THEY UNLOADED THE COFFIN LAST: GRAY PLASTIC, OF THE KIND HOSpitals have for mass-fatality incidents. It had been at the far end of the C-17 aircraft when it landed at Brize Norton an hour ago, bare, untagged. Six men carried it into the cargo bay. It wasn’t clear to anyone present what procedure to follow, because no one had any idea who it contained.

Flight Lieutenant Trevor Hughes was responsible for the loading and unloading of all aircraft. He had walked through the plane’s stale air, checking equipment and coordinating its discharge. It was only when the tents and packs had been cleared that he’d seen the coffin, secured by webbing at the back. A sealed box of possessions sat beside it.

“Picked it up at Cape Verde when we refueled,” the aircraft’s warrant officer said. “Nothing’s written on the docket. I was told there’d be someone here to meet it.”

Hughes shook his head. He took pride in his job, but it depended on clear lines of communication.

“Got a contact? A regiment?”

“Nothing.”

“What am I meant to do with it?”

“Unload it, I guess.”

Brize Norton was the sole airbridge to all British forces serving internationally. It was a portal through which the UK military could inject itself into the world, and whatever remained of those missions at the end flowed back. It was a border, and, as at any busy border crossing, a settlement had grown, with its own hotel, fire station, medical center, and post service. It ran like clockwork, never more so than surrounding a repatriation. No one had told Hughes about a repatriation. Usually there would be a hearse waiting, a chaplain, flags at half mast, wreaths for the bereaved. The flight lieutenant didn’t feel qualified to receive the dead alone. Something had gone wrong, but not as wrong as to whoever lay inside the box. Hughes had a ritual he performed when bodies returned, and he performed it now: He touched the coffin and said, “Welcome home.” Then he added, “Whoever you are.”