belt holder, turned the Humvee’s interior light on again, found the channel select button, switched to the next channel, and heard a different and far-less-emotional voice say:
“— subject last seen driving a military police Humvee, model Mike-one-zero-two-zero-five-alpha-one, unit ID Sam-Ocean-Delta-one-three-slant-Mike-Papa-two-three, believed in transit to Grants Pass from —”
“Shit.”
Cellars shut the radio off, and then stared out at the now-huge clumps of snowflakes drifting through the beams of his headlights for a long moment before he finally made his decision.
Setting the now-silent pack set radio aside, he quickly reset the j-Connector from ‘LOCAL RADIO’ to ‘TELEPHONE’, punched the series of numerals with the tip of his finger, hit the ‘CALL’ button, and then listened to the connection ring twelve times before an audibly tired and harassed voice finally answered.
“KMAD, how can we —?”
“I’d like to ask Eleanor Patterson a question,” Cellars interrupted.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve had an awful lot of people calling in tonight. You’re number … uh … seventy-two on the waiting list, which means you very likely won’t get on the air this evening.”
“Oh, uh —” Cellars hesitated. “Can you tell me where your station is located?”
“Certainly, do you have a pencil handy?”
“Go ahead.”
Moments later, Cellars terminated the call, set the handy j-Connector aside, and started to reach for the dash-mounted GPS unit controls when he remembered the additional functions of the unit’s locator signal that the instruction card had so proudly detailed.
Yeah, right, turn it on for fifteen seconds and they’ll know exactly where I’m at.
He sighed.
“Okay, so we don’t get to do things the easy way,” he muttered to himself as he quickly started up the Humvee’s engine again, and then pulled it back onto the snow-covered road. “What else is new?”
CHAPTER 7
After arriving at the outskirts of Medford, it took Cellars another ten minutes to find an open-all-night gas station with a shopping mart that sold local maps.
As it turned out, the KMAD radio station was back the way he came — less than a mile north of Medford proper, and an easy side-road exit turn off of Highway Sixty-Two.
The KMAD building was a boxy, tilt-up-concrete-walled structure, with a few tiny windows and several sprouting antennas on the roof, that looked pretty drab and even a little claustrophobic next to what appeared to be its sister KMUD-TV station — a much larger, and far more elaborate two story structure that looked to be mostly tinted aluminum concrete pillars, aluminum, cross-beams, darkly tinted windows, ear-like satellite dishes, and a considerable amount of artful neon-tube signage.
Guess radio people aren’t much into the visuals , Cellars thought as he idled the Humvee in front of the two buildings, watching the intermittent and now-much-smaller snowflakes swirling in the air and covering the surrounding area with a light dusting of fine white powder. Suppose that makes sense.
He pulled the squat military vehicle into the dimly-lit parking lot located directly behind the KMAD building, found a mostly concealed space next to a large trash dumpster, parked, shut off the engine, started to get out … and then hesitated as he considered his appearance, and the possibility that someone at the VA base might have notified the local police and media about his escape.
He tried to imagine what a local broadcast might sound like …
Something along the lines of “be on the lookout for a man in a U.S. Army field uniform who just escaped from a psychiatric ward with a
“— subject last seen driving a military police Humvee, model Mike-one-zero-two-zero-five-alpha-one, unit ID Sam-Ocean-Delta-one-three-slant-Mike-Papa-two-three, believed in transit to Grants Pass from —”
“Shit.”
Cellars shut the radio off, and then stared out at the now-huge clumps of snowflakes drifting through the beams of his headlights for a long moment before he finally made his decision.
Setting the now-silent pack set radio aside, he quickly reset the j-Connector from ‘LOCAL RADIO’ to ‘TELEPHONE’, punched the series of numerals with the tip of his finger, hit the ‘CALL’ button, and then listened to the connection ring twelve times before an audibly tired and harassed voice finally answered.
“KMAD, how can we —?”
“I’d like to ask Eleanor Patterson a question,” Cellars interrupted.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve had an awful lot of people calling in tonight. You’re number … uh … seventy-two on the waiting list, which means you very likely won’t get on the air this evening.”
“Oh, uh —” Cellars hesitated. “Can you tell me where your station is located?”
“Certainly, do you have a pencil handy?”
“Go ahead.”
Moments later, Cellars terminated the call, set the handy j-Connector aside, and started to reach for the dash-mounted GPS unit controls when he remembered the additional functions of the unit’s locator signal that the instruction card had so proudly detailed.
Yeah, right, turn it on for fifteen seconds and they’ll know exactly where I’m at.
He sighed.
“Okay, so we don’t get to do things the easy way,” he muttered to himself as he quickly started up the Humvee’s engine again, and then pulled it back onto the snow-covered road. “What else is new?”
CHAPTER 7
After arriving at the outskirts of Medford, it took Cellars another ten minutes to find an open-all-night gas station with a shopping mart that sold local maps.
As it turned out, the KMAD radio station was back the way he came — less than a mile north of Medford proper, and an easy side-road exit turn off of Highway Sixty-Two.
The KMAD building was a boxy, tilt-up-concrete-walled structure, with a few tiny windows and several sprouting antennas on the roof, that looked pretty drab and even a little claustrophobic next to what appeared to be its sister KMUD-TV station — a much larger, and far more elaborate two story structure that looked to be mostly tinted aluminum concrete pillars, aluminum, cross-beams, darkly tinted windows, ear-like satellite dishes, and a considerable amount of artful neon-tube signage.
Guess radio people aren’t much into the visuals , Cellars thought as he idled the Humvee in front of the two buildings, watching the intermittent and now-much-smaller snowflakes swirling in the air and covering the surrounding area with a light dusting of fine white powder. Suppose that makes sense.
He pulled the squat military vehicle into the dimly-lit parking lot located directly behind the KMAD building, found a mostly concealed space next to a large trash dumpster, parked, shut off the engine, started to get out … and then hesitated as he considered his appearance, and the possibility that someone at the VA base might have notified the local police and media about his escape.
He tried to imagine what a local broadcast might sound like …
Something along the lines of “be on the lookout for a man in a U.S. Army field uniform who just escaped from a psychiatric ward with a
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