Wrongful Death by Robert Dugoni Page B

don’t know the details of this case, but if Specialist Ford died in Iraq while in combat, I can tell you that Feres will apply.”
    “It sounds like a significant legal hurdle,” Sloane said.
    “Think the Great Wall of China.”
    Sloane already had.
     
    SLOANE DROVE NORTH on I-5. “He didn’t know the claim had been reopened. The computer still had it as closed.”
    “So the claims office didn’t make that decision,” Jenkins said.
    “And whoever told Kessler either didn’t tell them or didn’t get to Pendergrass in time. Before I got there, he’d been sitting in a dentist’s chair. He also said we’d never win in federal court, that we had no case under Feres.”
    “Which begs the question you asked earlier: Why reopen the claim? What are you going to do?”
    Sloane smiled. “Continue poking a stick at the tiger and see if I can draw its attention. Captain Kessler won’t tell me what happened over there. Maybe someone else will.”
    HIGHWAY 10, IRAQ
    THE RADIO CRACKLED, spitting a data burst of cryptographic information. Kessler raised a hand to quiet Cassidy’s story of killing the wild boar. “Hold that thought, Butch.” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “Alfa one-two, this is Charlie Tango Three. Say again. Over.”
    Ford asked, “You think it’s the convoy?”
    Kessler waited a beat before repeating his transmission. “Say again. Over.”
    More static, then a voice, the words intermittent and unclear.
    “Bravo three-sixteen…Any…get…sage?”
    Kessler waited for an “over.”
    “That isn’t the convoy,” Ford said.
    Kessler agreed. “This is Alfa one-two, Bravo three-sixteen. Say again. Over.”
    “We’re und…fire. Need reinf…Over.”
    Kessler looked to Ford. The three men in the backseat sat forward.
    “Who is it?” Ferguson asked.
    Kessler’s voice remained calm. “Bravo three-sixteen, this is Alfa one-two. Say again. Over.”
    From the radio they heard the distinct clatter of AK-47s and the rapid three-round bursts of M16s and M4s. Then the voice shouted, causing Cassidy to flinch and jump back in his seat.
    “Gun right. Gun right.”
    A series of explosions followed, what sounded like a hell of a firefight.
    “Red on ammo…MASSCAL! MASSCAL…Goddamn…need CASEVAC. Time: now.”
    Ford couldn’t tell if the soldier was responding to Kessler’s transmission or sending out a general transmission to anyone in the area.
    Kessler responded calmly. “Bravo three-sixteen. Send your nine-line. Say again. Send your nine-line. Over.”
    A nine-line alerted the tactical operations center to a squad’s location and advised that it needed immediate assistance.
    “We’re getting…every…all over.”
    “Bravo three-sixteen. Slow your transmission. What is your grid? Send your grid, over.”
    The soldier barked amidst the constant clatter of gunfire and intermittent explosions. “Grid…Echo. Hotel…five, one…zero, six.”
    Kessler pulled out his topographic map and handed it to Ford, who unfolded it in his lap. He traced the grid square, trying to map the coordinates.
    “Say again, Bravo three-sixteen. Over.”
    The radio crackled. “Grid Echo…Hotel…zero…six…zero…five…six.”
    Kessler repeated the coordinates to Ford. “Echo, Hotel, zero, six, zero, five, one, zero, six.”
    Ford scribbled them on a piece of paper, then went back to tryingto map them. He knew that grids were usually eight-to ten-number sequences. “We’re missing part of the grid.”
    Kessler was ahead of him. “Say again, Bravo three-sixteen. Say again.”
    The radio spit more static, followed by what sounded like a loud explosion. “Shit…stat report: Red. Red. Red.”
    Three reds meant soldiers injured or killed, weapons inoperable, and the squad seriously low on ammunition and fuel.
    “Bravo three-sixteen. Send your nine-line,” Kessler repeated. “Send your grids, over.”
    “Grid: Echo, Hotel, zero, six, zero, five, one, zero, zero, six.”
    Kessler removed the protractor from