Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

But instead of getting back into the rental, he sits on the damaged hood, weapon in hand, doing what most cops do.

Waits.

Chapter 65 Afghanistan

FOR THE PAST half hour or so, the acid knot in my stomach has been outweighing the pain in my left leg as we make the final approach to Bagram. I’ve been running through various options and scenarios in my mind of how to get off this aircraft once it lands and comes to a halt, and what to do afterward.

Bagram has grown tremendously since we got here post-9/11, and I remember talking to some old hands who were here back then, looking at all the broken-up Soviet aircraft that had been left behind. “When we eventually get the hell out,” this old Reserve colonel told me, “I can guarantee we’ll do a better job cleaning up.”

But what’s waiting for me now—

I stop thinking as the huge aircraft makes a sharp dive and turn, and I grab on to a seat strap to keep from falling over. One of the Rangers spots me and yells out, “Nothing to worry about, sir! Just a bit of evasive maneuvering, keeping any Taliban out there on their toes!”

I nod in thanks, my stomach clenched, and I think again of what’s waiting for me, which is going to be trouble. Without the proper travel authorizations and other paperwork, I’m going to be in-country quite illegally. Not only that, I’m also going to have to figure out a way of getting out of Bagram and to a village called Pendahar.

Lots of figuring. No ready answers.

The engine noise changes pitch, and there’s a heavy clunk-clunk as the C-17’s landing gear is deployed. I hold my cane in my hands. My rucksack is on the deck, my Bruce Catton book tucked back inside. Across from me, the three Rangers look to be talking among themselves.

Thump .

On the pavement. No windows to see what’s out there, but in my mind’s eye, I remember, from a Black Hawk helicopter ride I took here during my last deployment. Rows of CH-47 transport helicopters, Apache attack helicopters, Kiowa reconnaissance helicopters. Hangars. Clusters and clusters of square buildings. Heavy equipment. Concrete blast walls with rolls of concertina wire on top. Mountains in the distance. And at nearly five thousand feet in elevation, the air here is cool at night and thin.

The engines change pitch again as the pilots slow down.

What now?

Out there in Bagram is a small CID satellite office I once used for a few weeks during my last tour. If I can get there, and if Quantico hasn’t contacted them, I might be able to do some razzle-dazzle, get some cooperation from the CID warrant officers stationed here. Like back when I was in the NYPD. There were also procedures and directives to follow when interacting with other detectives in other precincts, but they were mostly ignored. You needed help, you needed information, you either picked up the phone or dropped by the other precinct house.

The C-17 continues to slow down, maneuvers again. My breathing quickens.

The small CID office is on Putnam Road in Bagram, some distance from this main runway.

I’ll be walking with a cane.

How long to get there?

And will I make it?

The C-17 sighs to a halt.

Lights flicker on inside the huge fuselage.

I unbuckle the straps and move, and I clench my teeth in agony. My cane falls, and I lean down to pick it up, breathing hard. When I sit up, the three Rangers are standing in front of me.

One squats down—African American male, a sergeant—and he says, “That true, what we heard back in Germany? You’re here to help out some Rangers from Alpha Company?”

“That’s right.”

“They being railroaded?”

“Looks possible,” I say.

“Which ones?” he asks.

“Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson and his team.”

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.