Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “Sergeant, organize a site cleanup detail,” Katelyn said to Doug Lenz, her cadet NCOIC. She picked out two landmarks to the north and west of the center of the clearing they were in. “We’ll take this quadrant and police the area out toward the treeline and one hundred meters beyond. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll join you.”

  “But what about the exercise?” Lenz asked. “Do we get any recognition for winning the exercise?”

  “You heard the captain—the prize was the successful completion of the exercise,” she replied. She stepped closer to him, smiled, and added, “Besides, we all know who won.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Now get going. Be ready to move out in one minute.” Lenz saluted and trotted away.

  “I suppose you think you’re clever, don’t you, VanWie?” one of the other flight leaders, a seventeen-year-old boy named Johansson, who looked closer to twenty-seven, said. The other flight leaders had been talking together and had turned defensively toward Katelyn as she approached them. “You knew damned well that we were supposed to find those markers ourselves, not ambush one another and steal theirs!”

  “Sure I knew it,” Katelyn said, “but the captain made it clear what the objective was, and I made my plan based on the objectives of the exercise, not what I assumed we were supposed to do.”

  “You didn’t win, and you just showed everyone again what a little red-headed weirdo you are.”

  “I’m going to take this quadrant of the clearing for cleanup,” Katelyn said, ignoring the remark. Her cadet NCOIC trotted up to her and told her the flight was ready to move out. “You guys decide what areas you’re going to take.”

  “Why don’t you just take you and your ET hands out into the woods and stay there, freak,” Johansson said.

  Katelyn ignored the remark—she was accustomed to it—but her friend and cadet NCOIC, Doug Lenz, didn’t. Before she could stop him, Lenz—who wasn’t that much bigger than Katelyn, even though he was a year older—shouted, “Shut up, asshole!” then charged at the other flight leader. He got one good punch in to the side of the flight leader’s chest, and Lenz’s head butted the other boy’s chin and opened a slight cut, but that was all.

  Johansson pushed Lenz’s head down and aside, then wiped blood from his chin. “Motherfucker…!” he muttered, then punched Lenz once, hard, on the back of his neck, and the younger boy went down. The flight leader turned, knelt on Lenz’s back, and raised a fist. “I’m gonna waste you, you piece of…!”

  Suddenly he felt a boot strike his chest, and he stumbled back off the young cadet. Unhurt but confused, he looked around to find where the blow had come from…and he found Katelyn VanWie standing between him and Lenz, jumping slightly from foot to foot, her hands raised defensively…her hands, those hands, showing just four fingers on each hand. “Hey!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “You butt out, freak!”

  “It’s over,” Katelyn said. “I apologize for Doug, and it won’t happen again.”

  “I’m gonna kick his ass!” Johansson said. He took one of the other flight leaders by the arm and pushed him toward Katelyn. “Keep the freak away from me while I teach this a-hole not to mess with Bravo Flight.”

  It was obvious the second cadet, a younger kid named Swanson, didn’t want to have anything to do with this, but he put up his hands and stood in front of Katelyn, determined to keep her away from his flight leader until the squadron commander came back. As he approached Katelyn, though, all he could look at was those hands and the weirdness of what looked like a finger in place of her thumbs…

  …and he didn’t see her left leg sweep out and trip him. Swanson landed hard on his back and decided he was going to stay right there—he’d had enough of the girl with the ET fingers already…

  “What is going on over here?” Captain Harlow thundered from several yards away.

  “Group, ten-hut!” Katelyn shouted. She snapped to attention but kept her eyes on the flight leader, making sure he didn’t make a move toward her.

  “I said, what’s going on here?” Harlow shouted again. “VanWie, did I see you just trip that cadet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Cadets Swanson and Johansson wanted a demonstration of muay thai, sir.”

  “‘Muay thai?’ What’s that?”

  “Kickboxing, sir.”

  “Is that true, Swanson?”

