The Summer House(73)

Another Ranger snorts. “Assholes,” he says.

But the sergeant says, “Yeah, but our assholes. Come along, Major. We’re gonna help you off.”

“You don’t have to,” I say.

But he nods to the other two men and says, “You can’t hardly move. And you got something important to do.”

The other two Rangers come to me and lift me out of my seat, and the sergeant grabs my rucksack.

“Let’s get moving, Major. Time’s a-wastin’.”



The next long minutes drag by in a painful blur as the three Rangers manhandle me off the parked C-17, as we pass the secured pallets of equipment while the aircraft’s loadmaster lowers the rear ramp. Instantly the wind and the harsh smells of Afghanistan batter me, and I try not to panic at the memories of being in that shattered Humvee, the vehicle burning, trapped, smelling my own flesh starting to cook off…

It’s near noon local time, and in the distance two twin-rotor Chinook helicopters are taking off. I find it hard to catch my breath because of the thin air, but the bulky and armed Rangers move like they’re college boys on spring break, relaxed and strong. I fade in and out, and there’s talking, more soldiers around, and we pause outside a hangar. I want to ask what’s happening, and the sergeant returns to me and says, “We’ve got an open window of about ten minutes, Major, before somebody official comes over to check us in. Where can we take you?”

“Putnam,” I say. “Putnam Road.”

He strides away with confidence, and I take in the sheer size and noise of Bagram, then the other two Rangers flank me, holding me up, and a minute or two pass before I’m bundled into an unarmored Humvee, and we drive away.



Eventually we’re traveling down Baskin Road, and there’s traffic going back and forth, and civilian workers walking by, wearing orange reflective vests, lanyards holding their identification, bouncing around their necks.

I’m in the rear with one of the Rangers who’s been holding me up, and he says, “Can you believe this damn place has a Pizza Hut? Can you believe that?”

The Humvee comes to a halt at the intersection of Baskin and Putnam. The sergeant turns away from the steering wheel and says, “End of the line, Major. We need to get our asses back ’fore we get in the shits. Good luck, sir.”

Some hustle and bustle, and now I’m alone at this dusty intersection, my heavy rucksack on my aching back, cane in my hand, and my breathing is still labored as I turn and limp my way down Putnam Road.

As I move along the narrow road, past tan-colored ribbed cargo containers, squat concrete one-or two-story buildings, blast walls, and utility poles, I run through my mind what I’m going to say, and how I’m going to say it, when I arrive at the CID office.

Two heavyset bearded contractors walk past me, nodding, and both have sympathy in their eyes at seeing me struggle along. Probably think I’m one dedicated trooper, sticking to his job, and I know that’s not true. Months ago I left this place and attempted to put everything away in a box and on a shelf, but the smells and the wind and the constant noise of generators and aircraft taking off and landing are bringing it all back.

I even remember the last time I was here in Bagram, working with local MPs, an FBI agent, and two women investigators from SIGAR, Special Inspector General for Afghanistan Reconstruction, as we arrested two National Guard engineers from Alaska who were faking invoices and work orders so they could sell fuel oil to local Afghan merchants.

A long time ago, a simple crime. I don’t know if I’ll ever again recognize a simple crime.

Up ahead now. To the CID office and maybe I can get some coffee, something to eat, as I try to convince them to get me from here to the village of Pendahar.

I stop.

The familiar tan-colored concrete cube of a building is right where I remember it, but there’s been a change.

The metal front door is padlocked shut. The two small windows have metal shutters drawn down. The colorful sign marking the CID presence is gone, leaving just four empty bolt holes in the concrete.

Damn it!

A male voice speaks up behind me. “Sir? Is that you, Major Cook?”

I pretend not to hear the inquiring voice and do my best to quickly limp down a side alley.

“Sir,” another voice barks out. “You need to come with us.”

I grit my teeth, increase my walking speed.

It’s all I can do.





Chapter 66



ACROSS FROM SPECIAL AGENT Connie York, Peggy Reese says, “There. You made me talk. Proud of yourself? Just remember. You can do your job and then leave, and we few innocents will be around to face whatever wrath will rise up.”

“I’m glad you said what you said,” York says. “But I’m surprised that—”

“Surprised? I thought an Army investigator like you wouldn’t be shocked by nearly anything.”

“You’d be wrong,” she says. “It’s just that in these times, I can’t see how—”

“You can’t see how a woman like her could get away with it?” Peggy asks, scratching the chin of one of her cats, her voice harsh. “There’s 159 counties in the great state of Georgia. What, you think all of them are run on the straight and narrow? You don’t think there are opportunities for graft and corruption?”