Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

Dinkey hesitated, then turned away and concluded his briefing. He turned away from the monitor back to the marshals and said, "Any questions? Dey?"

  "No questions, Simon. It's just as clear as can be," Charley said, standing.

  The rest of his team stood and followed him out of the room. Dinkey stared after Dey and said to Purdy, "I want him out. I don't care how we do it, I want him out. He's a goddamn cowboy, he was one in Special Forces, he was one with the Company, and he is over here. Men like him get good men killed."

  Purdy sighed. "Like him or not, sir, he's one of the long time leaders. Dey's got some real history, and that's rare in this outfit anymore. Why don't you just try to bring him around?"

  "Because I don't have to bring him around," Dinkey snapped. "I want him out." He noticed Karen lingering in the briefing room. "And what can I do for you, young lady?"

  ***

  PART TWO

  OPERATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

  FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

  The Hauptbahnhof, the central train station in Frankfurt Germany, is a huge domed structure, the interior ceiling beams and support struts over the train platform grimy with decades of soot. The sandstone and glass main ticket building, with its crowning sculpture of Atlas, was first built in 1888 and survived the Nazi era and the Allied Occupation. The surrounding business district is neatly divided into small blocks by the cross streets lined with five-story flats that date from the 1870s. While there are some residences, most of the buildings are filled with airline offices and travel agencies, tobacco stores and camera shops, and other small businesses. Down the Taunus Strasse and the Kaiser Strasse, not far from the station, is the famous red light district with its sex shows, brothels and other diversions. There is no shortage of inexpensive lodging close to the train station and the red light district. Many of the smaller hotels, especially those further south down the Basler Strasse, are owned by immigrant Iranians, Iraqis, Palestinians, and Lebanese.

  From the third floor of the Hotel Manzariyeh, a Palestinian man in his late thirties stared out at the sculpted sandstone facade of the Hauptbahnhof and the trains coming and going from there. He was a seasoned operative with the covert action arm of HizbAllah -- a master planner and coordinator who had proven his ingenuity and capability time and again. He had been personally selected and briefed for his latest mission by the Shiite cleric who oversaw HizbAllah's direct action operations.

  "We have discussed the findings of the committee," the cleric said, his eyes intense behind thick-lensed glasses, his thick lips twitching. "What the American Leigh gave us corroborates what our surveillance units have told us. We intend to continue our campaign against the Americans by attacking them directly on another front. We will take an American airliner. We will take it despite their best security measures, despite their Air Marshals if necessary. No one will feel safe on-board an American airplane anywhere in the world." The cleric paused, and then said to the grim-faced man before him, "You will do this. You will select your people. Prepare your plan. Gather the necessary operational intelligence. Conduct the final training. And then go. We will meet you at the airfield on that day."

  The chosen leader turned from the window and his memories and looked at the specially selected group crowded into his small hotel room. Their task was to gather the necessary operational intelligence for his hijacking team. He walked to the bed where a large cork panel rested against the headboard. Pinned to the cork panel were a large folding diagram of the Rhine-Main Flughaven, Frankfurt's International Airport, and photographs of various locations within the airport terminal.

  "This is where they will come through customs," the leader, whose name was Ahmad Ajai, said. "They will come through as a group, escorted by this man," he pointed to a picture. "He is their representative to the airport security forces."

  "Why do they come through as a group? It seems poor practice," said one of the young men seated on the floor.

  "Because they are careless," Ahmad Ajai said. "Because they are lazy."

  He pointed to the board and said, "Our sole purpose at this point is to gather and refine our tactical intelligence. We wish to determine these essential elements of information: First, how many marshals are deployed? Second, what is their level of counter-surveillance and tradecraft? Third, what can we discover about their seating arrangements? Fourth, how well are they equipped and trained? And finally, what can we discover about their future deployments?" He rolled his shoulders to get a kink out. "It will not be too difficult."

  His team members looked around at one another and then back at him. "Will we take them here?" one asked.

