The Summer House

Chapter 83 Afghanistan

The night stalkers is the nickname of the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, probably pound for pound the bravest and craziest helicopter pilots in the world. Responsible for operations in Panama, Yemen, Iraq, and Afghanistan, along with the raid that took out Osama bin Laden, they’re the Army aviators called upon to perform the most hazardous and nearly impossible missions.

Their compound is just a short walk from Major West’s, and while some of the soldiers and civilian personnel seem a bit jumpy after the two recent mortar attacks, the same isn’t true for the Night Stalkers, some of whom I find outdoors after Major West escorts me there. I come upon a rest area for these aviators, set outside three one-story metal-and-wood shacks. Beyond a concrete-block wall and coils of razor wire, their modified and exceptional helicopters of choice are lined up: two rotor transport MH-47s with extended fuel booms up front, Black Hawks for a variety of missions, and the much smaller two-crew Little Birds, used for reconnaissance and close combat and support.

Nearby is a gravel-covered area with weight-lifting equipment, punching bags, and half a dozen wooden picnic tables, where laughing and confident men are having late morning coffee and sausage, eggs, and pancakes on Styrofoam plates. They’re dressed in jeans, cut-off sweatshirts, hoodies, and vests, most wearing ball caps. The wind is steady, meaning they have to hold on tight to their food and drink.

As I approach the nearest table, I’m given a quick look by the men, and then they go back to their stories and breakfasts. I can see why I got the quick look: I might be an Army officer, but I’m not one of them, so I don’t count.

About then I’m ready to believe them.

I say, “I’m looking for a guy named Cellucci. Is he around?”

One of the aviators, with a close-cropped black beard and wearing sunglasses, a tattered Red Sox baseball cap on his head, says, “What’s up, Major?”

“I just need to talk to him,” I say. “Can you point him out?”

The aviator says, “Over there on the left. The laughing asshole wearing the Yankees cap.”

“Thanks.”

I go over to the table where he’s sitting, laughing indeed, wearing the offending black-and-white Yankees cap and a black fleece jacket. Cellucci looks to be in his early thirties, muscular, with a happy-looking, red face that can probably go from joy to deadly anger in seconds.

“Excuse me,” I ask. “Cellucci?”

The other three guys laugh, and Cellucci says, “The same, Major. Chief Warrant Officer Carmine Cellucci. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping I could talk to you,” I say. “In private.”

His grin doesn’t waver. “Mind if I ask why? Sir?”

I take out my identification, display it for him. “I’m with the CID. Does that answer your question?”

As one, his three breakfast mates go, “Ooooh, the Looch is in trouble, the Looch is in trouble,” and he says something profane to them. They pick up their coffee and plates and leave us alone as I sit down across from him.

“Do I need representation?” he asks. “You looking to jam me up?”

“No, not at all,” I say, smelling the sausages and pancakes still before him, my stomach grumbling from not quite remembering the last time I ate.

“Then what’s this about?” he asks. His smile is still there, but there’s wariness behind those sharp brown eyes.

“I need transport,” I say.

He says, “This is a hell of a way to make a request. You got the paperwork, push it through channels.”

“I don’t have any paperwork.”

That takes him aback, and he laughs. “What, you think me and the guys here are flying a taxi service, Major? Where are you looking to go?”

“Observation Post Conrad,” I say. “It’s up in the nearest mountain range. That’s all I know.”

He stares at me and starts laughing again. “OP Conrad? For real? Why not Mars while you’re at it?”

“Remote, then?”

He shakes his head, takes off his Yankees cap, scratches at his nearly bald head. “Yeah, remote as hell, and the place is legendary. And not in a good way. There’s one American up there, a guy named—”

“Kurtz,” I interrupt.

The cap goes back on. “That’s right, Kurtz. Like Brando in that Vietnam movie. Far away from whatever passes for civilization, he’s up there with a group of Pashtun tribesmen who are loyal to him and their tribe, and nothing else.”

“What do they do up there?”

“Whatever the hell they want,” he says. “Why do you need to see him?”

“I need to talk to him about an investigation I’m conducting.”

“Go through channels, get the paperwork. Hell, I wouldn’t mind taking a trip up there. That’s some ass-puckering flying.”

“I don’t have time,” I say. “I need to talk to him today.”

Another shake of his head. “You think you can get Kurtz to answer your questions? You know he’s Agency, right? Won’t talk to anyone... unless you have a fistful of Hershey bars.” Cellucci notices my confused expression and repeats himself. “Yeah. Hershey bars. And not the ones with the almonds. One guy who went up there six months ago for a supply run — even a scheduled one — told me he couldn’t even drop his load until Kurtz got his Hershey bars. Tell me, Major, you got some Hershey bars in your ruck?”

“No.”

“Then we’re just wasting each other’s time. Sorry, Major. Wish I could help.”

He starts to get up from the picnic table, and I say, “Brooklyn?”

Cellucci says, “Nope. Queens, through and through.”

“My bad,” I say. “I’m from Staten Island.”

He gathers up his trash. “No kidding. How did you end up in CID?”

“NYPD,” I say. “Detective second class, Midtown South. I was in the Reserves and decided to stick around after I got injured from an IED.”

“Well, good for you. Bet some days you wish you stayed home.”

I nod. “Some days.”

“Sorry, gotta run, Major.”

One last chance. “Get out of jail free card.”

He pauses as he puts a crumpled brown paper napkin on his plate. “What?”

I say, “You get me up there to see Kurtz, I’ll make it so that you don’t get another speeding ticket, parking ticket, or any other motor vehicle violation. For a year, starting when you get back home.”

That gets his attention. “You got that kind of pull?”

Probably not, I think. “I’m serious.”

“I can tell,” he says. “Man, you must really want to go up there bad.”

“I do.”

He crumples everything up in his two strong hands. “Major... sorry. No can do. That’s way out-of-bounds, and you know it.”

Cellucci goes to a rusty fifty-five-gallon metal drum near a set of weights, drops in his trash, and I rub at my face and turn, just as two soldiers come in from the other side, wearing Military Police brassards on their left arms.

Looking for me, I’m sure.