Pursuit

by Richard Unekis

  Excited now, in spite of himself, he took out a pencil and began making a small circle around each interchange shown on the map, counting as he went. He counted from the Indiana line west and north.

  When he got to Roosevelt Road, running straight west from Chicago’s Loop, he stopped. Forty-one. That was quite a few. He felt a little less elated.

  Could they round up forty-one units and get them in place in time? He pondered the situation.

  The two upstate posts near enough to get men there in time had a total of forty-seven cars. With the inevitable subtractions, equipment off for repair, and so forth, it would be touch and go whether they could muster that many machines.

  Another thing was that, even if they could get forty-one units in place, this was no guarantee they would catch the suspects. It took three units to man an effective roadblock. That would mean one hundred and twenty-three would be needed to set up roadblocks on all forty-one intersections. This was out of the question. It would take most of the cars in the state.

  The only thing they could do would be to assign one car to sit alongside the inbound lane, waiting, ready to give chase as soon as their quarry was sighted. Of course, they would all be in touch by two-way radio, and the one making first contact would immediately call in the cars on either side of him.

  He leaned back a minute, then forward. “Okay,” he said softly, and turned to the next problem. How much time did he have?

  He looked at his watch: 12:05.

  The men had left Bucola about twenty-five minutes ago. They had over two hundred miles to go, probably a good bit more than that on the graded roads; they couldn’t make it in less than three hours.

  Three hours!

  He hesitated. As always, in moments like this, he felt a nagging self-doubt. The safest course for him would be simply to follow the book. Have each upstate Post man a roadblock on each of its major highways. That was the way it had always been done in the past.

  If they got through, the papers would report only that they had “evaded a police dragnet.” He wouldn’t be blamed.

  But he was a man of conviction. He was positive that this method offered their best chance of capturing the pair, and was determined to see it through.

  He paused a few minutes to make a brief analytical recap. In terms of force available to him and his opponents, his advantage seemed almost overwhelming. Yet the advantage was more apparent than real, because he had to dilute and disperse his forces for the search. The laws of probability, operating strongly against an intercept, were forcing him to retreat from an offensive search and to man, instead, a static defense line.

  In the myriad downstate roads the almost infinite number of choices open to his quarry made the chances of capture one in thousands. At the Tollway the range of choices open to the men narrowed to forty-one, the number of intersections. Under probability theory his best chance was at the place where the opponent’s range of choices was smallest. Actually, the range at the Tollway was smaller by a ratio of several hundreds to one.

  They had a definite chance to catch them there!

  He got up and started for the radio, when suddenly another thought occurred to him. How secure were his communications?

  The analysis he had made would hold water only in a situation where each opponent operated in the dark, without knowledge of the other’s intentions.

  What if they had a radio!

  He turned and walked down the hall to the teletype room.

  28

  The green car headed straight west at an even seventy. Flying gravel roared against the floor board and fender wells in a steady drumming monotone.

  Rayder was trying not to hear it. He was hunched over the receiver in the back seat, a finger over one ear, and the other pressed against the speaker.

  When he heard the officer in Car Five transmit the description given him by the boy, he abruptly straightened and leaned forward to shout into the driver’s ear: “They’re on to us. Somebody in that hick town saw us. They just put our description out. Let’s get off this road. Turn north at the next one, and let it out.”

  The driver nodded. As the turn approached, he braked the car smoothly so as not to break traction. Once around the turn, he accelerated rapidly.

  The car they were using had not been selected by accident. Rayder had had Grozzo, with his knowledge of machines, pick it out with the idea that they might be chased.

  Of course, they had not wanted a chase, and still did not. They were not thrill-seeking adolescents out to bait the cops. Their strategy had been to avoid detection, once the caper was completed. The use of the other car, and their decision to use the secondary roads, were part of that strategy.

  However, being professionals, they had prepared for any eventuality, including being chased. This car was to be their insurance.

  Grozzo had considered a sports car, since some of the competition models could do up to a hundred sixty miles an hour, and corner better than an ordinary car. But the drawback here was that sports cars were conspicuous, and if they were ever identified and chased, they would be too easy to spot anywhere farther on, even if they were able to outrun the first car to pursue them.

  He had decided, instead, on a Chevrolet. A popular car that wouldn’t stand out, it was in some ways a very capable machine. This model had one of the most powerful V-8 engines made for American cars. In addition, it was equipped with a four-speed “floor-box” transmission, which provided for maximum acceleration and the use of the big engine’s potential, at any speed.

  With special wheels and tires and heavy-duty shocks for cornering, it was a “beast,” capable of shrugging off the competition of almost any other machine, except some of the specially equipped interceptors which a few police departments were now being forced to buy in self-defense.

  As Grozzo had swung the corner, he had dropped the gear shift into second, then delicately feathered the throttle for maximum acceleration. Had he pushed the gas pedal to the floor, the power available from the engine would have spun the back wheels impotently. There was enough power to do this even on dry concrete, which offered maximum friction.

