Чак Хоган - The Standoff

Banish entered the sound truck cleaned up and shaved and wearing a fresh white shirt. He was moving slowly, though not because of the buzzing in his head, which remained but no longer compelled him. Morning found him penitent. It was like coming off a powerful drug.

The sound man eyed him as he stepped inside, saying nothing about Banish’s burnt face.

“Anything overnight?” Banish said.

The sound man was chewing peppermint-smelling gum, shaking his head. “Not a thing.”

“The microphones? Nothing?”

He shook his head. “All quiet on the western front.”

Banish took a seat at the other workstation. He stared blankly at the controls. He was thinking about Mellis. “I need my trailer swept for bugs,” he said.

The sound man turned and looked at him sideways, chewing. “You mean,” he said, “real bugs?”

Banish picked up the handset and flipped the control switches himself, taking in a good, deep breath. “This is Special Agent Bob Watson...”

He ran through the speech, changing very little. Best to remain constant, to keep his vocal persona separate from the fury of the previous night’s assault. He finished and there was predictably no response. He hung up the handset, noticing a small color monitor playing behind the sound man. It was flashing bits of the press briefing down below: Perkins speaking from behind a podium, various agents flanking the bridge, the angry, stirring crowd.

“I had them bring out a satellite dish from the Seattle office,” the sound man said. “CNN was carrying a live feed of the briefing.” He glanced at the black-and-white bridge area monitor. “But it looks like he’s into the Q and A now.”

The monitor shot was too wide. “Can you move that camera?” Banish said.

“Twenty-to-one zoom ratio,” the sound man said, turning a dial and tightening the monitor view to frame the bridge and Perkins’s back and shoulders at the bottom of the screen and the press corps and the twelve-wheelers and camera towers at the top. Protesters packed the area between. Fists and effigies and signs were raised: FBI BURN IN HELL! FBI: GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY! BABY KILLERS.

Suited agents with fingers touching their ear wires filtered conspicuously through the jostling crowd, standing out even on the black-and-white monitor. That was their job this morning, to be a visible presence. Banish said absently, but with a detached certainty as he watched the scene, “There’s going to be a disturbance as soon as this ends.”

The sound man looked again at the monitor, as though for some explanation, then turned back to the color satellite screen. “They’re cutting it down now,” he said, nodding, “that’s what they’re doing. Breaking it down into bites to send out to the affiliates around the country to be folded into feature stories.”

He turned up the sound. The screen went dark between broadcast bursts, then a rainbow stripe appeared and a digital counter beeped down from three. There was Perkins behind the Department of Justice/ FBI podium, voice weighty, expression grave. “Judith Ables appears to have died of a gunshot wound. It appears she was hit in the initial exchange of gunfire with U.S. Marshals on the fourth of August and died instantly.” Then blackness.

“Died instantly,” echoed the sound man. Anybody who was ever mistakenly killed by law enforcement had died instantly and painlessly.

Three, two, one: a middle-aged woman with curled brown hair pointing threateningly at the camera. “They killed a twelve-year-old girl over a single gun! We won’t stand for it!”

Blackness. Three, two, one: a young close-eyed man in a hunter-green parka shaking an unseen sign. “This right here is the site of the massacre. This is the blood of our children. This is Concord Bridge and they have fired the first shot. What you are seeing right here is the beginning of a great American civil war.”

Blackness. Three, two, one: Perkins again. “It must be understood that Glenn Alien Ables and Charles Mellis are charged with serious crimes and pose an immediate threat to the community. Efforts to apprehend them must and will continue.” Heard clearly over his voice, from the bulging crowd, defiant cries of “Murderers! Assassins!”

Blackness. Three, two, one: the Mellises, Mrs. Mellis straining to be heard. “We don’t know what is happening. The FBI won’t tell us. When we saw Charles, he was fine and just anxious to come on home. I don’t know what they’re doing to him up there...” The picture lingered as Mrs. Mellis wilted and began to cry. Mr. Mellis, in a suit jacket and no tie, tried to comfort her.

Blackness. Three, two, one: Perkins looking stern, elaborating on a question. “We have had reports, unconfirmed at this time, of possible abuse in the household, ongoing over a period of many months.”

A reporter yelling, “Sexual abuse?”

Perkins saying, “I can’t comment on that at this time,” and pointing to another reporter.

Blackness. The sound man said, “Jesus Christ. Is that true?”

Banish’s face was hard and tight with disbelief.

Three, two, one: Deke Belcher standing facing the camera, holding a sloppy cardboard sign across his chest: YOUR HOME IS NEXT.

Banish turned away, Perkins’s foolish ad-lib ringing in his head. “What the hell is he thinking?” he said.

The sound man said, “That was off-card?”

“Goddammit.” Like sand through his fingers. In that one instant it had gone out to television stations in every city in the country, and probably overseas.

The sound man was back watching the black-and-white monitor. Banish saw that Perkins had since stepped down from the podium and agents were now converged on a disturbance near the front of the crowd. Two men were being pulled out and wrestled facedown onto the bridge, and taken into custody.

Banish stood and turned to leave, stepping out of the open van door and hearing the suspension give a bit, creaking. “Hey,” said the sound man after him. “What’s it like,” he said, “being God?”

That stopped Banish, stopped him dead in his tracks ten feet away from the van. He looked up at the new road carved fresh into the mountainside, a helicopter rumbling over the ridge. The clearing overrun with men and machines.

He turned back to the sound man, who was standing in the doorway of the van and smiling offhandedly, merely impressed. Banish shook his head. “I’m just a federal employee,” Banish told him. Then he walked away.

Banish was outside waiting for Perkins as he walked up. “What the hell was that?” he said.

Perkins’s satisfied smile dipped in surprise. “Improvisation,” he allowed. “Strategy.”

Banish was furious. “If I had wanted that card played, I would have played it myself. You had the goddamn outline right there in front of you.”

Perkins raised a flat hand. “You’re right in the thick of things now, so you can’t see,” he said. “But I’m looking at the larger picture.” His voice lowered then in confidence and he stepped even closer. “You need an out,” he said. “We need an out. The Bureau needs an out if this thing goes wrong. If decisive action has to be taken. This way we’re all covered.”

Banish nodded. “I see,” he said. “You’re protecting me now. You’ve only got my best interests at heart. Otherwise, why would you start making things up off the top of your head like some first-office agent? Why would you raise all our stakes on a wild bluff?” Banish shook his head and pointed. “I don’t want to be covered, not by you or anyone else. I don’t want any politicians on this mountain. You’re losing faith in the operation, Perkins. And you are being insubordinate. If I hear you deviate from that script one more time, I don’t care — I’ll have Fagin conduct the briefings.”