Stephen Hunter - Soft target

“Don’t say that to anybody,” counseled Nick. “Keep it to yourself. Publicly you love and respect him as does everyone in the Bureau. He’s the One, we all know that.”

“What a mess,” said Kemp, and both men knew what he was talking about. Rumors were rife in Washington that Obobo’s next big job would be as director of the FBI, the first black man, the youngest to ever get the job. So both Memphis and Kemp knew that whatever decisions they made today might come back to shadow them if they ended up working for the guy somewhere down the road.

“Assistant Director Memphis, if I think he’s endangering people, I have to act. I have to. That’s the bottom line, you know that.”

“Look, all this may be premature. The situation may not be as bad as we think or it may resolve itself peacefully without force, and everybody will walk away unscathed. If the worst comes, he has good people in the Minnesota State Police to advise him.”

“If he listens to them.”

Three Ford Ranger XLT modified trucks, black with black glass, pulled into the area under the on-off rhythm of red-blue and rolled to the state police trailer.

Kemp leaped out, in black Nomex SWAT gear, with an MP5 sub-machine gun on a sling across his chest and a Glock. 40 in a shoulder holster strapped across his body armor. Three of the other seven men were equally equipped, but the four snipers unlimbered large, awkward gun cases from the back of each big SUV.

“Special Agent Kemp, I’m surprised you don’t have more manpower,” said Obobo, in full uniform, with his shadow Renfro close at hand.

“Colonel Obobo, we’ve got all our people coming in. But it’s a tough thing, logistically. More will arrive shortly.”

“Of course,” said Obobo. “Now, let me brief you quickly. I’ve got Jefferson on assault planning, I’ve got Carmody handling logistics, I’ve got Neimeyer trying to coordinate with the medical people. I will be handling negotiations myself. But of course we need to get an investigation going and that’s where I see the Bureau making its contribution. I’ve decided to turn over the investigation-the witness interviews, the collation of evidence, the records and forensic database checks, all that-to the Bureau.”

“Sir, I’m sure you realize by federal statute the Bureau is obligated to take over any incidents involving terrorism.”

“Of course and absolutely,” said Obobo, smiling broadly, putting a big hand on Kemp’s shoulder. He was tall, towering over most, and had an especially beguiling style, even in disagreement, so it was hard to dislike him. “But this situation has not clarified, I think you’ll agree, and we’re not sure with whom we’re dealing. There is no operative intelligence suggesting foreign involvement, other than unsubstantiated reports of some Arabic-styled scarves. I’m sure you agree, that’s not enough to make a determination. This could be any group of nuts. As I’ve already organized my teams, I think it’s more sound for me to retain command. Of course if and when evidence develops that clarifies the situation, and if it’s within parameters, I’d be happy to make another disposition. But you understand, of course, and I know you agree, that turf is less important than teamwork. I know I can count on you to work with our initiatives and within our framework.”

“Yes sir. I’m hoping you’re open to advice from my people. We do have a lot of experience in these matters.”

“Of course, Special Agent. You’ll get your more detailed briefing from Major Carmody, and if you have any suggestions, we’d love to hear them. But let me tell you up front, I am not about to launch an assault. Even with your additions, I don’t have the people, the expertise, or the equipment. We’ve asked the governor to get us some National Guard people to take over the perimeter and that will free up our SWAT personnel for possible deployment.”

Kemp suspected the chances of a SWAT deployment order from Obobo were somewhere between ze-fucking-ro and na-fucking-da; he kept his face that administrative blank that long government service teaches.

“You know the drill,” said Obobo. “Perimeter security, establish commo with the hostage takers, and begin to negotiate. Time is on our side. They’ll get tired, hungry, and scared. We’ll play them out over their demands as long as possible. If I might suggest, I’d like you to get on the horn to Defense and see if we could get some advice on chemical agents that might come into play.”

“I will, Colonel Obobo. I also brought in some very good snipers. I’d like to deploy them on the roof.”

“Of course, and we’ll combine forces with some state police marksmen. But I’m advised the roof skylights are heavy Plexiglas sealed in concrete. I don’t know how we get through them. Yes, we’ll send snipers, but no shooting without permission of course, and they have to understand their primary mission is observation.”

“Yes sir,” said Kemp.

Standing nearby was the rogue state police commander Mike Jefferson. His take was different, but he had fewer people to answer to, and if he lost his job, his status as a famous police gunfighter and SWAT warrior would get him rehired anywhere in America on a moment’s notice. He’d been thinking about Idaho, as a matter of fact.

But his warrior’s instincts were all lit up now. His idea: assault the gunmen, have a gunfight, take the casualties and the press bashing that would occur, and to hell with it. Kill all the bad guys, that was the basic idea. He was Custer, always moving to the sound of the guns. He had no patience for the Obobo school of psychobabble bullshit, for that faction of police psychology that required “negotiators” well-trained in making empathetic connection to the hostage takers, understanding their pain, and cajoling them to a peaceful resolution. He knew that Obobo, by long reputation not afraid of the sound of his own voice, would assume that responsibility for himself. But Jefferson knew how fragile these things could be and had seen it all go down. His idea was to end the bad guys’ pain by shooting them in the head.

But he saw now nobody wanted to listen to him or entertain his speculations. Jefferson thought these gunmen were here simply because they wanted to kill people. That’s what would make the biggest splash. If they killed five hundred people on the day after Thanksgiving to the greater glory of Allah and the Islamic Faith-no, no confirmation that Islamists were involved-in a mall called America that looked like America, then that would be their victory. Hell, they’d already killed Santa Claus! There was no evidence this wasn’t a suicide thing, and suicide-martyrdom, the goatfuckers called it-was a part of their mind-set.

The truth was, Jefferson really shouldn’t have been a cop. He should have been an old-time marshal with a six-gun on his belt, not a Sig Sauer. That was his mentality. He felt fully alive when he faced armed men, and his solution to all problems tended to angle the situation toward man-on-man violence. The team play aspect of law enforcement had never meant much to him, not since he was twenty-one and faced three armed robbers in a Saint Paul bank and shot it out face to face (to face to face) with them, took two. 38s in the left arm and hand but dropped all three, two fatally, with his own. 38, it being the day of the revolver. Nothing since had quite matched that moment of maximum life/maximum risk. He was a gunfighter, that was all, and love him or hate him, he’d never be another thing as long as he lived, which might not, given his personality and lack of fear of anything, be very long.

“Mike,” another major yelled, “we have detailed mall plans, just arrived from the construction firm that built the place. An engineer is here too.”