The Summer House

Chapter 90 Afghanistan

Once my eyes adjust to the gloom of the bunker’s interior, I see five men of various ages and beard lengths staring at me, four of them sitting against a rough rock wall with AK-47s leaning against their knees. The one without an automatic rifle is minding a little gas stove that is heating up a kettle of water. A sixth one, who disarmed me earlier, is about to go through my rucksack.

Electric lamps illuminate the rough interior, and dirty gray blankets are hung in two places, probably leading into other portions of the observation post. Fly strips dangle from the ceiling, dead flies attached.

My breathing is starting to ease, my left leg actually doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and I’m leaning against a folded-up gray blanket.

The man with my rucksack opens the top, takes out a plastic bag, grunts, and holds up a fistful of Hershey chocolate bars.

The men laugh.

I say, “Go ahead, laugh. Bet you clowns have never tasted chocolate in your life.”

The man with the kettle pours the hot water into a teapot, gently stirs it. In perfect English he says, “Oh, you might be surprised.”

I stare at him.

“Care for a cup of tea, Major?”

I say, “Are you Kurtz?”

He carefully sets out small metal cups for the brewed tea. “Apparently so,” he says, smiling.

The chocolate bars were passed over to Kurtz, and my weapon and rucksack were returned to me. I now hold a filled cup in my hand but don’t take a sip.

“Hell of a welcoming committee,” I say. “What’s your problem?”

He shrugs. “No problem. I didn’t feel like having visitors today. That’s why I didn’t answer. In two weeks there’s a scheduled resupply drop... and your pilot wasn’t sending along the necessary code groups to let me know about an unscheduled visit.” He pours tea in other cups, and the men reach forward. “I figure, you get a bit roughed up, you’ll bring the message back to wherever you came from not to come up for some tourist visit.”

I say, “This isn’t a tourist visit.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he says. “Who are you, then, and why are you here?”

“Major Jeremiah Cook,” I say. “I’m with the Army CID.”

“Criminal investigations? Really? I’m afraid you have zero jurisdiction over me and my men.”

“It’s not involving your actions,” I say. “I’m investigating the arrest stateside of a Ranger squad that was under your temporary command. Headed by Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson, Alpha Company, Fourth Battalion.”

A slight smile through the beard. “Ah, yes, the famed Ninjas. Damn, they were good. I’d give them a house to raid, and I don’t know how they did it so well — concealment, taking their time, using distractions — but they could raid the house before the dogs even started barking. What happened to them stateside?”

I say, “Four of them were arrested for multiple homicides, killing seven civilians in a house.”

The cup is in midair. “That’s pretty screwed up. Do you think they did it?”

“All the forensic evidence and the witnesses say so,” I say. “But now the witnesses and most of the evidence are gone. One of the Rangers committed suicide in his cell. And I learned they were set up for an attack committed in a village here in Afghanistan. Pendahar.”

He takes a long sip of his tea. “Yeah. Poor Taliban bastards were getting pretty chewed up in that district. They wanted to set up a war-crime incident, blame the Ninjas, get world opinion once again set against the Great Satan. Happily for everyone, they suck at making home movies.”

“But they were still sent home early, weren’t they? With that potential war crime being used as an excuse. When they were under your command.”

“Ah, that’s right.”

“What happened when they were working for you?”

He puts his cup down on the stone-and-dirt floor. The five Afghan tribesmen have been watching our conversation with intent, their heads moving back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match.

“Sorry, Major Cook, that is way above your pay grade, your position, your station in life.”

I say, “Mr. Kurtz, please. Staff Sergeant Jefferson is pleading guilty today and is about to be sentenced for those murders.”

“And the other two Rangers?”

“Apparently they will be set free, in exchange for Jefferson pleading guilty.”

“Sounds like the staff sergeant.”

I say, “Sounds like he’s protecting his fire team. But why? I don’t think he did what he’s charged with in Georgia. But their arrests in Georgia came after they were sent home early. Why? What happened here?”

Kurtz stares at me, and I say, “Mr. Kurtz, I’m here under no authority or orders. I’ve been on aircraft and in convoys for the last forty hours. However my mission wraps up here, I’m heading straight to a court-martial. When that happens, I’d like to think this wasn’t all a waste, that I found out what really happened to Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his Rangers.”

Kurtz picks up his cup, takes another sip. Mine is getting cold and I don’t really give a shit.

I say, “You say you worked with them, admired them. Why won’t you help them?”

He says, “Doubt it will help at this point in time.”

“Please.”

He pours himself more tea. “One night they went on a raid.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. They hit the right house, but it was empty. Nobody home. It happens — sometimes the best intelligence gets fouled up. They were then heading back to their pickup point, when they heard screams. Not their business, not their problem, but Staff Sergeant Jefferson... he’s not made like that. Someone was in pain, being tortured, and he and his crew were going to stop it.”

“Did they?”

“They did,” he says. “But there were... complications.”

“What kind of complications?”

“The ones that sent them home early to Georgia and sent me up to this remote slice of paradise.”