Bones of the Lost

snowy peaks white against a sky slowly oozing from dawn into day.
    Crunching past rows of B-huts, I remembered Katy’s emailed comments. Not the Hilton, she’d said, but better than tents. Her main problem had been bugs. No Hershey bar remnants could be left around. No half-drunk sodas. I smiled at the thought of my daughter cleaning house every day.
    And found myself searching. A pair of slim legs climbing the stairs. A blond head disappearing into a stall.
    Could I bump into Katy in the dressing room? At the DFAC? Walking down a street?
    While showering, I distracted myself by pulling up what I’d learned about Bagram before leaving home. There was little to pull.
    Built as an airfield by the U.S. in the 1950s, the base was now the size of a small town. Its population of roughly six thousand militaryand twenty-four thousand civilians was composed of allied troops, international contractors, and Afghan day workers.
    In addition to standard amenities, Bagram had coffee shops, fast-food joints, a tower left over from the days of Russian occupation, and a bazaar in which local vendors sold their wares. Disney Drive was the main drag, named in honor of a fallen soldier, not Uncle Walt.
    Bagram Air Base lay close to the ancient Silk Road city for which it was named. And light-years distant.
    Showered and shampooed, I hiked back to my quarters. And was delighted to find that the old PC actually allowed me Internet access.
    Having twenty minutes to kill, I checked my e-mail. And found nothing from anyone I actually knew. I shot a note to Larabee, asking for an update on the hit-and-run case. Sent another to Slidell, knowing I’d get no response.
    Blanton arrived at eight on the dot. While ingesting enough carbs to lay a rugby team flat, I learned that he held a BA in history, that he’d never been married, that he’d worked briefly as a cop, and that he was in his fourteenth year with NCIS.
    Blanton was heading stateside as soon as the exhumation and analysis were completed. Surprisingly, he’d been born and raised in Gastonia.
    Funny world. Come seven thousand miles and meet someone from right near home.
    Blanton learned that I was board certified by the ABFA. And that I have a cat.
    Why not share more? It might have been the way Blanton looked at me, never shifting his gaze, rarely blinking. Or the superior tone he used in phrasing some things. If asked, I couldn’t articulate a reason. But an inner voice advised against candor.
    I wondered if I’d been wise in talking about Katy. I’d been brain-dead from exhaustion. Too late. That was done.
    When we returned, Welsted was leaning against a van outside my B-hut. Seeing us, her eyes went to her watch.
    “Good morning, captain,” I said brightly.
    “Good morning.” Welsted didn’t smile or acknowledge Blanton. “Ready?”
    “And eager.” That was the third coffee talking.
    Five minutes later, we arrived at a corrugated-metal building with a sign that identified it as the headquarters for base operations. We entered and climbed to the second floor.
    Hearing boots, an Air Force sergeant popped from a doorway and led us to a conference room that would have looked right at home in a midsize law office. Blond oak table with chairs for a dozen. Blackboard. Sideboard with a coffee setup. Only the rough walls looked out of place.
    A man was already present, filling a thick white porcelain mug. Navy. Lettering on his fatigues told me his name was Noonan. A Velcro patch told me he was with JAG, the Judge Advocate Generals Corps.
    Blanton took a seat at the table. Welsted and I crossed to Noonan.
    Like Blanton, the Navy lawyer had hair that was fast parting ways with his scalp, and pale skin peeling from his nose and cheeks.
    “Ruff Noonan, JAG.” We shook. “I won’t be going downrange for the festivities. Just sitting in on the briefing.”
    Hearing the door open, we all turned.
    A black woman entered the room, short and large-breasted, with posture that made the most of her stature.
    Dumping a pair of corrugated brown files on the table, the woman gestured us to sit.
    “Shall we get started?”
    Those standing took chairs.
    “First off, let me introduce myself, Dr. Brennan. The rest of you know me.” Quick smile. “I’m Gloria Fisher, commander of base operations here at Bagram. My staff and I are working to facilitate your mission. I trust your travel went well?”
    “Yes.”
    “And that your quarters are satisfactory?”
    “Yes, thank