Time passed. My brain lingered on that border between waking and sleeping.
Suddenly my body lurched at an angle that had to be wrong. Beside me, the linebacker tensed.
Adrenaline shot through me.
My eyes flew open.
The plane was dark as a tomb.
And plunging toward earth.
ALL AROUND ME WAS BLACK.
My left side was smashed against the linebacker. The kid with the teeth was smashed against me. Knowing it was pointless to fight gravity, I made no attempt to right myself.
Then the whine of the engines dropped. Our three-person sandwich unzipped slightly.
The wheels hit hard. Hit again, with less force. Again.
My heartbeat settled. We were rolling on terra firma.
After a short taxi, the plane jerked to a stop. The lights came on, the hatch opened, and outside air filtered into the fuselage, bringing with it the smell of fuel and exhaust.
We waited as pallets of cargo were unloaded, and then, row by row, collected our gear, moved rearward, and hopped onto the tarmac. My eyes swept a three-sixty arc, anxious for a sense of the strange land I’d heard so much about.
Overhead, a universe of stars winked in a boundless black dome. On the ground, nothing but darkness.
We all waited for the luggage pallets to be opened. Collected our gear. Then, unsure what to do, I followed the marines toward a square black shape on the horizon.
As we drew close, the shape crystallized into a one-story building. Standing at its door were a man and a woman, the former in civvies, the latter in camouflage fatigues and eight-pointed utility cover.
The woman was about my age, tall and solid but attractive in a no-nonsense, no makeup way. Her dark hair was knotted at the back of her cap.
Like Katy’s.
No way. Focus.
The woman took the lead. “Dr. Brennan?”
I nodded, thinking the question pointless. How many fortysomething civilian females arrived at Bagram by military transport?
When the woman extended a hand, double bars were momentarily illuminated on her fatigues.
“Maida Welsted, base ops.”
“Captain.”
We shook.
The man shifted his feet. Signaling impatience? Annoyance? Welsted ignored him.
“I’ll be handling field ops for the exhumation in Sheyn Bagh. All mission assets—team, vehicles, armaments, air transport.” Welsted’s English was softly accented. British? Anglo-Indian? Spanish? “You need anything, you go through me.”
“Dr. Brennan has had a long flight.”
The man was tall, maybe midthirties. A blue athletic cap covered what I suspected was a hairline heading south.
Welsted looked at the man. In the dim light escaping the door, I couldn’t read her expression. But the man seemed to stiffen.
“I’m just saying, we can do this in the morning. She’s been on a plane for four hours. Probably wants dinner and rack time.”
The man’s hand shot my way. “Scott Blanton, Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”
Blanton’s grip was firm, but no match for Welsted’s.
Without a word, Welsted turned and crossed to a pair of men standing outside the depot at our backs. The younger wore jeans and a windbreaker with a White Sox logo. The older was in baggy linen pants, knee-length shirt, and voluminous sweater. Both had beards and unkept hair.
“Captain Welsted can be a bit stiff.” Blanton smiled, revealing one upper incisor overlapping the other. “Texan, you know.”
Not sure how to respond, I said nothing.
Behind Blanton, the men listened to Welsted, both overnodding. In less than a minute, she rejoined us.
“Let’s get you to your B-hut.” Without waiting for a reply, Welsted strode off.
Blanton shrugged, and, despite my repeated protests, took my duffel.
We boarded a van whose driver was indistinguishable from the pair at Manas. A short ride and a long security check brought us onto a base that, in the dark, appeared similar to the one I’d just left in Kyrgyzstan.
With one big difference.
Here I would enjoy no dorm-room comfort. No toilette down the hall.
My quarters consisted of one half of a B-hut, a plywood box in a maze of identical boxes, all squatting in a field of kiwi-size gravel. The interior, maybe eight by ten, contained two bunks, two slapped-together nightstands, a wooden wardrobe filled with shrink-wrapped cases of bottled water, and a table heaped with dusty magazines and ancient copies of Stars and Stripes. And, miraculously, a PC terminal that looked twenty years old.
That was the good news. The bad news?
The bath facility was an ankle-twisting football field away.
After informing me that we’d have a briefing with the head of base ops at 0900, Welsted took her leave.
“You want to get some chow?” Blanton asked.
Though exhausted, I’d had nothing but granola bars and Diet Coke since breakfast.