The Summer House(19)
Moore says, “I’m sure he’ll be free in just a few minutes, Major. I’m so sorry for the wait.”
Cook says, “No apologies necessary,” but Connie knows exactly what’s going on. She and Major Cook are just Army cops, dressed in civilian clothes, and the commanding officer here is putting the two of them in their place. All around them on the walls are photos of the Rangers with the Fourth Battalion, in action in places like Iraq and Afghanistan as well as earlier deployments to Panama and Grenada.
Several helicopters thrum overhead, and not for the first time as a CID agent, Connie thinks of herself as a fraud. She’s a tough cop, a good investigator, but she’s not a real soldier. She knows that. She and Sanchez are both warrant officers, an odd and mostly overlooked rank between an NCO and an officer, and even though they’re supposed equals, Sanchez always likes to rag on her that he’s got more field experience with the LAPD and six months more in the CID than she has.
This airfield and those photos and the men and women out there in this hot Georgia heat, they’re the real Army. The records of the four Rangers they all examined this morning were certainly eye-opening, with the listings of their duty stations, schools attended, and deployments conducted. The records also displayed what the four accused Rangers overall have achieved: Combat Infantry, Pathfinder, Parachutist, and Air Assault badges, ribbons denoting the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star Medal, plus various other recognitions.
At the time, Connie felt embarrassed. She’s known as a slick sleeve, her uniform bare of service medals and overseas campaign ribbons. Waiting now for Lieutenant Colonel Marcello, that feeling comes back, of being an imposter among these real soldiers.
Major Moore is wearing camouflage fatigues, and his ink-black hair is closely trimmed. He says, “I still can’t believe you’re here, and that Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were arrested. It must be some kind of mistake.”
After seeing and hearing all the evidence this Sunday morning, Connie doesn’t want to burst the major’s bubble, but Cook says, “That’s what we’re hoping, too. Tell me, do you know them well?”
Moore shakes his head. “They’re in Alpha Company. I never interacted much with them, but, man, the stories about them…They’re called the Ninja Squad.”
“Really?” Cook asks. “Why’s that?”
Moore says, “They’re superb at moving at night. I mean, everyone can move at night; with NVGs on, it’s hard not to. But Sergeant Jefferson and his crew, they take it a step further. It’s like…like they’re goddamn shadows or something. And Sergeant Jefferson, he’s tight with his men. All teams are tight, but Jefferson, his men trust him and follow him, no questions asked. Once I heard how he weeds out newbies who want to be in his section. They go on a night hike, through some deep woods, and Jefferson marches right off a cliff…into a swamp. Fall isn’t much, but for Sergeant Jefferson, those who fall with him into the swamp with no hesitation, no questions, they get in. The others…don’t.”
Connie says, “Sounds impressive…for training.”
Moore shakes his head. “Same thing out on deployments. His fire team always gets the tough jobs because they can get them done, no bullshit. He and his team can approach a target farmhouse, even with dogs and Taliban guards around, and they can still slip into a compound without anyone noticing, breach the door, and kill everyone before someone can pick up a weapon.”
Shit, Connie thinks, doesn’t that sound familiar, and Moore says, “Thing is, when they get stateside, wow, can they get into—”
When his phone buzzes Moore gives the two of them a big smile. He picks up the receiver and says, “Moore,” and after a few nods, he says, “Yes, sir, straightaway.”
He hangs up the phone.
“The lieutenant colonel will see you now.”
Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello is standing behind his desk, an impressive piece of furniture that Connie thinks is bigger than her bed back at Quantico. The desk is brightly clean, and Marcello continues to stand as he looks down upon a piece of paper. There are the typical in and out baskets, two telephones, and a computer monitor. It’s a corner office, filled with light, and souvenirs, plaques, and photos are up on the wall.
Marcello is huge, bulky, like under his camo uniform there are slabs of muscle, and he’s bald, the only hair being two bushy black eyebrows.
Without lifting his head, he says, “Major Cook, why are you here?”
After half a beat, Cook says, “Colonel Marcello, my team and I were ordered here to conduct an investigation into—”
“I know that, Major,” he cuts in, voice louder, head still bowed down. “But I have a very competent investigator here, Colonel Tringali of the Third MP Group. I trust her and her CID investigators. She even has a positive working relationship with Sheriff Williams over there in Sullivan County, the scene of the crime. So why are you here?”
“Orders, sir.”
Marcello finally lifts his head. There’s a pink scar running down his right cheek. Connie is suddenly glad that her boss is the focus of the colonel’s anger and attention.
“A special squad for a special case?”
“You could say that, sir. We investigate those matters of high priority and high attention, to make sure the accused’s rights are preserved but also to ensure that justice is done. Sir.”