The Summer House(100)

“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.”





Chapter 91



AFTER THE WORDS “the Honorable Judge Howell Rollins presiding” fade away, Lieutenant John Huang leans closer to Pierce and says, “We’ve got to do something.”

“Like what?” Pierce says, feeling on the spot, remembering the urgent words from Agent Sanchez, up there in Savannah, keeping guard over a wounded Agent Cook: Protect the Rangers.

He says to Huang, “I don’t have standing here, Doc. You know that.”

“But you know something’s going on with the sheriff,” he urgently says. “We both know it!”

Pierce says, “What the hell do you want me to do? Interrupt the proceedings? Yell out that the Army is here, and we know your sheriff is a crook and is planning to kill this Army Ranger? Hell, considering what he’s charged with, most of the people in this town would be fine with it.”

Pierce sees one of the courtroom officers—an older male with a paunch who looks like ex-military—staring at him and Huang, and he shuts up.

District Attorney Cornelius Slate is at the judge’s bench, talking to the judge, and overhead, huge fans are slowly moving, trying to stir up the dead air.

Abruptly the district attorney goes back to his table, and the judge says, “All right, Gene. Bring in the sergeant, will you?”

The court officer who earlier had been staring at them goes through the door near the clerk’s station and comes back with Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson. He’s dressed in the same orange prison jumpsuit, with RALSTON PD JAIL in black letters on the back. His hands are cuffed, and he moves with grace and confidence, like whatever is going to happen today is a minor annoyance, nothing else.

There are whispers and a few comments after Jefferson comes in, including one woman’s harsh voice—“Baby killer!”—but the Ranger goes to the front of the table directly next to the district attorney’s and patiently stands there.

The old judge at the bench makes a soft rap with his gavel and says, “Okay, folks, simmer down. We’re about to begin.”

Pierce is reminded of those dreams he has when he’s under some heavy stress, the dreams of going to class and realizing that today is exam day, or the dreams of ending a semester and finding an old class schedule, realizing that he’s forgotten to attend an important class all these past months.