Sensing Jack's unease, Hetty Lange raised a hand to calm him. "There's no need to be nervous, young man. I've already spoken with David Rossi. Since the FBI won't release you, how do you feel about the title Special Consultant to NCIS?"
Jack blinked, momentarily stunned. His instinct was to politely decline—but then he remembered how American workplace culture worked. This was the kind of moment where you smile, nod, and say, "It's an honor."
In truth, it wasn't unheard of for an FBI agent to carry an advisory role in a military investigative agency. Ever since the Hoover era, the FBI had positioned itself as a convenient tool to check presidential power—while simultaneously flirting behind closed doors with the military. You didn't survive nearly fifty years at the helm, under eight presidents, without understanding power dynamics. Hoover knew his Machiavelli.
Even in its current, more politicized state, the Bureau had preserved some of its "fine traditions," including a tight-knit relationship with the military.
Technically, the FBI had jurisdiction over all federal criminal matters—but when it came to investigating crimes involving military personnel on U.S. soil, the Bureau usually handed it off to internal military agencies like NCIS or the Army's CID (now ACIC).
Military corruption cases theoretically fell under FBI's purview too, but in practice they were typically handled by the Inspector General's Office (IGO). And in domestic counterterrorism, counterespionage, and special forces training, the Bureau maintained an especially close working relationship with the military.
Jack participating in DEVGRU (SEAL Team Six) training and deploying with Bravo Team in Mexico wasn't an anomaly. The FBI's HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) had long carried out joint ops abroad under the guise of counterterrorism, alongside DEVGRU and Delta Force.
"Of course," Hetty added, her voice tinged with a mischievous smile, "this consultant role doesn't come with any fixed salary. The hourly rate is $50—only counted during active operations. And no, there won't be any official ceremony. I hope you don't mind."
She handed him a small, neatly laminated ID badge—clearly prepared in advance.
Jack wasn't bothered by the pay. This little card had other perks—like making it way easier to hitch a ride on a military transport without cashing in favors.
The U.S. Navy, even if a bit outdated these days, was still elite in name and status. And if the chance ever came, Jack wouldn't mind walking the deck of an active aircraft carrier.
"To serve the country is my honor," Jack replied with a perfectly timed, picture-ready smile—though his mind had already wandered to all the NCIS episodes he could recall.
He couldn't remember many of the cases, but the characters stuck out vividly: quirky goth Abby, the eternally adolescent DiNozzo, the fierce Mossad-trained Ziva… and, of course, silver-haired Gibbs.
"Welcome aboard," Callen said warmly. Hanna followed, offering a handshake of his own. Both had formed a solid impression of Jack and were clearly glad to have him onboard.
After pacing for a few moments behind her ornately carved walnut desk, Hetty's face turned serious again.
"Gentlemen, let's focus. The situation is now critical. I assume you all understand what happens if the media gets wind of this?"
"It'll be chaos," Hanna answered without hesitation.
"The city will descend into anarchy," Hetty agreed.
"Rumors will flood the internet. People will panic. Mass evacuations. Traffic jams, looting, riots…" Callen paused. "Think Hurricane Katrina. New Orleans. Only worse."
Jack, however, decided to challenge that narrative. "With all due respect, I don't think we need to be quite so grim—at least not yet. I trust LAPD has plans in place for something like this."
He then recounted the hemorrhagic virus attack from his early LAPD days, when he was just a regular patrol officer.
"In fact," Jack continued, "after reviewing Jared Brodman's lab footage, CDC analysts concluded that while his modified strain of smallpox does have a longer incubation period and delays visible symptoms, the method of transmission hasn't changed.
Unlike airborne pathogens like measles or tuberculosis, smallpox is relatively weak in aerosol form. Its transmission remains limited to prolonged face-to-face exposure or direct contact with infected bodily fluids.
If the worst does happen, LAPD can issue a public warning under the guise of a bombing threat. That should help limit the panic and control the narrative."
Hetty nodded slowly, clearly considering his words. "If it comes to that, your method has merit. But until then, I'm granting you all full operational authority. Use any means necessary to prevent this from turning into a tragedy."
Just then, Kensi Blye jogged over. "We've got a hit from the taxi company sweep. A man matching Brodman's description took a cab from the airport and was dropped at an ocean-view hotel near Venice Beach."
"Excellent," Hetty said, pulling a small aluminum case from her drawer and heading toward the operations area. "But before you go chasing leads…"
She turned to point at three specific agents. "Detective Deeks, Detective Williams, and Detective Kelly—you need to be vaccinated for smallpox."
Of the three, Deeks and Danny visibly froze.
"W-Why us?" Deeks stammered.
"Because the rest of us are active-duty military. We're already immunized," Hanna said casually from his desk, grinning like a cat ready to watch chaos unfold.
"Can't we just take pills?" Deeks asked hopefully, eyes locked on the needle in Hetty's hand—an old-school, double-headed vaccination device that looked like something out of a horror movie.
"Or like, a patch or something?" Danny added, clearly trying to stay calm.
"I… I really don't like needles," Deeks muttered, his voice trembling.
"Wait a minute. Why doesn't Agent Tavor need the shot?" he blurted, suddenly seeing a potential escape route.
"I was vaccinated during DEVGRU training," Jack said with a toothy grin. And as he said it, he realized something obvious—Hetty Lange must've read through every classified file on him, top to bottom.
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