Fair enough.
I grab my rucksack and start toward the hidden bunkers of OP Conrad. I notice faded white PVC tubes stuck in the dirt—homemade urinals—and there is netting hanging up, and dirt berms, and HESCO barriers, made of metal webbing and about the size of large freezers, filled with rocks and dirt. There are antennas and satellite dishes, and one, then two, then four men emerge from a dirt entrance, like spelunkers coming up after being lost for a month.
“Hey,” I say.
The four men come closer, and now I understand why Cellucci couldn’t raise the outpost’s radio.
The four men are wiry, tall, bearded, and wearing the traditional sandals, cotton pants, sheepskin vests, and flat wool hats of Afghan villagers.
And fighters. All are carrying AK-47s, with belts and pouches around their skinny waists.
With horror, I realize that at some recent point the Taliban must have overrun this place. I drop my rucksack on the ground, hold out my hands—I have my service weapon holstered at my side, but going for it would be an instant death sentence—and I say, “Hey, does anyone—”
The closest one yells something I don’t understand and then hits me in the stomach with the butt of his AK-47.
Chapter 89
THE HEARING ROOM in the Sullivan County Superior Courthouse is packed, with not a single seat available along the two sets of four long wooden benches. Before the benches is a wooden bar with a swinging gate, and to the left is the juror’s box, which is empty. Captain Allen Pierce and Dr. John Huang are standing against a wall near the doors leading into the outer hall. Only by showing their CID badges and appealing to the patriotism of the courthouse attendants were they able to get in.
Huang says, “What a circus.”
Pierce doesn’t say a word, just takes it all in. Across from the empty jury box are two tables and sets of chairs. One table is occupied by District Attorney Cornelius Slate, sitting slumped in his chair. The other table and chairs are empty, and that’s where Pierce expects Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson to show up in a few minutes. At the other side of the enclosure is a witness booth, the raised bench for the judge—also empty—and another booth that looks to be occupied by an older African American woman, probably the court clerk. Two male uniformed court attendants stand by the judge’s bench.
Huang nudges him with an elbow. “Look. Over there. Do you see who has a prime seat?”
Pierce spots Sheriff Emma Williams sitting in the first row, with her campaign hat in her lap, and she’s laughing and whispering to everyone near her.
Huang says, “She looks happier than hell. Why is that?”
Sheriff Emma Williams checks her watch. In a few minutes that old fool Judge Howell Rollins will come in—hopefully not stumbling after his usual breakfast of two Bloody Marys—and get this show on the road.
She smiles as she takes in all of her people in the courtroom and doesn’t even break her smile at seeing those two sad-looking Army folks standing over there against the wall, like theatergoers who were promised orchestra seats and now are forced to stand throughout the show.
And what a show today promises to be. Behind this courthouse is the Sullivan County Jail, and that place is hers. Boyd Tolliver is in a two-person holding cell, and when that double-crossing piece of shit Staff Sergeant Jefferson pleads guilty and is sent back there, in preparation for being transferred to a state prison, well, the official story will be that he attacked this poor citizen out of rage, and said citizen had to defend himself.
The other two will be taken care of later, tonight or early tomorrow morning.
Of that she has no doubt.
And the woman CID agent who nearly got her head blown off, Williams heard late last night from a nurse at the hospital that she’s in a coma and probably won’t make it. She rubs at a healing scratch on her hand. Hell, even those two redneck clowns she put down a couple of days back near Hunter Army Airfield haven’t yet been reported missing.
Then…Tuesday, Election Day, and the day after, she’ll start packing her bags.
Williams scans the room, seeing her people. Will Fletcher, who took out a loan from her four years back when his dump trucks needed repair and will be paying off the loan for another three years. Moss Gray, who refused to give her a cut of his ’shine business, and whose two sons are now doing time over in Georgia State Prison. Ray Cass, who illegally dumps waste oil and gasoline from his three service stations in the local state forest, and who is going to do a favor for the sheriff late tonight, by disabling the bay doors for the Ralston Volunteer Fire Department so they can’t respond when an electrical fire breaks out at the Ralston jail, incinerating the poor prisoners incarcerated there.
Just the two, of course, but that will be enough.
Williams catches the eye of the tired-looking Chinaman standing back there and gives him a little wave and a smile.
Huang nudges the JAG lawyer with his elbow. “Did you see that? Did you? She waved at us. A big smile and she waved at us.”
Pierce says. “Confident little witch, isn’t she?”
Huang whispers again, “You don’t understand.”
“Then clarify it, Doc. The games are about to begin.”
“The sheriff is more than just confident,” he says, recalling the look on her face. “She’s taunting us. She’s telling us that no matter what happens today, it’s all going to come out in her favor.”
Pierce says, “That’s news? Staff Sergeant Jefferson is pleading guilty.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Huang says, desperately trying to keep his voice low. “Remember our stay at the jail last night, when the jail attendant told us that she heard the DA had pissed off the sheriff by getting that guilty plea? That humiliated her. She’s not a woman to be humiliated.”
A door at the far end of the courtroom opens, and an older man with snow-white hair and wearing black robes slowly comes in.
