by Kaki Warner
He’d have to fly all over hell and down the sides to find out. In addition, he’d been ordered to complete his investigation ASAP and he was already behind.
Since the body of Army Captain Nataleah Mouton was already on its way to Dover, Delaware for a detailed autopsy, he’d have to wait for their findings before he could complete his report. Plus, the wounded officer, Whitcomb, was in no condition for a comprehensive interview at this time, so he’d have to make a return trip to Landstuhl within a day or so. Either delay could be costly, and Stranton, his next-in-command, expected his final report in a week. All Richard could do for now was go to FOB Hickock, where the crime had occurred, and start from there.
He’d have to move fast. Cultural traditions stipulated that the Afghan officer’s body should be washed by his male relatives, wrapped in a white shroud, and buried within two days of death. No autopsy. Already the captain’s father, a local poppy grower, was raising hell about the delay, as well as the circumstances of his only son’s death.
But with the fourteen-hour flight from the United States, the eight-and-a-half-hour time difference, plus the short stopover in Germany to interview Whitcomb, by the time Richard arrived at Hickock, he would have only a few hours before he had to release Farid’s body to his family. He’d never had to work so fast. But Richard was beginning to understand why.
Damage control. DOD had CENTCOM scrambling, and Chief Warrant Officer Stranton was desperate to end the investigation before it escalated into an international scandal. The military was already facing enough backlash from other PR problems. They wouldn’t welcome more.
A political shitstorm, with Richard caught in the middle. If he didn’t do this right, he was fucked.
Knowing his leave couldn’t begin until he’d finished his part of the investigation, Richard had already e-mailed the FOB medical officer, asking him to draw blood from the dead Afghan, take DNA samples, make dental impressions, and provide detailed descriptions and photographs of the body and wounds. He’d also alerted the base’s MP commander, Captain Vocek, of his arrival. They hated when CID showed up out of the blue.
Pulling a pen and small notebook from his pocket, he jotted down the hoops he would have to jump through as soon as he landed. Check in with Captain Vocek, set up witness interviews, talk to the medical officer, study the ballistics report, examine then release Farid’s body, report his progress to Stranton. After tracking down and talking to the witnesses, he would have to return to Germany to reinterview Lieutenant Whitcomb, give Stranton another progress report, then head back to Florida and CENTCOM, where, hopefully, Captain Mouton’s autopsy report would be waiting. And finally, he would write up his report, turn in his findings and recommendations, and start his leave, assuming Stranton had approved it. Richard figured by then he’d be happy to move on to something less politically charged. Like rescuing cats, arresting cattle rustlers, ticketing speeders, or stopping bar fights.
And no flying, he vowed, as he watched the fortress that was FOB Hickock grow bigger as the copter descended. He really hated flying.
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center
Landstuhl, Germany
Dr. Hwang was a civilian doctor with MEDCOM, specializing in traumatic injury and orthopedic surgery. He was young, brisk, and spoke in short, clipped sentences with an accent. Korean or maybe Chinese. KD wasn’t sure.
He spared no details.
“When you were shot,” he began, “the bullet traveled in a downward path through the ilium on the left side of the pelvic cradle, where it caused damage to the left ovary and fallopian tube and uterus before deflecting into your left hip joint. If you do not reinjure it, the ilium will heal in eight weeks without surgical intervention. We were not able to save your left ovary and fallopian tube, but have repaired the uterus, and have replaced the joint of your left hip with a polyethylene socket and a metal femoral head. Neither the abdominal aorta nor the left iliac artery were injured, and all of the components of the broad ligament remain intact. Nerve function was not compromised, and the muscles of the pelvis appear minimally damaged. You were very lucky.”
Lucky?
“You have questions?”
Hell, yeah, she had questions. If she could even figure out what he was talking about. A hole in her pelvis, one ovary gone, and a metal and plastic hip joint? What did that mean? “Will I still be able to walk and do normal things?” she asked.
“Such as? You have specific concerns?”
“Such as go to the bathroom like a regular person, have sex, bear children, dance, ride a horse, live a real life?”
“I anticipate no lasting problems,” he assured her. “Bowel and bladder function will return to normal within a few days. Once initial healing is complete, sexual intercourse can resume. Conceiving might be problematic with only one functioning ovary, but you are young, healthy, and fit. You must limit alcohol and follow diet and exercise guidelines for a while, but once your physical therapy is complete, you should recover nicely. I suggest you do not fall down or attempt to run or dance vigorously for a while. Or ride a horse,” he added with a smile at the absurdity of such an idea, as if no woman as small and delicate-appearing as KD would even contemplate such a thing.
She was accustomed to the attitude. No matter that she had finished boot with high marks, or had played sports all her life, or had been riding horses since she could walk, people always underestimated her because of her size and small frame.
Especially men. Until she beat them at their own games.
Dr. Hwang flipped through the pages on his clipboard, then went on with his report. “Your labs are good. We will continue hydration for another day. And the Foley catheter, as well. You should be able to eat solids later today, once bowel function is established. At your nurse’s request, I am reducing pain medication and prescribing something for nausea. A physical therapist will be by later to determine when you can get out of bed for short periods and explain your exercises. For at least another week, you will remain here in the hospital, then you will be transferred to the States for rehabilitation and further assessment.” He straightened the pages of the clipboard and looked up. “Any other concerns, Lieutenant?”
