by Robin Cook
As he pulled up in front of the ramshackle admin and classroom building that served as the heart of the ESU complex, he had to smile at its appearance. When he’d been part of the unit, he’d been there so often that he never appreciated how decrepit the old buildings were. Perhaps when they had been built by the Coast Guard more than a half century earlier as hangars and barracks, they hadn’t looked too bad, but they clearly had never been architectural exemplars. When compared to the new, multistory NYPD Academy in Queens, the ESU Academy looked like a forgotten afterthought despite its enormously important mission.
After opening the car’s door, Brian hesitated as another part of his brain interrupted the pleasurable reveries he’d experienced driving onto the field. Like a sudden thunderstorm plunging a beautiful summer day into gloom, thoughts of Emma came back in a rush. It was here at the academy and in this very building that he’d first met her when she was a recruit and just starting her training. Brian could well remember the day because it had been one of his days off, and he had debated whether to go out to the academy to lend a hand with the new class of cadets. Little did he know that the day would change his life. He could vividly recall as if it were yesterday and from their first interaction how impressed he’d been with the way Emma stood out from her classmates. Her enthusiasm was palpable and sheer athleticism was obvious, especially as one of the very few females willing not only to take the physical punishment the training entailed but somehow enjoy it. It had been the same way he had reacted to the training when he’d been a recruit.
In an effort to regroup from a sudden paralyzing stab of grief, Brian reclosed the car door, shut his eyes, leaned his head against the steering wheel, and took a few deep breaths. It seemed so utterly impossible that Emma was gone. Despite the understanding both he and Emma shared as ESU officers that they were putting themselves at risk of death on a daily basis, they hadn’t given the possibility much thought. With their youth and health, it seemed a theoretical problem that had been easy to ignore.
Before leaving home to head out to Floyd Bennett Field, he had finally forced himself to call his mother. During the call he’d learned that the burial had indeed taken place. He’d also learned that he and Juliette had been sorely missed at the interment, but everyone understood the reasons for his absence. Aimée told him that at the conclusion of the ceremonies, Hannah had suffered a major emotional breakdown now that all the funeral planning she’d busied herself with was over.
“God damn it!” Brian shouted in the confines of the car as he pounded the steering wheel with his fist to the point of pain. Luckily both withstood the abuse. For a fleeting moment he thought about dashing into the makeshift weight room set up in the larger, hangar-type building to his left to let off some steam. But the urge quickly passed when he diverted his thoughts to Juliette, his new raison d’être. In a minor panic, he struggled to get his phone out of his pocket to put in a call to Camila. He felt a sudden urge to make sure everything was okay even though he’d only been gone an hour. Juliette’s fever of 102.2 that morning still plagued him despite its rapid resolution, especially since earlier he’d googled “psychosomatic fever” to learn that it was considered rare in children Juliette’s age, especially as high as 102.
Camila answered on the first ring and relieved him by immediately reporting that Juliette had eaten a healthy meal and that Jeanne had arrived. She added that they were all busy playing an old board game that Juliette enjoyed called Dinosaur.
“I just arrived at the academy,” Brian said. “I haven’t yet gone inside but I’m about to. I just wanted to check in before I get involved in a training exercise.”
“All is well here,” Camila assured him. “Juliette is acting completely normal and seems happy, so relax and enjoy yourself. Everything is under control. By the way, a call came in about a possible security gig. I said that you would call them back. Are you up for that?”
“Of course,” Brian said, trying to be positive, although if pressed he wasn’t entirely sure he could handle a difficult job under the circumstances. “Was there a rush on the callback?”
“Heavens, no,” Camila said. “It’s a possible wedding, but it’s not until December, and it didn’t strike me as a definite. Do you want to speak with Jeanne?”
“Tell her I’ll speak with her later,” he said, checking the time. “I’m on the brink of being late for my meeting.”
After a quick goodbye, Brian disconnected, turned the ringer off, and pocketed the phone. He then took a few more deep breaths. Hearing that Juliette was acting normal was reassuring, and he was confident Jeanne could help if need be. The sudden, paralyzing rush of grief reminded him he had a long way to go to deal with Emma’s loss, but at the moment it was important for him to hold his own emotions in check as much as possible. Translated into the near term, that meant he needed some income and benefit security and rejoining the ESU, if they would have him, would accomplish both. With that in mind, he reopened the car door and got out.
As he walked toward the admin building door, he noted how quiet the entire, relatively large compound was. All he could hear were some seagulls in the distance. In normal non-pandemic times, the place would be hopping with thirty to fifty recruits in training, dispersed into smaller groups. Beyond the large hangar building and to the right of the huge ESU garage he could see the group of cars used for practicing with the “jaws of life” to rescue people after car wrecks. Beyond the car wrecks was an NYC subway car, which looked like a huge fish out of water in the middle of an old airport. It was used for tactical and rescue training, seeing as it was the ESU who was called to get people—or what was left of them—out from under subway trains when they jumped or were pushed. Brian could well remember training for all sorts of rescues, whether from the tops of bridges, the sides of skyscrapers, or underwater, and most all of it happened here at the ESU Headquarters.