The woman clerk calls, “All rise!”
Huang whispers, “Allen, I think she means to kill the staff sergeant.”
Chapter 90
Afghanistan
ONCE MY EYES adjust to the gloom of the bunker’s interior, I see five men of various ages and beard lengths staring at me, four of them sitting against a rough rock wall with AK-47s leaning against their knees. The one without an automatic rifle is minding a little gas stove that is heating up a kettle of water. A sixth one, who disarmed me earlier, is about to go through my rucksack.
Electric lamps illuminate the rough interior, and dirty gray blankets are hung in two places, probably leading into other portions of the observation post. Fly strips dangle from the ceiling, dead flies attached.
My breathing is starting to ease, my left leg actually doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and I’m leaning against a folded-up gray blanket.
The man with my rucksack opens the top, takes out a plastic bag, grunts, and holds up a fistful of Hershey chocolate bars.
The men laugh.
I say, “Go ahead, laugh. Bet you clowns have never tasted chocolate in your life.”
The man with the kettle pours the hot water into a teapot, gently stirs it. In perfect English he says, “Oh, you might be surprised.”
I stare at him.
“Care for a cup of tea, Major?”
I say, “Are you Kurtz?”
He carefully sets out small metal cups for the brewed tea. “Apparently so,” he says, smiling.
The chocolate bars were passed over to Kurtz, and my weapon and rucksack were returned to me. I now hold a filled cup in my hand but don’t take a sip.
“Hell of a welcoming committee,” I say. “What’s your problem?”
He shrugs. “No problem. I didn’t feel like having visitors today. That’s why I didn’t answer. In two weeks there’s a scheduled resupply drop…and your pilot wasn’t sending along the necessary code groups to let me know about an unscheduled visit.” He pours tea in other cups, and the men reach forward. “I figure, you get a bit roughed up, you’ll bring the
message back to wherever you came from not to come up for some tourist visit.”
I say, “This isn’t a tourist visit.”
“Oh, my apologies,” he says. “Who are you, then, and why are you here?”
“Major Jeremiah Cook,” I say. “I’m with the Army CID.”
“Criminal investigations? Really? I’m afraid you have zero jurisdiction over me and my men.”
“It’s not involving your actions,” I say. “I’m investigating the arrest stateside of a Ranger squad that was under your temporary command. Headed by Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson, Alpha Company, Fourth Battalion.”
A slight smile through the beard. “Ah, yes, the famed Ninjas. Damn, they were good. I’d give them a house to raid, and I don’t know how they did it so well—concealment, taking their time, using distractions—but they could raid the house before the dogs even started barking. What happened to them stateside?”
I say, “Four of them were arrested for multiple homicides, killing seven civilians in a house.”
The cup is in midair. “That’s pretty screwed up. Do you think they did it?”
“All the forensic evidence and the witnesses say so,” I say. “But now the witnesses and most of the evidence are gone. One of the Rangers committed suicide in his cell. And I learned they were set up for an attack committed in a village here in Afghanistan. Pendahar.”
He takes a long sip of his tea. “Yeah. Poor Taliban bastards were getting pretty chewed up in that district. They wanted to set up a war-crime incident, blame the Ninjas, get world opinion once again set against the Great Satan. Happily for everyone, they suck at making home movies.”
“But they were still sent home early, weren’t they? With that potential war crime being used as an excuse. When they were under your command.”
“Ah, that’s right.”
“What happened when they were working for you?”
He puts his cup down on the stone-and-dirt floor. The five Afghan tribesmen have been watching our conversation with intent, their heads moving back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match.
“Sorry, Major Cook, that is way above your pay grade, your position, your station in life.”
I say, “Mr. Kurtz, please. Staff Sergeant Jefferson is pleading guilty today and is about to be sentenced for those murders.”
“And the other two Rangers?”
“Apparently they will be set free, in exchange for Jefferson pleading guilty.”
“Sounds like the staff sergeant.”
I say, “Sounds like he’s protecting his fire team. But why? I don’t think he did what he’s charged with in Georgia. But their arrests in Georgia came after they were sent home early. Why? What happened here?”
Kurtz stares at me, and I say, “Mr. Kurtz, I’m here under no authority or orders. I’ve been on aircraft and in convoys for the last forty hours. However my mission wraps up here, I’m heading straight to a court-martial. When that happens, I’d like to think this wasn’t all a waste, that I found out what really happened to Staff Sergeant Jefferson and his Rangers.”
Kurtz picks up his cup, takes another sip. Mine is getting cold and I don’t really give a shit.
I say, “You say you worked with them, admired them. Why won’t you help them?”
He says, “Doubt it will help at this point in time.”
“Please.”
He pours himself more tea. “One night they went on a raid.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. They hit the right house, but it was empty. Nobody home. It happens—sometimes the best intelligence gets fouled up. They were then heading back to their pickup point, when they heard screams. Not their business, not their problem, but Staff Sergeant Jefferson…he’s not made like that. Someone was in pain, being tortured, and he and his crew were going to stop it.”
“Did they?”
“They did,” he says. “But there were…complications.”
“What kind of complications?”
