Bones of the Lost(57)

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.

We made good time but still arrived after sunset. The base glowed as a grid of light in a sea of unending darkness.

I was exhausted and my ankle hurt. Not unbearable, just a dull throb. My body felt gritty and leached of moisture by the sun and wind.

But still there was work to be done.

“I’ll accompany the remains to the hospital,” Welsted said. “You don’t have to go.”

I wanted to remove my IBA and filthy BDUs, shower, drink a gallon of water, and collapse into bed.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“It’s late. Let’s move.” From Blanton.

Surprised, Welsted and I both turned.

“I can take it from here,” Welsted said.

“Not on your life.”

Blanton strode toward a low-slung, retrofitted jeep and climbed in. I limped after him. When the body bags had been safely transferred to a van, Welsted joined us and told the driver to proceed. The LNs would follow.

“Growlers.” Welsted slapped the side panel through her open window. “Two hundred thousand bucks a pop. Your tax dollars at work.”

If Welsted wanted a shocked reaction, I disappointed her. Hadn’t I read that the army paid six hundred dollars for a toilet seat?

En route, we removed our protective gear. Welsted opined that the fifty-bed facility to which we were headed rivaled any modern hospital stateside.

“The difference is they see fewer gunshot wounds here than back home in Texas.”

Jesus. Where did the woman find the energy for humor? If it was a joke.

The Heathe N. Craig Joint Theater Hospital was located in a well-lit compound on the western edge of the base. The main structure was a squat tan affair with a half dozen smokestacks pumping on the roof. An Afghan flag hung on a pole beside Old Glory. Both standards looked indifferent to their surroundings.

The van pulled into a covered bay, followed closely by our Growler. Everyone got out. As the body bags were transferred to gurneys, I looked around.

An enormous American flag covered the ceiling above our heads. Vertically stenciled letters spelled out WARRIOR’S WAY on a pillar. Signs with slashed red circles warned of weapons not permitted beyond the doors.

The village overseers arrived in a second Growler. They alighted as the gurneys were rolled into the ER.

The hospital’s interior was so cold I felt goose bumps pucker my flesh. The staff we passed watched with open curiosity, nurses and orderlies in fatigues or scrubs, doctors with surgical caps on their heads and masks half tied around their necks.

Aqsaee and Rasekh were wheeled down a long tiled hallway to a cooler not that different from the one back home at the MCME. They would remain there awaiting my examination.

I glanced at the village delegates, then turned to Welsted.

“It would speed things up tomorrow if a series of X-rays was done on each individual tonight. I need to know what’s inside before I unwrap the shrouds.”

“You could use some serious rack time.”

“We all could,” I said.

Welsted looked at me a very long moment. “If I’m present, do you trust a radiology tech to shoot your films?”

It was what I would do at home.

“Yes,” I said.

Welsted crossed to the villagers, returned after a brief exchange.

“They’re good with that. As long as we leave the bodies facing Mecca.”

“I can stay,” I said.

Welsted looked at her watch. “You call it a day.” To everyone. “That’s a wrap. We’ll reconvene here at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

• • •

Back at my B-hut, I dumped my IBA, removed my outerwear, and peeled off my sock. My ankle was a tequila sunrise of mottled flesh and abraded skin.

I knew I should ice down the injury. Hadn’t the time to worry about swelling. Telling myself it could have been a whole lot worse, I changed to jeans and a sweatshirt, tied my boot as tightly as I could bear, and headed out, hoping I wasn’t too late.

At 2200 hours the base was as busy as during the day. The roads rumbled with Humvees, pickups, jeeps, and bikes. Pedestrians hurried to or from meals, USO centers, or showers. Radio towers and light stanchions flickered against the night sky.