"A month, maybe, if my ammo holds out that long." There was a long pause before Henry replied. "I doubt I can stay more than two or three weeks. Okay if I fly back a little early?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Then I'm in, partner."

"Great."

"Just keep me posted if your timetable changes, 'cause I'm going to have to juggle some things to take off for that long."

"No problem. Hey-dumb question, but did you ever transfer me those A4 s? I got three guys screaming at me, and I can't even give them serial numbers, and-" Kane's voice was cut off as the agent snapped off the tape recording.

"The rest is just gun talk," the agent explained.

"When did this conversation take place?" the supervisor asked.

"Last night. We'll be continuing to monitor Kane and Bowman to make sure they don't change their plans. But based on what we've observed and past history, Allen Kane sticks to schedules he has made, and he is not apt to let anything interrupt his western trip."

"Keep the tap on Kane's line, and get one put on Bowman's. We still got Millet wired?" "Yes sir."

"Good. Keep monitoring him, too." The supervisor smiled. "Get a proposal drawn up and submit it for my approval," he instructed. "I want it by Tuesday."

"I'll get right on it."

"Okay, fittings are all tight-start pumping," the man from Wingfoot Dry Cleaning Supply in Kansas City said as he stood up and prepared to put the orange-and-white sawhorse in front of the driveway. It was 5:58 a.m. and Ace Cleaners would open in two minutes. Before the man could block the entrance to the Ace Cleaners lot, the first customer of the day pulled in. The driver of the late-model Cadillac cut the wheel sharply just as the car's left front tire rolled over the high-pressure hose at the junction of hose and brass fitting. The combination of the weight of the car, twisting motion of the tire, and rough asphalt was enough to tear the high-pressure line. Dry cleaning fluid began to pour out of the torn hose, forming a puddle underneath the car. The man did not notice this immediately. He had already gone inside the office with his paperwork.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," the Wingfoot employee said as he walked back out of the building. "Would you mind pulling your car up about another ten feet? We've got to get at the-Oh, Christ!" the man yelled when he saw the pool of fluid. "Ronnie! Shut 'er off, now! We got a busted line!" The man at the truck did as he was told.

"What's the problem?" said a short, balding man named Billings as he stepped out of the building and squinted in the bright sunlight. Billings was Ace Cleaners' owner. "Ahh, hell," he said, shaking his head when he saw the eight-foot diameter pool of fluid soaking into the hot asphalt. He was imagining the horrendous amount of paperwork he was going to have to do.

"There goes my morning."

"Dig up the entire parking lot?" the owner of Ace Cleaners yelled into the phone. "For five gallons of fluid? You've got to be kidding!" Billings listened with mounting dread as the government employee explained the new EPA regulations. The entire Ace Cleaners parking lot had to be removed and the contaminated asphalt processed to remove all traces of the spilled fluid. "But we're in an industrial area- it's all paved over and there isn't a tree for blocks. Do your people think it's going to get in the water table? Our parking lot has had cars drip oil on it for forty years, and even if they didn't, there's petroleum in the goddamn asphalt itself, for Christ's sake."Billings held his tongue as the man on the other end began telling him to call Wingfoot, the cleaning supplies company, and get them to contact their insurance carrier.

The dry cleaning shop's owner would soon learn that Wingfoot's rates had long ago become unaffordable, and the company was 'going naked'. Ace and Wingfoot were now jointly and severally liable for cleaning up the toxic spill. The initial estimate for this procedure would be over a half million dollars. "You're kidding."

"Dead serious, Alex. Everyone has to go through it. New department policy."

"Sexual Harassment Awareness Training. SHAT, huh? Sounds a lot more like 'shit' to me, sir." Alex Neumann put his hand over the receiver, laughed, and made a face at the other FBI agent in the Cheyenne office, Trey Mullins.

'That's not the kind of attitude the Bureau likes to see its men display, Agent Neumann," the voice on the other end of the phone said sternly. Neumann stopped laughing and took his hand away quickly.

"I understand, sir," Alex Neumann said, "but there aren't any women FBI agents here. None. And it's not like I'm some twenty-year-old kid. Hell, sir, I'm not all that far away from early retirement." Trey Mullins began doing an old-man-with-a-cane pantomime.

"No exceptions, Alex." The man in Washington chuckled. "And age has nothing to do with it. Who knows? You might be the Bureau's Lyndon Johnson."

Agent Neumann made one final plea. "Look, does it matter that here in Cheyenne, there are practically no women to harass period, let alone women FBI agents?

"Not at all, Alex. It's just like any other training the FBI requires. You may not think you'll need it, but the Bureau's not about to take that chance. You could get transferred again. Think of it as an insurance policy for us." '

"So when do I have to take this SHAT class?"

"It's a ten-day course at Quantico that's being-"

"Ten days?" Alex Neumann almost yelled into the phone. "What the hell are they going to talk about to a bunch of old guys for ten days? Best pickup lines to use with the forensic staff?" The voice on the other end of the phone turned icy.