“The ones that sent them home early to Georgia and sent me up to this remote slice of paradise.”
Chapter 91
AFTER THE WORDS “the Honorable Judge Howell Rollins presiding” fade away, Lieutenant John Huang leans closer to Pierce and says, “We’ve got to do something.”
“Like what?” Pierce says, feeling on the spot, remembering the urgent words from Agent Sanchez, up there in Savannah, keeping guard over a wounded Agent Cook: Protect the Rangers.
He says to Huang, “I don’t have standing here, Doc. You know that.”
“But you know something’s going on with the sheriff,” he urgently says. “We both know it!”
Pierce says, “What the hell do you want me to do? Interrupt the proceedings? Yell out that the Army is here, and we know your sheriff is a crook and is planning to kill this Army Ranger? Hell, considering what he’s charged with, most of the people in this town would be fine with it.”
Pierce sees one of the courtroom officers—an older male with a paunch who looks like ex-military—staring at him and Huang, and he shuts up.
District Attorney Cornelius Slate is at the judge’s bench, talking to the judge, and overhead, huge fans are slowly moving, trying to stir up the dead air.
Abruptly the district attorney goes back to his table, and the judge says, “All right, Gene. Bring in the sergeant, will you?”
The court officer who earlier had been staring at them goes through the door near the clerk’s station and comes back with Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson. He’s dressed in the same orange prison jumpsuit, with RALSTON PD JAIL in black letters on the back. His hands are cuffed, and he moves with grace and confidence, like whatever is going to happen today is a minor annoyance, nothing else.
There are whispers and a few comments after Jefferson comes in, including one woman’s harsh voice—“Baby killer!”—but the Ranger goes to the front of the table directly next to the district attorney’s and patiently stands there.
The old judge at the bench makes a soft rap with his gavel and says, “Okay, folks, simmer down. We’re about to begin.”
Pierce is reminded of those dreams he has when he’s under some heavy stress, the dreams of going to class and realizing that today is exam day, or the dreams of ending a semester and finding an old class schedule, realizing that he’s forgotten to attend an important class all these past months.
These dreams are nothing compared to what’s happening now, as the Ranger just a few feet away from him—a fellow service member!—is being railroaded and, based on the sheriff’s record for removing evidence, will be dead in a day or two.
Protect the Rangers.
But how?
Chapter 92
Afghanistan
THE CIA MAN SIGHS. “But don’t feel sorry for me, Major Cook. Working back there near Khost, I had forms to fill out, superiors to satisfy, and Company lawyers on my back, making sure I didn’t cross any magic lines that had been drawn the previous week in DC. Here, it’s like something out of Lawrence of Arabia. Just me and these fine fellows. I find it…liberating. Clean. Precise.”
As much as I want to press him, he seems to be in a mood, and I don’t want to disturb it. “What do you do here? And how can you—”
“Trust them?” Kurtz asks. “Is that what you’re asking? Well, a few things work in my favor. Deep back there in the rock is my quarters, with a safe that automatically changes its combination every twenty-four hours. In there is a million or so dollars that I dole out at appropriate times. And these tribesmen love to fight. They’ve been fighting one another for centuries and will continue to do so even when we have colonies on Mars. And two tours ago I converted to Islam. I’m now part of the tribe. Not an infidel.”
He says something in Pashto to the men, and they all laugh with pleasure.
Kurtz says to Cook, “Up here, we keep an eye on local ratlines in the deep valleys and ravines, bringing in men from Pakistan. We’ve got observers in all the local villages. Don’t
care what tribe they’re from or if they’re crossing borders. But if they’re Al-Qaeda, ISIS, any foreign fighters…they come to a nasty and bloody end.”
“But…you’re so isolated. Remote.”
He smiles through his thick beard. “I’ve got the finest communication gear the Company can provide. And there are air packages overhead at my disposal. Whenever my guys run into something bigger than they can handle, or if the Taliban try to assault my little fort here, I send a call up to the Air Force. You know, the fellas you use when you want to send the very best.”
Now, I think. Now.
“Good for you, Mr. Kurtz,” I say. “Whatever happened back then, whatever complications ensued, it sent you to your dream job. And it sent those Rangers to jail.”
His happy mood is gone.
I push him. “What happened? Are you going to sit up here like some new T. E. Lawrence while men you worked with, men you trusted, men who served this country, are being treated with disgrace? Imprisoned? Ruined?”
Kurtz says, “Probably too late.”
“I’m the investigator here. Let me decide.”
His fellow tribesmen sense a change in their leader’s mood, and they look at me with hate. From friend to enemy in a matter of seconds.
Kurtz sighs. “They went to a house when they heard screaming from inside. They should have ignored it. We’re not here to give the Afghan people the Bill of Rights or copies of the Federalist Papers or anything similar. We can’t change thousands of years of history—”
“What was going on?”
Kurtz rubs at his beard. “It was…an arrangement. A welcoming gift to a foreign visitor, who was promising lots of millions of dollars of additional aid. An American, who was taking advantage of the local world, with no bloggers or journalists nearby, fulfilling his…needs. A man with a twelve-year-old.” He pauses. “A twelve-year-old boy.”
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