"Farms," Budd muttered. "Most dangerous places on earth. You should hear some of the calls we get."
A console phone buzzed, a scrambled line, and Tobe pushed the button, spoke into his stalk mike for a moment. "It's the CIA," he announced to the room, then began speaking rapidly into the mike. He tapped several keys, conferred with Derek, and turned on a monitor. "Kwo got a SatSurv image, Arthur. Take a look."
A monitor slowly came to life. The background was dark green, like a glowing radar screen, and you could make out patches of lighter green, yellow, and amber. There was a faint outline of the slaughterhouse and a number of red dots surrounding it.
"The green's the ground," Tobe explained. "The yellow and orange, those are trees and natural thermal sources. The red are troopers." The slaughterhouse was a blue-green rectangle. Only toward the front was there any shift in the color, where the windows and doors were located. "There's probably a little heat rising from the lamps. Doesn't tell us much. Other than nobody's actually on the roof."
"Tell them to keep broadcasting."
"You know what it costs, don't you?" Tobe asked.
"Twelve thousand an hour," LeBow said, typing happily, "Now ask him if he cares."
Potter said, "Keep it on-line, Tobe."
"Will do. But I want a cost-of-living this year, we're so rich."
Then the door opened and a trooper entered, brown bags in his arms, and the van filled with the smell of hot greasy burgers and fries. Potter sat down at his chair, gripping the phone in his fingers.
The first exchange was about to begin.
2:45 P.M.
Stevie Gates again.
"Glutton for punishment?" Potter asked.
"Bored just sitting on my butt, sir."
"Nothing to pitch this time, Officer. You'll be going the distance."
Dean Stillwell stood beside the trooper as, Potter instructing, two FBI agents in flak jackets were suiting Gates up with two layers of thin body armor under his regular uniform. They were standing behind the van. Charlie Budd was nearby, directing the placement of the huge halogen spotlights, trained on the slaughterhouse. There was still plenty of summer light left in the day but the overcast had grown thicker and with every passing minute it seemed more like dusk.
"All set, Arthur," Budd announced.
"Hit 'em," Potter ordered, looking up from the trooper for a moment.
The halogens burst to life, shooting their streams of raw white light onto the front and sides of the slaughterhouse. Budd ordered a few adjustments and the lights focused on the door and the windows on either side of it. The wind was gusting sharply and the troopers had to anchor the legs of the lights with sandbags.
Suddenly a curious sound came from the field. "What's that?" Budd wondered aloud.
Stillwell said, "Somebody's laughing. Some of the troopers. Hank, what's going on out there?" the sheriff called over his radio. He listened, then looked at the slaughterhouse through field glasses. "Look in the window."
Potter ducked his head around the van. With the spotlights, nobody in the slaughterhouse would have a prayer of an effective sniper shot. He trained his Leicas on the window.
"Very funny," he muttered.
Lou Handy had put on sunglasses against the glaring lights. With exaggerated gestures he mopped his forehead and mugged for his laughing audience.
"Enough of that," Stillwell radioed sternly, speaking to his troops. "This isn't David Letterman."
Potter turned back to Gates, nodded at the thin armor. "You'll get a nasty bruise if you're shot. But it's important to look unthreatening."
HTs get very nervous, Angie explained, when they see troopers dressed up like alien spacemen plodding toward them. "You've got to dress for success."
"I'm about as unthreatening as can be. 'S'way I feel anyway. Should I leave my sidearm here?"
"No. But keep it out of sight," Potter said. "Your first responsibility is your own safety. Never compromise that. If it's between you and the hostage, save yourself first."
"Well -"
"That's an order, Trooper," Stillwell said solemnly. He'd grown into his role of containment officer like a natural.
Potter continued, "Walk up there slowly, carry the food at your side, in plain view. Don't move fast, whatever happens."
"Okay." Gates seemed to be memorizing these orders.
Tobe Geller stepped out of the doorway of the van, carrying a small box attached to a wire burgeoning into a stubby black rod. He hooked the box to the trooper's back, under the vest. The rod he clipped into Oates's hair with bobby pins.
"Couldn't use this with Arthur here," Tobe said. "Need a full head of hair."
"What is it?"
"Video camera. And earphone."
"That little thing? No foolin'."
Tobe ran the wire down Oates's back and plugged it into the transmitter. "The resolution isn't very good," Potter said, "but it'll help when you get back."
"How's that?"
"You seem pretty cool, Stevie," LeBow said. "But at best you'll remember about forty percent of what you see up there."
"Oh, he's a fifty percenter," Potter said, "if I'm not mistaken."
"The tape won't tell us too much on its own," the intelligence officer continued, "but it should refresh your memory."
"Gotcha. Say, those burgers sure smell good," Gates joked, while his face said that food was the last thing on his mind. "Angie?" Potter asked.
The agent walked up to the trooper and tossed the mass of dark, windblown hair from her face. "Here's a picture of the girl who's coming out. Her name's Jocylyn." Quickly, she repeated her assessment on how to best handle her.
"Don't talk to her," Angie concluded. "She won't understand your words and it might make her panic, thinking she's missing something important. And keep smiling."
"Smiling. Sure. Piece of cake." Gates swallowed.
Potter added, "Now, she's overweight and can't run very fast, I'd guess." He unfurled a small map of the grounds of the slaughterhouse. "If she could hustle I'd tell you to duck into that gully there, the one in front of the place, and then just run like hell. You'd be oblique targets. But as it is I think you'll just have to walk straight back."
"Like the girl who got shot?" Budd asked, and nobody was happy he had.
"Now, Stevie," Potter continued, "you should go up to the door. But under no circumstances are you to go inside."
"What if he says he won't release her 'less I do?"
"Then you leave her. Leave the food and walk away. But I think he'll let her go. Get as close as you can to the door. I want you to look inside. Look for what kinds of weapons they have, radios, any signs of blood, any hostages or hostage takers we might not know about."
Budd asked, "How could more've gotten in?"
"They might have been waiting inside for Handy and the others to arrive."
"Oh, sure." Budd looked discouraged. "Didn't think of that."
Potter continued to Gates, "Don't engage him in a dialogue, don't argue, don't say anything, except to answer his questions directly."
"You think he'll ask me stuff?"
Potter looked at Angie, who said, "It's possible. He might want to tease you a little. The sunglasses – he's got a playful streak in him. He might want to test you. Don't rise to the bait."
Gates nodded uncertainly.
Potter continued, "We'll be monitoring your conversations and I can feed you answers through your earphone."
Gates smiled a faint smile. "Those'll be the longest hundred yards of my life."
"There's nothing to worry about," Potter said. "He's a lot more interested in food right now than he is in shooting anybody."
This logic seemed to reassure Gates though the memory loomed in Potter's mind that some years ago he'd said similar words to an officer who a few moments later had been shot in the knee and wrist by a hostage taker who decided impulsively that he didn't want the painkillers and bandages the officer was bringing him.
Potter added an asthma inhaler to the bag of hamburgers. "Don't say anything about that. Just let him find it and decide to give it to Beverly or not."