Stuart Woods - Heat

“Barker wants to round up a thousand federal agents from the FBI, from the U.S. marshals, from Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco and the Treasury Department and send them in there on the ground, in APCs, with bullhorns, telling everybody to surrender.”

“You tell Barker for me that, if he does that, he’s going to lose half of them, and the other half will have to run, if they’re not surrounded. Then he’ll have to bring in the military to pull it out of the fire, and he’ll have to destroy this town to win.”

“I don’t know if he’s going to buy your recommendation.”

“Then, Kip, you have to go over his head; you have to go outside the Justice Department, if necessary, straight to the White House.”

“If I do that, they’ll hang me out to dry, my career will be over, and I’ll have a wife and two kids that I can’t support.”

“If you don’t do it, Kip, the press will hang the whole thing on you and Barker. After all, you’re the official contact with Bottoms and me. When this is over, and the president appoints a commission to investigate why such a huge tragedy occurred, you’ll not only be hung out to dry, you might end up in prison, and where will your family be then?” Jesse was trying hard to scare Kip to death; he had the feeling that if he didn’t, nothing was going to happen. He played his last card. “You tell Barker I’m going to give him fourteen days to act, and in force. If he doesn’t, I’m getting out, and if I’m arrested by your people I’ll see the whole business on the front page of the New York Times and the Washington Post . I’ll write a book about it; I’ll sell it for a TV movie; and I’ll never ever shut up. Do I make myself clear?”

“Jesse, don’t even think about doing that.”

“I’ve already thought about it, Kip, and as God is my witness, I’ll do it. Your only other choice is to get me a presidential pardon now , and let me and my family get out of here. That’ll shut me up.”

“Call me Monday.”

Jesse had a desperate thought. “Wait a minute, Kip.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to come to Washington and make a presentation to your people, the military and somebody from the White House.”

“That’s crazy, Jess; an escaped convict standing up in front of that kind of meeting? What kind of credibility would you have?”

“The credibility of an eyewitness who knows what he’s talking about.”

“How would you get out of town without Coldwater knowing about it?”

“This drop of yours that I sent the camera to — is that a real building supply company?”

“Yes, and a big one, out in College Park.”

“Do this: call St. Clair Wood Products, ask them for their fax number, then fax Herman Muller a request for a presentation by a salesman. Say that you’re looking for a major new source of plywood and chipboard, and you’d heard good things about his company. Tell him your need is urgent, and you want to see somebody right away; he’ll send me. Coldwater will know about it, but it won’t worry him, because I did the same thing in New York.”

“I’ll do what I can, Jess, but I can’t promise. Barker will have to approve this, and I think it’s unlikely. If Muller gets the fax, then you’ll know you’re on. I won’t contact you again, just go directly to Nashua Building Supply, 1010 Parkway, in College Park, and ask for John Withers; he’ll take it from there.”

“Just remember that I might be followed.”

“I’ll plan for that.”

“Something else, Kip; call somebody at the National Security Agency and get some satellite shots of the St. Clair area; they’ll help me make my case, and they’ll help you when you go in.”

“I’ll see about that.”

“Thanks, Kip.”

“Thank me when I make it work.” Kip hung up.

On Sunday afternoon after lunch, Jenny was helping Carey with some homework. “I think I’ll take a drive,” Jesse said to her. “Will you join me?”

“We’ve got work to do here,” Jenny said. “You go ahead.”

Jesse got into the truck, drove to the center of town and set the odometer of his truck at zero. He drove east, past Wood Products for another mile, and turned right at the sign for St. Clair County Airport. He noted that the road was paved and broad, and after a couple of minutes he came to the airfield. An asphalt strip stretched out in both directions; there were some small T-hangars and one large hangar with an office shed attached and a fuel truck parked alongside. The doors to the large hangar were open, and Jesse saw someone working under the cowling of a Cessna single-engine airplane. He drove toward the hangar, and, as he approached, he saw that the man was Pat Casey.

Jesse got out of the truck. “Hey, Pat.”

“Hey there, Jesse, what brings you out this way?”

“Just went for a Sunday drive, and I saw the sign. First time I’ve been out here.”

“I’m out here every chance I get,” Casey said. “Nothing I love better than flying.”

“Pretty nice setup,” Jesse said, pointing toward the runway. “What is it, about thirty-five hundred feet?”

“Forty-five hundred. You can get a corporate jet in here, no problem. You ever done any flying?”

“Yeah, I had about thirty hours in a Cessna 172 back in my hometown. That was seven, eight years ago. I soloed and did the required cross-country stuff, but never got my license.” This was true, but it had been in Miami.

“I’m just finishing up on a little light maintenance here, cleaning the plugs. Want to do a little aerial sightseeing?”

“Sure, love to.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Jesse moved his truck so that Casey could get his airplane out of the hangar, and, when the police chief had finished his work, helped him roll the Cessna out onto the apron.

“Want to fly left seat?” Casey asked.

Jesse grinned. “That depends on if you can land it from the right seat, should you have to.”

“I can. Hop in the left side, there.”

Jesse got in, adjusted his seat and fastened his seatbelt; Casey climbed in beside him, cleared a double handful of charts and books off the copilot’s seat, dumped them on the backseat and handed Jesse a headset. “Nice panel,” Jesse said. “A lot better than the old 172 I learned in.”

“Yeah, I got rid of the original avionics and put in a whole new panel last year. All King stuff, except for the GPS — that’s from Trimble.”

“That’s Global Positioning System?” Jesse knew more about it than he let on.

“Right. It’s satellite based and accurate to within about a hundred feet, I think. Wonderful navaid. All you have to do is enter the three-letter identifier of any airport, press this button twice, then set the course into the course deviation indicator right in front of you. Switch on the autopilot, and it’ll fly you straight there.” Casey produced a laminated sheet of paper. “I’ve already done a preflight inspection, so I’ll read you the cockpit checklist; it’ll all come back to you.”

Jesse was surprised that it did come back. Soon they were taxiing to the end of the runway.

“This is a 182, which is larger and heavier on the controls than your 172 trainer, but not all that different. I’ll work the radios for you.” Casey announced their intention to take off on the local frequency. “Okay, let’s go; set the trim in the green and put in fifteen degrees of flaps, that’s the first notch; throttle all the way in.”

Jesse slowly shoved in the throttle, and the airplane began to move down the runway. There was no wind, and the takeoff was uneventful. Jesse got the flaps up.

“Climb to four thousand feet,” Casey said. “The airport elevation is three thousand, so that’ll put us a thousand feet above ground level.”