Stuart Woods - Heat

Jesse left his office and greeted the police chief.

“Hear you’ve been out of town,” Casey said.

“Just overnight; we had a call from a big building supply company in Maryland who’d heard about us, so I went out there and made my pitch. Come on in the office.” He led Casey inside, closed the door and handed him the fax from Nashua. “Here’s the result.”

“Hey, good going,” Casey said. “Jack Gene will be pleased to hear it. You making any progress on getting into Muller’s computer ledgers?”

“Not yet, but I’ve hardly been in the office since we discussed it. I think the best way is for me just to ask Muller if I can see the books.”

“Is there no other way?”

“His computer password is in his head; I don’t know how else to get it.”

“Use your own judgment, then; all he can say is no.”

“The other way is to try to figure out what the password is, but that’s a real long shot.”

“I agree. I’ll leave it in your hands,” Casey replied. He held up the red briefcase. “Oh, here’s why I dropped by; it’s your flight training materials.”

Jesse accepted the case, opened it and shook out its contents on his desk. There were a large red-covered instruction book, a logbook, a book of sample test questions and a manual flight computer. He had seen them all when he had taken his first lessons years before.

“I’d like you to read the first four chapters before our lesson on Sunday,” Casey said. “Since you’ve already been through most of the course once, we should be able to move fast.”

“Okay, I’ll start on it tonight.”

“By the way, you remember the group Jack Gene had visiting last week?”

“That fellow Bottoms and the others?”

“Right; he’s having them back next Wednesday for another meeting, plus a few others representing other groups in the Northwest. He’d like you to be there.”

“What time?”

“There’s a dinner at seven that evening, followed by an important business meeting. Jack Gene’s going to be making a big pitch to sell them some weapons. We’ve got good sources, and we can make an outstanding profit.”

“I’ll be there.”

Casey got up. “I’ll see you Sunday afternoon at two.”

“I’ll be there, too.”

When Casey had gone, Jesse looked at his watch. In ten minutes, people would be back from lunch. He got out the phone and called Kip again.

“You forget something?” Kip asked.

“No, I just heard something. You’re going to have to go in next Wednesday night.”

“Jesus, Jesse, today’s Friday.”

“You said you might be able to do it in seven days; that gives you six.”

“Why Wednesday night?”

“Because there are going to be a bunch of people here from other white supremacist groups to hear a weapons sales pitch from Coldwater. I’ll be a witness to the meeting, so you can bag them all for arms dealing. Casey and Ruger will no doubt be there, too.”

“Well, that’s a terrific idea; I’ll bring it up with the planning group and push them to make it.”

“You do that; I’ve got to hang up before somebody comes in. Oh, and you can give your man until Sunday night to deliver my package.”

“The extra time will help. See you.”

Jesse put the phone away. He had a lot to do before next Wednesday.

Saturday was Jesse’s first whole day with Carrie in more than two years, and he relished every moment of it. The two little girls took to each other immediately, and both reacted soberly when the rules of Carrie’s stay — that she remain inside and out of the living room at all times and that Carey tell no one of her presence — were explained to them. Jesse spent nearly every minute of the day with the two girls, and after supper, when it was time for bed, he tucked them both into their beds in Carey’s room.

He kissed Jenny, then sat down in an easy chair in the living room and began to study. Before he went to bed at 2 A.M. he had read not just the four chapters that Casey had assigned, but the entire flight manual.

Jesse arrived at St. Clair Airport half an hour early for his flying lesson. He nodded to the fuel attendant, then took a stroll around the big hangar, peering through the windows of small airplanes. Pat Casey’s Cessna 182 was parked in the premier position in the hangar; no aircraft had to be moved in order to get the Cessna out onto the apron. He noted that two huge sliding doors secured the hangar, and he paid particular attention to a combination padlock hanging open on its hasp. Whoever had set the combination into the lock had done it the easy way; 1234 opened the lock.

Next, Jesse strolled into the little flight office and looked around. A large map of the United States hung on one wall, and Jesse spent several minutes locating St. Clair and measuring distances to various other airports. He looked, too, at a rack of air charts on a counter, picked up one and noted which charts covered which areas of the country. Finally, he found an airport directory and flipped through it, making mental notes. Then he saw Casey’s patrol car coming and stepped out of the building to meet the chief of police.

“How you doing, Jesse?” Casey asked.

“Fine, and looking forward to my lesson.”

“Great, but first we do ground school.”

“Of course.”

Casey sat down on an old sofa in the flight office and motioned Jesse to join him. He then took his pupil methodically through the first four chapters of the flight manual, asking and answering questions as he went. When he was satisfied that Jesse was familiar with the material, he got up and headed for the hangar.

“Let’s do a preflight inspection,” Casey said. He opened the airplane door with a key, got out a fuel tester, then led Jesse around the airplane, following a checklist. When he was satisfied that the airplane was flightworthy and the two men had pushed the airplane out onto the apron, he handed Jesse the key. “Okay, hop into the left seat, and let’s get going.”

Soon they were in the air. Casey instructed Jesse to head a few miles south of town, then climb to six thousand feet. “We’re going to be performing some maneuvers, and we want plenty of altitude,” he explained.

While Jesse flew, he took in the landscape surrounding the airport. The principal obstruction was the mountain that rose above the town, and that was to the west of the airport, plus the low mountains to the north. Anyone taking off from St. Clair could fly in a southerly direction and easily avoid obstacles while climbing.

Casey had him perform shallow and steep turns, then do some stalls. Jesse found his old experience coming back to him, and he performed well. On one occasion, Casey reached forward and pulled the red mixture knob all the way out. The engine died.

“Okay, what are you going to do?” Casey asked.

“Find a place to land the damned thing, I guess,” Jesse replied.

“First, establish eighty-eight knots of airspeed — that’s your best gliding range. Good, now where you going to put it?”

Jesse looked around, then pointed. “There’s a straight stretch of road.”

“Yeah, and it’s also got a straight stretch of telephone poles right alongside it. Telephone wires are a no-no.”

The airplane had lost a thousand feet of altitude when Jesse spotted a green pasture. “How about over there?”

“Head for it, and we’ll take a look,” Casey said.

Jesse pointed the airplane at the field, and, keeping his airspeed steady, allowed the machine to descend. He had lined up for the field and was down to six hundred feet of altitude when he saw the cattle.

Casey pushed in the mixture control and the engine leapt to life. “Better get out of here,” he said. “Both you and the cows are hamburger. You’re dead.” He laughed. “Got to watch out for everything in an emergency landing. Let’s go home; you’re tired, or you wouldn’t have made that mistake. Know where the airport is?”