Heat Lightning

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.”
     
 
HE WENT OUT the back door, moved as slowly as he could across the parking area, onto the grass, through a carpet of pine needles, along to the edge of the woods, almost to the river. When he sensed the water, he turned left, into the woods, where he ran into a tree. He couldn’t use the night-vision glasses because they’d ruin his night sight. Just have to take it slower. He moved, inches at a time, taking baby steps, one hand out in front, through the edge of the trees.
    Raines spoke in his ear. “They’re landing. They’re seventy-five yards south of you—or west, or whatever it is. I’m going to pull the guys on the land side, bring them down to the cabin. If you’ve got a problem with that, click—otherwise, go on.”
    Virgil moved deeper into the woods, felt the land going out from under him. A gully of some kind, a swale, running down toward the water. He moved down into it, felt the ground get soggy, then he was up the far side: couldn’t see anything.
    At the top of the swale, he found another tree, a big one. The position felt good, so he stopped.
    Raines: “Virgil, I’ve got you stopped. If you’re okay, give me a click.”
    Virgil found the radio talk-button and clicked it.
    Raines’s voice was calm, collected, steady: “I got a heat mass moving out of the boat, one still in it. Now I got two, okay, they spread out a little, I’ve got four heat masses moving up on the bank. They’re grouping again. They’re stopped. Bunch, you’re behind them. You’ll be shooting toward Virgil if you shoot past them—see if