Echo of War Read Free Page A

Historical Commission—stood, and beyond the cove, through a notch in the cliff, lay the river proper—though this offshoot of the Rappahannock was more lake than river, measuring five miles from shore to shore.
    Tanner opened his closet, took his wet suit off the peg, slipped it on, then trotted down the loft stairs to the living room and into the kitchen. He prepped the coffeemaker, set the timer for forty minutes, then grabbed his cell phone and stepped out onto the deck.
    The cell phone trilled; he flipped it open. “Hello.”
    â€œBriggs, it’s Walt.”
    â€œMorning, Oaks.”
    â€œYou busy?”
    â€œNot especially.”
    â€œMind if I come by on my way to the office? I need … some advice.”
    There’s a switch, Tanner thought. Aside from subjects of an outdoor nature, Walter Oaken’s knowledge was encyclopedic. That which he didn’t know, he learned. Whether trivial, vital, or somewhere in between, Oaken absorbed it and filed it away for future use. He was, Tanner had decided long ago, an information pack rat.
    â€œSure,” Tanner said. “Come down the pier when you get here.”
    â€œYou’re swimming? You’re going to catch pneumonia.”
    â€œIt’s always possible.”
    â€œWant me to bring coffee?”
    â€œIt’ll be brewing when you get here.”
    â€œSee you in a while.”
    Tanner sat down on the edge of the pier, cupped the drag floats to his ankles, then lowered himself into the water. He gasped at the chill. Though it was already mid-June, his cove saw little current, so the winter chill tended to linger until early August.
    The urge to climb back out was strong, but he quashed it and kept treading water, waiting for the chill to subside. At forty, Briggs had noticed his what the hell are you doing voice wasn’t as faint as it used to be. Whether the voice was that of wisdom and maturity or just the complaints of early middle age he wasn’t sure. First swim, then coffee, he told himself.
    He pushed off and began stroking toward the gap.
    As with every swim, within a few minutes his mind cleared, the blood began to surge through his limbs, and he slipped into a rhythm. He felt the drag of the float behind him and stroked a little harder, enjoying the exertion. Getting stronger, he thought. Better than even a week ago.
    Three weeks earlier his doctor and physical therapist had proclaimed him healed—though on occasion he still felt a twinge from the wounds. The worst of them had come from a pair of AK-47 bullets fired by a squad of very angry Chinese soldiers. The first bullet had torn through his buttock and blasted out the front of his thigh; the second had punched through his back, rupturing his diaphragm and spleen.
    If not for a combination of dumb luck, a touch of hypothermia, and a battle-hardened Russian field surgeon, it would have ended much differently. But it didn’t, Tanner reminded himself. Good to be alive.
    After twenty minutes of swimming he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. A mile away, through the gap in the cove, he could see a lone figure standing on the pier: tall, gangly, blue blazer hanging from his frame like a lab coat … Walter Oaken’s silhouette was unmistakable.
    Tanner gave him a wave, got one in return, then turned and began swimming back.
    When he reached the pier, Oaken leaned down, cautiously offered a hand, then backpedaled as Tanner levered himself onto the planks. Oaken wiped his hands. “Wow—it’s cold. ”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you?”
    â€œSo I’ve been told.” Tanner dried his hair then tucked the towel into the collar of his wet suit so it formed a hood. He gestured to the other towel he’d laid on the planks. “Sit down.”
    Oaken did so and handed him a cup of coffee. “How far did you go?”
    â€œCouple miles; give or take.”
    â€œI