'The course is ten days long. It will be given at the Quantico facility starting at 8:00 a.m. sharp on June 9. Our travel office will mail you an airplane ticket for a June 8 departure. Agent Mullins can take care of the office while you're away. Don't miss your flight." FBI Agent and HRT member Alex Neumann started to apologize, but realized he was holding a dead receiver.

"Did you have to go through this crap?" he asked his friend, Harker Edward Mullins in, whom everyone called 'Trey'. Mullins shrugged.

"Yeah, they had some stupid course I had to take a while back. Wasn't ten days long, but it seemed like it. Guess they've changed things some. Cover Your Ass is the name of the game, pal."

"Waste of time."

"Yeah, well, it's not like we're overwhelmed with work. Even by myself, I won't have much to do around here."

"I'm going to be bored to tears in D.C. You know that, don't you?" Trey Mullins shrugged in reply. Both men's predictions would prove to be dead wrong.

"Hello?"

"Curt! Orville Crocker up in Wyoming. I'm not interrupting your dinner, am I?"

"No, we eat about 6:00 around here," Curt Behnke said with a smile. "And I was going to call you in the next day or so. I've finished that piece for your cannon."

"You're kidding-it's been less than a week."

"Well, since I retired, there's more time for gun work. And I still had my sketches from the one I made for Henry Bowman. The second one always goes a lot faster."

Orville Cracker was a Class 3 dealer in Laramie, Wyoming. He owned a Finnish Lahti gas-operated 20mm antitank cannon like the one Henry Bowman had bought from Potomac Arms in 1968. The obsolete Lahti/Solothurn ammo could be had in Europe for 50 cents a round, but the 1968 import ban on nonsporting cartridges had dried up the U.S. supply, and the domestic price was now over $30 a shot. Reloading the brass with resized U.S. Vulcan projectiles was the only option for serious 20mm shooters such as Henry Bowman and Orville Cracker.

The problem with the Lahti was that unlike the Solothurn, the gun ejected spent rounds straight down when it fired, and the case mouths got torn up when they hit the ground. This ruined them for reloading. Henry's solution was to have Curt Behnke make a new gas regulator for the gun, with no holes in it. The tolerances were such that Henry had elected to have Behnke do the work, rather than machine one himself.

The undrilled regulator deactivated the Lahti's gas operating system, leaving the fired case in the chamber. This turned the semiautomatic gun into a manually-operated repeater, where the shooter had to retract the 11-pound bolt manually every shot by cranking the charging handle several revolutions. It was not nearly as convenient as aiming and pulling the trigger, but it saved the brass. Cracker had seen Henry's setup at the Knob Creek shoot, wheedled Behnke's name out of Henry, and convinced the St. Louis gunsmith to repeat his efforts.

"Well, that's a nice surprise," Cracker said into the phone. "I'm not used to getting gun work finished ahead of schedule. But that's not why I called. Henry said you're a prairie dog hunter. Good friend of mine has a ranch about fifty miles from here, leases something like ten thousand acres to graze cattle. He's been after me to come hunt prairie dogs up at his place, but all I've got to shoot are pistols and NFA stuff-you know, machine guns and cannons. I've wanted to get a good varmint rifle built, and Henry says you're the best.

"How'd you like to come up here for a few days, we'll drive out to his place in my truck, and you can show me how it's done. I've got good binoculars and a tripod, and I'll spot for you. You can drive here if you want, but what I thought you might rather do is ship your guns and ammo up ahead by UPS, and fly into Cheyenne. Save you a lot of boring hours on the road."

"Well," Behnke said, thinking about the offer, "I don't have a hunt planned yet this summer..." Henry Bowman had told Curt Behnke his summer schedule looked pretty full, and Behnke's son that liked to shoot was unable to get a week off of work at that time of year. The gunsmith could tolerate a 1600-mile highway trip, but like most people he preferred to have someone along to share the driving and provide company. Orville Cracker's offer sounded good.

"Are you sure your friend wouldn't mind?" Cracker laughed at the question.

"He'll complain there aren't more of us. What time of summer you want to come up? Mid-, late June?" "Sure, that would work. I'll have to call the airlines and see what flights they've got."

"While you're doing that, make up a list of stuff you want me to have when you get here. You know, sandbags, screwdriver sets, things like that. I already have most of that stuff around here, and anything I have to buy I probably ought to own anyway. That way you won't have to ship anything except guns and ammo."

"We'll mostly shoot off folding bipods, but that's a good point. If you're serious, you ought to order a portable shooting bench from Armor Metal Products. I'll send you their ad with your gas regulator. And I can ship up a couple extra rifles and match ammo I've loaded for them. If you like the way either of them works for you, I'll make you a good price on it. Cost a third of what it would take to build one up new. It's got so in my old age I've ended up with more match rifles than I know what to do with."

"Sounds great. Let's plan on sometime around the end of June, and I'll be talking to you about the details between now and then."

"I'll send that part for your big gun out tomorrow. Then I guess I'd better get to my loading bench," he joked.

"I'm looking forward to meeting you, Curt."

"Same here. 'Bye, now," he said, and hung up the phone.

"Taylor Lowell?" the man in the suit asked.