The interior of the admin building reflected the exterior in all its ramshackle glory. The first person Brian encountered was Helen Gurly, a very capable African American woman who’d served the last four ESU commanding officers. When an ESU officer had an administration problem, they all knew Helen was the first person to go to.
“Well, well, what a sight for sore eyes,” Helen said with her usual candor and humor. “The boss man is waiting on you, so go right on in!”
He thanked her and said that seeing her made him feel like coming home. She responded with a wave of dismissal, accompanied by a smile that he could detect despite her face mask.
Although the usual uniform for ESU personnel was dark blue for normal activities or black for tactical situations, Deputy Chief Michael Comstock always wore a bracingly white, impeccably ironed shirt with epaulettes and scalloped breast pocket flaps. He was a big man with a completely shaved head, hazel eyes, and a full rounded face with a ruddy complexion. Although certainly part of the brass, with his rank of deputy chief, he could compete physically with the rest of the ESU team and was respected for it. He was, in short, what a leader should be. His office and its furniture, like the entire building, looked worse for wear, but the ensemble had a homey touch with lots of family pictures alongside the compulsory head shots of the mayor and police commissioner.
As soon as Brian walked in, Michael put down his pen and stood up. With a smile he extended his elbow over his desk, so he and Brian could do the pandemic-inspired elbow-touch greeting. Michael laughed while he did it as a kind of acknowledgment that everybody was caught in the Covid-19 nightmare and had to make the best of it. He then pointed to a seat a good six feet in front of his desk.
“Let me again express my sincere condolences for your loss,” Michael began. “It’s a loss for all of us. Everyone I’ve told is heartbroken. She was, like yourself, well liked and respected around here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brian said. “It’s been a shock, as you can imagine. It might have been the very last thing I could have expected happeni
ng.” He braced himself against tears, which he could feel coming on. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Emma but knew it was inevitable.
“We and the rest of the staff are sorry we couldn’t attend the burial today to pay our proper respects,” Michael said.
“I appreciate that.” Brian purposefully avoided saying he’d not been there, either, hoping to move the subject away from that day’s events.
“After your call yesterday, I talked to a number of the staff,” Michael continued. “I particularly made it a point to talk with your A team commander, Captain Deshawn Williams. I also talked with Sal Benfatti, our TAC House sergeant. I’m happy to report that the response was uniformly positive. Everyone would be thrilled to have you back on the force, Deshawn in particular. So, if you were at all concerned about how you would be received, I can tell you there would be no problem whatsoever.”
“That’s reassuring to hear,” Brian said. He had hoped there wouldn’t be any resentment, and it was reassuring to have it confirmed.
“But I have to emphasize again that your rejoining has to be a true commitment,” Michael warned. “I don’t want to put through the paperwork if there is going to be any waffling. You have to be sure. Are we clear on this?”
“Perfectly clear,” Brian said. “My plan is to spend a week or two re-immersing myself here, running recertification drills and just getting back into physical shape. After that, I’m certain I’ll be able to make an absolute commitment. I’d also like to spend some time at one of the shooting ranges. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss the opportunity to practice and stay current. This has been the first year in the past decade I didn’t attend the spring Sig Sauer course up in New Hampshire.”
“I can appreciate what you are saying,” Michael said, “which is why the ESU puts so much emphasis on retraining and recertification. No worries! I can arrange for you to have access to one of the shooting ranges. Do you have your NYPD ID?”
“Of course,” Brian responded. He’d never been without his ID since joining the force more than a decade ago, even after his retirement.
“Where would you prefer? Camp Smith or Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx?”
“Rodman’s Neck,” Brian answered without hesitation. “It’s closer. I’ve got a four-year-old daughter who is having a difficult time with my wife’s passing, and I’d like to stay closer to home, at least in the short run.” Brian knew Rodman’s Neck was less than a half-hour drive from Inwood.
“I understand,” Michael said. “I’m sure she is suffering, the poor child. I’d forgotten about your daughter although I do remember the anguish you had when she was born and spent so long in the hospital. I trust that she’s been healthy since.”
“Very healthy, thank you,” Brian said, reluctant to mention the recent health concerns.
“The reason I even suggested Camp Smith is that it has a considerably longer range, if that is something that interests you.”
“Rodman’s Neck has a three-hundred-yard rifle range,” Brian said. “That’s long enough for my purposes. Actually, at least initially, I’ll probably only use the pistol range.”
“I had an ulterior motive mentioning Camp Smith’s longer range,” Michael said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we are in the process of possibly replacing our Remington 700 sniper rifle, the old standby, with the newer Remington MSR. Since I recall you were quite extraordinary with the sniper rifle, I’m wondering if you would mind giving the new one a try and give us your impression. We’re trying to figure out if the benefits justify the cost. The MSR is considerably more expensive.”
