Manhunt, page 23
“We don’t have any liquor,” Alice told them. “Coffee?”
“Sounds great,” Brody said, rubbing his hands, flexing them over the heat outlet.
“And you,” she said, turning to Orr.
“I’d love a coffee.”
Melvin gave them a wink. A promise of something stronger? Orr reminded himself that a lot of guys with beards, particularly medium, stocky types like Brody, were hard to tell apart in fatigues unless you were right up close, which he hadn’t been with anyone in 4B.
“Chicken gumbo!” Alice announced, her voice reverting for a moment to her earlier unapologetic tone, as if to say, “Like it or lump it.”
Orr didn’t mind. He was getting used to the old tartar. Besides, fair was fair. These people were taking a hell of a risk. If the federals were on the trail and found the Abrems harboring fugitives, they’d face mandatory fines and imprisonment, as well as lose their property. Those odds would make anyone think twice. These folks were sticking their necks out. No need to feel offended by their caution. And chicken gumbo was way ahead of the crap Moorehead’s goons dished out.
Orr almost burned his tongue, he was so hungry, Brody blowing circumspectly on his soup.
Now it was clear to John Reid that the distant spirals of dust were Eliot’s National Guard column proceeding at some speed, at least for the Bradleys and ancillary infantry and other vehicles. Through the binoculars he could see packs that looked like huge slabs of milk chocolate affixed to the Bradleys, especially on the glacis or sloping front around the lower section of the turret, and on the track skirting. They were appliqué armor packs, sandwiched layers of ceramics and other protective material making the Bradleys less vulnerable to antivehicular missiles. It was a protection that the two reconnaissance Bradleys taken out near Ship Rock lacked, probably a trade-off, less armor for more speed, the appliqué packs more common after severe criticism had been leveled at the Bradleys during some nasty Pentagon infighting and criticism of the vehicle in the late 1990s.
Reid was excited and frightened, wondering if he should wait until the federals came closer along the 666 or wake Ray Fraser now. Fraser, in a deep, openmouthed sleep, was snoring so loudly in the rock bowl, which magnified the sound, that Reid had a fleeting irrational concern that if any of Eliot’s men came near, they would hear him despite the fact that the column was still miles off. He woke Fraser, who gulped and burst awake as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod. “Wha—What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, but those federals are coming faster than we realized.”
Fraser, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands, yawned, moved to Reid’s end of the rock bowl, and took up the binoculars. He made a mental note of the vehicles: twelve Bradleys, three of them taking up the rear of the column of ten troop- and supply-laden trucks. Either he could radio Purdy now, he thought, or he could wait to send a more detailed report when Eliot’s column drew adjacent to the rock seven miles off to his left on the 666 and he could identify more precisely what the column consisted of apart from the highly lethal wire-guided TOW antitank missile arrays that lay ready in the launcher modules on the Bradleys’ turrets.
“We’ll wait,” he told Reid. “You see those appliqué packs?”
“Yeah. Bad news. Need CAS for those fuckers.” He meant close air support, which the militia craved but did not have. Fraser, in an uncharacteristic moment of wishful thinking, told Reid that he wished they had just one Cobra right now, but he knew he had to be content with the fact that the nonintervention of federal air power had been carefully gained by the militia’s holding civilian hostages. God help Hearn’s column, he told Reid, if the federals ever discovered the vehicles in which the hostages were being held. A federal gunship could take out the other ambulances in a matter of minutes, or even less in the open desert. Fraser handed Reid the binoculars and grabbed his radio’s headset. Then, without looking directly at it, he figured out roughly where the sun was, and glancing at his watch, had a flash of brilliance: he and Reid would observe Eliot’s column as it drew closer, but wouldn’t radio it in until well after dark, by which time the federals would be well past them en route to intercept Purdy’s column. It was still dangerous, Fraser told Reid, if the federals were carrying a direction-finding radio beam detector. They could quickly pin down the coordinates to Ship Rock, but he was banking on the fact that once well past Ship Rock, Eliot would probably not bother to send any of his force back.
In the lead Hummer, Major Eliot and his driver, Peter Lowe, were at odds. In civilian life, Eliot worked for the IRS, something that his driver, a small businessman, could not abide, convinced as he was that the IRS was dedicated to driving small business out of its cotton-picking mind. Every President promised to decrease the amount of red tape involved, but every year it seemed to get worse, and Major Eliot was no help. Lowe having complained once about too many damn taxes—“Ends up I’m workin’ six months of the year for the government”—Eliot had replied, unhelpfully, that “rules are rules.”
Though Lowe didn’t like the militias in general, he did sympathize with their attitude toward the IRS. Whereas Eliot had grown up with the belief that the IRS was a moral institution—taxes necessary to provide health care, roads, dams, etc.—Lowe had been taught that the purpose in life of the IRS was to dream up ways of taxing you into the grave. “Why do they bury dead IRS agents ten feet deep?” his father had asked him, and answered his own question, “Because deep down they’re nice people.” It was this tension between Eliot and his driver that had set the stage for the argument they were having, Lowe insisting he’d seen the flash halfway up Ship Rock’s northeastern side, Eliot just as certain that the reflection of the sun on whatever it was had been higher. Such disagreement between a commander and a private was more likely to be sustained in the National Guard than in the regular army, in which, if the commander of a column had said the sun rose in the west, the driver would let it go. But Lowe thought that as a successful small businessman, his opinion about anything was at least as good as that of Major “Rules Are Rules.” Hell, he knew exactly where he’d seen the flash, like that off binoculars, with his own eyes.
