The radio was where Shingleton had set it in the low crook of a tree. Teasle flipped a switch on the control panel, and peering up at where the helicopter circled close, sunlight glinting off the shrieking blades, he said loud into the microphone, “Lang. Portis. All set up there?” “Whenever you are, Chief.” The voice was flat and scratchy. It sounded like it came from miles away.
