Bones of the Lost

hour for a meet and greet with the mayor and his honchos, that puts us on-site at the cemetery by oh-nine-hundred. Wheels up by seventeen hundred. Either of you have a problem with that?”
    “It’s hard to estimate how long an exhumation will take without knowing what conditions we’ll encounter,” I said.
    “You’ll have eight hours.” Read: end of discussion.
    “Suits me,” Blanton said. “No way I’m overnighting outside the wire.”
    “NCIS has final say during the dig and analysis, with input fromDoctor Brennan.” Welsted looked my way. “But any disagreement, it’s Blanton’s call.”
    Though troubled, I nodded understanding.
    “Blanton will oversee the actual digging. His crew will consist of two marines from Delaram and two LNs—”
    “Like Ali Baba and his buddy will know how to trowel.” Disdain dripped from Blanton’s words. “Or how to keep their friggin’ sandals from crushing the evidence.”
    “Lack of local participation was a deal breaker.” Welsted’s patience was wearing thin. “The Afghans insisted, the Pentagon agreed.”
    “Christ.”
    I looked at the NCIS agent, surprised by his contempt for the Afghan people.
    But was that it? Was it the locals Blanton disliked? Or a malignancy that had taken root among them?
    I try to be open-minded, to judge each individual on merit and accomplishment. I hold no bias against any belief system, sexual orientation, or skin color that differs from mine. I do not hate in stereotype.
    But I have no tolerance for a creed that not only denies an education to girls, but condones, even encourages, the abuse of women. For dogma that allows men to beat, mutilate, even execute members of my gender.
    My one prejudice. I despise the Taliban. And I firmly believe that the arrogance and cruelty of its followers stems from ignorance, fear, and male insecurity.
    “Mr. Blanton will handle all video and photography,” Welsted continued. “Villagers wishing to observe will be allowed to do so, but will be kept at a distance of at least ten yards.”
    “We gonna serve ice cream? Maybe sing a few camp songs?” Blanton slumped back in his chair. “Friggin’ circus.”
    Welsted spoke to me. “You know your equipment needs?”
    I pulled a list from my backpack and handed it to her.
    Welsted looked around the table. “Any questions?”
    I had one.
    “Where will I perform my analysis?”
    “At the hospital here on base.”
    “I’ll need X-ray capability.”
    “All arranged.”
    I had another.
    “Why couldn’t we do this today?”
    “The army is providing transport. The Blackhawk is available tomorrow.”
    Blanton started to speak. Welsted cut him off.
    “Have a good one, people.”
    Blanton shot to his feet and strode from the room.
    I gathered my backpack and jacket and made my way outside. As I reached the sidewalk, Blanton was disappearing around a corner of the building.
    “Dr. Brennan?”
    I turned. Welsted was coming through the door.
    “Do you have plans right now?”
    “Got a date with a case file.”
    “Are you qualified with a weapon?”
    “I’ve done some shooting at Quantico, but—”
    “I’m heading to the firing range. How about coming along?”
    “Guns aren’t really—”
    “A woman needs skills, especially over here.”
    Taking my silence as assent, Welsted elbow-steered me toward the van that had brought us. During the drive, she exhibited an unsettling level of enthusiasm for, and encyclopedic knowledge of, firearms.
    “You have your M16, M4 carbine, M27 automatic rifles. Sniper rifles like the M110, M40. The M1014 semiautomatic shotgun. Used by forces in Britain, Australia, Malaysia, Slovenia, the L.A. cops. Nice. Under a yard long. Less than nine pounds.”
    Welsted had never met a weapon she didn’t like.
    “I’ll stick to handguns,” I said.
    “More useful stateside, if you get my meaning.” Welsted actually winked.
    The range was open-air and located on the periphery of the base. Beyond the uprights serving as targets, past the outer fence, stretched mile after mile of barren rock and sand. In the far distance, a walled village rose like a tiny, wavery bump in the endless expanse.
    “Be right back,” Welsted said after checking us in.
    She was. With a weapon familiar to me.
    “Beretta M9. Semi. Range of fifty meters. Fifteen-round detachable magazine.”
    I took the Beretta. Remembered why I liked it. Not too large, not too heavy. Nice heft. Grip that felt good in my hand.
    “Reuben will