Heat (15 page)

J
esse had been back from New York a week when Pat Casey called and invited him to do some shooting on a Saturday morning. Jesse wasn't sure what Casey meant by shooting, but he accepted.

Casey picked him up mid-morning and drove toward the mountain. They passed the church and started to climb and, near the top of the mountain, shortly after passing Coldwater's house, they turned right onto a dirt road. They emerged from the trees into a clearing that had, apparently, been scraped into the side of the mountain by a bulldozer. To Jesse's left, some one hundred feet away, was the exposed side of the mountain, with many pockmarks and a rail system for transporting targets to and fro. They got out of the squad car, and Casey went to the trunk.

“You done much shooting in your time?” Casey asked.

“A good bit.”

“What with?”

“I've owned a twelve-gauge shotgun for birds and a thirty-ought-six for deer.”

“Handguns?”

“Somebody gave me a World War Two-vintage forty-five automatic once. I could never hit anything with it.”

Casey was rummaging in the trunk. “A formidable weapon at close range, but a pig otherwise. The newer stuff is a lot easier to handle. Give me a hand, will you? Grab that ammunition box.” Casey walked away from the car with a cased rifle under his arm and a canvas hold-all in the other hand.

Jesse picked up the ammunition box, and it was a lot heavier than he'd expected. As he closed the trunk lid a Mercedes sedan drove into the clearing, and Jack Gene Coldwater got out.

“Good morning, Pastor,” Jesse said.

“Good morning, Jesse; glad you could join us.”

“I didn't know you'd be here.”

“Shooting is a hobby of mine.” Coldwater took a large bag that looked as though it might hold skis from the backseat of his car.

Casey removed an assault rifle from his gun case. “Come over here, Jesse, and try this.”

Jesse accepted the weapon and looked it over as if he'd never seen one.

“It's an AR-fifteen that's been converted to an M-sixteen,” Casey said. “Only takes a few legally obtained parts and it becomes fully automatic.” He showed Jesse how to operate the weapon, then attached a paper target to a metal rack and pulled a rope until the target was against the bank a hundred feet away. “Try a few rounds.”

Jesse brought the rifle up and fired carelessly in the direction of the target. He was expert in this, but he certainly didn't want to appear so. Holes appeared in the top right-hand quadrant of the target.

“You're pulling the trigger,” Casey said. “Do it more slowly and squeeze.”

Jesse fired more rounds and brought them closer to the center of the target.

“Looking good,” Casey said.

Coldwater stepped up to the firing line, shoved a clip into his own rifle and emptied it quickly. The bull's-eye became one large hole.

“That's very fine shooting,” Jesse said.

“My country taught me well,” Coldwater replied. “A little practice, and you'll do well, too.”

“Try the prone position,” Casey said, spreading a blanket. He helped Jesse arrange his body into the proper position.

Jesse fired more carefully prone, then moved into a sitting position, then into a kneeling position. With each clip his accuracy improved.

“I believe you're a natural, Jesse,” Coldwater said. “Draw a finer bead; you're still a little high.”

Jesse followed instructions, and his target no longer had a center.

“Let's try a handgun,” Casey said, removing a pistol from his hold-all. “This is a Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter automatic.” He instructed Jesse on loading and firing, then stepped back.

Jesse turned his shoulder toward the target and fired a round. It went high and wide of the target. “Not so good,” he said. “I haven't had much experience with handguns.”

“Turn your body square to the target,” Casey said, “and support your shooting hand with your left. Again, squeeze off your rounds.”

Jesse obeyed, and his shots began to hit the target, although erratically. He concentrated on seeming to concentrate, but he didn't allow himself to improve much.

Coldwater stepped up. “Watch me,” he said. He assumed a firing position and emptied a clip into his target. Again, the bull's-eye disappeared.

“You look a lot more relaxed than I do,” Jesse said.

“That's right. You were much too tense.”

Jesse rolled his head around and shook his arms to loosen up. “Keep both eyes open this time,” Coldwater said. “Don't draw a bead, just point where your eyes fall on the target.”

Jesse squeezed off a round and clipped a corner of the bull's-eye.

“Much better. Now use up the clip, but do it slowly, one at a time.”

Jesse kept firing, and put everything near, but not in, the bull's-eye.

“A little off, but a nice grouping,” Casey said, taking Jesse's pistol and reloading it.

“If your target had been a man, he'd be very dead,” Coldwater said. He shoved a new clip into the pistol and handed it to Jesse.

“That's what you're going to be, Jack Gene,” a strange voice said. “Very dead.”

Jesse was already in the firing position, and he swiveled his head to the left to see what was going on. Phil Partain, his face very red, stood ten yards beyond Coldwater, a heavy revolver in his hand. It was pointed at the pastor's middle.

“I've had enough,” Partain said. “You won't give me any responsibility; you give me shit work to do, and there's no respect for me in this crowd.” He thumbed the hammer back.

Jesse realized he was the only other person with a firearm. Without moving his feet, he turned his upper body toward Partain and put a round into the man's right shoulder. Partain's weapon fired wild, but he held onto it; he spun around and fell face-down, the pistol still in his hand. He began struggling to get up.

