FBI HRT
A short story by
K. Sue Collins, author of Cool
Special Agent Jack Travis had found the hottest possible place to station himself in the hostage situation. He was dressed in full HRT garb positioned on top of a six story Hilton lying on a tar covered roof flat on his stomach rocking his custom built .308-caliber thunderstick modified on a Remington Model 700 bolt-action receiver against his shoulder. His neighbor was a forty-power Burris spotting scope. His only company was his headset where his SAC was feeding him information. Travis was working the roof by himself. The other agents were less than enthusiastic about hopping on a roof in the summer heat that toppled 101 without being completely outfitted. They thought that they were better equipped to handle the Hostage situation by placing themselves three floors below in an air conditioned suite.
Sweat clouded Jack’s face. He blew it away with a huff of his breath and the curling of his lower lip. He focused on the mission. He knew the other members of his team were basking in the joy over Jack taking the roof. Let them be comfortable and let "Blue Blood" Travis sweat it out on the roof. The FBI was an exclusive club. No one had activated Travis’ membership card. He had been dealing with this type of discrimination since he learned to understand the English language. At thirty he tuned it out.
Jack Travis grew up in a privileged lifestyle. A member of the famed Travis family, the second greatest family dynasty in America next to the Kennedys. There was nothing he could do about DNA. He wanted to distance himself from the scandal that followed his family around. His mother almost had a heart attack when he registered as a Republican. His father threatened to disown him when he joined the army to pay for his college education. "I don’t want a free ride in life," he told his father. In response his father cut him out of his will. So did Grandma Travis. The press got wind of the renegade Travis family member and on slow news cycles followed him with as much vigor as a Shriver. They had a field day when he joined the FBI. The naïve readers of the news assumed he would be given a cushy job with a lot of press conferences. He was offered. Travis declined. He wanted to do something with his life. He signed on for HRT. The biggest grunt work in the Bureau. The Hostage Rescue Team. Television and movie aficionados were jaded by the portrayal of them in Colin Ferrell type flicks. It was much more dangerous and trying. There were no film breaks and sometimes standoffs went on for days. An itchy trigger finger could mean the difference between life and death. Needless to say the macho factor in the Hostage Rescue Team was higher than any other department of the Bureau.
This particular standoff was approaching the six hour mark. It had started at nine in the morning. Travis had taken his position on the roof shortly afterwards and waited patiently for orders. Some dumbshit did not like the IRS performing an audit on him so he stormed into the office with the pretense of having a bomb strapped to his chest. What was more incredulous was the security team was nearly asleep when they allowed him in. He disarmed one of the guards and was now armed. He ordered the other security guards out of the building before he started blasting other people who had a beef with the beloved IRS.
Nobody inside the building could tell if he was indeed strapped with a real bomb. One would have to assume at this point he (whose name was Crispin Stoppard) was playing for keeps now that he had stolen a weapon. He was armed. The negotiation team was in place and from listening to his SAC on the headset it was not going all that well. Crispin was getting antsy and wanted to start shooting people or blow himself up.
Travis had an itch behind his ear. He willed it to go away. After five minutes of irritation it did. Jack was staring through the scope. He could see Mr. Stoppard. He was waving the .38 back and forth in a rant. There were fifteen hostages left in the building. He traded the rest of them for some Big Macs and Fries at lunch time. If he hadn’t used one of the hostages as a shield Jack could have made the shot. His SAC didn’t give him permission to make the shot if he could. They were trying to get everyone out without any complications. Nobody wanted another Branch Davidian on their hands. So Jack awaited the news. He could make a headshot, but Crispin kept one of his hands in his pockets and they really weren’t sure if the bomb detonator was there. His coat flashed open and a glimpse of what appeared to be a bomb was revealed. The tech crew was scrambling to make something out the picture to see what he had. Chances were unlikely that he come across some C-4 just laying in the road. Still screw-ups in the defense of our country were not permissible in this day and age.
Jack’s SAC came on the head set. "Sahara One to Blue Blood. Tactical assistance on way. Maintain position."
"Copy Sahara One," Jack responded. Tactical assistance usually meant that forms of negotiation had broken down and the team was on their way in. Jack looked through the scope. Stoppard was still acting like a mad man. He was throwing his free arm up in the air. He was carrying on like there was no tomorrow. Which might very well be the case if HRT fucks this one up. Travis nestled in. He was prepared. While he wasn’t given the specific orders to shoot. He knew he would have to be prepared if this exercise went South in a hurry.
Jack looked at the ceiling. More than likely, they would drop from the ceiling. It was always an impressive move that HRT loved to tell the chicks that they do. Travis reflectively moved his index finger through the trigger guard and fleshed it up against the trigger. He caught his breath and focused away from the heat. He would shower up as soon as this was over.
It happened in stages.
Travis had to act quickly. His view was better than ground staff. No order yet. Chaos as hostages stumbled up. Stoppard’s thumb raised over remote button. Travis inhaled. He took the shot. The bullet ripped through Stoppard’s skull. An egg sized hole dripped sunlight. His body did a cadaver spasm on the ground. A female hostage got the brain spatter. Blinded by tear gas, she didn’t know what hit her. Afterwards she would freak and threaten to sue. People, sometimes Jack didn’t know what got into them. Count your blessings not your misfortunes.
Two hours later at the debriefing, Travis was chewed out. His SAC was not pleased. The agent Stoppard shot lived. Jack saved lives, but the hostages were traumatized until the settlement checks from the government cleared. Travis got the standard covering your ass speech. Off the record he was to be thanked, but publicly he was rapped on the knuckles with a nun’s ruler. Turns out that Crispin Stoppard did not have a well-designed bomb. It constructed of Pepsi bottles filled with homemade napalm taped to an old fashioned alarm clock. The so-called remote was nothing more than Stoppard’s garage door opener. It was all for effect. As it was pointed out to Jack, if he was to miss, then he could have blown them all up. Jack assured his boss he wouldn’t have missed the mark. Nevertheless, he never should have taken the initiative until he was given the go-ahead.
Travis took the brow beating with a grain of salt. This was only a technicality. He saved lives of his fellow team members. They wouldn’t treat him differently. He would always be the outsider. He could have saved them a thousand times over and it wouldn’t make a difference.