Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

  The godfather of his unit was a former Special Forces officer named Jed Loveless. He had known John Bolen ever since he was a hard charging young corporal from the 82d Airborne, had been his rabbi since day one, and brought him up through the ranks and watched over him like a benevolent warlord over his son.

  "I ought to whip you like a red-headed step child," Jed said.

  "You got the talking part done, old-timer."

  "Shit."

  "Let's go get some coffee."

  "We got some business to take care of first." Jed handed Bolen a folder. Inside were pictures of Ahmad Ajai and the memo prepared by Jed's staffers. "You recognize this stuff?"

  "Yeah. We've been working Neberi pretty hard...his family kicked into gear, starting moving money around, activated at least one of their safehouses and reached out to some of the French bureaucrats he owns. It seemed like there might be some connection to the Air Marshals and the Leigh recovery operation we've got going."

  "There might be some connection." Jed gave a short overview of the air marshal operation and the connection with Leigh.

  "I knew about that and the Kuwaiti connection. I didn't know that Dey and Leigh went back that far. I know Dey. I met him at Bill Rogers' shooting school in Georgia. Good guy, real low key, good sense of humor." Bolen thumbed through the photos and looked at the picture of Ahmad Ajai. "You think this boy might be the one? Think they might be making a hijacking play?"

  "That's what I'm getting out of all this. Can you put some assets onto it?"

  "Hell yeah, Uncle Jed. Loan me some bodies?"

  "Whatever you need."

  "Let's get that coffee."

  ***

  WASHINGTON, DC.:

  The Intelligence Watch officer for the Federal Aviation Administration's Command Center was a CIA analyst detailed to the FAA from the CIA's Counter Terrorism Unit. While she worked with the FAA, her paycheck and her chain of command came from the Central Intelligence Agency. The two phones on her desk reflected that: one went directly to the FAA Aviation Security Administrator, the other to the CIA's Counter Terrorism Unit. It was the latter phone that rang.

  "Command Center," Megan Reilly said briskly.

  "Reilly, this is Chopp at CTU."

  "Hey, Jim."

  "Stand-by for a dump on the secure fax. It's something that should go over to your Intel guys and down to the Air Marshals ASAP."

  "OK. How's life in the big leagues?"

  "Shame on you, Megan," Jim said, snickering. "Everybody's got a role to play in the game...it's not as if you're on the bench."

  Megan Reilly looked around the Command Center. The FAA Security operation was a newcomer to the close-knit intelligence community and its ranking as the most junior player meant that she saw little of real time or urgent intelligence -- the kind of data she thrived on during her tour with the Counter Terrorism Unit. "That's easy for you to say, Jim. See you at Happy Hour Friday."

  "Only if you stay off the margaritas. Out here."

  She stretched her lanky frame as she got out of the chair, then went to the corner of the room where several secure fax machines and secure telephone units were set up. On the wall were multiple TV screens including one set on CNN -- the best real-time intelligence source in the world. The secure fax beeped, and the amber SECURE TRANSMISSION light lit up. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee while the incoming fax curled into its basket.

  ***

  On Saturdays, Simon Dinkey liked to go into DC, to the Marine Corps Barracks, and go for a run with the Marine Corps Commandant and General Stone. Afterwards he was often asked to breakfast and, if he was lucky, golf in the afternoon if the weather was good. Today he had showed up and neither one was at the Barracks, so he ran by himself, after asking the gunnery sergeant on duty where they were.

  "The Commandant is in Okinawa, sir," the gunnery sergeant said. "I am unaware of General Stone's location or activities, sir."

