Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [5]
‘‘Three or Four, can you copy me now . . . ?’’ Lamar’s voice has a raspy quality to it, unmistakable. I picked up my walkie-talkie.
‘‘We copy, One,’’ I answered him.
‘‘Where ya at?’’
The question of the hour. I looked over at Johansen. ‘‘Did you brief One as to how to get up here?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘We showed him the aerial photos.’’
I held my walkie-talkie to my lips. ‘‘One, Three. Up the trail. Wait, if you can, for some more backup, before you come up. We might have shooters in the area.’’ I knew he wouldn’t, any more than I had. I just had to say it.
‘‘Yeah, ten-four . . . What’s goin’ on up there? Somebody shot?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ I answered. I turned my head to look at Johansen, who was getting a dazed look about him.
I brought the walkie-talkie back up. ‘‘688 is down.’’
‘‘Need an ambulance?’’ asked Lamar, hopefully.
‘‘Negative,’’ I said. ‘‘Medical examiner.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
I looked at Johansen. ‘‘You able to wait for a bit more?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘We’re fine here right now, One,’’ I said to Lamar. I hoped I was telling the truth. But I sure didn’t want Lamar charging up to the rescue and getting blown away for his trouble. ‘‘But let us know when you start up the trail. We’re about a hundred fifty yards up, and just kind of off the trail to the right. We won’t be able to see you until you’re right on us . . .’’ I glanced at Johansen. I knew about that hazard, all right.
‘‘Ten-four,’’ said Lamar. ‘‘I got people comin’ from all over. Be there right quick.’’
I nudged Johansen. ‘‘You got a canteen, or something? Could use a drink.’’ The heat was oppressive, and there seemed to be even less air here than before. For some reason, the whispering made it seem even hotter.
‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, reaching behind his hip and unfastening the GI canteen. ‘‘Here.’’
I took a long swig. It was warm, but wet. I thought about the three cans of diet soda in my car, in the icefilled cooler. I handed it back to him. ‘‘You better have some too.’’
‘‘No,’’ he said, shaking his head. ‘‘I’m all right . . .’’ and his voice trailed off as he looked around the brush again.
‘‘Drink some,’’ I said. ‘‘Don’t want you goin’ into shock or anything. We got enough trouble without that.’’
In the distance, there were more sirens.
Johansen swallowed water from his canteen, loudly. He sighed, and said, ‘‘At least we got one of ’em.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Yeah, Kellerman got one of them. He’s up there,’’ he said, gesturing up-trail. ‘‘Just a little ways.’’
‘‘Dead?’’
‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘Real.’’
There was a sudden rustling in the brush, just on the other side of the trail. I brought my rifle around just as Johansen’s came up to his shoulder.
‘‘Don’t fuckin’ shoot unless we got a target!’’ I hissed.
‘‘Right,’’ he whispered. He wasn’t convinced.
It couldn’t be Lamar. Not yet, and not from over there. We waited in dead silence for several seconds. Sweat ran off my left cheek, which was pressed against the butt stock of my AR, dripped onto my left hand, and ran down my forearm. I don’t remember ever being so tense. Nothing.
Then a ground squirrel chattered, and there was a faint rustling again. We relaxed a bit, but didn’t talk.
It was about two more minutes when Lamar’s voice crackled over the radio. I sort of jumped.
‘‘Okay, I’m comin’ up. I should be about there.’’
‘‘Ten-four,’’ I said into the walkie-talkie. Way to go, Lamar. I knew you wouldn’t wait. ‘‘Be careful, but there has not, I repeat not, been any activity for ten minutes or so. But keep your eyes open.’’ And at least I won’t shoot at you until I know who you are, I thought. God, the idea of being blown away by Johansen sent a little shiver up my back, despite