Bones of the Lost(64)

Again and again I saw the dark, imploring eyes.





TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER I WAS still thinking about the girl.

Two girls, actually.

Khandan, at Bagram. Jane Doe, in Charlotte.

Welsted had organized my return flights. I’d risen with the sun to set out. The seven-thousand-mile trip, one to tax the resolve of even the most hardened traveler, started sadly, then quickly morphed into a nightmare.

First there was the tearful farewell with Katy. She met me at the flight line. We hugged tightly. She was so damn strong.

“You going to be okay?”

“I’m the one leaving. Promise you’ll be careful?”

“Relax, Mom. I’ll be fine.”

Her calm certainty filled me with an odd sort of dread.

We’d hugged again. Then I’d made my way toward the lockdown hangar.

That’s when the true misery began. Our C-130J had a blown rotor on one engine. Mechanics had been summoned. We all know what that means.

Already cleared for departure, I wasn’t allowed to return to base. I spent hours dozing, watching football, drinking coffee, going to the head, and eating plastic sandwiches and muffins with a hundred sweaty soldiers, airmen, and marines.

Finally, we boarded and harnessed ourselves in. The plane muscled up through the desert air, broke the clouds, and leveled off. I leaned back against the icy vibrating bulkhead and closed my eyes.

And there were the girls.

Khandan. Something about her intrigued me. Katy said she was mentally challenged, but I wondered. She’d had an intensity that didn’t square with that.

What had she been trying to say? I’d gotten one word. Allah. Was she seeking help? A handout? A sale? A convert? And why did the encounter bother me so?

Then there was Jane Doe in the MCME morgue cooler. Radio silence from Larabee. Dead ends, trails gone cold? Was Slidell still pushing? I needed to complete my testimony, get home, and rededicate myself to the case. To the promise I’d made her.

By the time we touched down at Manas International my head throbbed, a vein of fire ran my spine, and my ankle was causing me serious grief. This time I was met by a milk-faced soldier with a corn-silk mustache. His fatigues read ELKINS.

“Sergeant Mensforth is tied up.” Elkins’s voice was high and adenoidal. “I’ll help get you processed.”

I followed him through the labyrinth that was the transit center, weaving among U.S. service members and Kyrgyz guards with stone faces and very large guns.

Elkins pointed at a pile of luggage that looked identical to the one I’d rummaged on the way out.

I collected my bags and lugged them to customs. Where every item was removed and inspected as though my record showed multiple convictions for trafficking in heroin and guns.

We proceeded to passport control. Where I was refused clearance.

Not conversant in Kyrgyz, I failed to understand the problem. So did Elkins. A translator was summoned. Much discussion followed, during which my flight was called.

At long length, the interpreter explained that upon arrival I’d been issued a permit for one entry into Kyrgyzstan. Today’s transit constituted a second entry.

Sixty minutes and a zillion phone calls later, the issue was resolved. Or a bribe was paid. I’ve no idea. I bolted to the gate and boarded as the door was closing.

Five hours after taking off, I landed in Istanbul. I was checking e-mail in the Turkish Airlines lounge when an annoyingly calm and sugary voice announced several flight delays. Mine was among them. Since the lounge was the most comfortable place I’d been in a week, I was not devastated.

Dawn was lighting the horizon when I finally settled into my little pod in business class. I was reading the menu when the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a pesky little light flashing on the board up here. Probably nothing, but we’re being advised to remain at the gate.”

The cabin attendants immediately began dispensing alcohol to the business-class passengers. Little comfort to us nondrinkers.

It was late afternoon when we finally took off. Once airborne, I ate dinner, watched one movie, then lowered my seat and killed the light. Though fitfully, I did sleep.

Beyond knowing I’d gained seven hours, I was clueless about my exact ETA in DC. I collected my bags, dragged through customs and immigration, then on to my departure gate.

What are the odds? My flight was delayed.

There are times when all one can do is acknowledge the random futility of existing in this universe.

While waiting, I checked my phone messages. Ruff Noonan had called to say that Lejeune was aware of my situation, and that someone would meet me at wheels-down in Jacksonville, North Carolina.

Larabee wanted me to call as soon as I was back in Charlotte.