them to their hands and knees, not easy with their weapons and gear. Roy heard Gordo’s labored breathing ahead of him, Dibrell’s, with a wheeze to it, behind. His own was silent. The space between Lee and Gordo grew until Lee was out of sight. Gordo leaned against a tree, pink blotches on his cheeks. Roy went past him, heard him say, “Are we having fun yet?”
And Dibrell reply: “I kind of wish I’d asked my PO about this.”
“PO?” said Gordo.
“Parole officer,” said Dibrell. “Need his permission to leave the state. Maybe he’d of said no.”
Roy came to a rocky shelf, caught his first sight of the summit, maybe two hundred feet above. Jesse and Lee were sitting on the edge of the shelf, dangling their feet in space. Roy sat beside them. He could see all the way to Lookout Mountain on the horizon-the big bend in the Tennessee River a faint gleam-even make out the tall buildings of downtown Chattanooga on the horizon; the only thing wrong with the view.
“What happened at Lookout Mountain?” Roy said.
“The Battle Above the Clouds,” said Jesse. “You’ve never seen pictures of the Yankees posing on that promontory up top?”
“Don’t want to,” Roy said.
When Dibrell and Gordo finally arrived, Jesse said, “From here, we split up. I’ll take Dibrell and Gordo up this side, you two find a way round the back. Always want to look more numerous than you are, Roy-one of Forrest’s favorite tricks.”
Roy was on his feet. “Let’s go.”
But Gordo and Dibrell wanted to sit down too, dangle their legs, start complaining about the heat, the bugs, the briars. Jesse let them. Roy didn’t understand that. It wasn’t the way to beat Yankees.
Lee and Roy started a minute or two ahead of the others, Lee first, Roy following. They made their way around to the other side of the mountain, crouched into the slope, sometimes pulling themselves along on roots and branches.
“What did Dibrell do?” Roy said.
“No talking.”
They climbed the rest of the way in silence. Just before the top, they went flat, wriggled on their bellies to the trunk of a fallen tree. Ahead lay the summit, a small clearing circled by forest. A small clearing, but not empty: in the middle stood an array of instruments surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped fence. A sign on the fence read: no trespassing. u.s. national weather service. violators will be prosecuted.
Lee frowned, looked more mannish frowning, but Roy’s heart was beating faster and he wasn’t really thinking about that, wasn’t really thinking. He propped the carbine on the tree trunk, cocked the hammer, checked to see that he was capped. He was. The instrument at the top, just above a small satellite dish, was one of those spinning things with cups on the end, Roy couldn’t think of the name. He raised his weapon, looked through the V, waited for one of those cups to come around, saw it with that hyperclarity, even the perforations inside, squeezed.
The crack of the gun, the flash, the kick, the smell of the smoke: all thrilling. And just as thrilling was what happened next. The spinning cup blew to bits. Sparks cracked at the end of the mechanical arm where it had been. Little sparks, but suddenly there was a huge one, like a thick rope of lightning, arcing all the way down to a box at the base of the array. Then came a flash and a boom, and a big ball of fire shot into the sky, blinding Roy.
When his vision returned he saw the instruments all blackened and twisted, flames licking here and there, and three men in gray on the other side of the clearing, openmouthed. Except for the occasional sound of metal popping, it was quiet, the birds and insects all silenced, nothing stirring in the woods.
“Did someone fire a live round over there?” Jesse called across the clearing.
“Is that wrong?” said Roy.
He started to get up, and as he did felt Lee’s hand on his crotch, giving him a squeeze, furtive, gentle, hidden from sight by the tree trunk. He glanced at her: face scratched by brambles, blackened by the explosion, something powerful in her eyes, the eyes of a woman beyond a doubt-how did the others miss that? — this powerful something perhaps not love, maybe closer to adoration.
“What are we going to do?” Dibrell said.
“About what?” said Gordo, a big smile spreading across his face. Roy knew why: he’d gotten his big bang at last.
“For fuck sake,” said Dibrell. “Open your eyes.”
“It was a lightning strike,” Jesse said. “We deny everything.”
“Why would anyone find out in the first place?” Lee said. “We’re way up here.”
That made Roy smile too.
Jesse began walking back and forth across the clearing, head down.
“What are you doing?” Gordo said.
“Can’t deny anything if they find a bullet.”
Jesse was one of the smart ones that the nonsmart ones should listen to, no doubt about that. At the same time, Roy didn’t care at all about finding the bullet. You fired bullets in battle, didn’t hunt around for them after. He helped search for it anyway out of duty-they all did except Lee, who lay on the log, eyes closed-and found nothing.
“Probably melted,” Gordo said. “No one else will find it either.”
“What about DNA?” Dibrell said. “We must of left DNA all over the place. That’s how they got me the last time.”
“For what?” said Gordo.
Dibrell shook his head. “Just a crazy chain of events.”
“Never heard of that crime,” said Gordo, still with that grin on his face.
Dibrell moved in front of him. “What’s that sposta mean?”
Jesse stepped between them. “Soldiers,” he said. “Form the squad.”
Nobody moved. Roy saw they weren’t going to do it. They were hot, tired, angry, confused; even Gordo, no longer smiling. Plus they weren’t soldiers, a strange observation for Roy to have, but he knew it was true. Dibrell had the makings of a soldier but was too fucked-up inside. Gordo would never be a soldier: he was a mama’s boy and Brenda was mama. Roy even thought he understood the anal sex thing, all part of Gordo’s childishness.
Roy said: “Yes, sir,” and took his place near Jesse, stood motionless with his gun across his chest. He didn’t say anything, but that voice inside him, the one with the broad accent and no self-doubt, was talking: Form the goddamn squad.
They formed the squad.
Down below the land went hazy blue and slowly darkened, but the sun still shone on the Mountain House. The Irregulars sat outside their tents, eating Slim Jims and hardtack. Gordo sent a flask around, and so did Dibrell, but whatever they had wasn’t Old Grand-Dad. Roy took a sip of each and no more. He didn’t want it. Even food wasn’t a necessity. The water from the creek was all he needed. Hazy darkening blue rose up the mountain, but without any hurry. Watching evening come and breathing were enough for Roy. Not that he was tired, although he could see the others were. He himself felt as strong as he had in the morning, maybe stronger. Time stretched, sagged, formed the shape of a bowl, accommodated itself to him. A short life span didn’t mean life was short; a long life span didn’t mean it was long. Roy liked 1863. He took wonderful deep breaths of its air.
The hazy blue had crept halfway up the meadow when Roy heard something. He rose, gazed down from the edge of the plateau.
“What is it, Roy?” Lee said.
“That sound.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Listen.”
None of them heard it.
“The cops?” Dibrell said. Gordo tucked his flask in his back pocket, like that would make a difference.
“Can’t you hear it?” Roy said.
“What? Hear what?” Except for Lee they were all looking at him funny, like he was losing it, or maybe already had. Lee wasn’t looking at him at all; she was getting her gun ready.
Was he losing it? “That,” he said. “Drumming.”
“Drumming?”
