The Last Hour (14 page)

As I walked past one of the cars in front of the building, both doors opened up and a man and a woman got out of the vehicle. They were maybe ten feet behind me, but I could clearly hear their footsteps as they sped up to catch up with me. I spun around just as the woman said, “Sergeant Raymond Sherman?”

My heart sank.

The woman was a tall African American woman, attractive, wearing a plain blue suit. Not as tall as Carrie or me, but still tall, maybe five foot ten. The man, a younger guy, blonde and smug, looked as if all his color had been washed away by the sun and bleach.
 

“I’m Ray Sherman.”

She held up an ID folder. I didn’t have to be a genius to recognize the military ID. “I’m Major Janice Smalls. Army Criminal Investigative Division. This is Jared Coombs, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

I took a deep breath. My heart had fallen through my chest, and I could feel my stomach tightening. I said, “I guess I don’t need to ask why you’re here.”

“We’d like to speak with you,” Major Smalls said.

“All right. Why don’t you come on up. My parents should still be at work.”

“They are,” said Coombs, the whitewashed FBI agent. Smartass. At first glance, Major Smalls seemed okay. But this guy had only spoken two words and already pissed me off.

 
I unlocked the front door of the building and led my new entourage to the elevator. The ride up was probably the most uncomfortable of my life. You know how everybody gets quiet in an elevator when you don’t know each other? That’s what this was like. Except these two made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Finally, the bell rang, and I led them down the hall, and unlocked the apartment.

I dumped my rucksack and jacket on the floor near the couch. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”

“Water, please,” Major Smalls said.

“Nothing,” Coombs replied.

So I got Smalls some water, and started a pot of coffee because I sure as hell needed some, then I sat in the easy chair across from the couch where Smalls sat down. Coombs stood near the bookcase, looking at our family pictures.

Smalls looked up at Coombs, then back to me. “I want to start by telling you, this is a preliminary investigation. Your report got into the right hands. I’d like to thank you for sending it.”

I didn’t really know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.
 

“We’ve got some initial questions for you, Sergeant.”

“I’m listening,” I replied. “But it’s not Sergeant any more, just Ray, or Sherman, if you’d prefer.”

“As I understand it you have five more years to your reserve commitment, Sergeant. Just to be clear on your situation.”

Jesus. She’d just put me in my place. I said, “Inactive reserve, but yes. Major.”

“Good. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”

“Are you suggesting that I might get called up?”

“I’m not suggesting anything yet, Sergeant. But I’d recommend you be as cooperative as possible for this investigation.”

I snorted. “Of course I’ll be cooperative. I reported what happened, didn’t I?”

At that Coombs turned toward me and spoke, his tone harsh, “You reported it months after the fact. By mail.”

I looked at his smug face. I couldn’t say anything to defend against that, because it was true.
 

“By the way,” Smalls said, “where did you go last night? Your flight got in yesterday afternoon.”

“I stayed with a friend in the city.”

“Dylan Paris,” she said. “He was a member of your platoon.”

I felt a flush of irritation. “If you knew that, why did you ask?”

“To find out if you would tell me the truth,” she replied.

I raised my eyebrows. “Let me be clear. I’ll cooperate with your investigation. I’ll tell the truth. I’ll testify if you need it. I won’t be happy about any of those things, but I’ll do it. So you can stop the bullshit now.”

She just ignored what I said. “How much does PFC Paris know about what happened? I understand he was evacuated from the theater before the incident in question.”

“He only knows what I’ve told him. We discussed it last night.”

“What about his girlfriend?” She consulted her notes. “Ms. Thompson. Does she know about it?”

I raised my eyebrows. They’d been doing their homework. “No, she doesn’t.”

“What about her sister, Carrie Thompson?”

I sighed. “We’ve not discussed it in detail. But yes ... she knows something happened, and that I reported it.”

“Are you and Carrie serious?”

“I don’t see how that falls in the scope of your investigation.”

“We haven’t yet established the scope of our investigation. Right now I need information of all kinds. And given that your girlfriend’s father is a former diplomat, with a high level clearance, we need to know what the involvement of his family is.”

I sighed. Crap. This is what I signed up for, I guess. But I never planned to get Carrie involved in it. “I’m getting some coffee. And yes, we’re serious.”

I stood and walked into the kitchen. I needed a minute to breathe, and think. I hadn’t really pictured this ... having the CID and FBI in my parents’ home asking questions. I hadn’t really thought anything through, had I? I took out a coffee mug and poured, then nearly jumped out of my skin when I caught a glance of Coombs leaning against the doorway behind me.

“You want a cup?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Black.”

So I poured another mug, and passed it to him, then returned to the living room.

“Better?” Major Smalls asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning then. If you don’t mind, I’m going to record this.”

I nodded. She took out a pocket recorder and set it on the table, then pressed record. She held up a finger, telling me to wait. “This is Major Janice Smalls, United States Army Criminal Investigative Division. With me is Jared Coombs, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re conducting an interview with Sergeant Raymond Sherman at his parents’ home in Glen Cove, New York. Sergeant Sherman, will you identify yourself, your grade and your organization for the record.”

I coughed then spoke. “Raymond C. Sherman. Sergeant E-5. United States Army inactive reserve.”

“Sergeant Sherman, do I have your permission to record this session?”

“Yes.”

“Sergeant Sherman, on November 15, a package was received at the Office of the Inspector General of the United States Army with a return address in Glen Cove, New York. I don’t have a copy of it in front of you to identify for legal purposes, but did you mail such a package?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Can you tell me what it contained?”

“A letter. And a thumb drive.”

“I see. And what did the thumb drive contain?”

