Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

Katy and Ryan remained incommunicado.

Not so Harry. Now panicked.

Twenty-four hours had passed since my departure from Charlotte, almost none of that time spent sleeping. No way I was up to dealing with baby sister. I sent a follow-up message as vague as my first. Traveling. Catch up soon.

My next flight was aboard a 737 whose interior had never experienced a facelift. I got the bulkhead row, which meant a wall in my face in exchange for an extra inch of legroom.

The ride was bumpy. The coffee was Turkish and tasted like tar.

Five hours after taking off, the pilot put down at Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, the transit center for U.S. and coalition forces moving to and from Afghanistan.

As we taxied through blackness, I attempted some math. My watch said it was 9 P.M. EST. Monday. I estimated it was Tuesday morning in Kyrgyzstan. That’s all the precision my sleep-deprived neurons could muster.

A master sergeant named Grace Mensforth met me at the terminal. Medium build, brown hair, unremarkable features. The type witnesses rarely remember.

Mensforth introduced herself as my Air Force liaison. At my blank look, she explained that, though Kyrgyzstan operates the airport, the USAF runs the Transit Center. Thus her presence.

“How was your flight?”

“Uneventful.”

“Best we can hope for, eh?” She swept an arm left. “Baggage is this way.”

Mensforth led me across a cement-floored terminal that looked like the basement of a Stalinist factory. Boy-men in nine-foot peaked caps and long wool coats stood with automatic weapons slung across their chests.

My duffel was on the floor, a spot of tan in a sea of multicolored leather and speckled camouflage. I waded in and hoisted it free.

“Give me your passport.” Mensforth held out a hand. “I’ll handle the visa.”

“Thanks.”

“The red tape is unreal.”

Slowly, the baggage area emptied. I stood, cold seeping through my Nikes, jacket, and jeans, fatigue weighing on my body like a truckload of sludge.

Finally, Mensforth returned.

“This your first trip to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan?” Handing back my passport.

“And Kyrgyzstan.”

“The Kyrgyz Republic. On to customs.”

Again Mensforth arm-motioned “this way.” I wondered if she’d been a maître d’ in another life.

Fortunately, the line was short. As we progressed, body length by body length, Mensforth took a stab at conversation.

“ Kyrgyz comes from forty . Forty tribes.”

“Really.”

We lurched forward.

Mensforth interpreted my listless reply as either aloofness or lack of interest. From then on we waited in silence.

Fifteen minutes after queuing up, I was following my liaison across a pitch-black tarmac. The air was frosty, the wind damp and penetrating.

Head lowered, Mensforth angled to a white Air Force van and opened a side rear door. I climbed in. A kid in uniform loaded my bag, then slid behind the wheel.

As we drove, tiny lights shaped up in the distance. I spotted no other vehicles.

My head throbbed. My stomach churned. Sleep would definitely take precedence over food.

The trip to the air base was mercifully brief, maybe five minutes.

As the driver paused at a checkpoint to answer questions and present ID, including my passport and orders, I stared at the canvas-and-mesh-surfaced wall outside my window.

“That Hesco?” I was curious, despite my exhaustion.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mensforth said.

I’d read about Hesco. Made of crate-size units filled with sand and rock, then stacked three-high hard against each other, such barriers are strong but pliant. When ready to move on, base workers just empty the bags.

No idea why my brain dredged that up.

Finally, docs inspected and stamped, we cleared the gate.

The van wound past prefab rectangular structures, enormous Quonsets, what might have been a small mosque, a long, low arrangement that looked like a bar. Eventually, we pulled to the curb by a windowless, two-story number measuring about a hundred feet long by thirty feet wide.

“Female barracks.” Mensforth hopped out and cut toward a metal staircase on the building’s near end.

I followed. The kid trailed with my duffel on one shoulder.

We clanged up the stairs to a metal door. Mensforth gave me a key.

“You’re in 204. Take the empty rack.”

The kid dumped my bag and scuttled back down.

“You may luck out and have the room to yourself.” Mensforth spoke in hushed tones. “The head’s down the hall. I’ll collect you at oh-eight-hundred.”

Though the sky was still dark, I doubted dawn was far off.

“What time is it now?” I asked.

“Oh-four-thirty.”

Hallelujah.

The room, barely eight by ten, held two wardrobe units and two single beds. I lucked out. Both pillows were empty.

After opening my duffel, I fired to the head. Back in the room, I peeled off my clothes, pulled on a tee and clean panties, plugged in my iPhone, set the alarm, and collapsed.

Church bells bonged.

Startled, I opened my eyes.

My brain groped.

Manas.

I clawed the phone. Killed the bells. Checked the digits.

7:45.

Shivering, I yanked on BDUs and boots, grabbed my toiletry case, and trudged down the hall.

Quick swipe at the teeth and hair. Different brushes.

At 0800 I opened the outside door. The sun was a low white ball in an immaculate blue sky. Frost coated the grass like a dusting of sugar.

Mensforth stood at the base of the stairs, a puffy brown jacket draped over one arm.

“Good morning.” Breath coned from her mouth.

“Good morning. Bring my gear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I collected my duffel and backpack and clumped down the stairs.

“Take this.” Mensforth offered the jacket.

“You think it’ll be that cold?”

“Better to have and not need, than to need and not have.”

“My mother used to say that.”

“Mine too.”

We both smiled. I put on the jacket.

“Thanks.”

“Thank Uncle Sam. Hungry?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Let’s hit a DFAC.” Pronounced dee-fack.

A different kid in uniform now manned the wheel of the van. Scarecrow thin, with buzz-cut hair.

As we drove, Mensforth briefed me on my upcoming travel arrangements.

“Your flight downrange is at noon, which means lockdown by oh-nine-hundred. You’ll be issued IBA at the airfield.”

Individual body armor. I was looking forward to that.

The kid made a couple of turns, then braked by a structure that looked like an aircraft hangar.

Mensforth and I presented ID and were admitted to the dining facility. After washing our hands at one of a score of taps, we entered the main hall. The air was thick with the smell of warming food. Sausage. Canned corn. Tortillas. Bacon.

Troops in camouflage and workers in civvies filled trays at hot and cold stations, salad and sandwich bars, burger grills, and dairy cases. Men and women of all ranks ate at hundreds of tables set out in rows.

Mensforth gave some instruction, which I missed, then left me on my own. I headed to a banquette that seemed to be drawing a decent crowd.

My instincts were good. Large metal bins offered standard Midwestern fare: eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns. I heaped my plate, added juice and coffee, then found an empty place at a table by a soft drink cooler.

Further down, on the opposite side, was a man in a uniform I didn’t recognize. French? Polish? Beside him sat a twentysomething carrying a weapon half her body weight.

Banging trays, clanging utensils, and humming conversation vied with football play-by-play coming from wall-mounted screens. Now and then staccato laughter broke through the din.