by Jason Elam
Now he was going to play for the Washington Warriors. The Warriors? Really? They’re not a rival. They’re not a contender. The Warriors just kind of fall into that “who-gives-a-rip” category of PFL franchises. They’re paragons of mediocrity.
Riley struggled with feelings of loss and betrayal as he packed his day bag and left the locker room for his car. They may think they hold all the cards and can play them however they want. However, I still hold one big ace in the hole. There’s nothing that says I have to be anywhere but in my living room when the next season starts. And the farther Riley walked away from that locker room, the farther it felt like he was walking away from his football career.
Tuesday, July 21, 5:45 p.m. AKDT
Kiirauraq Bay, Alaska
“Look out for the rope, Pach!” Skeeter yelled. “You got that one there? There’s another one. What about the boulder at twelve o’clock? You see that?”
“Why, Mr. Dawkins, I’ve never heard you talk so much,” Riley laughed as he watched Skeeter clutching the v-bar with a death grip. Riley sat directly behind Skeeter in the tandem aircraft, manipulating the controls.
This was something Riley had looked forward to for a long time. That last day of minicamp had been tough—physically and emotionally. And the emotional struggles went far beyond just the final meeting with Coach Burton.
Every time he stepped onto that practice field he had been reminded of his former best friend, Sal Ricci, who had turned out to be his worst enemy. He was reminded of Khadi’s bloody body and Sal’s blown-out skull. He was reminded of Jim Hicks and Billy Murphy and Chris Johnson and Jay Kruse—all members of his band of brothers, all dead in this past year.
But mostly he remembered his dad. All the afternoons playing catch, all the hours spent coaching his teams, all the love and support and encouragement—all now gone.
And now my team has been taken away from me too. I still . . . I just don’t understand! Burton said he had nothing to do with it, and that might be true. But Salley? What was he thinking? More than once, Riley had mollified himself with the thought that this could very well be the stupidest move since the Twin Cities Norsemen had notoriously bankrupted their future by sending three number-one draft picks, three number-two draft picks, a couple of lower picks, and five players to the Texas Outlaws for Henry Walters and a smattering of lower-round picks. Sure, Walters was a great player, but come on!
Stop thinking about football, you idiot! Take a look at the beauty around you! Live in the here and now!
Alaska was an outlet for him—a way to relax, unwind, and at least for a time, forget. When he was flying this little plane, his mind cleared, and he felt truly peaceful.
Skeeter, on the other hand, looked like he was feeling an emotion as close to terror as Riley had ever seen him express. Riley couldn’t help laughing. That this very large, very dangerous man who had been involved in countless military special operations was acting so much like a scared little girl was something Riley would not soon let him forget.
Over the past months, Skeeter Dawkins had become more than just Riley’s faithful bodyguard. He was his most trusted confidant. Time and time again Skeeter had put himself in harm’s way to protect his captain. The deep scar on Skeet’s left arm gave testimony to the big man’s devotion.
The two men had served together in Afghanistan and had seen things, experienced things, and done things that bonded soldiers in a unique way. Riley had been his lieutenant, but the bond now was much deeper than simply soldier and officer. Skeeter had once expressed an insight about Riley Covington that Riley didn’t even see himself. He’d said that one of the greatest attributes any real leader could have was a heart of servanthood. When you find someone who passionately serves and truly cares for those around him, then you have found a leader worth following.
Right now, I have a feeling Skeeter’s questioning his commitment, Riley thought with a smile.
Riley knew the compassionate thing would be to lighten up on the aerial cowboy act and just put the plane down.
“But what fun would that be? Right, Skeet?” Riley said out loud as he dropped the aircraft down so that the wheels were just above the water.
“Pach!” Skeeter yelled from the front.
The PA-18 Super Cub seemed to be an extension of Riley. He flew with no fear and felt he could do almost anything with it. The little plane, known for its short takeoff and landing capability, was perfectly maneuverable. And its massive tundra tires allowed it to put down almost anywhere, including the small beach just to their left.
