Чак Хоган - The Standoff

“Perkins,” he said, speaking flatly, “have the girl’s body airlifted to Helena for autopsy, then begin contacting local hospitals. Have them call in off-duty help and start preparing disaster plans. There’s going to be trouble down below. Then call AD Richardsen at home. Give him a full situation report and tell him we need to double our number here ASAP, including Hostage Rescue, and then inform him that it is my recommendation that I be relieved of duty immediately.”

He looked over at Fagin. “Nobody fires on that cabin again without prior authorization from me as long as I am in charge,” Banish said. “I don’t care what the situation is. There are hostages in there.”

Fagin smiled, not happily.

Banish said, “Coyle.”

She was standing at the desk by the entrance of the tent. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Get in here,” Banish said, and stepped back behind the fold.

Coyle crossed the tent to follow. Perkins looked quickly over at Fagin, who was still looking in the direction of the office and shaking his head. “That fucking kid,” Fagin said, drawing his weapon suddenly and inspecting the clip. “They’re all gonna go ape shit when this comes out.”

Blood lifted his leg off the chair and stood. He pulled his pants up over his bare legs and boxers, taking his time buckling the heavy black leather gun belt, testing his weight. The leg felt good. He fit his cowboy hat back onto his head and walked with a slight limp over to where his Browning was propped up against a desk near Fagin. He took the weapon up by the barrel, knowing he had Fagin’s attention now, and therefore that of Perkins, who was still sitting on the desk holding the telephone receiver away from his ear. “Who are the hostages now?” Blood said, and left them to chew on that, heading out of the tent and across the dark clearing to the government Jeep that would take him back down the winding dirt road to the foot of Paradise Ridge.

[PARASIEGE, p. 44]

SA Banish’s office was in disarray. The floor space was littered with papers thrown off his desk, and bandages, scissors, and other medical kit supplies lay scattered about the room.

SA Banish himself, however, appeared reasonable and well tempered, even sharp, following his outburst. Except for the gunpowder spray pattern burned into his right cheek and forehead, his appearance and manner actually appeared improved. His queries, as recalled, were succinct and professional.

SA BANISH: We are monitoring the mountaintop for broadcast activity?

SA COYLE: Yes, sir, we are.

SA BANISH: That facet of the operation will be stepped up. I want citizens band radios brought in and monitored on every channel until such time as we can take delivery of scrambling devices. When that happens, I want every channel blocked except emergency channel 9. Reassign personnel as necessary.

SA COYLE: Yes, sir.

SA BANISH: Where precisely was Mellis allowed in the staging area?

SA COYLE: Just one of the holding cells, sir, briefly, before meeting his parents. Aside from your trailer, that is.

SA BANISH: Send down to the bridge barricade for Police Officer Kearney. I want to see him here immediately.

SA COYLE: Yes, sir.

SA Coyle then returned to her desk. SA Banish departed the command tent not more than two minutes later.

Banish entered the trailer without a sound. He eased the thin door shut on the overnight activity behind him and stood still, relieved, facing the dead room. The buzzing in his head persisted, fainter now, more remote, but enduring. He indulged himself in it, as well as in the thickened thumping of the pulse in his temples. He fed off the droning rhythm. Its regularity seemed to have the effect of shortening and constricting his physical movements while at the same time freeing his mind for more speculative thoughts. He began prowling methodically about the room.

First to the table, silently, on one knee, examining the unstained underside and each knicked leg. The rust-colored carpeting below was muddied. He could smell Mellis there. He had no anger for him anymore. Mellis was just a pawn and Banish’s anger for him had dried up and died. Banish was all determination now. No anger even for himself, or even pity, for being so handily duped. His one crippling flaw had been his overriding concern for his men’s safety. He had been much too cautious and too restrained.

He moved to the flat-backed headboard of the bed, carefully probing the unstained side facing the wall, then the paneled wall itself. He slipped a penlight out of his shirt pocket and thumbed the tip, and a narrow, yellow light flared noiselessly. He placed it between his teeth and lay down on his back to explore the dusty underside of the bed.

He ought to have been killed. For being caught flat like that with his pants down around his ankles and his belt buckle clanking behind him, he deserved the ultimate humiliation. Mellis ought not to have missed. But he had — though for this Banish felt neither particularly grateful nor, again, angry. What he felt was engaged. He felt invigorated. As he slid back silently from underneath the bed and continued at the wooden night table, pulling out a small, empty drawer and probing it with the stealth of a cat burglar, he felt a quiet, businesslike ecstasy. Offering his sword to Richardsen had been mere good form, pure bureaucratic chivalry, as he knew that it would take much more than a bungled, nonfatal recon up a mountain to warrant his removal. Banish was well acquainted with the inner workings of the machine. Washington, despite whatever misgivings they may have had about him, would already be moving to shift the blame. Ables was much more dangerous than had originally been anticipated. He was a Vietnam veteran set to kill as many federal agents as possible in order to avenge the death of his daughter. Faulty knowledge from the U.S. Marshals Service had prompted the Bureau to dispatch a negotiator to do what would normally be a strict tactician’s job. Now the troops would march in behind him. Now the mountain would be held and bled. Now the hammer would fall.

He also foresaw whispering within the ranks. His men’s confidence had certainly suffered and Banish’s next order might be questioned. A bold stroke was needed to restore their faith, both in him and in the operation. He was dug in there now, with no reasonable expectation of getting free. Ables had reached out from the cabin and attempted murder. He had taken the battle to Banish, dispatching an assassin to do his bidding. He had failed.

The night table yielded nothing. Banish stood and eased the yellowed shade off the bedside lamp for inspection. The nature of a hostage negotiation dictates that the negotiator begins necessarily two or three steps behind the hostage-taker. Success therefore turns upon the acquisition of knowledge, knowledge of the suspect and complete knowledge of the situation at hand. In every successful negotiation there is a point at which, whether through the astute gathering of information or through timely and significant action, the negotiator overtakes the criminal in terms of control. Because the negotiator is withholding what the suspect ultimately demands — his freedom this translates into a transfer of dependence wherein the negotiator assumes power. The rest is just patience and allowing the suspect to talk himself out. Banish knew he was not quite there yet. But his renewed stealthiness was showing him the way.

He was as though reborn. He had climbed to the top of the mountain and now saw the situation lying open before him, the stripes of the beast, the task at hand. He was making leaps of pure intellect, as though following a mental map through a minefield. He could anticipate, and counter. He could have the upper hand. He could take significant action.