Coldwater reached out and took Jesse's pistol. He walked the few paces to where Partain lay and stepped on his gun hand. “Well, Phil, you've made a big mistake, haven't you?”

“Please, Jack Gene,” Partain squealed, “don't hurt me. I'll do good, I'll do right by you. I'll do whatever you want.”

“I want you to die, Phil,” Coldwater said, then fired one round into the back of the man's head. Partain convulsed, then lay still.

“Jesus,” Jesse said. He had shot to wound, but Coldwater had simply executed the man.

“That was a nice shot, Jesse,” Coldwater said calmly, turning away from Partain's corpse. “Where were you aiming?”

“At his bellybutton, I think,” Jesse replied. “I hardly thought about it, I just fired.”

“You were high and to the left, but of course, you weren't in position, and you didn't have much time. I thank you.” He clapped Jesse on the back.

“Is he dead?” Jesse asked.

Casey walked over to the body and looked at it. “You bet he is.” He bent over, picked up Partain's pistol and wiped the dirt from it. “It's just as well; Phil was at the end of his usefulness.”

“Well, I guess we don't have to call the cops,” Jesse said.

Coldwater laughed aloud. “I guess not. Pat, get rid of that,” he said, nodding at Partain's body.

“Toss me that blanket, Jesse,” Casey said.

Jesse picked up the blanket he'd been firing from and took it to Casey.

“Open the trunk, there, will you?”

Jesse opened the trunk, then watched as Casey rolled Partain's body into the blanket.

“Give me a hand?”

He helped Casey lift the corpse into the trunk of Casey's car.

Casey closed the lid and turned to Jesse. “No need to mention this to anybody,” he said.

“Just forget it happened,” Coldwater chimed in.
“You've removed a nuisance from our midst, not to mention saving our lives, and I'm grateful to you, Jesse.”

Jesse couldn't think of anything to say.

“Well, I think that's enough shooting for one morning,” Coldwater said, stretching and yawning. “You fellows want some lunch?”

“Sure, Jack Gene,” Casey said. “You hungry, Jesse?”

“I'm not sure,” Jesse replied.

He and Casey got into Casey's car and followed Coldwater up the mountain to his house.

 

It was as if they had been expected; the kitchen table was set, and food prepared. Jesse sat down with the two men and had some soup, while they talked of hunting, but he could not forget that Phil Partain's dead body was outside, in the trunk of Pat Casey's car. It came home to Jesse, as never before, that if he made a mistake with these people he would be dead very quickly.

On the way home he could not get over the feeling that the incident had been orchestrated to test him and that he had passed.

J
esse had been regularly attending Sunday morning services at the First Church, and Jack Gene Coldwater's sermons had become more and more apocalyptic. He noticed, too, that outsiders never heard these sermons, because guards, in the person of ushers, were posted at the doors and around the building. On one occasion he had seen a man using electronic debugging equipment around the pulpit before a service.

Coldwater's references were, increasingly, indicating a siege mentality, along with a strong suspicion of any stranger in town. Nobody that Jesse knew of had come to live in the town from outside since his own arrival. The plant had not employed any new people, though he was quite certain that Coldwater had had nothing to do with that—Herman Muller was far too independent to let anyone dictate any policy to him.

On the Sunday before Christmas Coldwater seemed very disturbed during his sermon, and he made repeated references to “last days” and quoted extensively from Revelations. His audience was more
than rapt; they were, literally, on the edge of their seats, and Jesse tried to exhibit the same concentration.

When the service ended, Pat Casey approached him. “Jesse, Jack Gene would like you to have Sunday lunch with him.” He turned to Jenny. “You and the girl go on home; I'll bring Jesse later.”

Jesse turned to see if that was all right with Jenny, but she had already headed toward her car, Carey in tow. “Sure, Pat, I'd be honored,” he said. He followed Casey around the corner of the building and found Coldwater waiting for them in his Mercedes.

 

Lunch was roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, fresh vegetables and apple pie, accompanied by a bottle of California red wine that Jesse reckoned was expensive, called Opus One. He enjoyed the food, but only the most perfunctory conversation took place, with Coldwater rambling on about the weather and Casey trying, unsuccessfully, to start a conversation about college football.

When they had finished lunch, Coldwater stood. “Jesse, you're one of us, now, and it's time you knew some things. Come with me.” The three men got back into the Mercedes, and Coldwater drove to the top of the mountain.

It was the first time Jesse had been there, and he was surprised at what he saw. They passed through solid-looking gates and a maze of concrete forms that required a car to make three ninety-degree turns before entering what turned out to be a sort of compound at the mountaintop. There were a number of small buildings scattered about four or five acres of quite flat land, and several pieces of heavy construction equipment were scattered about. One very large stone building had an official air about it, like a government building. Coldwater parked in front of this building and motioned for Jesse to follow him.

Jesse got out of the car and took in the facade. It was built of rectangular slabs of cut stone and had high, narrow windows along its front and sides.