The Super Cub had dual controls, and Riley was sitting in back because he thought Skeeter might enjoy flying the plane. Unfortunately, it became very clear very quickly that Skeeter wanted nothing to do with that special little opportunity. So instead, Riley had given his friend the task of watching for any boulders or set nets that he might not be able to see from behind Skeeter’s hulking frame.
This small Alaskan beach was littered with ropes that began close to the adjacent bluffs onshore and led out into the ocean to a net system used to harvest the massive salmon run that traveled through the area each summer. The nets were operated and maintained by various native people groups and could be extremely dangerous to unsuspecting pilots.
Alaska was a truly unique place. It was not unusual to see small aircraft landing on beaches or pulling out onto state highways for takeoff. It was a mecca for general aviation pilots and outdoorsmen, and Riley had made this pilgrimage annually since he mustered out of the Air Force Special Ops.
This particular beach was one Riley knew well, and he wasn’t as concerned about the obstacles as Skeeter apparently thought he should be.
Riley slowed the plane to 40 knots and picked a spot directly in front of one of the set-net ropes. He had done this so many times he could tell by the coloration of sand and gravel that it was a firm touchdown point. For added safety he would keep an appropriate flying speed so he could be airborne again in an instant with a quick jolt of the throttle if necessary. If everything seemed fine once they touched down, he’d simply close the throttle and steer the tail-wheel Cub to a stop with the rudder pedals.
“Okay, Skeet, we’ve got a slight crosswind from the left, so we’ll use a bit of right rudder. A little less power—looks good.”
“I don’t need a play-by-play! Just get us down!”
As the giant tires began to roll across the beach, Riley backed off the throttle, eased the stick into his lap, and applied the heel brakes. A moment later, the plane was still as the propeller came to an abrupt stop.
Silence. Only Skeeter’s heavy breathing interfered with the sound of waves lapping the shoreline.
Skeeter struggled to turn around in the small cockpit. “Now what?” he asked, trying to seem tough once again.
“You okay, Skeet?” Riley asked with a grin.
Skeeter glared at Riley.
“’Cause you almost sounded a little scared,” Riley continued.
“You gave me a job, and I did it. Now are we getting out of this thing?”
Riley scanned the beach. “You sure you want to get out? There could be scary birds out there or maybe even a ferocious baby seal.”
The two men stared at each other, albeit with very different expressions on their faces.
Riley broke the standoff, saying, “Okay, my friend, if you think you can handle it, let’s get out. I want to show you something.”
Riley swung open the door next to Skeeter, and the big man lumbered out of the tiny airplane. Riley followed with much greater ease. At the tail of the Cub, Riley grabbed a handle, lifting the plane’s rear section off the ground and pulling it further from the surf.
“That should be good,” Riley said admiring his work. He looked at the sun and at the water. “We only have about forty minutes before we’ll get run off by the incoming tide.”
He went back to the plane’s cabin and reached behind the backseat to pull out a bucket and two small shovels.
“Let’
s go,” Riley said with a smirk.
As the two men walked toward the water, Riley explained what came next. “This area is known for very large razor clams. As you can see, right now it’s low tide. As the tide begins to come back in, the water pressure will force the clams to the surface. You’ll know you’ve got one near you when you see small air bubbles in the sand.
“When you see one, take your shovel and dig very quickly just to the side of the bubble. When you’ve got a small hole, drop the shovel and begin digging with your hands. Once you feel the hard outer shell, grab what feels like the clam’s tongue and pull. The clam will be digging too, so you need to be quick.”
“Grab the tongue of a digging clam? Be honest—this is kind of like snipe hunting, isn’t it?” Skeeter said suspiciously.
“No, I’m serious. We can get close to seventy, but we have to be fast. Then when we’re done, we’ll clean them up, and I’ll make a seriously rocking clam dip,” Riley bragged.
Skeeter didn’t move.
“Still don’t believe me? Here, watch.”
