"Let's hope we won't be needing it," said Arthur Potter, who in thirty years as a federal agent had never fired his pistol in the line of duty.
"You can receive satellite transmissions?"
"Yessir, we have a dish. Any analog, digitized or microwaved signal."
Potter wrote a series of numbers on a card and handed it to Derek. "Call that number, ask for Jim Kwo. Tell him you're calling for me and give him that code right there."
"There?"
"That one. Tell him we want a SatSurv scan fed into -" he waved his hand at the bank of monitors – "one of those. He'll coordinate the tech stuff with you. All that loses me, frankly. Give him the longitude and latitude of the slaughterhouse."
"Yessir," Derek said, jotting notes excitedly. In seventh heaven, techie that he was. "What is that, exactly? SatSurv?"
"The CIA's satellite surveillance system. It'll give us a visual and infrared scan of the grounds."
"Hey, I heard about that. Popular Science, I think." Derek turned away to make the call.
Potter bent down and trained his Leica field glasses through the thick windows. He studied the slaughterhouse. A skull of a building. Stark against the sun-bleached grass, like dried blood on yellow bone. That was the assessment of Arthur Potter English lit major. Then, in an instant, he was Arthur Potter the Federal Bureau of Investigation's senior hostage negotiator and assistant director of the Bureau's Special Operations and Research Unit, whose quick eyes noted relevant details: thick brick wall, small windows, the location of the power lines, the absence of telephone lines, the cleared land around the building, and stands of trees, clusters of grass, and hills that might provide cover for snipers – both friend and foe.
The rear of the slaughterhouse backed right onto the river.
The river, Potter mused. Can we use it somehow?
Can they?
The roof was studded with parapets, a medieval castle. There was a tall, thin smokestack and a bulky elevator hut that would make a helicopter landing difficult, at least in this choppy wind. Still, a copter could hover and a dozen tactical officers could rappel onto the building with little difficulty. He could make out no skylights.
The long-defunct Webber amp; Stoltz Processing Company, Inc., he decided, resembled nothing so much as a crematorium.
"Pete, you have a bullhorn?"
"Sure." Henderson stepped outside and, crouching, jogged to his car to get it.
"Say, you wouldn't have a bathroom here, would you?" Potter asked Derek.
" 'Deed we do, sir," said Derek, immensely proud of Kansas technology. The trooper pointed to a small door. Potter stepped inside and put on an armor vest beneath his dress shirt, which he then replaced. He knotted his tie carefully and pulled on his navy-blue sports coat once again. He noted that there was very little slack on the draw strap of the Second Chance vest but in his present state of mind his weight had virtually ceased to trouble him.
Stepping outside into the cool afternoon, he took the black megaphone from Henderson and, crouching, hurried through a winding path between hills and squad cars, telling the troopers, eager and young most of them, to holster their pistols and stay under cover. When he was about sixty yards from the slaughterhouse he lay on a hilltop and peered at it through the Leica glasses. There was no motion from inside. No lights in the windows. Nothing. He noted that the glass was missing from the front-facing windows but he didn't know if the men inside had knocked it out for better aim or if local schoolboys had been practicing with rocks and.22s.
He turned on the bullhorn and, reminding himself not to shout and thus distort the message, said, "This is Arthur Potter. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to talk to you men in there. I'm having a cellular telephone brought up. I'll be getting it to you in about ten or fifteen minutes. We are not planning an assault. You're in no danger. I repeat: We are not planning an assault."
He expected no response and received none. In a crouch he hurriedback to the van and asked Henderson, "Who's in charge locally? I want to talk to them."
"Him, there."
Crouching beside a tree was a tall, sandy-haired man in a pale blue suit. His posture was perfect.
"Who is he?" Potter asked, polishing his glasses on his lapel.
"Charles Budd. State police captain. He's got investigative and tactical experience. No negotiating. Spit-shined record."
"How long on the force?" To Potter, Budd looked young and callow. You expected to see him ambling over the linoleum in the Sears appliance department to shyly pitch an extended warranty.
"Eight years. Flew upstream fast to get the ribbons."
Potter called, "Captain?"
The man turned his blue eyes to Potter and walked behind the van. They shook firm hands and made introductions.
"Hey, Peter," Budd said.
"Charlie."
To Potter he said, "So you're the big gun from Washington, that right? Pleasure to meet you, sir. Real honor."
Potter smiled.
"Okay, sir, near as I can tell, here's the situation." He pointed to the slaughterhouse. "There's been movement in those two windows there. A glint, maybe a gun barrel. Or a scope. I'm not sure. Then they -"
"We'll get to that, Captain Budd."
"Oh, hey, call me Charlie, why don't you?"
"Okay, Charlie. How many people you have here?"
"Thirty-seven troopers, five local deputies. Plus Pete's boys. Yours, I mean."
Potter recorded this in a small black notebook.
"Any of your men or women have hostage experience?"
"The troopers? A few of them probably've been involved in your typical bank robbery or convenience store situations. The local cops, I'm sure they never have. Most of the work round here's DWI and farm workers playing mumbledypeg on each other Saturday night."
"What's the chain of command?"
"I'm supervisor. I've got four commanders – three lieutenants and one sergeant waiting for rank – overseeing those thirty-seven, pretty evenly split. Two squads of ten, one nine, one eight. You're writing all this down, huh?"
Potter smiled again. "Where are they deployed?"
Like the civil war general Budd would one day resemble he pointed out the clusters of troopers in the field.
"Weapons? Yours, I mean."
"We issue Glocks here, sir, as sidearms. We've got about fifteen riot guns between us. Twelve-gauge, eighteen-inch barrels. I've got six men and a woman with M-16s, in those trees there and over there. Scopes on all of 'em."
"Night scopes?"
He chuckled. "Not round here."
"Who's in charge of the local men?"
"That'd be the sheriff of Crow Ridge. Dean Stillwell. He's over yonder."
He pointed to a lanky, mop-haired man, whose head was down as he talked to one of his deputies.
Another car pulled up and braked to a quick stop. Potter was greatly pleased to see who was behind the wheel.
Short Henry LeBow climbed from the car and immediately pulled on a rumpled tweed businessman's hat; his bald crown had offered a glistening target more than once during the two hundred hostage negotiations he and Potter had worked together. LeBow trudged forward, a pudgy, shy man, and the one hostage-incident intelligence officer Potter would rather work with than anyone else in the world.
LeBow listed under the weight of two huge shoulder bags.
The men shook hands warmly and Potter introduced him to Henderson and Budd.
"Look what we have here, Henry. An Airstream trailer to call our very own."
"My. And a river to catch fish in. What is that?"
"The river? The Arkansas," Budd said, with the emphasis on the second syllable.