“When can I go back on active duty?”
The question seemed to surprise him. Apparently, he’d underestimated her commitment to the army, too. “We will have to see.”
See what? Didn’t he just say she would recover? “What does that mean?”
Impatience flashed. “It means there is a process, Lieutenant Whitcomb. Many factors must be taken into consideration.”
She could sense his unwillingness to give her a full answer, but pressed on anyway. “What factors, Doctor? What do I have to do to get your permission to return to active duty?”
“It is not up to me. There is a medical board that evaluates such things.”
“What things?”
“The degree of mobility you achieve, for one. Whether you can pass the active duty physical training requirements, and what your psychological test reveals. Based upon those findings, the board will decide if you remain in the army or receive a medical separation. That is all I can say for now. Anything else?”
She was too stunned to respond. How could she pass the APFT with a plastic hip and a hole in her pelvis?
“Then I wish you an excellent recovery.” And off he went.
KD didn’t dwell on her situation long; as the day passed, her pain increased. She tried to ignore it but panic hovered in the corners of her mind. No kids? No army? No career? How could her life go to hell so fast?
I shouldn’t have left her. I should have looked for a gun. I should have gone back as soon as they started shouting.
Tears threatened—for her, for her captain, for the innocent little boy who had suffered at Farid’s hands. She didn’t even know if Taj had made it back to his mother. How could good intentions have gone so wrong
?
The physical therapist came, poked and prodded, helped her put on compression hose to prevent blood clots, told KD she was doing great, and left. No walk today, thank God. Then dinner came—warm broth, juice, a soft-boiled egg, runny custard, and weak tea. After finishing off the custard, she was exhausted enough to nap.
By the time she awoke, the meds had worn off and pain encased her left side, radiating from her back and hip around to the thick bandages stretching over her abdomen. But her stomach had settled enough that she could turn her head without vomiting, and the pain was tolerable if she didn’t move. Later, after they removed the catheter and took the IV out of her arm, she would try to lie on her right side, maybe walk a bit, ask for real food.
She would get through this. She would be strong again. Next week she’d go home and explain to her family what had happened and how her failure had cost her captain her life. Then, hopefully, the nightmares would stop and the real healing would begin.
But first, she had to face Warrant Officer Murdock and answer all his questions. She wasn’t looking forward to that.
FOB Hickock
Northern Afghanistan
A young MP jumped out of a waiting Humvee and hurried to meet Richard when he hopped down from the helicopter. “Warrant Officer Murdock?”
When Richard nodded, the soldier saluted smartly, despite protocol that salutes weren’t exchanged in combat zones, gave his name as Private First Class Jamison, and offered to take Richard’s rifle and heavy duffle.
Richard handed them over—one of the privileges of rank, minor though his was—and climbed into the Humvee. A few minutes later, they stopped before a gate attached to a concrete watchtower. After another MP checked them through to the inner FOB, Richard exchanged the K-pot and armor for a patrol cap with the CID badge on the front and his name on the back, stuffed the helmet and vest into his duffle, and left it in the Humvee with his rifle. Making sure his ID was visible, he followed the private into a building adjacent to the tower.
Another check-in, this time with a female MP sergeant at a desk in the entry, then they continued down the hall to a closed door. Stenciled at eye level—for normal-size people—was military police, and below it, captain vocek, co.
A single knock and the private opened the door.
The office was small, and felt even more so when Richard stepped inside. He fought the urge to duck his head, the ceilings were so low. The walls were concrete. On one was a single sand-pitted window, on another, a gray metal file cabinet. In front of the rear wall and facing the door stood a battered army-issue gray metal desk, and behind it sat a fit-looking middle-aged man with thinning hair and the stub of an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth.
“Captain Vocek, sir,” the private said and saluted the man at the desk, which earned him a glare in return, since salutes weren’t exchanged indoors, either. “CID Warrant Officer Murdock is here, sir.” Then, because the doorway was too narrow to comfortably accommodate him, as well as Richard’s six-foot-three frame, he stepped back into the hall, promised to send the duffle and rifle to Richard’s quarters, saluted again, and closed the door.
“He’s new.” Captain Vocek sighed and shook his head in disgust. “Probably salutes the head before he takes a dump.” Waving Richard to the straight-backed gray metal chair in front of the desk, he said, “Welcome to my coffin.”
After a few minutes of small talk about Richard’s flight, the weather, and what foods to avoid in the mess, the captain set the unlit, soggy cigar in a dented metal ashtray on his desk and sat back. “We’ve got a hell of a mess with this ANP killing. I’m already getting calls from reporters in Kabul and Bagram.”
“What are you telling them?”
“That it’s under investigation.”
Richard nodded. “I read the initial report. Sounds like he might have been shot by one of ours.”
“I doubt it was self-inflicted, although there’s no way to know for sure, considering his wound. Up through the neck and out the back of the head. Instantaneous. Whoever did it should get a medal.”
