"One of my men said it looked like somebody going through the window."
"One of the HTs?"
"No, I meant going in the window."
"In? Any confirmation?"
"Yessir, another trooper said she saw it too."
"Well -"
"Oh, Jesus," Tobe whispered. "Arthur, look."
"Who are they?" Angie snapped. "Who the hell are they?"
Potter turned and glanced at the TV monitor she was gazing at. It took a moment to realize he was looking at a newscast – the monitor that had been tuned to the Weather Channel. To his horror he realized he was watching an assault on the slaughterhouse.
"Wait a minute," Budd said. "What's going on?"
"… exclusive footage. It appears that one of the troopers outside the slaughterhouse has just been kidnaped himself."
"Where's the camera?" an astounded LeBow said.
"Can't worry about that now," Potter said. The involuntary thought popped into his mind: Is this Henderson's revenge?
"Tremain," LeBow called out. "It's Tremain."
"Fuck," said good Catholic Tobe. "Those were the scrambled messages we were picking up. He's put an operation together."
"The trap inside! Tremain doesn't know about it."
"Trap?" Derek asked nervously.
Potter looked up, shocked. He understood instantly the depth of the betrayal. Derek Elb had been feeding the Hostage Rescue Unit information about the barricade. Had to be. "What's Tremain's frequency?" he shouted, leaping over the table and grabbing the young trooper by the collar.
Derek was shaking his head.
"Tell him, goddamnit!" Budd shouted.
"I don't have access. It's field-set. There's no way to break in."
"I can crack it," Tobe said.
"No, it's retrosignaling, it'll take you an hour. I'm sorry, I didn't know… I didn't know anything about a trap." Potter recalled that they had been outside when they'd learned about the bomb – at the field hospital.
Budd raged, "He's got a firebomb rigged up in there, Sergeant."
"Oh, God, no," Derek muttered.
Potter grabbed the phone. He dialed. There was no answer. "Come on, Lou. Come on!… Tobe, is SatSurv still on line?"
"Yep." He slammed his finger into a button. A monitor burst to life. It was essentially the same green-and-blue image of the grounds they'd seen before, but now there were ten little red dots clustered on either side of the slaughterhouse.
"They're in those gullies there. Probably going in through the northwest and southeast windows or doors. Give me a high-speed printout."
"You got it. Black-and-white'll be faster."
"Do it!" As the machine buzzed, Potter pressed the phone to his ear, hearing the calm, unanswered ringing on the other end. "Lou, Lou, Lou, come on… Answer!"
He slammed it down. "Henry, what'll they do?"
LeBow leapt up and stared at the printout as it spewed from the machine. "Blow in the door here, on the left. But I don't know what they're doing on the right side. There's no door. You can't use cutting charges to breach a structural wall." He pointed at the mounted diagram of the processing plant. "Look there. That dotted line. That might've been a door at one time. Tremain must have found it. They're going in from both sides."
"Single-file?"
"Two-man entry but tandem, yeah. They'll have to."
"It's -"
The bang was very soft. Suddenly the van went dark. Frances gave a short scream. Only an eerie yellow glow from the thick windows and the twin blue screens of Henry LeBow's computers illuminated the pungent interior.
"Lost power," Tobe said. "We -"
"Arthur!" LeBow was pointing out the window at the flames that were rolling up the side of the van.
"What happened? Jesus, did Handy hit us?"
Potter ran to the door. He pulled it open and cried out, leaping back from the tongue of flames and the searing heat that flowed into the van. Slammed the door.
"We can't power up," Tobe said. "Backup's gone too."
"How long do I have?" he raged at Derek.
"Answer me or you'll be in jail in an hour. How long from the time the power goes out till they attack?"
"Four minutes," Derek whispered. "Sir, I was just doing what -"
"No, Arthur," Angie called, "don't open it!"
Potter flung the door open. He flew backwards as his sleeves ignited. Outside all they could see was an ocean of flame. Then the black smoke of burning rubber and oil poured inside, sending them to the floor in search of air.
Disengaging his scrambler, Dan Tremain broadcast, "Agent Potter, Agent Potter! This is Captain Tremain. Come in, please. Are you all right?"
Tremain watched the fire on the hill. It was alarming, the orange flames and the black smoke, swirling in a tornado. He knew all about the van, had used it himself often, and knew that those inside were safe as long as they kept the door closed. Still, it was a terrible conflagration.
No time to think about that now. He called again, "Agent Potter… Derek? Is anyone in the command van? Please report."
"This is Sheriff Stillwell, who's calling?"
"Captain Dan Tremain, state police. What's going on?"
"The van's on fire, sir. We don't know. Handy may've made a lucky shot."
Thank you, Sheriff, Tremain thought. The conversations were being recorded at state police headquarters. Stillwell's comment would more than justify Tremain's action.
"Is everyone all right?" the HRU commander asked.
"We can't get close to the van. We don't -"
Tremain cut off the transmission and ordered, on the scrambled frequency, "Alpha team, Bravo team. Code word Filly. Code word Filly. Arm the cutting charges. Sixty seconds to detonation."
"Alpha. Armed."
''Bravo. Armed."
''Fire in the hole," Tremain called, and lowered his head.
Arthur Potter, fifteen pounds overweight and never athletic, rolled to the ground just past the flames that two troopers were trying unsuccessfully to douse with fire extinguishers.
He hit the ground and stared in alarm at his flaming sleeves. One trooper cried out and blasted him with carbon dioxide. The icy spray stung his hands more than the burn had though he saw the wounds on his skin and knew what kind of agony he could anticipate later.
If he lived to later.
No time, no time at all…
He rolled to his feet and ignored the embers smoldering on his jacket, the pain searing his skin. He began to jog, clicking on the bullhorn.
Potter struggled across the field, through the line of police cars and directly toward the slaughterhouse. He gasped as he shouted, "Lou Handy, listen to me! Listen. This is Art Potter. Can you hear me?"
Sixty yards, fifty.
No response. Tremain's men would be moving in at any minute.
"Lou, you're about to be attacked. It's an unauthorized operation. I had nothing to do with it. Repeat: It's a mistake. The officers are in two gullies to the north and the south of the slaughterhouse. You can set up a crossfire from the two windows on those sides. Do you hear me, Lou?"
He was gasping for breath and struggling to call out. A pain shot through his chest and he had to slow down.
A perfect target, he stood on the crest of a hill – the very place where Susan Phillips had been shot in the back – and shouted, 'They're about to blow the side doors but you can stop them before they get inside. Set up crossfire positions in the southeast and the northwest windows. There's a door on the south side you don't know about. It's covered up but it's there. They're going to blow their way in from there too, Lou. Listen to me. I want you to shoot for their legs. They have body armor. Shoot for their legs! Use shotguns. Shoot for their legs."
No movement inside the slaughterhouse.
Oh, please…
"Lou!"
Silence. Except for the urgent wind.
Then he noticed movement from the gully to the north of the slaughterhouse. A helmet rising from a stand of buffalo grass. A flash as a pair of binoculars turned his way.
Or was it the telescopic sight of an H amp;K MP-5?