Heat Lightning

pops up, and then I’ll go out to face them. By staying here, I can go in any direction.”

“And stay out of the mosquitoes,” Bunch said.

“And drink beer and watch TV,” Virgil said. He looked at his watch. “I want to get us out and get spotted right now. So get armored up, get warm, get your head nets on, get plugged into the radios. Find a comfortable place to lie down and then check in with us.”

Raines said, “Best if it’s in a ditch or low spot, someplace that will minimize your heat signature, in case they have infrared imaging capability. Get low.”

“If everything works perfectly, if they come in and we drop the net around them, I’ll try to talk to them,” Virgil said. “If they make a run for it, well, stay down and make sure you know what you’re shooting at. Anybody running has got to be them. Got that? Nobody runs. We don’t want any of us shot by any of us.”

He looked around. “If anybody gets hurt, call it in if you can, and we’ll make you the first priority. First priority is ‘Don’t get hurt.’ Catching these people is the second priority, okay? Don’t get your ass shot.”

He turned to Raines. “You know where the hospital is?”

Raines nodded.

“Then you’re in charge of making the hospital run if anybody gets knocked down. Them or us,” Virgil said. “One thing to remember is, they’re coming in here expecting to be on the offensive. They’ve got to come to us. We don’t have to maneuver; we just have to snap the trap. Okay? So let’s put your armor on and get out there.”

To Raines: “One more thing: if there’s shooting, and I can’t do it, I want you to call the sheriff’s office and tell them what’s up. Tell them that it’s a BCA operation. We don’t want any locals to come crashing through and get mixed up with us, or with the Vietnamese.”

VIRGIL AND Paul Queenen moved the BCA truck into the garage, and on the way back in, Queenen looked up at the overcast sky and asked, “What if they don’t come in?”

“Then they don’t. But if they’re monitoring my truck, and they should be, it’s been like the ace in their hand… then they know we’ve tumbled to them. They know when people start watching TV, everybody in the state will be looking for them. If they don’t move tonight, they’ll have to give it up.” Virgil looked at his watch again. “They’ve got to be getting close.”

“If they come.”

“They will,” Virgil said. “I talked to the woman a couple days ago. Mai-Hoa. Told her I didn’t know where Knox is hiding. I said it again tonight, in the truck. So-this is their last chance.”

“Why did you tell her that? Did you already know she was in it?”

“No.” Virgil thought about it for a minute, then said, “I don’t know why I told her that.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, all five men were at their stands. All five were deer hunters, they were all camouflaged and armored and netted and settled in, earbuds operating.

Virgil piled his armor in the hallway leading to the electronics room. He slipped into a soft camo turkey-hunter’s jacket, put a magazine in each of four separate pockets so they wouldn’t rattle, another one seated in the rifle, a shell jacked into the chamber. He jumped up and down a few times to make sure that nothing rattled, then piled the jacket and rifle next to the armor and walked around the house turning off lights.

When the place was dark, he pulled a couple of cushions off the couch in the living room, got a towel from the kitchen, and carried them to the electronics room, where Raines was sitting in a dimmed-down light, watching the monitors.

Virgil tossed the cushions on the floor, lay down on them, put the towel across his eyes, got out the second bottle of Pepsi, took a sip. “Everybody spotted?”

“Yes. I can barely see them, even on the infrared. They got themselves some holes.”

A moment of silence, then Virgil asked, “How’d you get this job?”

Raines said, “Got out of the Crotch, couldn’t get a job, so a guy got me a shot as a doorman at a club. You know. I met some guys doing security for rock stars, thought I could do that, and that’s what I did.”

“What rock stars do you know?”

He shrugged again. “Ah, you know. I don’t know any of them, but I’ve ridden around with most of them one time or another. I’m the guy who gets out of the limo first.”

“What’d you do in the Crotch?”

“Rifleman, mostly-though the last year I spent mostly on shore patrol.”

“Yeah? I was an MP,” Virgil said.

“Tell you what,” Raines said. “I was in Iraq One. I did a lot more fighting as an SP than I ever did in Iraq. Especially those fuckin’ squids, man. When the fleet is in, Jesus Christ, you just don’t want to be there.”

“I was in Fort Lauderdale once when a British ship came in,” Virgil said, relaxing into the time-killing chatter. “The people that came off that boat were the pinkest people I ever saw. Absolutely pink, like babies’ butts. You could see them six blocks away, they glowed in the dark. I went down to a place on the beach that night, you could hear the screaming a block away, and then the sirens started up, and when I got there, here was twenty buck- naked pink British sailors in the goddamnedest brawl… Man. They were throwing cops out of the club.”

So they bullshitted through an hour, and once every fifteen minutes or so Raines would start calling names, getting a click from each.

Raines said, “We looked you up on the Internet. Me ’n’ Knox.”

“Yeah?”

“Saw that thing about the shoot-out, that small-town deal, with the preacher and the dope. Sounded like a war,” Raines said.

“It was like a war,” Virgil said. The towel on his eyes was comfortable, but not being able to see Raines was annoying. “Close as I ever want to come.”

Raines said, “But here you are again, automatic weapons, body armor…”

“Just… coincidence,” Virgil said. “I hope.”

THE VIETNAMESE came in.

Fifteen clicks, a solid, fast rhythm, and one muttered word, “Bunch,” carrying nothing but urgency.

“It’s Bunch,” Raines said. “I don’t see shit on the monitor.” He picked up a radio and said, “That’s Bunch clicking, folks. Bunch: one click if by land, two if they’re on the water.”

Pause: two clicks.

Raines: “Bunch. One click if it’s likely some fishermen. Several clicks if it’s likely the Viets.”

Pause: several clicks.

Raines: “Click how many there are.”

Pause, then: five slow clicks.

Virgil had crawled into the hallway and closed the door against the light, pulled the armor over his head, patted the Velcro closures, pulled on the jacket, pulled on the head net and the shooting gloves. His eyes were good, already accustomed to the dark. He could hear Raines talking to Bunch.

Raines: “We got five clicks. Give us several clicks if that’s correct.”

Pause: several clicks.

Raines: “One click if they’re still outside of your position. Several clicks if they’re past your position.”

Pause: several clicks.

Raines said through the door, “Bunch says they’re inside his position, but I’ve got nothing yet. We got a bad angle to the south…”

Virgil plugged in the earbud, said, “I’m going.”

Raines said, “It could be a fake-out. A diversion.”

“I don’t think they’ve got enough people for a diversion. Tell the other guys to hold their positions until you’re sure. I’m going out to face them.”

Raines said, “Wait-wait. I got heat. I got heat, right along the bank, they’re two hundred yards out, they’re all together, they’re running right along the bank.”

“I’m going,” Virgil said. “I’ll lock the door going out. Keep your piece handy.”