Richard preferred talking directly to the medical officer and examining the wound himself before he made any determinations. “Any idea why our soldiers were in the Afghan’s quarters?”
“The MP at the gate on the night of the shooting said one of our female terps and a local woman asked to speak to Captain Mouton. He figured it was a complaint. We get a lot of them, mostly on the police. He didn’t hear what was said. Later, the two Afghan women left with Captain Mouton and Second Lieutenant Whitcomb and two suited-up SF guys.”
“On foot?”
“They didn’t ask for a vehicle, and neither of the women wore battle gear. It didn’t look like they were expecting trouble.”
“You have a lot of female soldiers here?”
“A few. Part of the cultural support team. Mouton was their CO, Whitcomb her second. They’ll be missed.”
“I saw Whitcomb in Germany. She wasn’t doing well.”
“She’s tougher than she looks. Check out her service file.”
Richard had. But he still couldn’t reconcile the stats on paper with the frail, broken woman he’d seen at Landstuhl.
Female combat casualties in Afghanistan were rare. That a female army officer had been killed under questionable circumstances only made it worse. And then there was the dead Afghan captain. No surprise CENTCOM was worked up.
“You’re assuming they walked to this Afghan officer’s quarters, where they got into a gunfight?” Richard asked. “Over what?”
“Like the gate guard said, probably a complaint.”
“Does that normally lead to violence?”
“Not usually. But this one might have involved the guy they went to see. We’ve had several complaints on Captain Farid. He didn’t handle them well.”
“The man who was killed.”
Vocek nodded. “Can’t say it’s a huge loss. He was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Corrupt as hell. Hard on his men and cruel to the locals. The kind of CO that gets accidentally shot by friendly fire, if you know what I mean. We sent complaints to the office of Afghan Interior Affairs, but all they do is reassign these assholes to other posts. That’s how we got Farid in the first place. Like we were running low on assholes around here.”
Richard thought for a moment, fitting the few pieces he had into a rough sketch. “You’re thinking the interpreter and a local woman came to Captain Mouton with a complaint—possibly about Farid himself. Then Mouton and Whitcomb went with two SF soldiers to Farid’s quarters, where they got into a firefight that ended with the ANP CO dead, Captain Mouton dead, and Lieutenant Whitcomb critically wounded.”
“That’s about it.”
“Where were the SF guys during all this?”
“Outside. As ordered by Mouton. By the time they got inside, it was over. Luckily, they had IFAKs, or the lieutenant wouldn’t have made it.” The captain shoved a folder across the desk toward Richard. “It’s in their report. Such as it is.”
Richard picked up the folder and opened it. Two pages. “This is all of it?”
Vocek shrugged. “You know SF. They’d rather have their fingernails torn out than give you the time of day just to show how tough they are.” Vocek reached for his cigar butt, hesitated, then dropped his hand back to the desk.
Richard could see why. The stub, being brown, with the unlit end slightly rounded, and the soggy end chewed to a point, looked like a fresh dog turd. He wouldn’t have put it in his mouth, either. “Do you have their names?” he asked. “And the name of the MP at the gate that night? I need to interview all of them.”
Vocek wrote on a sheet of paper, shoved it across to Richard, and sat back. “The sergeant out front can arrange it. Just tell her when and where.”
Richard dropped the paper into his pocket. “Lieutenant Whitcomb mentioned a boy that Farid might have been
abusing. Know anything about that?”
“We think he’s the Afghan woman’s son. We’re not sure what happened to him or where he is now.”
“What do the terp and his mother say?”
“Can’t find either. Which is a worry. The interpreter is committed to her team. Very loyal. Wants to emigrate to America. If she’s missing, there’s a damn good reason why. As far as the local woman goes, she and the boy might have headed into the hills. If word got out that she had complained about one of the ANP, especially Farid, there might be retaliation. The Farid family is notoriously brutal.”
“So. No motive, no witnesses, and no clear reason why two female army officers went to talk to Farid in the first place.”
“That about sums it up.”
Not much to go on.
“And then there’s the father of the ANP captain,” Vocek added. “Khalil Farid. He’s like his son on PCP. Rich. Big poppy grower. Lots of political pull. The family patriarch, and totally devoted to his son. We’ve had to put a special watch on him in case he tries to come through the gate with a truckload of explosives to exact retribution against the American infidels. Bat-shit crazy. Bad enough that his only son was killed, but he’s also pissed that Asef’s remains haven’t been turned over to the family for burial.” When he saw Richard check his watch, he added, “You’re okay. We figure Farid died around eight P.M., night before last, so you’ve got a few more hours before you have to release the body.”
“Has the medical officer completed his report?”
Vocek lifted another folder off his desk and passed it to Richard. “Here’s the abbreviated version. Not much you can do without an actual autopsy. We sent the guns found at the scene and the bullets extracted from all three victims to the Bagram firearm and ballistics lab yesterday.”
Richard pulled his notepad and pen from his pocket. “Call me when you hear more. Here’s my cell number. You do have satellite cell service, right?”