  "Thank you, Sergeant," Dinkey said. He was surprised that he hadn't heard from General Stone. After his run, he showered and ate in the officer's mess, nodding to some of the other officers he knew. Some were still on active duty and working at Marine Headquarters; others, like him, were retired and living or working in the DC area. He decided to swing by the FAA headquarters building and see who was working. When he parked his car in the basement, he saw General Stone's Buick and several cars he knew belonged to staffers. He hurried to the elevator, flashing his pass and ID at the young guard, and entered his access authorization for the Security Division into the elevator's keypad. On the fifth floor, he strode briskly down the hallway to the cipher-locked door. The door was shut in General Stone's office. Dinkey hesitated outside the General's office door, then decided against entering and went to his desk. He sat there for a while, riffling aimlessly through his in-basket. He looked often at the door. He got up and went to the coffee pot and saw that while there was only an inch in the bottom of the carafe, it was fairly fresh. He poured it out and made a fresh pot. He singed his lip while sipping at his coffee and cursed more strongly than it warranted, while he stared at the General's closed door.

  ***

  General Stone's office door opened. His secretary Sally, the head of Intelligence, the head of Operations, and the harried, mousy looking head of the Air Marshal Branch, Michael Crock, burst out like racehorses from the gate. General Stone followed them out, patrician in his polo shirt and khaki trousers. He saw Dinkey and waved to him.

  "Simon, you must be psychic. Step on in here. I just sent Sally to beep you," the retired Marine Corps general said.

  Sally smiled prettily at Dinkey. "Hello, Colonel. You just saved me a little bit of time." She looked over at the General. "I'll get everybody else you wanted, sir."

  "Sally, you're a prize. Come in here, Simon," General Stone said.

  "Yes, sir," Dinkey said.

  Dinkey followed the General into his office.

  "Sit," the General said. "Take a look at this." He handed Dinkey the fax Megan Reilly had delivered. "That may be the first look at the man targeting our aircraft. CIA is working the connection real hard. We're going to be hammering out an action plan, some new advisories, and some special deployments for the marshal units. I need your help on this."

  "Of course, sir. Whatever I can do," Dinkey said humbly.

  "Good man. Crock needs all the help he can get." General Stone looked up and lowered his voice. "We both know he needs a spinal transplant, but I can't replace him yet. I need you to reinforce him when there's a tough call to be made. We want our best people out there, only the very best we have. We're sending them into the fire. I want people who can cut it. We need to have the right people back here as well. People who know how to handle things. I'm going to rely on you to make those calls."

  "You can trust me, sir. You always have."

  "I know that, Simon. Move out."

  Dinkey stood, snapped a salute and went back out. Mike Crock was hovering by his desk.

  "Mike," Dinkey said, before the other man could open his mouth. "We've got a lot of work cut out for us. Let's go."

  The bewildered bureaucrat followed Dinkey into the conference room.

  ***

  Donald Gene Nelson pulled himself up out of the water on Virginia Beach. It was cold, but he lived for the feel of water on his skin. Becoming a SEAL had been a natural progression for him. As a boy in Georgia he had swum like a fish, taking to the creeks and pools and swimming holes and the sleek, sun-tanned girls around them. The high school swim team had been fun until he got kicked off for being caught with the head cheerleader, both of them naked and wet and standing, in the girl's shower room. He had thought that Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL would be a snap for a swimmer. He had been wrong. Hell Week had taught him things about himself he hadn't been able to imagine at the age of 19, and those insights had saved his life in Viet Nam and made him who he was today.

  His latest girl friend was posed like a Vargas model on the beach towel when he cleared
the surf; despite the brisk breeze off the water, she wore a brief bikini.

  "You like these eye treats, don't you, honey?" the 24 year old Liz said in her sweet Virginia accent.

  "I can't tell you, baby," Donald Gene said. "C'mere." He threw the wet length of his body on her and pinned her to the towel.

  "Don!"

  He kissed her till his beeper went off.

  "Goddamn it," he muttered. He rolled away and opened his fanny pack. Buried behind his off duty pistol was his beeper, flashing the number of the Air Marshal Comm Center. "Baby, where's the cellular phone?" he said, brushing sand off his hands.

  "In my bag there, Don. What is it?"

  Don dug through her Guatemalan cloth beach bag and pulled out the Motorola flip phone. He hit the memory dial.

  Simon Dinkey answered the phone. "Comm center, this line is not secure, Simon Dinkey speaking."

