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 happening.” 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?”