The Summer House(91)

Her words are even more careful. “That’s what I heard.”

“What did they do for the CIA?”

“High-value target raids, I’m sure,” she says. “Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were quite experienced in those types of raids. The CIA has a paramilitary unit, the Special Activities Division—I have a Ranger friend who’s worked with them—but they don’t have as much field experience as some Ranger units.”

“The CIA was controlling them,” I say. “Why did the CIA send them home ahead of their deployment schedule? This house raid, the killing of civilians, it was just an excuse. A cover story.”

“Maybe,” she says. “You’ll have to talk to the CIA about that.”

“All right, where are they?” I ask. “I’ll go ahead and do just that.”

West says, “It’ll be a waste of time. You’d want to talk to the field officer handling those raids, and he’s been transferred.”

“Who’s the officer?”

“Fellow named Kurtz, though God knows if that’s his real name. He’s at Observation Post Conrad.”

“Where’s that?”

West points to her door. “About ten klicks that way, up in the mountains between here and Pakistan. Only way up there is by helicopter.”

“Can you get me there?”

Her phone rings and she holds up a finger. She takes the call—“West”—and seems to listen for a minute, then says, “Thanks for the heads-up, Sergeant Major.”

West hangs up the phone, shakes her head. “You know better than that, Major Cook. We don’t have any air assets. We get assigned them for a planned and specific mission, and I’m not in a position to do that. Sorry.”

“Major West,” I say, “the answer to whatever the hell is going on with those Rangers is up there with that CIA officer. One Ranger is dead. Another is facing life imprisonment for murders he might not have committed. Are you going to let that staff sergeant go to prison for life, probably face execution? Is that what you’re saying?”

Her brown eyes flash at me with anger. “What I’m saying is that I can’t make up a manifest and put your name on it, Major Cook, because I’ve just been told that there’s an MP unit about twenty minutes out, coming here, looking for you.”

Shit, I think. Shit, shit.

“Sorry,” I say.

Her face calms down. “You’re former NYPD, right?”

“That’s right,” I say. “Nineteen years in.”

She nods and says, “Go up two compounds. That’s where the Night Stalkers hang out. There’s a warrant officer there named Cellucci. You might have some luck with him…but no guarantees. I’ll walk you over, see that you get in.”

I stand up, grab my rucksack. “Thanks, Major.”

“Good luck, Major Cook,” she says as she, too, stands, “because you’re certainly going to need it.”

The sirens start up again, and the steady, calm male voice of the recording comes back.

“Rocket attack, rocket attack, rocket attack.”





Chapter 83





Afghanistan




THE NIGHT STALKERS is the nickname of the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, probably pound for pound the bravest and craziest helicopter pilots in the world. Responsible for operations in Panama, Yemen, Iraq, and Afghanistan, along with the raid that took out Osama bin Laden, they’re the Army aviators called upon to perform the most hazardous and nearly impossible missions.

Their compound is just a short walk from Major West’s, and while some of the soldiers and civilian personnel seem a bit jumpy after the two recent mortar attacks, the same isn’t true for the Night Stalkers, some of whom I find outdoors after Major West escorts me there. I come upon a rest area for these aviators, set outside three one-story metal-and-wood shacks. Beyond a concrete-block wall and coils of razor wire, their modified and exceptional helicopters of choice are lined up: two rotor transport MH-47s with extended fuel booms up front, Black Hawks for a variety of missions, and the much smaller two-crew Little Birds, used for reconnaissance and close combat and support.

Nearby is a gravel-covered area with weight-lifting equipment, punching bags, and half a dozen wooden picnic tables, where laughing and confident men are having late morning coffee and sausage, eggs, and pancakes on Styrofoam plates. They’re dressed in jeans, cut-off sweatshirts, hoodies, and vests, most wearing ball caps. The wind is steady, meaning they have to hold on tight to their food and drink.

As I approach the nearest table, I’m given a quick look by the men, and then they go back to their stories and breakfasts. I can see why I got the quick look: I might be an Army officer, but I’m not one of them, so I don’t count.

About then I’m ready to believe them.

I say, “I’m looking for a guy named Cellucci. Is he around?”

One of the aviators, with a close-cropped black beard and wearing sunglasses, a tattered Red Sox baseball cap on his head, says, “What’s up, Major?”

“I just need to talk to him,” I say. “Can you point him out?”

The aviator says, “Over there on the left. The laughing asshole wearing the Yankees cap.”