  "Simon Dinkey, this is Donald Gene the love machine. Why is that my dick gets hard whenever you talk to me?" Don grinned as he heard the intake of air on the other end of the phone.

  "Your presence is needed immediately at the FOB," Dinkey said tersely.

  "I need you too, baby. I really need you."

  "What is your estimated time of arrival?"

  "Are you asking when I'm gonna come, baby?"

  "Nelson, I've had enough of your bullshit! You get your ass in here now!" Dinkey cut off the line.

  Don was laughing out loud. Liz looked at him quizzically. He hit the speed dial again.

  "Comm center, this line is not secure, Simon Dinkey speaking."

  "But baby, I'm off duty..."

  The line went dead. Don folded the phone up, tucked it into his fanny pack and stood up. There were few other people on the beach. He pulled Liz to her feet, stuffed her towel and book into the beach bag and led her by the hand behind the privacy wall of the shower stand next to the empty restrooms.

  "Baby, Daddy Don has got to go save the world from terrorism. But since it's just the two of us out here on this lonely little beach..."

  "Don!"

  ***

  Maria was holding Charley Dey's hand as the two of them strolled among the blossoming cherry trees on the Mall. "They are so beautiful...I love cherry trees."

  Charley smiled and squeezed her hand. Maria had flown in on the red eye from Phoenix to National, and Charley had met her at the gate. After a long, silent hug, he took her home and they had made love for most of the night. They slept late, and then went into Georgetown for breakfast, and now he was taking her round to see the sights. He was still wondering about the sudden turn of events with Maria; he hadn't realized how much he had missed her and how much he enjoyed her. It had been good to wake up with her head on his shoulder, in his bed, in the early morning light, and to turn with her wrapped in his arms and go back to sleep. He was enjoying seeing Washington through her eyes. He had been here so many times on business that the beauty of this city had become just a backdrop for his endless trips between Headquarters, the Marshal FOB, the airports and hotels.

  "How is Don?" Maria asked.

  "Same as always," he answered. "He's probably got five girl friends by now..."

  "He is so funny," she said.

  "Yeah, I'm glad to have him around."

  She smiled up at him when he said that and squeezed his hand. "What about me? Are you glad to have me around?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I am."

  ***

  "Charley, your beeper is going off," Maria called from the bathroom.

  Charley reached for his belt, then went to the bathroom door. Maria handed the beeper out and shut the door. He heard the shower start up. The Comm Center number was flashing on the Skypager. He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial.

  "Comm center, this line is not secure, Michael Crock speaking."

  "Hey, Mikey, it's Charley. What you guys beep me for?"

  "Hi Charley. We need you to come in."

  "What's up?"

  "Well, we can't talk about it on a non secure line." Crock paused. "We've got a special mission deployment we're putting together," he said in a low tone.

  "I just stood down, Mike. You guys have all the other teams in. Why do you have to send us? We're not fresh."

  "Your name is on the list, Charley. We need you to come in. We can explain it when you get here."

  "We?"

  "Well...the General put Simon in charge of this special deployment. I mean, I'm still signing the orders, but he's got to be consulted on everything." He sighed. "We need you to come in, Charley."

  "Okay, Mike. I'll be there in a little while."

  "Bring your stuff."

  "Yeah." Charley hung up the phone. He could hear Maria in the shower. In the bedroom, he pulled out his go-bag from the closet and began to toss fresh clothes into it. It only took a few minutes to put it all together. Long practice over the years had refined his ability to pack; he packed basically the same for a trip of two days as he would for a trip of two weeks. He heard the shower go off, and Maria's contented hum from the bathroom. This was the crux of his life that was and his life that might be: his bag packed, ready to go, his body armor, holster, gun and credentials laid out, or the beautiful and patient and loving woman behind the door. 'What are you going to pick, Charley?' he asked himself. 'What are you going to do?' He was still asking himself that question when she came into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around her.