“Photographs. Of ... of a dead boy. Documents. Emails.”

“Sergeant Sherman ... can you tell me, for the record and in your own words, exactly what the report was about?”

I looked up and met Major Smalls’ eyes. I didn’t know if I could trust her. I didn’t know where this was going to lead. But I knew it was time to talk.

“K
owalski, what’s up with the ribbon?
” Roberts grinned when he asked the question.

Kowalski grimaced, and his face contorted into a vicious look, the kind that made me want to cover my nads and make sure I was wearing body armor. He stood up, his bulk seeming to fill the room, and said, “Don’t fuck with me, Roberts.”

The effect was spoiled, just a little, because Kowalski had a pink ribbon with small white hearts tied in a bow on his web gear. I had to admit, it was a little odd.

Roberts spread his arms wide. “Just curious, man.”

“My daughter asked me to wear it. So I’m wearing it. And if you say shit, I’ll pound you into the dust. Just so we’re clear.”

Roberts nodded. “Whatever works for you. I get it.”

Jesus, whatever. After five months out in the boonies, all of us had picked up some weird habits.

“All right guys, get it together, we’ve got three minutes to be out there. Dylan, say goodbye to your sweetheart, you can call her later.”

I threw my Kevlar on, buckled my web gear and threw my pack over my shoulder, as Dylan said, “Gotta go, Alex, we’ll be back in a couple days.”

“Love you,” I heard her say through the tinny speakers.
 

He leaned over and kissed the computer, whispered, “Love you, too,” and then he closed it. I shook my head and chuckled.
 

“Worst thing they ever did was give us internet access out here,” Kowalski said. “When I was in Iraq the first time around we had to wait six weeks before we called home. Now you talk to your girl every damn day.”

Dylan buckled his helmet. “Not enough,” he said.

“Let’s move, gentlemen,” I said. The three of them followed me out of the crappy little room into the freezing cold outside. The rest of the platoon was gathering, and a few moments later we were in a loose semi-circle around Sergeant First Class Colton and Lieutenant Eggers. Sergeant Hicks stood opposite me in the semi-circle, with his fire team arrayed around him. Hicks was maybe ten years older than me. Blonde, pale skin with an Irish face, Hicks was a native of the Virginia tidewater area and had served multiple combat tours. He didn’t hide his disdain for the fact that a college kid with less than two years in the Army was a fire team leader. I didn’t let it get to me. My guys trusted me; that was what mattered.

The forward operating base was nestled on the side of a mountain two hours north of Fayzabad in Badakhshan province, which is at the freaking end of the earth, on the northern edge of Afghanistan. We had two battalions of infantry stationed here, something close to 1,200 men and a few women spread across half a dozen forward operating bases ringing Fayzabad, the provincial capitol. We’d been holed up in the base for more than a week. Heavy snowfall had made it impossible to navigate even in the Humvees. Now, it was almost blinding white across the valley, and an ice-cold wind cut right through my gear.

The Lieutenant called out, “Listen up! Our objective today is Dega Payan. You guys know the village. We’re going out there at the request of the Provincial council because an avalanche has apparently buried half the village. Our mission is to help locate people, and to get anyone who needs medical care to the Air Force—they’ll be picking them up in choppers.”

As he spoke, he spread a map on the ground where we could all see it, indicating the landing zone for the Air Force, as well as the area where they believed the avalanche had covered homes.

‘Homes’ was a relative term. Dega Payan was a tiny little village at the end of a long road that had only been opened the year before. No electricity, a one-room school, no health clinic. We’d gone there once or twice a month since arriving in Afghanistan, usually taking along an extra medic or two. The people were friendly, relatively pro-western. Lots of kids. At the news that an avalanche had buried part of the village, I felt a chill.
 

When the Lieutenant was finished with his briefing, Sergeant Colton said, “Men, I know this is a humanitarian mission. But you go out locked and loaded and ready to fight. Protect each other. Stay safe. Clear?”

Most of the guys shouted,
“Ooo rah!”

“Load up,” Colton said.

As we moved toward the Humvees, Staff Sergeant Martin, our squad leader, approached. Our platoon sergeant, Colton, was right behind him. “Sherman,” he called out.
 

A florid faced man who constantly fought weight problems, Martin had been a mentor and was becoming a friend. He and Colton both had served two tours in Iraq together and one in Afghanistan before this deployment.

I stopped and faced them.
 

 
“Do me a favor,” Colton said. “Keep an eye on Roberts, all right. He got some bad news from home.”

“What’s going on, Sarge?”

Martin looked around to make sure we weren’t overheard, then said, “Sick kid. His son’s in the hospital.”

I grimaced. Roberts had already climbed in one of the Humvees with Paris.

“He didn’t say anything,” I said.
 

“Yeah, I don’t expect him to,” Martin replied.

Colton added, “We got a Red Cross message this morning. We’re standing by ... if it gets worse, we may end up sending him home for a while. I just want to make sure he’s steady, all right? You don’t need to say anything to him ... just keep an eye out, make sure he’s not distracted.”

I nodded.
 

“All right, let’s move out. And Sherman? You’ve been doing a great job. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

We split up, and I climbed in the Humvee next to Kowalski. I appreciated the reassurance. I’d been promoted to Sergeant just a few weeks before, and became a fire team leader at the same time. I hadn’t been in the Army long, and sometimes I didn’t feel up to the responsibility.

Normally we rode four to a vehicle, but ever since second platoon lost three Humvees in a firefight and got stranded as a result, we’d been taking an extra set of wheels on every patrol. So, for this patrol, my fire team was split in two vehicles, Roberts and Dylan in one and me and Kowalski in the other.