part0011

"I want to see clear lanes of fire and controlled bursts. I want to see what we pride ourselves on here as members of the Hostage Rescue Team. We are the FBI’s elite. There’s SWAT, and then there’s us. We are the gold standard. This mission is critical because we're bringing back one of our brothers. There’s no alternative to what our purpose is today, gentlemen . Let me make that clear."

Babz noticed that Cal Roe emphasized the gentlemen when he looked at her. Hoop, as he was known among the team—thanks to his All-American basketball star status during his four years at West Point—had been one of the founding members of HRT. The ex-Delta Force commander was now HRT commander. His hands-on policy ensured that he was present for every mission possible. It was his way of shoving it to the FBI’s age standard. He might not be allowed to carry a firearm as a member of the FBI, but they allowed him to remain on as a tactical advisor.

The team viewed Hoop as their true commander. Even Bill Sykes tipped his hat to Hoop when he entered a room, and when Hoop entered the room, he dominated it.

Hoop was nearly a foot taller than Babz, and just about six inches taller than every other man on the team. To say he wasn’t thrilled when a female had made HRT would’ve been an understatement. Hoop’s dislike of Babz was predestined. He’d worked with her father back in the day. Hal Babiarz had been a legend among the HRT and was also a founding member. He and Hoop were rumored to have had a long-standing feud. One that Babz felt still hadn’t ended. And she was paying the price.

Babz couldn’t help thinking contempt for her father was the real reason for Hoop's overt efforts to dismiss any accomplishments she made. Whether it was selection to the team itself or her prowess on the range in their tactical evolutions, anything she did well seemed to only infuriate Hoop further. It was a never-ending cycle of do better, get shamed more.

Hoop’s voice boomed through the room. "I'm going to let Sykes run you through the op. Run it tight. Run it like it's the real thing because in a matter of hours, it very well could be."

Bill Sykes was of average height and frame, but he carried himself well with the confidence of a man with experience, and experience he had. He had served in the military before coming to the FBI. Since being on the team, he’d earned the rank of commander. More importantly to Babz, he didn’t have a hard-on for her to fail.

Sykes stepped up. "To the two newbies, welcome to the show."

The two shots that had bested Babz on the range evaluation had landed Medina the last slot on the assault team. Always the good sport, Medina gave her a nudge as Sykes recognized them. The smile playing on the corner of his lips put her at ease. Some of the guys would want to win just to beat Babz. Not Medina. He wanted the position. He earned it.

"Right now, due to a higher level than I can speak to, we have another team working a separate angle to bring this mission to resolution quickly. If effective, they’ll be bringing our brother law enforcement officer home. We will be prepared to act on our assault plan should theirs fail."

Dan O’Hara put his hand up. He didn’t do it sheepishly. These were all tested men, all accomplished operators before becoming a member of the HRT. Many served in the military, or local SWAT departments—some in the largest and most population-dense cities in the country—before making the jump over to FBI and then to HRT. There were thousands of hours of training and hundreds of operations behind the belts of these men. They’d been battle-tested like few had. There was no timidness among the group.

"O’Hara? Something to say, like always?" Sykes cast his eyes at him but softened the question with a half-smile.

O’Hara made a show of lowering his hand. "I just gotta wonder, who gets tapped ahead of us to run an op like this?"

"Like I said, that is above my pay grade." Sykes avoided the answer, something Babz hadn’t seen him do in her short time on the team. Her interest was piqued. "This goes above me,” Sykes continued. “This goes above Hoop, but we still have to be ready. Murphy’s a bastard and he's always out there."

Sykes pointed to the large dry erase board. "Only thing you need to worry about right now is committing the grease board to memory."

The eight-by-six board held a diagram of a crudely drawn rectangle representing the structure. The bottom was labeled Front Door and marked with the number one. The remaining three sides continued the numbering sequence counterclockwise from the main entrance.

There was a line dividing the room and there were six black X’s scattered around in various positions, representing the hostage takers, plus a circle with a red X in the center of them all. The word, "Lawson," was scribbled alongside it. In a small chart was a list of the members of The Way, the Aryan Brotherhood group.