  The second cadet had just gotten to his feet, trying to get to attention while rubbing the back of his head. “Uh, I…yes, sir…I mean…”

  “Johansson, what’s going on here?” Harlow demanded. He noticed the dust and dirt on Lenz’s uniform and the cut on Johansson’s chin—the only person here not dirty or bloody was VanWie, by far the smallest kid in this group. “Well?”

  “We’re just…playing around, sir,” Johansson said. “We were demoing some martial arts moves.”

  “I thought I told you guys to police this area and get ready to move out,” Harlow said. “I only see Delta out there. Now get busy.” The cadets saluted and ran off. “VanWie.” Katelyn trotted back and stood at attention. “Okay, Lieutenant, tell me what really happened.”

  “It’s just like Lieutenant Johansson said, sir.”

  “You don’t think I saw what happened, Lieutenant? Do you think I’m blind? Cadet Lenz attacked and struck Johansson, he defended himself and was preparing to hit back, you stepped in and kicked him, then stepped in between him and Lenz and knocked over Swanson. That makes you and Lenz the instigators and liable for disciplinary action. Now do you mind telling me what happened?”

  “It was a misunderstanding, sir, that’s all.”

  “A ‘misunderstanding?’ Explain.”

  “Cadet Lenz misunderstood a comment made and overreacted. It was a failure in leadership on my part, so I’m responsible. If there’s any disciplinary action, it should be directed at myself.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Lieutenant. What comment was made?” Katelyn remained silent. “I asked you a question, Lieutenant.”

  “I’d rather not say, sir.”

  Harlow stepped back, crossed his arms, and took a breath. This was not the first time he’d heard about such comments, but it was the first time he’d ever seen VanWie react to it.

  React, hell…Katelyn kicked his ass. Johansson easily had twenty-five pounds on her, and she made it look easy. As much as Johansson probably deserved it, the use of physical force instead of ignoring or reporting such comments was a dangerous change that had to be nipped in the bud right away.

  “Lieutenant…Katelyn, listen: I strongly advise you not to resort to violence to solve problems, even if a friend or colleague is in danger,” Harlow said. “Striking a fellow officer is not permitted, and you could face some serious repercussions no matter what the circumstances are; but more importantly, violence in the heat of emotion is the most dangerous and non-productive kind. It makes you weaker, not stronger. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m saying this as your friend, Katelyn, not just your CO,” Harlow went on. “You’ve obviously got some martial arts skills, which I didn’t know you had. Nothing wrong with that, as long as it’s used for self-defense—otherwise, you should be smart, avoid confrontation, and notify the proper authorities first before things get out of hand, whether it’s myself, a teacher, your parents, or the police, if you’re in a situation where your friends or family are getting hurt.” Harlow could see Katelyn’s eyes briefly turn away when he mentioned her parents, but they quickly returned to his. “If you start acting like the enforcer, you turn into nothing but a bully. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was Johansson’s comments about your hands, Katelyn?”

  He could see her eyebrows droop a bit under the brim of her fatigue cap, but she replied, “I’d rather not say, sir.”

  “You know that hypoplastic thumb is one of the most common congenital birth defects of the limbs, don’t you?
” Harlow asked. Katelyn had received special permission from the Air Force to join the Civil Air Patrol because she was born with bilateral hypoplastic thumb—missing thumbs from both hands. At the age of one year she had pollicization surgery to position her index fingers in place of her missing thumbs, so she only had four fingers on each hand. But the results were excellent: despite her handicap, Katelyn was an accomplished student, pianist, typist, outdoorsperson, marksman—and apparently a martial artist, especially with her feet, which made perfect sense for someone with deformed hands. There was no skill or challenge in the Civil Air Patrol that she couldn’t master.

  But her greatest skill wasn’t what she could do with only four fingers on each hand, but in the realm of leadership. Perhaps because most others expected less of the diminutive red-haired girl with the “ET hands,” she inspired others by her actions and distinguished herself as a natural-born leader. Her “Red Dog Delta” flight was consistently tops in required exams, dress and appearance, and field exercise performance in the squadron, and she often beat out flights all across the state that had far more physically capable members.

