respiration with a stethoscope.
“Did I miss something?” Bower asked, sitting beside Jameson.
The bodies were gone. There was no blood. If it weren’t for the holes where bullets had punctured the thin sheet metal on the side of the truck, she’d never have known there had been a firefight the night before. Villagers crashed trucks all the time, normally not this badly, but it was a common sight. This could have been any other day.
“We routed the enemy around 0100.” Jameson was clinical in his description of what had happened the night before. “Fourteen combatants neutralized. We estimate the rebel strength at no more than forty.”
“Was anyone hurt?” As the words left her lips she realized the assumption in her question, that it was only US troops that could feel pain. The enemy was depersonalized, as though they felt no more pain than a cow being led to slaughter. And yet she didn’t correct herself. He had to know what she meant. He had to agree.
“We came through the fight with little more than scratches. Bosco’s radio, though, didn’t fare as well. It took some shrapnel from a fragmentation grenade.”
Elvis was rummaging around under the hood of the rebel truck. Although Bower had seen him running wires back to the flatbed trailer, it never occurred to her to ask what he was doing. She assumed he was doing something to help Smithy, who had brought the other truck over and was trying to salvage parts.
Elvis stood on the back of the damaged truck holding a microphone. A cable led down to an old metal speaker, the kind used on military parade grounds.
“ Bright light city gonna set my soul on fire ,” resounded from the speaker. Bower was surprised by the resonance in his voice. Singing a cappella, without any accompaniment, Elvis sounded surprisingly good. His voice had a natural vibrato, wavering softly as he sang the Elvis Presley classic.
“ I’ve got a whole lot of money that’s ready to burn, so let those flames reach higher .”
Bower laughed, he was getting the lyrics wrong, but that didn’t seem to bother him.
Elvis was posing as he sang, with one arm out stretched and his legs shaking in time to some unheard beat.
“ There’s a hundred thousand pretty ugly women waiting out there, and they’re all living, but I don’t care .”
“Goddamn it, Elvis,” yelled Jameson. “If you’re going to torture us, at least get the words right.”
Smithy cried, “Get your ass down from there before someone shoots you.”
“Before I shoot you,” Bosco added.
“ And I’m just a devil with a dollar to spare, so show me Las Vegas. ”
Smithy yanked the wires from the battery, killing the microphone.
“Oh, not fair,” Elvis cried.
“You stupid, dumb, hick, fuck farmer,” Smithy yelled, her hands set firmly on her hips. “What the hell are you trying to do, bring in every goddamn rebel for miles around?”
“Hell no, he was scaring them off,” Bosco replied.
Elvis laughed, dropping down off the truck and landing with a thud, his combat boots crunching on the ground.
“Is he all right?” Kowalski asked softly, his head appearing between Jameson and Bower as he leaned forward from behind them. “Post-traumatic stress?”
“Oh,” Bower replied. “I’d say this is a baseline normal response from Elvis.”
“Yee-haw,” yelled Elvis, grabbing his hat and his sunglasses from the front of the truck. “Come on, Smithy, we need to get this show on the road. There are tour-dates to be kept. Fans to please. When are you gonna get me mobile?”
“You're an idiot,” Smithy replied, laughing. Elvis didn't seem to mind.
Kowalski headed back over to the patients. Jameson sat there grinning.
“I don’t know how you guys do it,” Bower said. “I mean, I was terrified last night, but you can just switch this on and off at will.”
“You get used to it,” Jameson replied. “But the team needs to blow off some steam from time to time. It’s healthy.”
“As
“Did I miss something?” Bower asked, sitting beside Jameson.
The bodies were gone. There was no blood. If it weren’t for the holes where bullets had punctured the thin sheet metal on the side of the truck, she’d never have known there had been a firefight the night before. Villagers crashed trucks all the time, normally not this badly, but it was a common sight. This could have been any other day.
“We routed the enemy around 0100.” Jameson was clinical in his description of what had happened the night before. “Fourteen combatants neutralized. We estimate the rebel strength at no more than forty.”
“Was anyone hurt?” As the words left her lips she realized the assumption in her question, that it was only US troops that could feel pain. The enemy was depersonalized, as though they felt no more pain than a cow being led to slaughter. And yet she didn’t correct herself. He had to know what she meant. He had to agree.
“We came through the fight with little more than scratches. Bosco’s radio, though, didn’t fare as well. It took some shrapnel from a fragmentation grenade.”
Elvis was rummaging around under the hood of the rebel truck. Although Bower had seen him running wires back to the flatbed trailer, it never occurred to her to ask what he was doing. She assumed he was doing something to help Smithy, who had brought the other truck over and was trying to salvage parts.
Elvis stood on the back of the damaged truck holding a microphone. A cable led down to an old metal speaker, the kind used on military parade grounds.
“ Bright light city gonna set my soul on fire ,” resounded from the speaker. Bower was surprised by the resonance in his voice. Singing a cappella, without any accompaniment, Elvis sounded surprisingly good. His voice had a natural vibrato, wavering softly as he sang the Elvis Presley classic.
“ I’ve got a whole lot of money that’s ready to burn, so let those flames reach higher .”
Bower laughed, he was getting the lyrics wrong, but that didn’t seem to bother him.
Elvis was posing as he sang, with one arm out stretched and his legs shaking in time to some unheard beat.
“ There’s a hundred thousand pretty ugly women waiting out there, and they’re all living, but I don’t care .”
“Goddamn it, Elvis,” yelled Jameson. “If you’re going to torture us, at least get the words right.”
Smithy cried, “Get your ass down from there before someone shoots you.”
“Before I shoot you,” Bosco added.
“ And I’m just a devil with a dollar to spare, so show me Las Vegas. ”
Smithy yanked the wires from the battery, killing the microphone.
“Oh, not fair,” Elvis cried.
“You stupid, dumb, hick, fuck farmer,” Smithy yelled, her hands set firmly on her hips. “What the hell are you trying to do, bring in every goddamn rebel for miles around?”
“Hell no, he was scaring them off,” Bosco replied.
Elvis laughed, dropping down off the truck and landing with a thud, his combat boots crunching on the ground.
“Is he all right?” Kowalski asked softly, his head appearing between Jameson and Bower as he leaned forward from behind them. “Post-traumatic stress?”
“Oh,” Bower replied. “I’d say this is a baseline normal response from Elvis.”
“Yee-haw,” yelled Elvis, grabbing his hat and his sunglasses from the front of the truck. “Come on, Smithy, we need to get this show on the road. There are tour-dates to be kept. Fans to please. When are you gonna get me mobile?”
“You're an idiot,” Smithy replied, laughing. Elvis didn't seem to mind.
Kowalski headed back over to the patients. Jameson sat there grinning.
“I don’t know how you guys do it,” Bower said. “I mean, I was terrified last night, but you can just switch this on and off at will.”
“You get used to it,” Jameson replied. “But the team needs to blow off some steam from time to time. It’s healthy.”
“As
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