The Summer House(76)

Afghanistan




MY NOT-SO-GREAT ESCAPE ends with me coming up against a smooth concrete wall, maybe a blast barrier or something separating this part of the compound from another set of buildings. I turn, and two male corporals in standard ACUs and carrying holstered pistols approach me, wearing patrol caps and very serious looks on their faces.

“Major Cook?” the one on the left asks.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say, returning their salutes, feeling tired, defeated, and just worn-out. All the way here and to be picked up in a narrow alley by two MPs, no doubt dispatched from Quantico, way on the other side of the world. Mission definitely not accomplished.

I’m in deep trouble, and with the pain and the exhaustion coursing through me, I also feel shame, that I’m letting down not only my investigative squad but also the three imprisoned Rangers.

The one on the left says, “Sir, would you come with us? Please?”

The other one steps forward, holds out a hand. “I’ll take your rucksack, sir.”

Then I notice the special skill tab on the soldier’s shoulder: RANGER.





We’re traveling on one of the access roads paralleling the main Bagram runway when the corporal driving says, “Sir?”

I’m sitting in the rear of the uncomfortable Humvee, my muscle memory roaring back, reminding me of a previous ride in a Humvee and how it nearly killed me and—

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor, sir, huddle over and pretend you’re napping, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a checkpoint up ahead. I think they might be looking for you…and I got my orders.”

Shit, I think, and I lower my cap and hunch over to my right, like I’m resting against my rucksack. The Humvee slows. The front door opens. Some voices.

I try to ease my breathing, like I’m really asleep, instead of being moments away from being arrested for a variety of charges.

The door is shut.

The Humvee resumes its motion.

The corporal says, “Boy, the MPs sure are stirred up about an Army major named Cook who smuggled himself into this shithole. Lucky for me, I didn’t spot your name tag back there.”

I slowly sit up. “Some luck.”



A few minutes after the checkpoint, I’m in a cluttered cubicle made of plywood, in a secure area near the runway. The sounds of jets taking off and landing and the deep thump-thump of helicopters roaring overhead is constant, and before me is an Army Ranger captain talking to someone on a phone. The plywood walls are covered with maps, calendars, charts, and a Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders poster.

The captain says, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am…I understand, ma’am.”

He suddenly stands up, a frown on his weathered face, and says, “This call is for you, Major. Excuse me while I step out.”

I take the phone and wait until the captain leaves the cubicle, a thin squeaky wooden door closing behind him, and I say, “This is Major Cook.”

A strong woman’s voice comes across the phone line. “This is Major Fredericka West, Special Troops Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, out of Fort Benning. We need to talk.”

I feel like a wide-eyed young rookie out on his first real street patrol back in the NYPD, facing real trouble for the first time. “Major…about what?”

“I don’t want to do it over the phone,” she says. “Has to be face-to-face.”

“Here?” I ask as an overhead helicopter makes the plywood walls shake.

“Hell no,” she says. “Where I am. At an FOB near Khost. Close to a village called Pendahar. Interested in seeing me now?”

“Very much so,” I say. “But, Major…how did you…I mean…”

Her voice is filled with steel and determination. “I’m with the battalion’s Military Intelligence Company. And one bit of interesting intelligence has come my way in the last twelve hours. You know Major Frank Moore?”

Instantly I reply, remembering the pleasant man I met a few days ago with Connie, before going up before the Fourth Battalion’s colonel. “Certainly. The executive officer for the Fourth Battalion.”

“That’s right,” she says. “His body was pulled from the Savannah River last night, local time, with a bullet to the forehead. It looks like he was murdered right after an unauthorized visit to Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson over in Ralston, in Sullivan County.”

Damn, I think.

Her voice changes in tone. “Major, do you remember a specialist from the Eighty-Second Airborne named Conner? Brad Conner? He was charged with stealing a crate of 7.62-millimeter ammunition and selling it to a gang in Charlotte.”

The name pops up in my memory, and I say, “Yes. Nearly three years back.”

“Right. Your investigation cleared him.”

“Well, Major, my investigation went to the evidence. That’s what cleared him.”

She says, “That’s your point of view. You knew that Specialist Conner’s dad was an Army Ranger, correct?”

“Well…yes, I did learn that during the course of my investigation, but that’s about it. It didn’t matter.”

The major on the other end of the line says, “Well, it matters to us. His father is Trent Conner. Former command sergeant major at the Ranger Training Brigade at Fort Benning, and prior to that…well, I don’t have the time to tell you his service record and list of awards and decorations. Let’s just say Command Sergeant Major Conner is a goddamn legend in the Ranger community, and you earned a solid, helping out his son.”