Heartland by David Hagberg Page A

unable to pick out the ship’s lights from where he stood.
    It was there, in front of him. Ready and waiting for his skills.
    He climbed up out of the ditch, soaking his trousers to the knees in the wet grass, then crouched down at the base of the fence and fumbled inside his heavy pack for his large wirecutters. Within a couple of minutes he had cut a large hole in the fence and crawled through it. On the other side, he pulled the cut section back in place, so that nothing but a very close examination would reveal the hole.
    Spittle was oozing from the corners of his mouth. He licked his lips frequently as he scrambled away from the fence, toward the edge of the blacktop driveway that surrounded the mammoth elevator complex.
    Five days ago, the little man had supplied him with a complete set of working blueprints for the complex, along with totally self-destructive fuses and enough plastique to bring down ten such installations. Benario had worked with such materials only once before, up in Detroit, but he had read all the available literature and was certain it would be a piece of cake.
    The problem, he had reasoned, would be to contain the initial explosion very low in the complex, in the conveyor system, where the explosive grain dust would be at the highest concentration. The explosion and fire would start, then, from the bottom and quickly work its way upward.

    At the edge of the blacktop, Benario worked his way among the long rows of parked trucks, until he came to a grain-unloading bay that wasn’t in use.
    He slipped inside through a service hatch that led directly down into the mixing and delivery conveyor system. There he began placing his explosives, attaching each package with loving care, setting the fuses for 8:00 A.M., when, the little man had assured him, the grain would be moving through the system and the dust would be at its maximum concentration in the air.
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    It was a little after 6:30 on the morning of June 28 when Laura Conley’s bedside telephone rang, the shrill noise bringing her instantly awake. She sat up with a start, the sheet falling away and exposing her bare breasts, looked down at Peter Rossiter still sleeping beside her, then reached across him and picked up the telephone on the second ring.
    â€œHello?” she said sleepily.
    â€œThis is Elizabeth Rossiter. I have to speak with my husband.”
    Laura’s heart skipped a beat. She and Peter had been lovers for less than six months, and she had had no idea that his wife even suspected. Today he was supposed to be in Minneapolis, meeting with Cargill executives.
    â€œMiss Conley?” his wife said. “Are you still there?”
    â€œI’m here,” Laura said. “I think you must have the wrong number.”
    â€œCut the bullshit, I know my husband is there. I telephoned Minneapolis and there is no such meeting. Which leaves only your place. Now put him on the phone.”
    Peter was starting to wake up, and Laura began to
panic. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about …” she started, but Elizabeth cut her off.
    â€œGoddamn it, there’s trouble down at the elevator center. They need him immediately. If you don’t want him to talk to me, at least pass on that message.”
    Laura slowly hung up the telephone. Peter sat up, his eyes still clouded with sleep.
    â€œWho was it?” he asked.
    Laura just stared at him for several seconds. It was over for them now. He would never leave his wife and children. His marriage might be ruined, but she would be the loser.
    â€œWho the hell was it, Laura?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œIt’s the center,” she stammered. “There’s some kind of trouble down there. They want you.”
    â€œThe elevator center?” He came fully awake. “How the hell did they know where I was? Who was it on the phone?”
    Laura started to get out of the bed, but Peter reached out,