Riley, hitching up his chest waders, dropped to his knees next to a dime-sized hole. After two quick shovel motions, Riley thrust his hand down into the sand. Moments later, he pulled his hand back proudly and revealed a nine-inch oval creature.
“Your turn,” Riley said as he tossed the clam up to a surprised Skeeter. “Once you get one, throw it in the bucket, and move to the next set of bubbles.”
Skeeter reluctantly dropped to his knees and began the muddy process. At first he was clumsy with the shovel, flinging sand on himself and Riley.
“Lighten up, Francis!” Riley laughed. “That’s the only shovel I have for you. You break it, you’re digging with just your hands.”
Tossing the shovel aside, Skeeter plunged his hand into the wet sand, mumbling incoherent curses all the while. Finally, his hand came out, and he stretched it over his head. In it was an enormous clam. “Woo-hoo!” Skeeter uncharacteristically called out.
“Shhh! You’ll scare away the rest of the clams!” Riley chastised him.
“Oh, sorry,” Skeeter whispered.
Riley started laughing as he rifled a handful of wet sand against Skeeter’s waders. “Come on, Skeet! You see any ears on that thing?”
Skeeter looked at the clam, then threw it at Riley—pegging him in the chest.
“Ow,” Riley yelled, still laughing. “What kind of bodyguarding is that?”
Without answering, Skeeter began scouring the sand for more air bubbles. Quickly, he got the hang of the process and began tossing clams into the bucket at rapid intervals. By the time the tide returned, the two of them had filled the big metal container to the brim.
Riley got to his feet and saw Skeeter in a tug-of-war with one last clam. The water was up to Skeeter’s armpits, but he would not let go.
“Hey, Skeet, it’s just a clam. We’ve already got plenty. We need to get airborne before the tide gets too high.”
“I’ve almost got it,” Skeeter said with determination. But he spoke too soon. In the epic battle between man and clam, it was the clam that lived to see another tide.
Skeeter wasn’t happy about his loss, but he couldn’t help but smile at the full bucket.
Riley laughed at the muddy blob standing before him. “Welcome to clamming, my friend,” he exclaimed, clapping his friend on the back.
The two men walked back toward the Cub, loaded up, climbed in, and were airborne in a matter of seconds for their twenty-five-minute flight back to Kenai Airport.
Tuesday, July 21, 7:00 p.m. AKDT
Kenai, Alaska
“Kenai Tower, Cub November One Romeo Charlie, five miles south low level inbound with information Alpha, full stop,” Riley announced over the radio.
“November One Romeo Charlie, Kenai Tower, roger. Enter straight in final for runway One. Clear to land. Be advised once on the ground proceed to ramp and park next to the Air Force Learjet.”
Air Force Learjet? Riley wondered. What’s that all about? Nevertheless, he acknowledged the instructions. “Clear to land on One and park next to Learjet. One Romeo Charlie out.”
Moments later, Riley greased the plane onto the asphalt. As he taxied toward the Air Force plane, he saw four men waiting, two dressed in flight suits and the other two in business suits. Each of the business suit guys had a bulge from a vest holster, sunglasses, and—Are you serious?—an earpiece.
“What, did the president come all the way up here to go clamming with us?” Riley asked Skeeter in an attempt to be funny. Skeeter, on full alert, didn’t acknowledge Riley’s little quip.
Riley shut down the engine, and both men began the process of extracting themselves from the small cabin. As they emerged, sand and mud dropped off their chest waders onto the ground below.
One of the suits stepped forward, ignoring the filthiness of the men, and asked, “Riley Covington?”
“That’s me. What’s this all about?”
“I’m Agent Devoe of the FBI. This is Agent Benson.” Without saying anything else, Devoe handed Riley a sealed envelope.
Riley took the packet and opened it, stealing a quick glance at the four men’s serious demeanor. He read the enclosed paper and then looked up at Agent Devoe. “I don’t quite understand. Do you have anything else for me?”
“Yes, sir, but I’ve been given instructions to not give you the orders until airborne. This mission is strictly classified.”
Skeeter became noticeably fidgety.
