.”

The pilot stares at me hard.

“Mind telling me just what the hell you are, Major?”

“I’m an investigator with the CID. I need to get to Afghanistan because...”

Why is a very good question. I’ve thought about it, over and over again in the long hours above the Atlantic, running through the investigation and what my crew and I have learned, and I’ve come to some sort of conclusion, but this will be the very first time I dare to say it aloud.

I lift myself off the seat a bit, so the pilot can hear every word, and even through the sudden pain, I make myself clear:

“I need to get to Afghanistan because a team of Army Rangers is being railroaded, and I need to find evidence they’re innocent before they get executed.”

The pilot looks over at the three Army Rangers, ready to go into combat in Afghanistan, and turns back to me, nods.

“Glad we got that cleared up,” he says. “Major.”

He turns around and climbs up the steps to the flight deck. One of the Army Rangers sitting across from me gives me a brief nod, unbuckles from his seat, and comes over. He doesn’t say a word but picks up my Bruce Catton book and hands it over to me. I nod in thanks, and he goes back to his place. I suppose if I was the investigator the NYPD and Army think I am, I would go over and try to interview these Rangers, to see if they have any knowledge or feelings about the Ninja Squad, but I know in my gut that the real truth and evidence are not here but where I’m headed.

The engines roar louder, and the large, lumbering C-17 maneuvers its way to take off. I’m ashamed to feel regret, regret that I wasn’t pulled from the aircraft.

It would have been the easier, and safer, outcome.

But ease and safety aren’t in my future.

Within a few more minutes, we’re airborne again, heading for Bagram.