Bones of the Lost

the trench had sheltered me.
    “Probably an M252A1,” Welsted speculated as we rattled along. “You get so you can tell the difference. Each mortar sings its own song whistling through the air.”
    “Enlightening, but irrelevant. The important point is who the hell fired the damn thing?”
    “Impossible to say right now. Probably not friendly fire. Our people would have sent more than one.” Though addressing Blanton’s question, Welsted still spoke to me. “M252s are British-made, but our mortar platoons use them. Army and Marines. If troops are forced to retreat quickly, weapons can be left behind.”
    “And insurgents collect them.”
    Welsted nodded. “Pick them up and do what any savvy enemy would do.”
    “Were we the target?” I asked.
    Welsted shrugged a who-knows. “Could be a scout spotted our vehicle and saw a chance to nail it, or it could be a misfire, an incorrect triangulation on a different objective. Could be—”
    “Could be a world-class screw-up. I came out here to do a job, not get my nuts blown off.”
    Welsted slid a withering glance at Blanton.
    “This is a war zone. Any assignment carries risk.”
    “Will you investigate where the round came from?” I asked.
    “A recon team’s already been dispatched, but I don’t expect much. These launchers only weigh seventy pounds. A two-man crew can fire one and haul ass in no time. And the mortar’s got a range of three and a half miles. That’s a lot of sand to search. I’m surprised the shooters only launched one round. Probably only had one shell.”
    “Ain’t the Tali grand.” Blanton shook his head in disgust.
    At that moment the Humvee hit a pothole. The sudden lurch sent fire from my ankle to my knee. Welsted noticed me wince.
    “You ought to get that treated.”
    “I can take care of it.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    I would. I was embarrassed enough. Thanks to my body armor and helmet, my injuries were limited to cuts and abrasions. But the sprained ankle had forced me to direct the remainder of the disinterment while seated graveside.
    Shaken by the blast, the initial diggers had refused to return. Their replacements were equally young, equally strong, but a lot less enthused. The required supervision had been significant.
    Twenty minutes after setting out, we reached Delaram and our waiting Blackhawk. Hobbling toward it, I saw the body bags being placed in the cargo hold. I hurried to catch up to Welsted.
    “I think the bodies should ride in the main bay,” I said.
    “Why?”
    “Stowing them in cargo could be interpreted as disrespect. Like transporting a corpse in a car trunk.”
    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 leeched 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