The Summer House(108)

Pierce sees that the arrogant and angry face of the judge has changed to something else entirely. “Go on, Major, go on,” the judge says. “Why are you in Afghanistan? What does anything over there have to do with Sullivan County and my court?”

Another boom, another shake of the screen, and Cook continues, voice tired and strained. “During the course of our investigation, we learned that the Ranger fire team that was arrested in Sullivan County had been accused of committing a similar crime in a small village in Afghanistan. It seemed to be too much of a coincidence. I flew here and found out that this charge was false, that it was a setup by the local Taliban to accuse the Rangers of war crimes.”

Rollins says, “Major, you’re not telling me that the Taliban came over here and tried to do the same thing again, are you?”

“No, sir, not at all. But I believe that false accusation served as a…template, or an inspiration for someone down the line. I know the staff sergeant is pleading guilty, in exchange for letting his two surviving squad members go free. I believe he’s doing this out of dedication and loyalty to his men. But please, Your Honor, please don’t accept his plea. I’ve gathered information over here that I believe is vital to what’s going on in Sullivan County.”

Pierce hears other voices coming out of the speakers, and Cook turns, nods, and says, “They’re approaching the outer wire now, Your Honor.”

“Hurry up, Major, tell us what you found out,” the judge says, leaning farther over his bench.

“A couple of months ago, the Rangers were sent home early from a regularly scheduled deployment. That happened days after the Rangers discovered a US citizen raping an Afghan civilian in a private home in a small village. A young boy.”

Moans and sounds of disgust come from the spectators, and with three sharp blows from his gavel, the judge quiets down the conversations.

“People!” he yells. “I got a goddamn American soldier under fire, trying to tell us the truth here, and the next person who opens his or her damn mouth is gonna regret it!”

Pierce is staring at the screen, willing the video to remain in view, for the signal not to cut out, and the judge says, “Go on, Major, please.”

Cook says, “It’s my belief, sir, that the Rangers were sent home early, and that they were falsely accused of killing these civilians, to keep their mouths shut about what they witnessed. And what they witnessed was your congressman, Mason Conover, committing this crime, while under the escort of a Georgia National Guard captain, Emma Williams, your county sheriff.”

Another boom from the computer, the screen goes blank, and the courtroom erupts in shouts and yells.





Chapter 103





Afghanistan




IN FRONT OF ME, Kurtz closes down his laptop and says, “Think it’ll work?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I say, trying to remain very, very still on a padded bunk bed in Kurtz’s communications room. From where I can stretch out my arms, I’m in the Stone Age. But a meter farther away is the twenty-first century, probably edging into the twenty-second, with computer terminals, display screens, surveillance equipment offering up views of the ridges and valleys around this observation post, as well as live feeds from two drones endlessly circling overhead.

One of Kurtz’s men steps in, speaks quickly in Pashto, laughs, and then heads out.

I say, “What do you think the Taliban are going to say about all those hand grenades your guys tossed over the side?”

Kurtz steps back and puts the laptop down among a collection of black boxes with blinking white and red lights that mean absolutely nothing to me. “Oh, that crazy American up there, losing his mind over something. As long as it helped you sell your story to that judge in Georgia, who cares? How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” I say.

“Good.”

He comes back to me, sits on a campstool. “I won’t be able to get you out of here until light.”

“I’ll manage,” I say. “What about Chief Cellucci?”

“I’ve got two of my guys with radios standing guard so the locals don’t steal his remains or screw with the Little Bird wreckage,” he says. “Either the Night Stalkers or a Ranger unit will come in sometime tonight and retrieve his body, destroy the wreckage. That’s how they roll.”

A little stab of pain makes itself known among my numbed limbs. “I got him killed.”

Kurtz reaches into a deep pocket, pulls out a Hershey bar, which he unwraps. “Nope. A two-man Taliban gun crew using a Soviet-made DShK 1938 heavy machine gun brought him down. The chief was on a mission, even if an unauthorized one.” He takes a bite and says, “Good thinking back there, pointing a Hershey bar at my guys when they found you.”

“I thought it’d work better than a pistol,” I say.

He chews for a moment and says, “Got some stateside news for you that I dug out while you were talking to the judge. I’m sorry, it’s not great news.”

“Tell me,” I say. “I think I’m about to pass out in a minute or two.”

He swallows. “There were a couple of news stories about a shooting in Savannah.”

I know exactly what’s happened. “Is she dead?”

“Nope,” he says. “Critically wounded, in an ICU at some hospital in Savannah. Funny thing is, she’s not alone. Looks like one of your guys is holding her room hostage.”