“Do I at least have time to run home and change?” Riley asked.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Devoe said. “As you can see by the orders, we need to depart immediately.”
Skeeter couldn’t help himself any longer. “Sir, my name is Sergeant Skeeter Dawkins. Mr. Covington’s safety is my direct responsibility—”
“My apologies, Sergeant, but we are taking over the security of Mr. Covington. Rest assured, he will be safe.”
“But, sir,” Skeeter protested, putting a hand on Devoe’s arm.
“Sergeant, I must respectfully ask you to stand down,” Agent Benson ordered, speaking for the first time.
Skeeter was quickly becoming extremely agitated. All four of the visitors tensed up at this large man, who was visibly upset and was, for some reason unknown to them, holding a very short, muddy shovel.
Seeing the potential escalation, Riley quickly took control of the situation. He grabbed Skeeter by the shoulder and said, “Hey, Skeet, it’s okay. I have to follow through on the orders. You know that. We both do. I’ll let you know something ASAP. Take the truck, head back to the house, and I’ll call you when I know what’s going on.”
“But—”
“Skeet, an order’s an order. I’m sure everything is fine.”
Skeeter said nothing.
The two pilots turned and quickly ran up the steps of the Learjet as the other two men escorted Riley onto the plane while keeping an eye on Skeeter. Once on board, Riley unhooked his chest waders and folded them down to his waist. Clumps of mud fell on the jet’s plush carpet.
“Oops,” Riley said with an apologetic grin. “So have you guys been to Alaska before?”
The two FBI agents said nothing.
“Great. I move from one great conversationalist to two more,” Riley said grumpily as he turned toward the window.
Within seconds, the engines were roaring as the plane taxied out to the runway. Riley saw Skeeter still standing by the Super Cub in his waders with his clamming shovel in one hand and his bucket beside him on the ground. He knew Skeeter was weighing all his available options. Poor guy, Riley thought. And all those clams gone to waste.
The Learjet powered up, and soon it was screaming down the runway and into the air. As they climbed out of the Kenai area, Riley noticed they turned southeast. He’d initially thought they may be headed to Elmendorf Air Force Base near Anchorage, but that was north.
Agent Devoe leaned forward and handed him another sealed envelope. Riley opened it
and slid a paper out. He read it, then read it again. He looked up at the man, who offered him nothing in return.
Riley’s mind spun as he slowly turned to the window. “What the—” He stopped in midsentence, then leaned back into his seat as he pondered the implications of having an F-16 escort.
Wednesday, July 22, 5:30 a.m. EDT
Riley was incredibly uncomfortable when he woke up the next morning. He had shimmied out of his waders before falling asleep but was still muddy from his and Skeeter’s clamming escapade, and his shirt smelled like two-day-old sweat.
The flight had been long—very long—and he still didn’t understand what this was all about. His orders were vague and incomplete. They simply said he would be transported to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, where he would receive further information.
Riley was stumped. He realized there had to be some type of terror threat. But why him? He glanced out the window and again saw the escort off the left wing. New fighter, same mission. But what in the world could that mission be?
It was early morning when the plane touched down. The Learjet turned off the runway and taxied directly to a pristine hangar. When it came to a stop, the agents motioned for Riley to exit.
Riley stepped to the top of the stairs and looked down at a man who had just gotten out of a black Suburban. He was wearing a familiar Blue Öyster Cult T-shirt and flip-flops.
“Welcome to Washington, D.C., Lieutenant Covington,” Scott Ross offered with his familiar sarcastic grin.
“Scott, you’ve got some ’splaining to do,” Riley said, confused and exhausted but happy to finally see a friendly face.
Wednesday, July 22, 6:15 a.m. EDT
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
The two men grabbed each other’s shoulders at the foot of the Learjet’s steps. Riley was excited to see his friend again, but he also felt he was waiting for the other shoe to fall.
After they separated, Scott looked around Riley at the plane. Agent Devoe had already deplaned after Riley had stepped off, and through the windows Agent Benson could be seen talking to the two pilots.