  "No," Ajai said. "If we take them, we will take them in the air."

  ***

  WESTERN AMERICA FLIGHT 711, DULLES TO FRANKFURT:

  Most passengers can't afford the thousands of dollars it costs to fly First Class from Washington DC to Frankfurt, Germany, so the first class section of a 747 seems like an exotic enclave as they edge through on their way back to Business or Coach. The First Class cabin was as familiar to Charley as his old office in Marana or the small apartment he lived in just outside of Dulles. He no longer saw the cabin as a collection of seats, aisles and overhead compartments. It was terrain to him, with angles of attack, avenues of approach and positions of cover. A part of him would always calculate, murmur softly in the back of his head: 'A neck will snap when wedged this way into the armrest of a seat...the peroneal nerve in the outside of an attacker's thigh will be on line with my elbow when positioned this way on the armrest...remember to angle fire at a 45 degree offset past the cockpit door...' and so on. He remembered one of his drill sergeants, back in the sixties when he had graduated from Advanced Infantry Training, telling him: "You're an infantryman now. You'll never look at the ground the same way. It'll always be terrain to you -- you'll look for the high ground, you'll look for the kill zones. That's how you know you've changed, when you've changed the way you look at the world."

  Charley looked at his crew. Butch was preparing his notes for the crew briefing. The other marshals and the flight attendants were gathered around the central serving table in the front of First Class. The flight attendants, several attractive young women and one openly gay man, were presided over by the lead attendant, a tall and statuesque German woman.

  The gay flight attendant, his black hair carefully groomed and slicked down, whispered to the woman next him, "Can I have the strong and silent one?" He nodded his head towards Steve, who stood with his thick arms crossed, oblivious to the by-play.

  "He's too much man for you, Tony," the young woman said. "He'd hurt you."

  "Get your eyes off him, bitch," Tony said. "He's mine."

  Donald Gene, who stood behind Tony, leaned forward and rested his forearms on the flight attendant's shoulders. He whispered in Tony's ear, "You know, he's kind of quiet...and he doesn't like to advertise...but he's been out of the closet for a long time."

  "Get out!" Tony hissed.

  "Really. Take it from me, sweetie," Donald Gene said. "That's a hunk of burning love over there."

  The tall German lead flight attendant tilted her chin up and said to Don, "So. You like it like that, then?"

  Donald Gene smiled into the woman's face. She was exactly as tall as he was. "I aim to please, sugar. I'm ambisexual."

  "I find you disgusting and rude," she said.

  "Does that mean fascinating in German?"

  Charley tugged on the back of Don's shirt as Butch began the mission orientation briefing for the flight crew.

  "Most of you have flown with us before, I think," Butch began. "So some of this I will just go over briefly..." He looked around and caught the eye of each flight attendant for a moment. "There is no threat to this flight. As you know, we fly certain high risk routes on a deterrent basis -- this flight is a positioning flight for us, as we'll be working in Europe for the next few weeks. We work undercover..."

  "Or under the covers," Don murmured to the amusement of the flight attendants.

&n
bsp; "...and we need your help to preserve that among the passengers. Please don't say anything about us being on board where the passengers can hear it, treat us like ordinary passengers...well, maybe a little better..."

  The flight attendants laughed. The low key briefing put them at ease."...you can offer us liquor, but we won't be drinking since we are armed. Don't block us in with the meal carts, because if something happens we may need to get out of our seats in a hurry. If there is something that you see going on that you think we need to take care of, please find one of us and let us know. We're here to take care of you and protect you," Butch concluded. "Are there any questions?"

  "Yeah," said a young blond woman. "How many of you guys are single?"

  ***

  It was the middle of the night and the 747 passed over the dark waters of the Atlantic like a dream. The cabin lights were out. Most of the passengers were sleeping, with a few insomniacs up reading under their overhead lights or listening to music from the console headsets. The marshals were doing the same thing: reading, listening to music or prowling the aisles in their assigned sectors. In the Business Class galley, behind drawn curtains, a few of the flight attendants were snacking on meal leftovers with Charley and Don. Don was talking to Robin, the young blond flight attendant from New York.

