“I feel it,” Jack said in a dry monotone. It reeked of insincerity but Drabinsky didn’t seem to notice. He was in the moment, psyched and impatient. Jack understood; these were the times they’d trained for. For Drabinsky, it was a chance to test himself. For Jack it was part of a larger, frustrating picture of bailing water instead of being able to get to the source and stop the damn flood.

They were barreling along Mission Street in a white Chevy Tahoe, the siren blaring, Officer Tom Drabinsky at the wheel-a lean cowboy with a leathery, sunbaked face.

Drabinsky was commander of the SFPD bomb squad, part of the city’s Homeland Security Tactical Company, and Jack had been profiling the squad for nearly a week now. His time with them had been pretty uneventful so far-mostly interviews, each member of the team recounting past glories and talking him through the “what-if…” white papers they had studied.

“They’re kind of like role-playing games, y’know?” one man had told him about those scenarios. “They let you think about problems you might encounter and solve them before you have to.”

Sure, Jack thought. As long as you don’t factor in the stuff that hits you square in the face when you’re in the field: fear, pressure, the media watching you, and the fact that at the very least your job is on the line, at the most your life…

Then just before dinner, Jack was putting together footage for the local CBS affiliate, something to help make the public aware of its role in watching and informing, when he got the call telling him it was time to saddle up.