  ***

  FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

  One of the first things John Bolen learned after he came to Frankfurt was that the Germans know how to eat. He was standing at a fast-food counter in the Central Train Station, sipping a Dortmunder beer, eating fresh grilled bratwurst and fried potatoes. Life don't get much better, he thought. Another man, heavy through the shoulders, dark complected like a Turk, edged in next to him at the counter, and set down his beer and his plate overflowing with potatoes and grilled pork. John felt the man's hand brush his leather jacket. The two of them ate without speaking. John finished first, then dropped his trash and strolled out into the busy shopping arcade within the huge covered train station. He leaned against a rail near the ticket counter and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope stuffed with a sheaf of papers. He looked them over, then put them into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and went to a public phone. A handful of coins later, he heard the ring-ring, ring-ring of the German phone lines.

  "Annex," the neutral male voice answered.

  "Extension 380, please," John said.

  "One moment." There was a click, and then Jed Loveless' voice came on.

  "380," he said.

  "Hey, buddy. Remember that Neil Young song we both liked so much?" John Bolen said.

  "Sure."

  "Did that come out in 73 or 74?"

  "73."

  "Yeah, that's right. Okay. See ya later." John hung up the phone and walked away, humming "Down by the river, I shot my baby..."

  ***

  7 + 3 equaled ten o'clock, and it was fifteen minutes before ten when Jed Loveless got out of a cab in front of the Intercontinental Hotel on the banks of the Main River. He went into the lobby, nodded at the concierge, picked up a complimentary English language paper, then sat at a table in the open coffee cafe.

  "Ein kaffe," he called to the young girl behind the counter. She brought him a small cup, and he handed her a few marks. He sipped his coffee and read his paper, just another businessman on a break between meetings. When he finished his coffee, he folded the paper up and tucked it underneath his arm and strolled through the lobby. He went up a flight of stairs to the mezzanine, then down a hallway to a side exit that took him out onto the grounds of the hotel. There was a pathway along the Main River where you could stroll. It was very pleasant there, with the trees and fresh flowers, and the barge traffic making its way up and down the river. He strolled along the nearly deserted pathway till he saw John Bolen leaning on a railing, throwing crumbs from a half-eaten apple turnover to the birds.

 
"That stuff's bad for those birds. Causes bloating and gas," Jed observed.

  "That's because when bureaucrats die, they're reincarnated as seagulls. They have to live on shit and dead things."

  "Don't bite the hand that feeds you, young pup."

  "Have some self-respect, Jed. You're not a bureaucrat." Bolen pushed off the rail and fell in step with Loveless. "At least not yet, are you?"

  Jed grinned. "Piss me off and I'll make you a full time bureaucrat."

  "I'd eat my fucking Browning first."

  "There'll come a day when you'll be glad that you don't have to be out running around and sleeping in hotels and the like. All this is fine when you're young, but when you get a little older it's not so much fun. We'll see what you say when you're in your forties."

  "Okay, Obi One Knobby."

  They laughed.

  "What have you got for me?" Jed asked.

  "Not much at all, Jed," John said seriously. "These guys have gone to ground. There's no sign of any of this Ahmad Ajai. Neberi's people are around, they're just not working anything that we can see. The taps aren't getting any significant take."

  "That's not good."

  "Yeah, I know. They could be in isolation, in a safehouse we haven't identified, or maybe they're not doing anything for Ahmad Ajai. He might have been passing through for all we know."

  "Not with all the play around the marshal teams."

  "Well, maybe Tango Central figured out that they got burned, so they moved onto greener pastures."

  "I'd like to think that, but it just doesn't feel right."

  "I'm going to stay on it, Jed. We'll run with it and see what comes up."

  "Yeah, do that."

  Jed Loveless paused for a moment on the banks of the Main River and watched a barge loaded with cargo containers flow slowly past the two men. "How are your shooters, John?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "They up to speed?"

  Bolen snorted. "Even when we're operational we keep tuned up, Jed. You know that. You taught me that. Why?"

  "I think things might get wet around here."