  Holding the engine just below the point at which the back wheels would break loose, he watched the speedometer needle climb. It swung as if tied to a string. When it touched the number 7 on the dial, he gently and quickly shifted to third. The needle continued its swing almost without pause. As it nudged 11, he brought the stick back into fourth gear, and again the needle mounted rapidly. The numbers on the dial stopped at 12, but the pointer kept going on into the unmarked quadrant. It went the equivalent of two more spaces before it stopped, wavering gently back and forth.

  The driver looked up; they were less than halfway to the next intersection. Less than half a mile! He grinned his confidence in the machine. Then he stopped grinning to pay full attention to driving.

  He was a highly competent driver. That was one of the reasons Rayder had chosen him. He was competent and experienced enough to know that a car—any car—at speeds approaching one hundred forty on gravel, was in a very precarious state.

  At their speed, the gravel offered next to no resistance to the tires; no friction. In some ways, the car was as unstable as if it were being driven on glare ice. Actually, an abrupt movement of the steering wheel in any direction could have upset the car’s delicate equilibrium as it sat poised on its needle point of high velocity.

  Braking was, for practical purposes, impossible. Even a slight attempt to brake could cause a skid, from which there could be no recovery. Deceleration, too, was tricky. At speed, it was necessary to let up on the gas gradually—to avoid a skid—just to slow down. A fair-sized bump or dip in the road could accomplish the same result, to say nothing of a blowout.

  In driving this fast, they had taken their lives in their hands. They were well aware of this. But, to them, it was necessary. They had known they might have to take this chance. It was only one of many risks that had to be taken in a caper such as this.


  Perhaps if they had shared the Superintendent’s mastery of math, they would have been aware of the slight chance of their being intercepted, and would not have been taking such risks. But they did not share his knowledge. To them, the broadcast of their description by a trooper only fifteen miles away meant that they were in imminent danger of capture. Their only safety lay in flight—highspeed flight! They had both lived in danger, complete with various risks, before. It was not a strange sensation to either of them.

  As the car hit its maximum speed, the roar of gravel stopped. Conversation and the radio became audible, although there was still a whistling wind-noise.

  Like a jet leaving behind its own sound because of its speed, the car moved out of the path of the spray of gravel it threw up before the rocks could hit it.

  The men sat tensely. Rayder was perched on the edge of the seat, perhaps more nervous than his partner, because he had nothing to do. Grozzo sat awkwardly stiff, with his back braced against the seat, but with a feather-light touch on the wheel. There was no need for him to grip it tightly; a one-finger nudge could send them to death.

  An odd, rhythmic sequence of tension began. They were covering a mile every twenty-five seconds. And at the end of every mile they traveled, there was an intersection—the inevitable intersection—almost always blind, with corn growing solidly into the corners, completely obscuring the view.

  They would pass an intersection and unconsciously exhale their relief. Within the space of three breaths, they were almost halfway to the next, and, as they whistled down to it, the tension would come upon them again. With tightening chests and shallower breath they approached. Then they would explode past, safe again but with another intersection approaching in the same inevitable swift sequence.

  As they became accustomed to the rhythm, it seemed that the time of each cycle narrowed, the rushes through the suddenly empty crossings came more often, and their breathing became even faster and shallower.

  Rayder suddenly became aware of perspiration running down his tensed neck muscles.

  Then he noticed a strange, sleepy sensation. The tight emotional rhythm of tension, ebbing and flowing, was beginning to hypnotize him. He turned around and forced his attention to the radio again, turning the volume up and straining to bring his mind back into focus on the steady chatter of transmissions. When he took his eyes off the road for a few seconds, the spell was broken. His mind came sharply back into focus. The radio gabble made sense again. His curious panic subsided.

  He shot a worried glance at the driver, to see if he was having the same trouble. If so, he gave no sign. The dark eyes wandered ceaselessly with small, alert motions. Rayder followed his eyes down to the road again, then quickly away. They were almost to another road.

  As they passed it, there was a soft thmmm and a sharp, small pitch as the car hit a small bump, and rocked slowly and lazily for a few seconds, like a boat in a very gentle swell. Finally, it lost its mushy feeling and settled into solid contact again.

  Without looking around, but with his face screwed sideways, and with a tickled-kid grin, Grozzo said, “Airborne.” He wasn’t suffering.

  29

  The transmissions tapered and stopped for a few minutes. The Sergeant took the opportunity to walk over to bring the map pins on the Superintendent’s block up to date. Franklin himself was in the teletype room.

  He put number Five a few miles west of Bucola, and number Twenty ten miles to the north of Five and also to the west.

  After looking at the map for a minute, the Sergeant walked in and asked the other man to come back with him. Franklin typed MIN on the keyboard and complied.

