The Summer House

Chapter 71 Afghanistan

I’m in temporary quarters for the night, waiting for a convoy to leave Bagram at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow, heading south to Khost to meet up with Major Fredericka West. Earlier she said, “These are supposed to be secure phone lines, but we’re not taking any chances. I’ll set up transport for you. See you late tomorrow morning, Major. Safe travels. Stay low.”

The quarters are an old concrete-block building, subdivided into small plywood cubicles. I’ve had a dinner at the local DFAC, and a quick washup, and I’ve stretched out on a borrowed sleeping bag with a wool blanket over me.

A small lamp on a stand is next to the bed, and close by is my trusted Bruce Catton book, along with my Iridium satellite phone.

I grab the phone, power it up, dial the digits.

Ring, ring, ring.

No answer.

Ring, ring, ring.

Still no answer.

Where’s York? What’s she doing? How’s the rest of the crew?

And the investigation there in Sullivan?

I shut the Iridium down, restart it, and then dial the numbers once more.

Ring.

A crackle of static and I sit straight up, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots right through my leg and into my skull.

“Major?” comes York’s voice. “Are you all right?”

Her voice is fading in and out, and I go right to the condensed version of what I’ve been doing.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m in Bagram, heading off to Pendahar tomorrow. Look, remember Major Frank Moore, the XO of Fourth Battalion? Got word from a Ranger officer here that he was murdered after visiting Staff Sergeant Jefferson. Bullet wound to the head, pulled out of the Savannah River.”

“Damn,” York says. “Major, things are also moving quickly over here. Witnesses have disappeared, the murder house was burned down, and it looks like Sheriff Williams is running the county as her own personal criminal enterprise.”

Now it’s my turn to swear. York goes on, her voice strong and in charge. “That’s not all. Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s cut a deal with the district attorney. He’s...”

Her voice fades out and there’s a hiss of static, and her voice comes back and says, “So there’s that.”

I raise my voice. “That’s what?”

Her voice cuts through. “He’s pleading guilty! In exchange for pleading guilty, the district attorney is cutting the other two Rangers loose!”

More static and she says, “Hold on, making a turn now.”

“A turn? Where are you?”

A nervous laugh. “On my way to a Waffle House for a very late breakfast! With a witness who says he was at the shooting! Sorry, Major, I think we’re gonna break this case stateside...”

I rub at my aching leg. “Who’s the witness?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is Sanchez with you?”

Her voice fades out again. “...alone.”

“York, don’t you dare go there without backup!” I yell. “I want Sanchez with you!”

There’s silence, not even a whisper of static.

I admire York, I trust York, and I’d love to see York in a bikini, but Sanchez has a more down-and-dirty outlook about humanity, having worked some very mean streets in LA when he was a cop. If York is off to meet somebody claiming to be a witness at a Waffle House, I want Sanchez sitting in a nearby booth, with a cut-down AR-15 across his lap.

“York!” I yell.

One more hiss of static, and her voice fading out. “...I’ll be okay, Major.”

Then the call is disconnected.

For the next half hour, I try again to call Connie, and none of the calls go through.

I finally stop when someone in the adjacent cubicle pounds the thin plywood and yells, “Hey, some of us trying to sleep over here! Knock that shit off!”

I turn the light off, stretch out, and I don’t go to sleep, not at all.

York seems to be right. The case is breaking open in Georgia, and here I am, alone and clueless, stuck in Afghanistan.