The Summer House(63)

Ever.

At the other end of the block, one of the jail attendants with a meal cart is passing out an early supper—usually barely warm hot dogs in untoasted buns, a bag of chips, a mustard packet, a juice box. Jefferson raps the old metal bars with his hands and says, “Hey, you down there. I need to see the chief. Straightaway.”

The attendant is a chubby, surly young boy wearing a tan uniform and light-blue latex gloves. He says, “I’ll get to him, soon enough. I’m doing my job here.”

“And doing it so fine,” Jefferson says, and he goes back and sits down on his bunk. A couple of minutes later, the young boy comes back, drops a paper plate with the supper on it, and shoves it into Jefferson’s cell with a foot. Then he leaves, pushing the meal cart before him.

The Ranger picks up the two cold hot dogs, makes sure they’ve not been spit upon or tampered with, and in a few minutes, supper is finished.

Corporal Barnes calls out, “Everything okay, Sergeant?”

“It’s perfect,” he says, wiping his hands with two brown paper napkins.

Specialist Ruiz says, “You sure, Sergeant? I don’t remember this part coming up, you seeing the chief.”

Jefferson crumples up the napkins, steps up to the bars. Both Barnes and Ruiz are standing close to the bars of their respective cells, wearing the same dull orange jumpsuit as Jefferson. He tosses a crumpled napkin at each, and both go through the bars and strike their heads.

“No turning back now, gentlemen,” he says.

He hears a metallic clatter of a door opening, and a still-angry-looking Chief Kane strolls in. Jefferson has a funny thought that if the poor chief were to have a coronary and die right now, that angry look would probably stay on his face all the way through the funeral.

“What is it?” Kane asks.

Jefferson says, “Chief, we’ve been here a few days, and I’ve made a decision.”

The chief hitches a hand on his utility belt. “What decision is that?”

“I want to meet with that Army lawyer who’s been trying to see me and the rest of my team. As soon as can be arranged. I want to meet him, and I want the district attorney to be here at the same time.”

Kane looks suspicious. “Why the hell should I do that? You had your chance before. You turned it down. Why should I let you do it now?”

Jefferson drapes his big hands over one of the crossbars of his cell door. “Because having us around here is a royal pain in the ass, isn’t it, Chief? And wouldn’t you like to get rid of us as soon as possible? Stop all the phone calls, all the news media banging on your door at all hours of the day? Get me that Army lawyer and the district attorney, and I’ll make it happen.”

“How?” Kane asks, and in addition to the suspicion on his face, Jefferson sees something else in the man’s eyes: hope that this whole mess will go away.

Jefferson grins, steps back from the barred door. “Just you wait and see.”





Chapter 56



WHEN I WAKE UP, my Bruce Catton book on the Civil War is on the floor of the C-17 and I hear the whine of the engines as we prep to leave Ramstein after the hour-long refueling stop. I would love to bend down and pick up the book, but right now my body is in dull-ache mode, and it’s the best I’ve felt in the last few hours, so I stay still.

The interior of this transport aircraft is huge, eighty-eight feet in length and eighteen feet in width, and most of the inside is taken up with pallets and containers of equipment for the Fourth Battalion, tied down with webbed straps. Also along as cargo are three Rangers from Beta Company of the Fourth Battalion, and in the flight to Germany, they sat as a group on the starboard side of the aircraft. Only once did they pay attention to me, when they realized I had no food or water, and one of the specialists gave me a bottle of water and three energy bars.

The aircraft sighs to a halt.

We wait.

Wait some more.

In a forward area is a door marked LAVATORY, and beyond that is a small corridor leading to a galley. Next to that, a steep set of stairs leads up to the flight deck. The overhead curved ceiling is crammed with wires and conduits.

On this mission the craft has a loadmaster and three pilots, one acting as a reserve so each one can get some sleep, and across from me, one Ranger nudges another, who nudges the third.

I look over.

One of the pilots is coming down the stairs from the flight deck, not looking happy. I check my watch. It’s almost 3:00 a.m. in Ramstein, on Wednesday.

The pilot comes over to me, leans down. He has captain’s bars on his Air Force flight suit.

“Got a problem here,” he says, voice loud over the sound of the four idling engines.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, knowing that whatever it is, it’s all on me.

He says, “Got a flash message from the control tower. They want to know if I’ve got an Army officer aboard named Cook. What did you say your name was again, back at Hunter?”

I don’t know why I do it, but there’s something in the pilot’s tone of voice and I casually move my left hand over to the right side of my chest, give it a good scratch.

“I didn’t.”

The pilot stares at me hard.

“Mind telling me just what the hell you are, Major?”

“I’m an investigator with the CID. I need to get to Afghanistan because…”