  "Yeah, it's a lonely lifestyle," he said. "A lot like yours...you travel all the time, in one city and then the next..."

  "But it's so dangerous," Robin gushed. "Aren't you afraid?"

  The other flight attendants rolled their eyes.

  Donald Gene ignored them and gave Robin his best approximation of a Cary Grant sincere and lonely gunfighter look. "Somebody has to do this job. I'm proud to do my part."

  Charley Dey burst out laughing.

  ***

  FRANKFURT, GERMANY

  Charley stayed in his First Class aisle seat and stared out the window at the buildings and runways of Rhine-Main Flughaven. The other passengers filed past him, down the aisles and through the open forward door into the jetway. The rest of his team gathered around him and slouched into empty seats or leaned against the bulkhead while the remaining passengers departed. After the last passenger deplaned, a flight attendant came forward and said, "The aircraft is clear."

  A crew of blue-overall clad airplane cleaners came on board, rags and plastic bags in their hands, leather belts with holstered bottles of spray cleaner at their waists. One of the cleaners, a woman, stood and stared as the marshals slipped past her and exited the aircraft. The cleaner watched them go and silently noted to herself how many marshals there were and how tired they looked. She sprayed cleanser on the overhead compartments and began wiping them down with a rag.

  "Who are those people?" she asked the crew foreman.

  "American air marshals," he said.

  "What do they do?"

  "They ride the planes, look for hijackers." He snorted. "They are buffoons...everyone knows who they are."

  The Palestinian woman shrugged and went back to her cleaning.

  ***

  The marshals edged their way through the crowded terminal concourse and into the stream of passengers hurrying to the baggage claim and Customs area. Donald Gene walked with the flight attendants, wary of the collapsible baggage carts they all pulled behind them. "...okay, we'll give you girls a call this afternoon. Get a cat-nap and freshen up some, then we'll go catch some dinner, maybe some beer and some dancing..." he said.

  "That sounds like fun!" Robin said.

  "Oh, it'll be an experience, girlfriend," Stacy said.

  Robin studied Stacy's calm face and said, "What's it like working with all these guys?"

  Stacy canted her head and winked at the young flight attendant. "It's just a living hell, honey. I get so sick of these farting, belching, pussy-chasing cockhounds I could shoot them my own self... but really, they're not that bad. Except that goddamn Donald Gene," she added loudly.

  Robin looked at Don. "Oh, I think he's cute."

  "Cute as a snake, maybe."

  "Stacy, you talking about me back there?" Donald said over his shoulder.

  "Why, your ears burning?" Stacy said.

  "No. My dick is getting hard."

  Joan whooped out loud, and the other marshals and the flight attendants laughed. They came to an escalator that led from the concourse up to the main terminal. At the top of the escalator, a small, dapper man in a white shirt and dark suit with no tie, leaned against the low wall and looked down at them. The dapper man nodded to his companion, a similarly dressed man in his twenties, who went down the escalator. He was followed by his young wife, swathed from head to toe in the traditional female dress of the Shiite sect, who held their young son's hand held tightly in her own. The head of the family had a small video recorder he seemed very proud of. He hurried down the escalator and turned the camera to catch his wife and son descending, as well as the entire marshal team as they went up the opposite escalator.

  At the top of the escalators, just before the big double doors that led out into the main terminal shopping area, George Baumgarner, the embassy liaison officer stood waiting for them. He had been a Cobra attack helicopter pilot in Viet Nam, a cop in Virginia after that, and then an air marshal until he was promoted out of the cadre. A skinny man with the yellow grin of a long-time smoker, he hurried forward, his hands outstretched for Charley Dey's.

  "They drag you out of retirement for this or what, buddy?" George said, pumping Charley's hand.