Coldwater spoke up. “What you see here is the last refuge of my people and me,” he said solemnly. “The world is against us, we know that; our activities are commissioned by God himself, but the government of this country is opposed to our beliefs. Government money, raised from exorbitant taxes, is spent on abortions for our African-American and Hispanic friends.” His descriptions of these groups were sarcastic. “They send agents to spy on us, to try and learn the source of our funds and our various activities. We have dealt with these people before, and, no doubt, we will again. Of course, we mean to survive, but should we have to fight we will make a stand like no one has ever seen in this country.” He turned to Jesse. “You were in the construction business, weren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jesse replied.

“Then I think you will find this structure interesting. Come inside.” Coldwater led the way to the front doors and let them inside with a large key, then went to a switchbox and flipped several switches.

Jesse found himself in an entrance hall, oddly narrow and ending only a few feet away in a concrete wall. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he put a hand on the wall next to him. It was made of long blocks of concrete, and he suddenly understood that what he had thought was an exterior of cut stone was really the ends of these blocks. He was stunned. This meant that the walls of this building consisted of an eight-foot thickness of reinforced concrete.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured.

“Indeed,” Coldwater said. “I see you have grasped something of the construction already.”

“I've never seen anything like it,” Jesse said truthfully.

“Neither has anybody else,” Coldwater replied, smiling. “Not the Maginot Line, not the Germans' defenses in Normandy, not even Hitler's bunker itself was constructed as heavily as this. There are a number of government installations, I am given to believe, that have been constructed to withstand a direct hit by a large nuclear device. Only those structures are stronger than this, but then the government would never use a nuclear bomb in a populated area of this country.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jesse said.

“You may count on that. Come, let me show you more.” Coldwater led the way to the end of the entrance hall, then turned left. They were faced with a heavy steel door. Coldwater tapped a code into a keypad, and the door slid noisily aside. Ahead of them lay a long hallway with doors on either side. Coldwater began opening them.

On the left were rooms containing heavy weapons, not all of which Jesse recognized. There were certainly antitank weapons and some sort of recoilless rifles, and they were aimed out the narrow windows he had seen from outside.

“First line of defense,” Coldwater said, leading him down the hall. They turned a corner to the right and he opened more doors, revealing huge amounts of ammunition and explosives. They descended a flight of stairs and came to what appeared to be an enormous dormitory. Rows of bunk beds disappeared into the distance; crates of food and bottled water were stacked in piles among the bunks. Coldwater showed him three large and well-equipped kitchens and two infirmaries, each of which looked like the emergency room of a large hospital. Here and there among the bunks were television sets and speakers were everywhere.

“I can communicate with any part of the structure instantly from my quarters,” Coldwater said. “Come, I'll show you.” He led the way downstairs to yet
another floor and toward the rear of the building. Double doors opened into an extensive suite of rooms, filled with computers, fax machines, telephones and every manner of office equipment. Finally, Coldwater showed him to another set of steel doors, behind which lay another suite. “I can live and work here for years, if necessary,” he said, waving an arm around a large living room lined with books and showing Jesse an apartment with every comfort.

“It's breathtaking,” Jesse said.

“Questions?” Coldwater asked.

“How is it ventilated?”

“There are three discrete ventilation systems, each of which is more than enough to put fresh, filtered air anywhere in the structure.”

“Electric power?”

“Again, three systems: first, we have hydroelectric power from a small plant down the mountain, which has its own extensive defenses; second, we have two twenty-five-thousand gallon tanks of gasoline stored far underground to operate generators; third, we have an extensive solar collector system that can supply eighty percent of our needs all by itself. It is inconceivable that even a very large force could deprive us of electricity.”

“I am astounded,” Jesse said, and he truly was. “What did this cost?”

“If we had built it in the conventional way, perhaps twenty-five million dollars,” Coldwater said. “But by doing it with our own people over a period of years, we've done it for half that. Not including armaments, of course.”

“Where on earth did the money—”

“Don't ask,” Casey said, speaking for the first time.

Coldwater glanced at his wristwatch. “It's later than I thought; let's get Jesse home to his family.”

Jesse followed Coldwater as he retraced his steps. He counted his paces as he went, trying to get some idea of the size of the place; he memorized everything about it he could. As the front doors opened, he blinked in the sunlight, glad to be above ground again.

Coldwater pointed at the other, much smaller buildings on the mountaintop. “Those contain other defensive systems to deal with aircraft or an invading force.”

Jesse pointed in the direction of the town. “Can you see the town from here?”

“Yes, have a look.”

Jesse walked a hundred yards and found himself looking over a precipice at the bottom of which lay Main Street. He also noted defensive positions dug into the rock near where he stood. He returned to Coldwater and Casey. “This is absolutely fantastic,” he said with enthusiasm.

“I thought you might think so,” Coldwater said.

“An army couldn't take it,” Jesse gushed.

“You are quite right.”

Coldwater drove them down the hill and toward the town. “I've shown you this, Jesse, because there is no faster way to impress upon you the seriousness of our purpose here.”

“You've certainly done that, sir,” Jesse replied, although Coldwater had said nothing of his purpose.