Upon entering the crowded trailer that served as his operations center, Branson paused and looked about. Directly in front of him were two maps. One was a standard topographical map of the surrounding area covered with various symbols. In the center were red markings representing the buildings and positions where members of the 5th Brigade were holed up. In a tight circle around them were a string of blue triangles, numbered one through twelve, indicating the location of the FBI observation posts. Farther out, mostly along the roads and trails leading into this site, other blue marks showed the checkpoints and roadblocks manned by the state police and Wyoming National Guard. Under Branson’s immediate control were his own FBI antiterrorist team, reinforced by an FBI hostage rescue team and U.S. marshals. They controlled the inner perimeter and had the task of resolving the standoff with the militiamen. The Wyoming state police and National Guard, each commanded by a senior officer of their own, were charged with keeping the media, curious onlookers, and sympathizers away from the FBI operation as well as providing backup. The journalists didn’t like being held at arm’s distance any more than the state police liked playing the heavies, responsible for keeping them out. But this was Branson’s show and the last thing he wanted to do was to give the members of the 5th Brigade any more publicity then they had already garnered out of this standoff. “They’ll have their day in court when they come out,” he told a pool of journalists at a rare interview. “Until then I ask that you have a little faith in your government and let us do our job.”

That his men and women would eventually prevail was never a question in Ben Branson’s mind. He had the manpower, the technical expertise, and determination to see this through. Moving over to the right, to where his small desk sat covered with phones, radios, photos, and an assortment of manila folders, Branson was accosted by a young five foot, two inch woman who held a clipboard and wore an expression as determined as Branson’s own.

“Sir,” Special Agent Angel Raymos shot out in a tone that was as hefty as her one hundred ten pound frame would permit. “Here are the updates from the Bureau and the tactical summary.”

Branson looked at the young, energetic woman for a moment. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, only her blue jacket with the large block letters “FBI” on the back told anyone that she was one of his. “Special Agent Raymos, as important as those things are, even more critical, at this particular moment is …”

“I know, I know,” she lamented as she lifted a steaming cup of black coffee that she had been holding in her left hand. “Your hourly fix of caffeine.”

Branson smiled as he took the cup. “You’ll go far, pilgrim. You’ll go far.”

Besides being the most diminutive FBI agent on site, Raymos was also the newest. Fresh out of the academy, Branson snapped her up as he was throwing together his team for this mission. His official explanation for asking for someone so new to the agency was that it would be good to “blood” young agents in this sort of thing as quickly as possible. “With these standoffs becoming more frequent,” he explained to his superior, “it’s important that we expand the pool of agents who have experience in handling them.”