  “We still have six cars on the sweep,” the Sergeant said, pointing. Franklin nodded. He was aware of this, but had delayed doing anything until at least establishing the machinery for setting up the Tollway blockade.

  Now he sat down to review his immediate tactical situation. Ten cars had been dispatched on the sweep. Two down each of the five major roads out of town. Two had gone straight north and two northwest. That was all right; he could simply turn those four toward Chicago and use them there.

  Two had been dispatched straight east. They had been told to discontinue the sweep and head for the area near Bucola where the helicopter sighting had taken place. That meant they had had to drive through the rainstorm. Since they had not reported in and were too far south now to use at Chicago, he dismissed them from his calculations.

  Two cars, Five and Twenty, had gone straight south toward Bucola and were now headed west on the chase. Five was directly behind the robbers, and Twenty ten miles north of him.

  That left two cars headed straight west on Route 10. He looked at their numbers on the map. Ten and Eight. He pondered a moment what to do with them. They were probably about thirty-five miles straight west by now. Should he pull them in toward Chicago?

  Suddenly a thought occurred to him. Was he on the verge of applying too narrow a range of possibilities to the situation again? By concentrating exclusively on Chicago, he risked putting all his eggs in one basket.

  If the shower lifted, he would have the use of the helicopter again! In that case he would need more than Cars Five and Twenty to deal with the fugitives. Even if the helicopter could find them, it couldn’t stop them. And it was too risky having only those two cars available. He would have to use Eight and Ten as a contingency reserve, stop their westerly track and turn them south, so that they could be somewhere near the scene if the helicopter became useful again.

  His mind went through a quick review as he turned to give the Sergeant instructions to turn Eight and Ten south, to fill them in on the situation, and to turn the four other cars now north toward Post Two outside Chicago.

  Statistically speaking, he was desperately on the defensive. For all of their bustling activity, the odds were plainly against him and in favor of the men slipping through undetected.

  “‘Analysis is intrinsically negative,’” he quoted to himself. “‘It must lead to positive action or it fails its function.’”

  Were there any possible areas of positive functioning he had omitted? Hell, yes! Walking rapidly over to the Sergeant, he said, “Put out a blanket message to all Sheriffs offices and local police departments with radio equipment. Give them a rundown of what we have so far, and the car description.”

  30

  The green car rushed on, the tweed ribbon of gravel flashing beneath it in a constant blur. A cascade of rocks thrown up by the flying wheels rippled behind like a small wake in a calm sea.

  Rayder, with his usual presence of mind, had managed to count the crossroads they had passed. Now, he reached over to the front and took a map from the glove compartment. It was almost a duplicate of the one that hung in the Post Seven office. Laying it out on the back seat, he began to pore over it, mentally plotting their position and simultaneously trying to keep his ear tuned to the radio. He had heard nothing since Car Five had been given the okay to go after them and number Twenty had been sent on its route paralleling Five.

  At intervals of a few seconds, he popped his head up to make sure no road went by uncounted. By the time he had counted twenty-five, he was reasonably sure they were past the point, on their way north, where Car Twenty, going west, would have crossed their path. Since he had no reason to believe Five had turned north to follow them, he began to breathe a little more easily.

  He was about to look up and suggest to his partner that it might be safe now to spill a little of their blistering speed, when he felt the sudden lurch of the car decelerating.

  Grozzo was even more tensely alert, poised at the wheel, his right foot slowly coming up from the gas. In front of them a black speck on the horizon grew rapidly into focus as a wagonload of hay being towed down the middle of the road, probably by a tractor. All that could be seen was the back end of the wagon.

  On both sides, the road at this point sloped down to a ditch. There was no room to pass on either side.

  The driver put his hand
on the horn button and held it down. At the same time, as the indicator came down near one hundred, he began to work the brakes. Gently, almost with the tenderness of a caress, he pressed the pedal, and quickly let off as he felt the wheels begin to slide. He did it again, then again, and yet again, each time with more urgency, pressing, repeating the cycle, bringing them nearer and nearer to that fatal skid, as they bore down on the lumbering wagon at far too great a speed.

  Time lost meaning. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion although only fractions of a second were passing.

  At last the blasting horn began slowly to pry the great vehicle to one side. As if in slow motion, a back wheel of the tractor became visible ahead of the wagon as the driver turned toward the side of the road; the ponderous load began gradually to edge sideways.

  But it was not going fast enough; they were now within a hundred yards, and still at seventy. There still wasn’t room between the slowly opening side and the ditch.

  Grozzo had gripped the wheel for a desperation heave to turn aside and try to override the ditch into the cornfield, when slightly ahead of the wagon, and on the opening side, he saw a patch of white leading from the road to the field. He instantly perceived it to be one of the little built-up areas which bridged ditches so that farmers could get their machinery into the fields. But, as he looked, it became apparent that the little culvert was nearly a foot high.