  Yet she never stayed in the spotlight for very long, was annoyingly camera-shy, and had no other hobbies or interests outside her little northern Minnesota school other than Civil Air Patrol. She was a standout performer—especially so in an organization composed mostly of boys—but preferred not to stand out at all. It was the same with her parents: older, rather formal, bankers or some sort of financial consultants, always well-dressed but modestly so, not particularly demonstrative or affectionate. Like Katelyn, the parents looked as if they liked a challenge and craved a little action but preferred to be quiet and stay out of the spotlight.

  “I did a little checking on the subject when you joined the squadron,” Harlow went on. “Although double hypoplastic thumb is rare, the condition is…”

  “May I go back and supervise my flight, sir?” Katelyn interjected.

  Harlow kicked himself for his insensitive babbling and nodded. “Just remember what we talked about, okay, Katelyn? Don’t try to be the hero. Being a good leader doesn’t mean kicking butt.”

  “Yes, sir. May I go, sir?”

  Harlow wasn’t sure how much he had said sunk in, but his clumsy way of trying to act empathetic toward her and her affliction probably ruined any chance he had of reaching her today. “Of course, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she responded immediately, then saluted and headed off toward the clearing.

  Katelyn had taken just a few steps when Harlow heard the beat of helicopter rotors approaching. He was a former Army finance officer and didn’t know very much about helicopters before joining the Civil Air Patrol, but he did know that wasn’t a Chinook—besides, it was arriving too early for their scheduled pickup, and it was in the wrong place.

  Then he saw it—it was a UH-60 Black Hawk military helicopter with Minnesota Army National Guard markings on it—and it looked like it was maneuvering to land in the clearing! “Flight commanders, helicopter landing zone procedures, now!” he shouted. “Clear a zone for the helicopter!” His troops were very accustomed to working with helicopters, so the clearing was made ready in very short order. Moments after touchdown, two men stepped out of the helicopter—one in civilian clothing, and one in green battle dress uniform.

  Harlow saluted the man in the BDUs, a lieutenant colonel, who returned his salute. “Captain Harlow? Grand Rapids CAP?” the man asked, shouting over the roar of the Black Hawk’s idling turbines.

  “Yes, sir, that’s me.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Clay Lawson, commander of the Second of the One-forty-seventh Guard Aviation Brigade out of St. Paul,” the man said. “My unit’s been asked to provide support for the U.S. State Department. Because this request was…rather unusual, I decided to do it myself.”

  “The State Department, sir?”

  Lawson turned to the man in civilian clothes. “This is Special Agent Bruce Hamilton of the Protective Liaison Division of the U.S. State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security,” Lawson said. “He’s here to retrieve one of your cadets.”

  “Retrieve one of my cadets, sir?”

  “Son, you’re going to have to get it together and work with me or we’re going to be out here all day,” Lawson said patiently. “This man wants to take one of your cadets with him. Now I don’t know your procedures, so I need you to tell me exactly what you need to do or who you need to call to accomplish this.”

  “Y-yes, sir. Which cadet?” But he thought he already knew who…

  “VanWie. Katelyn VanWie.”

  Harlow opened his mouth, then closed it, looked away, then began to collect his thoughts. “I…I can only turn a cadet over to his or her parents, sir.”

  “We thought so.” Lawson turned back to the National Guard officer. A crewmember opened the right side door, revealing two individuals strapped into web seats and wearing headsets. “Are those VanWie’s parents? Do you recognize them?”

  Harlow stepped toward the helicopter and looked at them carefully, then waved at them. They did not wave back. He turned back toward the National Guard officer. “I want them out of the helicopter so I can speak to them directly.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Captain, but we should make this quick,” Lawson said. He waved, and the flight engineer helped the two out of the harnesses and out of the helicopter. Harlow escorted them away from the helicopter. Hamilton began following them, but Lawson held him back. “He’s doing his job, Hamilton—let him,” he said.

