Чак Хоган: The Standoff

“Sal,” Banish said, “you offer me whatever I need, then you handcuff me to a chair. I have to go into this with a clear head.”

Richardsen grabbed his football off the shelf. “You make like I’m throwing you to the lions here, Jack. This is your job, this is what you did so damn well in New York for eleven years. So you’re coming back off injured reserve. OK, great — big comeback here.”

“Sal. Jesus.”

“Just talk him down, Jack. Get him off that fucking mountain, effect the arrest. Bring the bastard to the bar of justice. I mean it, free rein. I don’t care how you run things. And look — if the hijacking thing resolves itself soon, maybe we can release Raleigh. Hell — you trained him, right? Jack, I gotta go.”

“Sal, listen. Just tell me. Is this a push? Do they want me to resign?”

Richardsen stopped where he was. Even with all the interference, he heard it that time, the desperation in Banish’s voice. Richardsen frowned harshly.

“Jack,” he said, “we want your expertise here. We want that bag of tricks you’ve got in your head. Christ, Jack — a man’s dead and there are kids in mortal danger up there. All right? Jack — all right?”

Whup-whup.

“You are the best, Jack, the best there is. Just forget New York. Put it all behind you. Starting fresh here. My number two will be in later, so you call him with your laundry list. The SAC out there is Perkins, Butte. All right? All right. Keep in touch, Jack.”

Richardsen punched the button and the red light went off. He remained staring at the box a moment, then moved away. He turned his old college football over in his hands. The leather was cracking, its bladder gone soft. He recalled hours spent sitting at the foot of the metal frame bed in his little room at Fordham, thinking about the next game, and the hands that used to hold that ball — tight-skinned, trim-knuckled, ring less fingers — gripping it, turning it, tossing it up and down. It was the last time he could remember his priorities ever matching his responsibilities.

For anyone else, protesting or refusing an assignment would be cause for immediate termination. But the word had come down on his old friend Jack Banish and all the head cases ripe for wrongful termination lawsuits. Sal Richardsen cupped the football in his right hand. He set his feet and momentarily drew his arm back for a dramatic, game-winning Hail Mary. Then he went across the room and returned the football to its wooden stand on the shelf. He threw away the message note and picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. They had needed a negotiator on the scene ASAP. Whoever had screwed up, it was the kind of mistake that could cost a man his career. Banish was mistakenly listed on the active roster and SOARs had geographically matched him to the crisis perpetrator, and Carlson at Quantico hadn’t gone through Richardsen himself or known enough to override. So the order had been cut and the great machine set into motion. Stopping Banish now would have thrown the entire operation to a grinding halt, and there was simply no time for that. The crisis was current and ongoing. Richardsen realized that he would have to keep close tabs on this one, very close tabs. He would give it some thought on the long ride out to Rockville.

The helicopter touched down cleanly but its roaring engine did not stop. Banish stepped out into the clearing behind Coyle and Taylor, ducking to avoid the beating rotor blades. Two U.S. Marshals in camouflage and greasepaint passed him. He turned and watched as they loaded aboard a leaden, sheet-covered stretcher. Then the whupping roar lifted again and the helicopter spun lazily overhead, tucking its nose and beating away.

Banish straightened and watched it go. His ears rang hollow from the sudden absence of noise, as though hearing an unfelt wind. His newly shaved cheeks stung in the cool air. There was a light drizzle, fog hanging in the trees. A tan jacket hung hanger-stiff under his FBI slicker, holster straps tight around his shoulders and under his arms. Three men coming toward him. Agents. Banish hoped he had his game face on.

The lead one swept back his sandy hair and introduced himself as Perkins. His relief at Banish’s arrival was evident in his manner. “We’ve had some death here,” he said.

Banish bristled. The dead man leaving the mountain was immediately his responsibility. He had become the case agent as soon as his feet touched ground.

“The other marshal?” he said.

“Coming down now. He’s OK. Was pinned down by gunfire from inside the cabin. Special Ops Group leader is debriefing his men AWS.”

As we speak, recalled Banish. The wonky acronyms, the lingo. He looked around as they crossed the dampened clearing. The sky was clouding over and the mountaintop was obscured by fog. He counted three large canvas tents and ten recreational trailers. There were temporary latrine sheds and a row of support vehicles, including a fire engine and a Red Cross food truck. Men in riot gear, suits, police uniforms, military camouflage, and civilian clothes wandered about, some carrying cups of coffee, others guns. Despite the neat arrangement of the parked vehicles and the general complacency of the men, there was no real order here as far as Banish could see.

He tried to organize his thoughts. The remoteness of the plateau clearing offered certain tactical advantages, among them the ability to maintain a large operation without significant disruption of civilian life, a secure and centralized location, and the benefit of removing a potentially hazardous situation from the public eye. Disadvantages would include exposure to the elements, lack of expedient access to the actual crisis scene, and the danger of removing a potentially hazardous situation from the public eye.

He turned his focus to Perkins. The man from Butte was practiced and smooth. A Mormon, likely, the tight-mouthed, tie ping brand of federal agent. As opposed to the Eastern type, ruddy, gray-haired backslappers who still attended their college homecoming each year — the Young Kennedys, they used to be called, the Catholic-school brand of agent, as Banish had once been. Perkins’s subordinates wore long-sleeved jerseys under camouflage issue and work boots and FBI shields on ballcaps. Perkins remained in a suit jacket and wore rubbers over shoes. He showed no indication that he had recognized Banish’s name, which was mere politeness. It put Banish on guard.

Banish said, “I don’t see any telephone lines.”

Perkins said, “No electricity either. How much do you know?”

“Nothing. I need to know it all.”

Perkins nodded. “You need the file. I can give you a little now. Suspect name is Glenn Alien Ables. Undercover Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agents stung him more than two years ago for trafficking illegal fire arms He put his cabin up for bail and defaulted, and has been holed up here since. A local sheriff trying to serve him with an eviction notice triggered all this. Nine other residents on the mountain, all evacuated two days ago.”

“Access?”

“By foot. The path up is impassable.”

“How old was the dead marshal?”

Perkins turned to look at him. “I don’t know,” he said, confused. “Younger.”

“Married?”

Perkins, still looking at him, shook his head blankly. “I really wouldn’t know.”

They were coming up on the canvas tent closest to the foot of the mountain. A group of narrow-eyed marshal sharpshooters, members of the self-named Beloved Order of Long-Rifle Men and Observers, stood outside in the rain with sniper rifles by their sides, waiting.

Raised voices and thick cursing from inside the tent. A table overturned. Then a marshal was backed out forcibly through the tent folds, stumbling to the ground, propelled by a furious older black marshal. The BOLOs moved in quickly to separate the two, restraining the black marshal. The younger marshal slowly got to his feet in the fresh mud, looking stunned. His face and close-set eyes were locked. Banish noticed the word pussy dripping off his painted forehead.