Чак Хоган - The Standoff

The eight-by-ten of Marjorie Ables entering the Montana courthouse on the day of her husband’s arraignment showed a heavy woman in her thirties wearing a frock coat, sunglasses, and a dark curly wig. She had lost her hair during chemotherapy treatment following the removal of a throat tumor that had claimed her voice in late 1987. Her hair had never grown back.

Then grade school portraits. The oldest, Rebecca, then ten, now fourteen, wearing small yellow ribbons over elastic bands in her braids, and one large ribbon tied in a loose bow under her blouse collar; and Judith, then eight, now twelve, the one thought to have participated in the shootout, hair mussed and smile awry. Both had been removed from public schooling by their parents the year following these portraits. Another black-and-white flyby photo, only four months old, showed Ruth, nine, and Esther, five, playing around one of the shacks on the grounds behind the family cabin. Ruth could be seen wearing a small-caliber handgun strapped to her hip. The fifth child and only son, Amos, eighteen months, had been born in exile. No photographs were available.

Perkins chewed on his coated tongue, passing the pictures back to ASAC Hardy and turning in his seat to give Banish his full and complete attention. Banish seemed a cranky old soldier — just a few years from mandatory retirement at age fifty-seven — but the suddenness of his reactivation must have meant that he had AD Richardsen’s ear. Perkins had heard that Richardsen and Banish had graduated from the academy together, which counted for a lot.

Banish started. “This will be brief,” he said. “The Bureau code name for this operation will be PARASIEGE He spelled it out. Pens scribbled behind. Perkins hoped that his crossed arms indicated his senior position here. “Office of origin will be Butte. Faxes, memoranda, field reports, telexes, 302s — everything crosses my desk, everything sees my initials.”

Perkins disliked the case going on his field office’s books, but Banish’s initials would make it all right. The OO designation meant that all paperwork would be routed through Butte. If things were to go badly, the “special case” status and the case agent’s corresponding initials made outright failure ultimately Banish’s responsibility; but if things went right, Perkins’s office would be indicated on every relevant piece of paper, private and public, issued in relation to operation PARASIEGE.

In the meantime, Banish could expect to be initialing reports twenty-four hours a day. Perkins knew the mass of paperwork an operation like this could generate.

Banish indicated an imaginary line triangulating the rear fifth of the tent. “This area here will be partitioned off to form my private office,” he said, then went on to detail the equipment and supplies he required. Perkins recalled the first rule of reassignment: Reorganize your new office. A power trick, a way of asserting your authority — though the way Banish was describing it, he seemed more interested in having a place to hide.

“My operating name will be “Chief Negotiator SA Bob Watson.” Once communication is established, I will be the only one talking to Ables. I will be the sole negotiator and Ables’s only link to the outside. I will not, at any time, come into physical contact with Ables. I will not at any time come into contact with any released hostages either, nor will I participate in or effect any arrests.”

Perkins recognized this as Bureau negotiator standard operating procedure, though for Fagin it probably pegged Banish as a coward. Perkins, however, saw right through Banish’s fire-and-brimstone bluster to a tremendous, brassy ego.

“All Bureau reports and/or summaries will go out over my operating name, with initials JB attached. Press briefings, as and if deemed necessary by me, will be conducted by SAC Perkins.”

Perkins crossed his legs. That was a plum. He had to try hard not to let on that he was buzzed. Washington frowned upon news exposure and press conferences, but they sure as hell watched them.

“I’ve called FBI Hostage Rescue Team off alert status for now. This is not currently a rescue situation and having them here on twenty-four-hour standby could only escalate things. Marshals Service Special Operations Group under Deputy Supervisor Fagin will arrange perimeter cabin surveillance and containment, as well as staging-area security. If the curtain goes up, your men are in first.”

“That’s how we like it,” Fagin said.

“On my order alone,” said Banish.

Perkins anticipated a blowout, but Fagin was remarkably self-contained. “I will do the job I was sent here to do,” he said.

Banish continued. “As of twenty-two hundred hours, Bureau and Marshals Service radios will network on a common Justice Department frequency. Beginning at midnight, airspace within a two-mile radius of Paradise Ridge will be closed to all private and commercial aircraft. At first light I want engineers here looking over that bridge. We’re bringing in a lot of heavy equipment, so I want reassurances. Tomorrow A.M. we begin rebuilding and widening the path up the mountain to the cabin. Hire a local contractor but keep them on a short leash.” He looked up. “Now we update. Ables’s food and water supply.”

Perkins uncrossed his legs. He sat up straight and spoke first, not quickly but with assurance. “Self-sufficient,” he said. “Chickens, some animals, a garden. Water from two fifty-gallon drums.”

“Outdoor?”

“Outdoor and aboveground.”

Banish considered that. “Five young children in the residence,” he said. “We’ll hold off on taking out the water as long as we can. Plumbing?”

“Outdoor. Primitive.”

“Put a couple of rounds in the door tomorrow to remind them that we are here. We would not want anybody wandering around outside. Nearby structures?”

Perkins said, “Some barns, sheds, chicken coops. As far as we know, all run-down and all abandoned. Other than that, he owns the mountaintop. Nearest residence was seventy-five yards down, and all have been evacuated.”

Banish put on his half-glasses and picked a fax up off the table.

“I assume everyone here has seen the preliminary on Marshal Bascombe: .223 caliber, consistent with a Colt AR-15 semi. And based on field reports, and the rounds we pulled out of the trees today: .30-06s, 30-30s, 9 millimeters, grease guns, buckshot, mini M-1s, and automatic weaponry, probably submachine guns like the ones he sold to Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.” Banish stopped then and removed his glasses. He scanned the men.

Perkins explained, “ATF was supposed to be here.”

Banish frowned. “I want the arresting agents here tomorrow morning. So: confirmed stockpiled weaponry and ammunition inside. That’s an arsenal. Everyone should be aware. Now,” he said, searching through papers on the table desk, “who else do we have confirmed in there with them?”

Perkins said, “Two pairs of in-laws. The wife’s brother and sister-in-law, the Newlands. Which doesn’t check, because they feud with Ables. Mormons from Provo and reputedly unsympathetic, so they may simply have picked the wrong week to visit. We’re working on photos. Also Ables’s sister, Michelle, and her husband, Charles Mellis. The Mellises are known sympathizers and have been sharing the five-room cabin with the family for more than a year now.”

Banish found what he was looking for and read it at arm’s length. “Charles Maynard Mellis. One prior, assault on a police officer, 1990. Probation.” He put it down again, satisfied. “That’s a lot of people in a cabin with not much food or water, and no plumbing.”

Perkins raised an issue. “National Guard,” he said.

“No,” said Banish. “No weekend warriors. Amend that — I want two helicopter pilots only, not from this immediate area, and two UH-1s. We’ll need light air support.”