  Now several dozen yards away from everyone else, Harlow pulled the VanWies closer to him. “Richard? Linda? What’s going on? Are you two okay?”

  “Where’s Katelyn?” Linda asked.

  “I said, are you two okay?”

  “We’re fine, Ed,” Richard said. “But we need to leave right away. Where’s Katelyn?”

  Harlow turned and saw the squadron together around the periphery of the clearing, in front of the helicopter in full view of the pilot, as they were taught. As usual, Katelyn was mostly hidden in the back, almost out of sight. “She’s right there. She’s fine.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I thought you guys were at your mother’s place in Duluth during the encampment.”

  “It’s Duquette, not Duluth, and it’s Richard’s brother’s place, not his mother’s,” Linda said. “We invited you there last spring but you came down with the flu.”

  “I appreciate your caution here, Ed, testing us like that,” Richard said, “but this is urgent. We need to leave right away.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “We…we need to take her with us,” Richard said.

  “In a military helicopter?” He motioned to the National Guard officer and civilian. “Who are those guys? Do you know them?”

  “We know Hamilton, but not the military officer.”

  “Hamilton’s from the Defense Department?”

  “State Department. Protective Liaison Division.”

  Another test passed—Harlow was beginning to become convinced. “What’s this about? Are you in some kind of trouble?” They didn’t answer right away. “Listen, if you’re under some kind of duress—if these guys aren’t who they say they are—I can try to get you and Katelyn out of here. I have a satellite phone, and Katelyn and her flight are familiar with these woods and they have good escape and evasion skills. I can call for help…”

  “No,” Richard said. “Those men are who they say they are.” He paused, then added, “But we’re not who we said we were.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “We’re not Katelyn’s parents—we’re her khataris, her bodyguards,” Richard said. He looked around nervously. “Something has happened, and we feel the shahdokht’s life is in danger, so she needs to be evacuated immediately.”

  “The who?”

  “Please, Ed, can we get out of here?” Linda said, desperate pleading in her voice. “Maybe we can talk on the helicopt
er…”

  “I’ve got the whole squadron out here—I can’t leave!” Harlow said. “And I can’t let Katelyn leave until I’m satisfied she’ll be safe. If you’re not the VanWies, who in hell are you?”

  “I am Major Parviz Najar, and this is Lieutenant Mara Saidi,” Richard said. “We are security officers assigned to His Highness King Mohammed Hassan Qagev, pretender to the Peacock Throne of Iran.”

  “What?”

  “It is true, Ed,” the one who called himself Najar said. “Katelyn’s real name is Princess Azar Assiyeh Qagev, eldest surviving child of the true king of Iran, may God bless him and all true believers.”

  Harlow’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You…are you kidding me? Is this for real? Is this some kind of Candid Camera crap?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, Ed, but we’re telling you the truth,” Linda said. “The princess’s family has been in protective custody of the U.S. State Department since Reza Khan Pahlavi took power in Iran in 1925 from the princess’s great-grandfather. The princess is the last of her siblings alive—the rest have been hunted down and killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, the Pasdaran.”

  “But if she’s safe here, why take her away?”

  “Because we have lost contact with the king, the princess’s father, and his court,” Najar said. “Until we can contact them, Princess Azar is the heir apparent to the Peacock Throne—the Malika, the queen of Iran.”

  “Katelyn is…a friggin’ queen?”

  “She must make contact with her countrymen as soon as possible to assure her followers that the dynasty is intact and ready to take power should God and events in Iran allow it,” Najar said.

  Harlow put a hand on his temple and shook his head, trying to make sense of all this. “I need some sort of verification,” Harlow said. “I don’t know those two, and now I don’t know you. I’m not going to let Katelyn or any of my cadets out of my sight until I’m satisfied everything is in order.”