Bones of the Lost

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.
    “Sure.”
    I dumped my gear. As we walked, I told Blanton about Katy. He said he’d look into tracking her down.
    A quick burger and chips and I was back at the B-hut.
    “Breakfast at oh-eight-hundred?”
    “I can find my way.”
    “Things look different in the light.”
    “Sure. I’d appreciate an escort.” I did.
    “Maybe I should have contact info in case there’s a change of plans?”
    Doubting they’d be functional, I gave him my mobile number and e-mail address.
    After a touchdown run to the toilet, I set my alarm, positioned my flashlight on the nightstand, and collapsed into bed.
    My last thoughts were these.
    You will not need to pee before morning.
    Why the tension between Welsted and Blanton?
     
    I awoke to the sound of boots on plywood. Male voices beyond the partition to my left. Aircraft shrieking overhead.
    I checked my watch.
    6:50. How long had I slept? Not long enough.
    I looked around, hoping I’d underestimated the dismal room the night before. I hadn’t.
    Naked walls, linoleum flooring, here and there a tacked and curling USO poster or photo. No window. One electrical outlet per bed. Typical barracks hut. Easy up, easy down. Life expectancy three to four years.
    I dressed, gathered my toiletries and flashlight, and set off for my hundred-yard hike.
    And got my first stunning glimpse of Bagram.
    Mountains soared in a circle around me, high and commanding, their