Warriors (9781101621189) by Tom Young

wanted without arousing suspicion. At any moment, a dozen other men dressed just like him worked on the ramp: pilots and flight engineers conducting preflight inspections, crew chiefs fueling their planes, loadmasters pushing pallets.
    The morning looked pretty typical. Three KC-135 Stratotankers waited side by side, electrical cables snaking from generator carts to receptacles along the sides of the aircraft. Parson knew the tanker crews would take turns flying over Afghanistan in case any wayward fighter pilots needed an emergency refueling. The Stratotankers might fly planned refuelings, too. As American forces drew down, C-5 Galaxies and C-17 Globemasters hauled trucks, Humvees, and helicopters out of Bagram and Kandahar. Sometimes the big jets departed so heavy with cargo that they could not put on enough fuel to reach Europe and still get off the runway. So they’d take off with a light fuel load, then rendezvous with a tanker and get all the gas they needed. Parson remembered the pride he took in the deft control needed to fly one big aircraft within feet of another, the satisfying
whack
as the refueling boom seated in the receptacle.
    Civilian aircraft came and went, as well. An Air Astana 757 from Kazakhstan taxied for takeoff. At the passenger terminal, an Airbus pushed back from the gate. The plane bore the green, gold, and white livery of Pakistan International Airlines. And a Russian Antonov lumbered toward a hangar.
    In front of the hangar, a ramp worker beckoned the Antonov to a parking spot. The cargo jet rolled into its space, engines whining near idle. The ramp guy crossed his fists over his head, and the Antonov shuddered to a stop. After several minutes—a cool-down for the engines, Parson supposed—the turbines finally quieted. Crew members climbed from the aircraft as a forklift approached. The forklift carried a single pallet.
    As Parson strolled nearer, he saw that the forklift driver wore a military uniform. The forklift stopped under the tail of the aircraft, and Parson walked over to talk to the driver. The man’s uniform bore the insignia of an Afghan Air Force sergeant.
    â€œGood morning,” Parson said.
    The bearded Afghan Air Force man looked at him and smiled. Then the man shook his head and said, “No English, sir. No English.”
    Parson held up one hand and said, “That’s okay. No problem.” He knew the sergeant probably hadn’t lied. Few Afghan military personnel spoke good English. But now he knew the Afghans had a ground detachment at Manas. Nothing sinister about that; it made perfect sense for them to keep maintenance and cargo-handling capability here. But that also created an infrastructure that traffickers could exploit. So, Parson thought, Agent Cunningham had come to the right place to start his investigation.
    In the afternoon, once ground crews had loaded the Antonov and sent it on its way, Parson returned to the Afghans’ cargo facility with Gold. The two sat with the Afghan sergeant in a break room just off the hangar. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and grease. Parson slouched on a tattered sofa so worn that its stuffing spilled from rips and tears. Gold and the sergeant chose metal folding chairs, rusted and bent. Cases of Fanta lined the walls. The sergeant eyed Parson, then looked through the door to where the other Afghans folded cargo netting and swept the floor. Maybe the sergeant wondered why he was being interviewed alone, but that was normal procedure for a safety probe.
    Parson opened a notepad, clicked a ballpoint pen, and said, “Tell him we’re very sorry about the crash, and we’re trying to learn its cause.”
    Gold spoke a long sentence in Pashto. Probably adding more courtesy to his opening statement, Parson imagined. Whatever she said must have worked; the man seemed to relax a little.
    â€œDid he see the accident?” Parson asked.
    Gold translated the question, and the sergeant