CHAPTER 74 Sampson
Sampson
I’M AT DC METRO POLICE headquarters, calling my seventh contact of the evening, one of the names I got from CIA agent Tom Walsh. At my elbow is a stack of personnel files that were couriered over from Langley.
The man I just called is Quint Spooner, a former U.S.
Army Ranger now living in Arapahoe, South Dakota.
According to the files, Spooner served in the army with Aiden Phillips, and I have a lot of questions for him.
He picks up the phone, and after the introductions and a little small talk about South Dakota winters, I get right to it.
“What was Phillips like in the field?”
“What was he like?” Spooner repeats, his voice a little raspy. “He was a lot of things. Depended on the time of day and what kind of mood he was in. But one thing was for sure. He was a stone-cold killer.”
I’ve got the phone on speaker and I’m tapping notes into my laptop as we talk. “Can you give me any examples?”
Spooner coughs. Sounds like a smoker. “Sorry. Those missions are still classified.”
“Okay. How about examples of something that is not mission-related.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Then it starts coming out in a flood.
“Okay. This one time, we were in the mountains, high up and isolated. The Taliban were up there too, harassing us and any villagers they thought were loyal to the Kabul government. We had local scouts and informers feeding us intelligence. But we heard through our interpreters that the adversary thought we were weak, too in love with our creature comforts. They didn’t think we had true killer instincts. ”
I’m typing as fast as I can, trying to get everything down verbatim. My spelling sucks, but I’ll fix that later. “Keep going. I’m listening.”
“Phillips resented the shit about how soft we were. One night he said he was going out to check the perimeter. Then he just disappeared. No radio contact. After a few hours, we sent out a search team, but we couldn’t find any trace of him.
“Two nights later, a bunch of us were sitting around a campfire when Phillips showed up. He was holding a cloth bag. He tossed the bag in front of the Afghans on our team and headed back to his hooch.”
“What was in the bag?” I ask.
“One of the scouts picked it up and turned it upside down. A guy’s head fell out.”
I stop typing. “Jesus! Whose head?”
“The Taliban leader from up in the mountains, the guy in charge of the crew that had been giving us trouble.”
“So what happened then? Did you report it?”
“Nah. Nobody reported shit. We burned the head in the fire and buried the skull. After that, things quieted right down. And the Afghans on our team started showing us mad respect.”
I start typing again. I’m still catching up when Spooner puts a button on the story.
“Say what you want about Phillips. He got the job done.”