The Summer House

Chapter 82 Afghanistan

She gives me one more stare and says, “Just out of curiosity, how did you know it was a fake? To most people I’m sure it looks pretty damn real.”

I try to swallow, fail. My throat is incredibly dry. A jet takes off outside, the noise silencing me longer in this plywood room.

When the jet engine sound drifts away, I say, “The shootings were real. The casualties look real. But those weren’t Army Rangers. The uniforms were wrong. There was a mix of regular ACUs and fatigues of the Afghan National Army. The weapons were wrong, too. I saw an AK-47 and what looked to be a Russian pistol, maybe a Tokarev.”

She slightly smiles. “But one of the shooters was wearing a Ranger tab.”

“Yes,” I say. “But you and I both know that Rangers don’t wear any unit patches in the field... and the camera froze there for a second too long, like whoever was doing the taping wanted to make a statement.”

“Good job, Major.”

“What’s the story, then? A setup?”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” she says. “Commit an atrocity, put it up on YouTube or other social media, blame the Rangers and the Crusader unbelievers defiling this holy land, blah, blah, blah. Some unlucky innocents got caught in a cross fire organized by the local Taliban. But we were lucky to have intercepted the video before it was spread around too much. Oh, there were rumblings and the start of an official investigation — which I’m closing out when you go out that door — but the Rangers were innocent. We even showed the video at a local tribal loya jirga, and the tribal leaders are on board that the Army didn’t do it.”

“But... the Rangers are accused of doing the same thing stateside.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” She looks down at her notes and says, “Hold on. You said the civilians who were killed in Georgia, some of them were drug dealers. How far up did they go? Big-time players?”

I shake my head. “Some weed, some crystal meth, and fentanyl. Strictly small-time.”

“Too bad... well, good, I suppose. But I was thinking if they were players, and they were involved in something to do with opiates, and Afghanistan being the leading cultivator of the same, with a lot of flights going back to the States, there could be some sort of connection.”

“Not with that group,” I say. “Do you have any additional information on Major Frank Moore, the Fourth Battalion’s executive officer?”

West shakes her head. “He was supposed to have been deployed a couple of days back when the Fourth Battalion left Hunter Army Airfield, but he was unable to be located. Then Savannah cops pulled him out of the local river back there, bullet round right to the face. They’re running the investigation, but I was able to learn that he was probably killed after meeting with Staff Sergeant Jefferson, who’s being held in a local jail, yes?”

“Ralston,” I say. “He’s in a jail in Ralston.”

“And you tell me he’s planning to plead guilty to those shootings?”

I check my watch, run the difference in time in my mind and say, “In about eight hours, yeah.”

“Hell of a thing to do if he’s not guilty, but he’s taking the rap anyway.”

“He’s doing that, but the two surviving members of his team will go free. That’s the deal. They don’t face a trial, and he pleads guilty, takes whatever sentence comes his way.” West ponders this before I add, “You Ranger guys are tough. And loyal.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she says.

“You think Staff Sergeant Jefferson would plead guilty to something he didn’t do to see his guys get cut loose?”

“He’d have to have one hell of a good reason,” she says.

Something comes to me and I say, “Hold on. This alleged massacre in Pendahar. I heard that was the reason they were sent home ahead of schedule. But you’ve told me that it was pretty suspicious right from the start.”

West carefully says, “It was.”

“But why send them home on such flimsy evidence?”

“Good question.”

She doesn’t say any more, and I quickly realize how to fill in the blanks. “They weren’t assigned to a local Ranger company. They were sheep-dipped, borrowed by the CIA.”

Her words are even more careful. “That’s what I heard.”

“What did they do for the CIA?”

“High-value target raids, I’m sure,” she says. “Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were quite experienced in those types of raids. The CIA has a paramilitary unit, the Special Activities Division — I have a Ranger friend who’s worked with them — but they don’t have as much field experience as some Ranger units.”

“The CIA was controlling them,” I say. “Why did the CIA send them home ahead of their deployment schedule? This house raid, the killing of civilians, it was just an excuse. A cover story.”

“Maybe,” she says. “You’ll have to talk to the CIA about that.”

“All right, where are they?” I ask. “I’ll go ahead and do just that.”

West says, “It’ll be a waste of time. You’d want to talk to the field officer handling those raids, and he’s been transferred.”

“Who’s the officer?”

“Fellow named Kurtz, though God knows if that’s his real name. He’s at Observation Post Conrad.”

“Where’s that?”

West points to her door. “About ten klicks that way, up in the mountains between here and Pakistan. Only way up there is by helicopter.”

“Can you get me there?”

Her phone rings and she holds up a finger. She takes the call — “West” — and seems to listen for a minute, then says, “Thanks for the heads-up, Sergeant Major.”

West hangs up the phone, shakes her head. “You know better than that, Major Cook. We don’t have any air assets. We get assigned them for a planned and specific mission, and I’m not in a position to do that. Sorry.”

“Major West,” I say, “the answer to whatever the hell is going on with those Rangers is up there with that CIA officer. One Ranger is dead. Another is facing life imprisonment for murders he might not have committed. Are you going to let that staff sergeant go to prison for life, probably face execution? Is that what you’re saying?”

Her brown eyes flash at me with anger. “What I’m saying is that I can’t make up a manifest and put your name on it, Major Cook, because I’ve just been told that there’s an MP unit about twenty minutes out, coming here, looking for you.”

Shit, I think. Shit, shit.

“Sorry,” I say.

Her face calms down. “You’re former NYPD, right?”

“That’s right,” I say. “Nineteen years in.”

She nods and says, “Go up two compounds. That’s where the Night Stalkers hang out. There’s a warrant officer there named Cellucci. You might have some luck with him... but no guarantees. I’ll walk you over, see that you get in.”

I stand up, grab my rucksack. “Thanks, Major.”

“Good luck, Major Cook,” she says as she, too, stands, “because you’re certainly going to need it.”

The sirens start up again, and the steady, calm male voice of the recording comes back.

“Rocket attack, rocket attack, rocket attack.”