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

Shout? But in what direction? How was I lying?

Was anyone out there? Was anyone alive to free me? Had the others also been buried?

I blinked sand from my eyes. Saw only inky blackness. Heard only stillness. No voices. No shovels. No movement.

Again, the panic.

Think. Forget the rubble. The dust. The deafening quiet.

I tried rolling to my left. My right leg was pinned. I could feel a sharp edge pressing the flesh of my calf.

I tried flexing my knee. A hot spike ripped up from my ankle.

I tried rolling to my right. Got nowhere. My shoulder was jammed tight against rock. Rock that moments before had overhung the graveyard. Rock that now buried me like the dead we’d just raised.

Think .

I willed myself calm. Willed my breathing steady. Willed the bulky armor to rise and fall.

In. Out. In. Out.

I tried yelling, but my mouth was too dry. I mustered what saliva I could and tried again.

My voice sounded dull, muffled. And which way was up? Down? Was I yelling into the sky or the earth?

My thoughts were again growing muddled. Oxygen deprivation? Or was it carbon dioxide overload? I knew the answer to that once. It was not coming to me now.

Questions winged.

An incoming mortar? A surface-to-surface missile? Launched by whom?

What did that matter?

Were Blanton and Welsted also buried? The two young diggers?

I closed my eyes. Heard only the soft hiss of sand worming through cracks.

Why was no one probing? Digging? Shouting? Had the villagers abandoned us? To let our people get us out or not?

Would I die? Of hypothermia? Asphyxia? How long would it take?

The thought of death filled me with a terrible sadness. In this place, so far from home, so far from the people I loved. Katy. Harry. Pete. Ryan. Yes, Ryan.

A tear traced a path sideways across my cheek and dropped to my hand.

My addled brain managed a deduction.

Dropped. Gravity. I was lying on my right side. The earth was somewhere below it. Dirt, rock, and sky were somewhere above my left shoulder.

I inhaled and began to test as far as my left hand could go.

My fingertips described a Lego jigsaw, gravity and pressure holding the pieces in place. Disturbing the balance might cause a shift, might bring more debris crashing down.

How much air did I have? The rocks were porous and most likely hadn’t compacted tightly enough to exclude oxygen. But how deeply was I interred? When would help arrive? To find a survivor or a body?

Then I knew nothing.

Then I awoke. Heard sounds. Watery, indistinct.

Voices?

I froze.

Yes. Human voices. High and agitated.

Desperate, euphoric, I maneuvered my left hand to grope the farthest recesses of the small vacuum in front of my face. My fingers closed on a stone the size of my fist. My heart raced as I moved it in the small arc the limited space would permit, trying to bang against the rock above my head.

What was Morse code for SOS?

Mother of God. Who gives a shit?

I kept pounding with pathetically small strokes, desperate to make contact with the outside world.

The shouting intensified. Drew near. I heard staccato commands. Answers. Grinding. Dull thuds.

“Careful!” I bellowed. Or whispered. “I’m okay, just be careful.”

The grinding continued. Separated into the sounds of individual rocks being shifted.

After what seemed a lifetime, a single shaft of light pierced the darkness. More grinding, then bright needles entered from all directions, a kaleidoscope sparkling dust suspended in the air around me.

Finally, a rock lifted and harsh, glorious sunlight poured in. I squinted up, blinded.

Blanton’s face hung above me, skin flushed the color of boiled ham.

“Sit tight. We’ll get you out in a jiff.”

I could only smile.

• • •

Three hours later we were on our way back to Delaram. Aqsaee and Rasekh lay in body bags in the back of the vehicle.

When the mortar hit, both marines had been positioned behind the Humvee. Same for Welsted. Though scratched by flying shards, all three escaped injury.

Ironic. Blanton’s need for nicotine saved his ass. He had also been standing clear of the impact zone. The diggers, being young and war-wise, heard the incoming round, understood, and ran.

In other words, I was the only one dumb enough to get hurt. Parked on my knees, I’d been too slow or too green to bolt. The impact of the blast had knocked me into the grave. The debris that fell on me wasn’t that deep. Though it seemed an eternity, I’d been buried roughly ten minutes. The sides of the trench had sheltered me.

“Probably an M252A1,” Welsted speculated as we rattled along. “You get so you can tell the difference. Each mortar sings its own song whistling through the air.”

“Enlightening, but irrelevant. The important point is, who the hell fired the damn thing?”

“Impossible to say right now. Probably not friendly fire. Our people would have sent more than one.” Though addressing Blanton’s question, Welsted still spoke to me. “M252s are British-made, but our mortar platoons use them. Army and Marines. If troops are forced to retreat quickly, weapons can be left behind.”

“And insurgents collect them.”

Welsted nodded. “Pick them up and do what any savvy enemy would do.”

“Were we the target?” I asked.

Welsted shrugged a who-knows. “Could be a scout spotted our vehicle and saw a chance to nail it, or it could be a misfire, an incorrect triangulation on a different objective. Could be—”

“Could be a world-class screw-up. I came out here to do a job, not get my nuts blown off.”

Welsted slid a withering glance at Blanton.

“This is a war zone. Any assignment carries risk.”

“Will you investigate where the round came from?” I asked.

“A recon team’s already been dispatched, but I don’t expect much. These launchers only weigh seventy pounds. A two-man crew can fire one and haul ass in no time. And the mortar’s got a range of three and a half miles. That’s a lot of sand to search. I’m surprised the shooters only launched one round. Probably only had one shell.”

“Ain’t the Tali grand.” Blanton shook his head in disgust.

At that moment the Humvee hit a pothole. The sudden lurch sent fire from my ankle to my knee. Welsted noticed me wince.

“You ought to get that treated.”

“I can take care of it.”

“Suit yourself.”

I would. I was embarrassed enough. Thanks to my body armor and helmet, my injuries were limited to cuts and abrasions. But the sprained ankle had forced me to direct the remainder of the disinterment while seated graveside.

Shaken by the blast, the initial diggers had refused to return. Their replacements were equally young, equally strong, but a lot less enthused. The required supervision had been significant.

Twenty minutes after setting out, we reached Delaram and our waiting Blackhawk. Hobbling toward it, I saw the body bags being placed in the cargo hold. I hurried to catch up to Welsted.

“I think the bodies should ride in the main bay,” I said.

“Why?”

“Stowing them in cargo could be interpreted as disrespect. Like transporting a corpse in a car trunk.”

Blanton watched as Welsted ordered the remains moved, but said nothing.

As I was buckling into my harness, the village trio pulled up in a rusted jeep. The tall man and the one with the mole got out and walked toward the chopper. They would travel with us to oversee the autopsy, as per the agreement. I wondered if Uncle Sam was providing round-trip transport, or if the driver would go overland to Bagram to collect them.

I stole glances at the men as we flew. Both sat grim-faced, staring at their hands. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking. Couldn’t even guess.