“Well,” Eliot retorted censoriously, “whatever it was, it came from Ship Rock. And it’s one doozy of an observation post.”
“Yeah,” Lowe had to agree. “But don’t the militia use smoked lenses like we do? You know, antireflection?”
“Maybe it was off a weapon. Something flashed, I agree, and I want everyone on it. After last night I don’t want any damn sniper picking off any more of my men.”
Lowe had to agree with that. After all, he was in Hummer One, and as such he would be a prime target, along with Eliot.
Following Eliot’s order that he wanted “everyone on it,” it seemed the entire column suddenly sprouted binoculars. Every man, including those relatively safe within the rifle ports of the Bradleys, was looking at Ship Rock. The threat of being fired upon by militia snipers who, in the understatement of the year, Eliot had described as having the “high ground,” focused everyone’s attention.
“Are we sure it’s militia?” the commander of the four platoons of Bradleys asked over the radio. “It could just be a regular climber.”
“Who’s dumb enough to climb that?” It was the driver of the lead Bradley.
“Militia’s dumb enough,” the Bradley’s gunner opined.
“Yeah,” the commander caustically replied. “Like those dumb bastards last night who took out our two Bradleys and infantry guys. Or had you boys forgotten?”
The Bradley commander asked whether he shouldn’t take part of the column over to the rock, now several miles away to the column’s left, looking deceptively small because of the lack of anything else near enough with which to compare it.
“I’m not sending any force over there,” Major Eliot replied, “unless we start taking fire from it.”
“A burial detail surely,” the Bradley’s commander proffered.
“Ah, of course,” Eliot replied, embarrassed by appearing callous to the memory of those National Guardsmen whose bodies now lay rotting in the sun. The actual site of the battle was hidden from view to anyone on 666 by the high southern wall of one of the two lava “wings” that ran out from the thrust of spires that formed the impressive-looking ship of rock.
But the major warned, “Keep your eyes open over there. We don’t know whether any of them are still around. I don’t want any more of my men bushwhacked. If it’s one thing those people know how to do, it’s to dig in and—”
“There it is again,” Lowe interrupted.
A Bradley sergeant commander doing an Israeli—standing up, head out of the turret—also saw it through his binoculars. It was about two-thirds of the way up, he said, and several other men without binoculars also claimed that they’d seen the flash.
“Major?” It was the column’s Bradley commander. “You want us to check it out while we’re over there?”
“Might as well,” Eliot answered, “but don’t linger unnecessarily.”
“ ‘Linger unnecessarily,’ ” the Bradley commander parroted once off the line. He spoke to his second in command, a captain. “What the hell does he think we’ll do—break out and party?”
The captain grinned. “Rules are rules.”
“Okay,” the captain told the two Bradleys he’d selected. “Let’s get it over with—bury our guys and rejoin the column. On the off chance we do see any rebs, remember what the old man told us—they suckered one of our Brads into thinking the militia was going to surrender. Guy apparently had his hands up, white T-shirt, the whole bit, and when our boys stopped instead of shooting him, some other militia prick hit us with an AT-4. A setup. You know what that means?”
“No prisoners.”
“I didn’t say that,” the commander said. “Did I?”
“No, sir.”
“All right, let’s move out.”
“You think they’ve seen us?” Reid asked Fraser.
“No, probably just intent on burying their dead.”
It was Reid’s turn with the binoculars. “I dunno, Ray. Looks like they’re heading straight for us.”
“So? They’ll swing south behind the lava wall once they reach the rock—using it as a point of reference. They’re looking for their dead, trust me.”
“You’re the boss,” and by way of reassuring himself, Reid added, “and anyway, I suppose there’s not much they could do even if they think there’s anyone up here.”
Fraser said nothing, pulling out a stick of lip balm.
“Is there?” Reid asked.
“What?”
“I said I suppose there’s not much the federals can do even if they saw us. I mean, we could be anybody. Right?”
“Right,” Fraser said, applying the balm, but his tone carried little conviction.
“I mean,” Reid said, worrying it like a terrier, “we could just be a couple of climbers.”
“Right.”
Reid watched Fraser recap the balm and slip it into his pocket, and asked, “Why you so worried about your lips getting burned? Sun’ll be down in a while.”
“Not for an hour or so. I hate getting dried out.”
Neither spoke for several minutes, Fraser checking the radio and his M-16 while Reid stayed glued to the binoculars.
“Shit—Ray?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Those bastards are on to us! They’re looking at us.”