"Expect every single one of these guys to be armed. They make their money selling meth and my guess is many of them are using, so you're going to be dealing with unstable minds, wild bodies, and unexpected reactions to gunshots should we hit them. Be prepared for anything. We engage our targets if they present a threat, and we do not stop engaging until the threat is down. Is that clear?"

Everybody agreed in unison.

"They've taken over a facility called Camp Hope located near the small town of Breakneck. And when I say small, I mean small . Last census had it at one-hundred-thirty souls. State Police are holding tight in the town and using a drone to monitor the perimeter. The terrain is unforgiving. This campground is just south of a glacier. The longer they think we don't know their location, the better.”

"Nobody noticed these guys squatting before now?” O’Hara asked. “And how is nobody in this room asking the million-dollar question—who the hell names a town Breakneck?" O'Hara laughed at his own joke.

"First, it's the closed for years. Intel said the gang started using it as their clubhouse a few months back. As for the town's name, well that came about when the founder fell into a crevasse and died. Anybody wanna guess how? Mind your steps out there. You fall into a crevasse, it could be a very long time before your body is recovered, if ever."

"Sounds like a great place for a camp." Medina chuckled under his breath.

"Focus." Sykes lowered his gaze at the two of them. "They've converted the camp's cafeteria into a meth lab. That's where we are getting the highest heat signatures. It's a small set-up at forty-by-sixty feet. Been used to house about twenty-five campers at max capacity. It's one of those escape to nature camps. Expect comms to be spotty. The camp is just shy of 6,900 feet elevation. Take the elevation into account when moving. Conserve where you can. Most of the trek in will be on foot."

Sykes then brought up a satellite image. "We don't want a repeat of what happened during the original takedown. A full-sized lab is going to pack a much bigger punch than that Volkswagen did so extreme caution will have to be used. Our original plan was to hit the front with flashbangs. This is still a go, but we are going to bang on the outside for distraction. The two front doors on number one side leave the most exposure should they try to exit that way. We don’t want them coming out the front, so we’re going to continue to bang that side with our forty-millimeter launchers. I want two members of the team to lay down a heavy layer of tear gas, forcing them out the other two exit points.”

Babz soaked it in, memorizing the diagram and plan.

“We have exits on sides two and three. Back of the kitchen is number three side. A small door used for kitchen staff on number two side. These are tighter exit points, which means should they rabbit, we have a better chance of controlling the flow and number of people coming out at any one time, limiting our exposure to gunfire. But let me remind you, the only gunfire I want coming out of that house is from the muzzles of your weapons should they present a threat. Is that clear?”

"Crystal," the group chorused.

"A mockup of this layout is set up in hangar bay number two just next door to us. Run it by the numbers until this thing is present in your sleep; until you see the movements in the entry every time you blink your eyes. This has gotta be muscle memory. We must be perfect. Babz, I know you’re hanging back on this one, but I want you to get a rotation in with assault team one. Assault team one, when we deploy and move in, you're going to stack up on the number two side. Assault team two, you're going to move your way around to the back, stack up on the door on the three side.

“Murphy, Dunn, you’re going to rock the front of that building like a hurricane. Do you understand me? You're going to hit them with flashbangs and then deploy the launchers and draw. The bangs should bring them forward, thinking that we're coming through on a frontal assault. That should give assault team one and two time to get to their entry points. You're going to initiate entry on the first bang. By the second bang, the rest of you better be in and clearing that room. Is that clear?”

"Crystal." This time with a little more gusto. The energy of Sykes was contagious, as was his mission preparedness. It was a clean plan. Clean was good. Overcomplicated plans got people killed.

Keep it simple stupid, and practice 'til it’s perfect. Her father had said that to Babz a thousand times when she was a kid and then when she was a cop. Hearing them in her mind now made her feel like he was there with her.

"We’ve got two birds ready to take us in, should we get the call. Remember, if we're given the green light, it's going to take forty-five minutes under the best of conditions to get from Anchorage to the LZ in Breakneck."