“I’d be happy to give my opinion,” Brian said eagerly. Playing a bit of an advisory role in the face of everything else that was going on had a lot of appeal. “Would you like me to check the rifle out sooner rather than later?”
“The sooner the better,” Michael answered. “Today, in fact, if it is possible. I’m tasked to submit a report on it, and to that end, I’ve had a few people try it, and the response has been mixed. Of course, some people have trouble with change of any kind and are accordingly biased. I’ve tried it, but I was never that good with a sniper rifle. Your opinion would be helpful, having been one of our crack shots.”
“I’ll enjoy putting it through its paces at three hundred yards,” Brian said. “And today will be fine. Will they have one out at Rodman’s Neck for me to use?”
“I imagine they do, but I can do better than that. I’ll sign one out to you, and you can take it with you to the range. Having it in your possession will give you a chance to make the customizing adjustments beforehand. I’ll call Rodman’s Neck while you are over at the TAC House. I assume that the TAC House was your plan for this afternoon?”
“It is,” Brian responded. “Other than speaking with you, sir.”
“Perfect,” Michael said. “I’ll sign you out a Remington MSR and call Rodman’s Neck and make the arrangements. How many rounds of ammo would you like?”
“A couple of boxes should be enough. Can you also give me a couple of boxes of nine-millimeter for my Sig Sauer, so I can use one of the pistol ranges as well?”
“Not a problem,” Michael answered. “But I’ll give you three boxes for the MSR just to be sure. You can bring back what you don’t use. Is there anything else you wanted to do here this afternoon besides the TAC House?”
“Yes, I’d like to meet up with Detective Jose Garcia. I assume he’s still the SCUBA instructor.”
“Oh, yes!” Michael confirmed. “He’s not going anywhere. He’s here for life.”
Jose Garcia had been one of his favorite instructors. Jose had managed to turn the required SCUBA training Brian had to undergo from a dreaded experience into a joy. Although he was still certified, he hadn’t made a refresher SCUBA dive in well over a year. Prior to his ESU training, Brian had never been that comfortable in the water. He’d always joked that it had taken life millions of years to get out of the water, and he didn’t see any reason to reverse the trend. Now he loved it.
“Could you let him know I’ll be stopping by after my session at the TAC House? I’d like him to pick me out some equipment so that I can do a recertification dive in the next couple of days.”
“You got it,” Michael said. “And when you are done with your rounds, stop back here. I’ll have one of the Remington MSRs and the ammo available.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I really appreciate your help and support.” Being back at his former stomping grounds and with his former colleagues, he was already feeling more secure about the future.
CHAPTER 32
September 2
Just to the north of the ESU admin building was another sizable, nondescript commercial structure that looked equally as aged and dilapidated as the others. This building contained the TAC House, or Training Ammunition Combat edifice. As Brian approached, he again had to smile. On this occasion it wasn’t because of its run-down appearance. It was because from the outside there was no hint whatsoever of what was inside.
Brian pushed through a battered outside door and stepped into a simulated night scene. What confronted him in the expansive, darkened, several-story interior was a worse-for-wear modular structure the size of a modest one-story house. It had no ceiling and could be configured in various ways to represent an entire apartment with an outer door, a kitchen, living room, bathrooms, and bedrooms, an office, or any indoor structure. It was used for adaptive urban, non-ballistic assault exercises in various lighting conditions and with various numbers of targets played by instructors positioned inside, sometimes armed with non-lethal weaponry. Several catwalks above were used by the instructors to watch the simulated assaults so they could comment and make recommendations.
In addition to the TAC House structure, Brian was also confronted in the half-light by a group of seven ESU officers heavily armed and outfitted in the usual ESU tactical gear with midnight-black uniforms a
nd bulletproof vests with multiple pockets for gear and ammunition. In addition, they were wearing helmets, gloves, eye protection, and balaclava face masks in anticipation of taking part in the next drill. Although Brian had no chance of identifying anyone in face masks and dim light, most of the officers recognized him and immediately crowded around to say hello and extend their sympathies about Emma’s passing. One officer, Carlos Morales, who was a member of the A team and who Brian knew well, said he’d heard a rumor that Brian might be rejoining the ESU. All of them cheered as a group when Brian told them he was giving it serious thought.
“Do it, do it, do it!” rang out as a spontaneous chant from the group. Brian laughed, unsure of how to respond. Finding his voice, he admitted he was leaning toward rejoining but wanted to make sure it was the right decision for his daughter and career.
For Brian this was even more of a homecoming than seeing Helen Gurly in the admin building, and it soothed his soul. It made him remember how much he valued being a member of a group with a common interest, extending all the way back to grammar school when he first began participating in organized sports. Through high school and college, it had been the same, and it had been one of the reasons he’d gravitated toward law enforcement as a career. In many ways he’d not been entirely aware of how much he missed this type of camaraderie since his retirement.