“Let me see,” Fraser said, and Reid handed him the binoculars. Fraser got the strap out of the way and looped it over his head. Despite the dust the federals were kicking up, he could see half a dozen or so individuals in Hummers and Bradleys whose binoculars were pointing in his direction. But they could be studying the rock’s north-side wall, or lava wing, searching for a hole through which they could pass, rather than having to negotiate the stony ground around the rock itself to get to their fallen comrades.
But Fraser was asking himself whether the nonchalance with which he’d answered Reid’s question was in part an act of self-deception, the art of double-think, of holding two contradictory beliefs simultaneously. The climb had been hard on his nerves. “Look,” he finally confessed to Reid, “I don’t know what they’ll do—whether they’ve seen us or not—but just in case, let’s be ready. I mean, load and lock, check your canteen—know where everything is. Come dark, we don’t want to be fumbling around.”
“Well, if some of this cloud is burned off we should have moonlight, enough for us to be able to—”
“Yes, but you can’t count on it,” Fraser replied irritably. “Might get more cloud moving in. You need to know where everything is.”
“Right.” Quite suddenly, Reid was afraid, bowel-clutching afraid. His youthful exuberance had fueled his ascent, but now, with night approaching, his earlier excitement had been replaced by a gnawing anxiety fueled, albeit unconsciously and somewhat ironically, by his older comrade’s experience of such predicaments and by his attempt to prepare him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Driving south of Las Vegas, the twenty-four-foot-long “Road Clipper” recreational vehicle, plastered with every decal imaginable, from Lake Mead RV Parks to SAVE THE WHALES from Oregon, was humming along down the highway, its driver an overweight man in his mid-forties, his window down not just because it saved energy by giving the air conditioner a rest, but because Jimmy Sarna liked the wind on his face—gave him that sense of freedom, open road, open sky, the road like a long black ribbon stretching, undulating, to infinity. Jimmy Sarna was in such a buoyant mood that he could ignore his two kids—Darlene, twelve, and Danny, ten—fighting over some fool puzzle book, his wife Karen, having her period, aching and telling the kids to shut up. The fight subsided for a few minutes then flared up again. Karen snapped, turned toward the kids and smacked Danny awkwardly on the thigh. “Now just stop it! Give me the book!”
“She started it.”
“Give me the book! Right now, Daniel!”
“She started it,” he said again, reluctantly handing over the puzzle book.
“I don’t care who started it. Knock it off!”
“Why’d ya hit me, then?” Danny complained.
“Because you’re the nearest. And if I hear any more ruckus from you, Darlene, you’re gonna get it too.”
“You take some Midol?” Jimmy asked her.
“Yeah, but it’s not helpin’. Why those idiots went and changed the ingredients years ago I’ll never know. Doesn’t work as good as the old one.”
“They are the old ones,” he said, gesturing to the blue and white box between them on the seat. “See, it says ‘traditional’ on the box.”
“D’you ever listen to me?” she asked him.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because if I’ve told you once, Jimmy, I’ve told you a thousand times. They put ‘traditional’ on the box because they want you to think it’s the original formula. Traditional means old, see?”
“Hell, I know that, but I thought—”
“No,” she said sharply, her voice rising over the hum of the V-8. “They’ve stopped using that cinnamedrine. Besides, the new ones have acetaminophen in them ’stead of aspirin. Does nothin’ for me.”
“Ah,” he said, adopting her annoyed tone. “Same all over. They’re changing everything. Can’t leave well enough alone, can they?”
Karen didn’t answer, looking out the window at what for her was just another dreary desert.
“You want to stop for a while?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah,” Danny said.
“I was talkin’ to your mother. Karen, want to stop, hon?”
“No,” she said. “Sooner we get this done, the better.” She turned away from the desert to look at him. “We go to Lake Mead first, right?”
“You betcha!”
“How long will it take?”
“To the lake? Not long. I’d say we’ll be there in an hour.”
“Not the lake. I mean the other. How long will it take?”
“Oh—hell, ten, twenty minutes at most.”
“What’s ‘the other’?” Darlene piped up.
Jimmy was watching his speed. Last thing he wanted was to be pulled over for speeding.
“What’s the other, Mom?” Darlene repeated.
“Oh, Daddy has to see an old friend. He’s dropping us off at the RV park first. We’ll stay with the Haleys until he gets back.”
“Why’d you call it ‘the other’?” Danny persisted.
“Because I can’t remember his name, Mr. Big Ears.”
“Name’s John,” Jimmy put in. “John Smith. I want him to fix something in the RV—water pipes.”
“Daddy,” Darlene said, “I think I’m gonna throw up. Can we stop?”
Jimmy pulled off onto the gravelly shoulder. “Darlene?”
“Yes,” came a quavery voice.
“Get out and do it on the other side of the road,” Jimmy told her. “Don’t go back and use the toilet. There’s too much stuff back there.”
“Okay…” She opened the door and was sick. Karen got out to help her.
“Poor little mite,” Jimmy said to no one in particular. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he asked Danny, “How you doin’, son?”
Danny gave a sulky shrug, still smarting from the slap. “I’m okay.”
“Feel better, sweetie?” Jimmy asked Darlene as she got back into the car.
“A bit,” she answered.
“All right. How you doing, Mom?”
“I’m all right. You’re very jolly.”