  "Sure seems like it, George," Charley said. "How you been?" He punched George lightly on the chest and felt the helicopter rotor bolt that George wore on a chain around his neck. "Still wearing that Jesus nut, I see. Doesn't your wife get pissed?"

  "Not since I got her some safety goggles to wear to bed."

  "Jesus, George," Charley said.

  "C'mon you guys," George led them out into the main terminal and then down the stairs to baggage claim and customs. He waved his pass at the customs inspectors and ushered the marshals through the customs area. The marshals picked up their few checked bags from the carousel.

  "Hey, Butch," Charley called out. "Make sure the new guys get paired up with somebody in the cabs. We'll meet in my room at 1000 hours. Donnie, you come with me and George."

  "Roger that," Don said.

  "C'mon girls, you all ride with Mama Stacy and she'll tell you all about the facts of life," Stacy said, pulling her Delsey suitcase behind her.

  George and the two team leaders watched their crew break into two cells of three and load up into the cabs lined up outside the baggage claim area. After the team pulled away from the curb, George walked Don and Charley over to an espresso coffee stand and bought three cups.

  "So what's the word, George?" Don said, dumping three sugars into his espresso. An attractive German woman walked by, giving Don a quick up and down appraisal.

  George grinned through a wreath of cigarette smoke. "You still got it, Donnie."

  "Um hmm," Don said.

  "So what is it?" Charley said impatiently.

  "The word is they're targeting specific flights based on your coverage," George said.

  "Who's they?" Charley asked.

  "A covert action cell out of HizbAllah. Graduates of the hijacking school."

  Don raised his eyebrows. "No shit," he said. "Back when I was on the Teams, we planned on taking out that operation."

  "I wish you guys had," George said, lighting another cigarette.

  "What might have been don't count," Charley said. "Who's working the Agency end of things?"

  "Who else?" George said. "Jedi Loveless."

  Don laughed. "I haven't seen him in a while."

  "We're going to have to hook up with him," Charley said.

  "You guys better watch out," George said. "Or you'll both end up being missionaries for the Christians In Action."

  ***

  Inside the suite of hotel rooms that overlooked the train station, the terrorist surveillance unit reassembled. New picture boar
ds went up on the walls. Still photographs, some digitized from the video tape, were assembled on one, organized into a rough schematic tree based on their presumed team assignments. At the top of the tree was a picture of Charley Dey and Donald Gene Nelson, with a dotted line connecting to a picture of George Baumgarner. Another board had pictures of the two three-person groups that had shared cabs. A room map of the Hotel Frankfurt Intercontinental on Wilhelm-Leuschner Strasse was posted beside the pictures.

  "Do we have all the room assignments?" Ahmad Ajai asked.

  "Yes, I have the last two here. They were late check-ins," said one of the men, short and muscular with close cropped black hair.

  "Then do the rooms this afternoon. Most of them will be out," Ajai ordered.

  "Yes," said the muscular man. "It has already been taken care of."

  ***

  Stacy, Karen and Joan met out in the hallway of the hotel.

  "You girls ready?" Stacy said. The other two women nodded, and followed Stacy to the elevator, where they squeezed past a maid and a maintenance man speaking softly beside the maid's cart, stacked high with towels, soap and cleaning materials.

  "Guten tag," the maid said to the three women.

  "Guten tag," Stacy said, inclining her head regally as the elevator door slid shut.

  The two hotel maintenance workers watched the indicator light above the elevator door trace its way down twenty-three floors to the lobby. Once they saw the elevator wasn't returning, the man and the woman went to Karen's door. The maid's master key opened the door and they quickly entered. The man went to the suitcase placed beside the bed and used a master baggage key for the Samsonite line to open the bag. The maid went immediately to the dresser and started through the drawers, beginning with the bottom-most and working her way up.

  "Ah," the man said. He pulled out a soft leather Day-Timer portfolio. Tucked inside was a xeroxed list of names, dates and flight numbers. He took out a small handheld copier the size of an electric razor and ran it down the page, the thermal paper copy curling over his fist.