Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

  Lonnie watched him settle into his own seat. "You're kinda cute, you know," she said. "Wanna breed with me?”

  “Uh,” he said, “looks like we’ve already done that.”

  “Well . . .” Her voice came in a flirtatious lilt. “I don’t have to worry about getting pregnant then, do I?”

  He grinned and shook his head as he started the truck. They drove across Anchorage to Ted Stevens International Airport. Marcus found an open stall in the parking garage big enough for his truck and slipped into the space. They walked into the building and rode the escalator to the passenger receiving area. According to the bank of flat-panel monitors on the wall, flight 142 from Chicago had arrived five minutes earlier.

  They waited at the point above the escalators where all the passengers from the major airlines exit. A crowd of tired-looking travelers appeared in the distance at the end of the long concourse on the other side of the TSA gate. Many walked with zombie-like expressions after the twelve-hour-plus flights that had carried them to Alaska. Marcus hadn't seen his friend in more than fifteen years and wasn't sure if he'd even be able to recognize him. He scanned the sea of people that moved past, but saw no one familiar. Then a face popped briefly into view and caught Marcus’s attention. The forty-something man was tall and handsome, with tanned skin and light brown hair peppered with enough strands of white to give him a professorial look, or that of a retired Special Forces operative. Steel-gray eyes peered from above a slightly crooked nose. His left cheek was scarred with the one identifier that confirmed his friend without a doubt—the L-shaped knot of puckered flesh put there when the man was captured and tortured by a Somali warlord in '93.

  Mike Farris saw Marcus a moment later. He smiled and put his hand on the elbow of a stunning auburn-haired woman next to him. Mike said something to the woman, then they strode through the gate, the wheels of their carry-on bags clacking rhythmically over the seams of the tiled floor.

  He and Marcus had spent a lot of time together while serving in the Marines, violent days in the early part of their special operations careers. The last time they had seen each other was the day after they had killed a former colleague who'd become a mercenary for hire in the Bosnian conflict. Shortly after that mission, Marine Reserve Captain Mike Farris returned to seminary in California where he was training to become a pastor, and Marcus continued twelve more years as a special operations warrior. Their mutual friend Paul Hogan, who had been Farris’s sergeant for several years, put them in contact shortly after Mike’s first wife and child were killed in a drive-by shooting outside his Ohio church. Now serving as the chaplain for the Ohio Valley FBI regional office and newly remarried, Farris was starting life over for the third time.

  “Mike!”

  “Mojo!” Mike called Marcus by the nickname he'd been given in the spec ops community, derived by simply using the initials of his full name, Marcus Orlando Johnson.

  The two men embraced with a loud back-slapping man-hug.

  “Dude,” Marcus said, “it’s been too long.”

  “Way too long, bro,” said Mike. “And you must be Lonnie. “He reached out his hand in greeting.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mike,” she said, taking his hand. “Marcus has been talking non-stop about this reunion.” She turned toward the other woman. “I am guessing you're the lucky bride?”

  “Ah, no,” Mike said with a dismissive gesture. “This is just some babe I picked up on the plane.”

  “Mike!” She slapped him on the shoulder. “You’d better introduce me right. Or I'll just leave you out in the mountains.”

  “Ow,” Mike rubbed his shoulder. “You slap as hard as you kick.”

  “That’s what you get for marrying an FBI agent.”

  “Marcus, Lonnie, meet the former Miss Hildegard Rottbruck, now known as Mrs. Hilde Farris.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Don’t worry—she only beats me like that in public. In private, she’s usually quite sweet.”

  Hilde smiled and greeted them. “Nice to meet you both,” she said. “Mike and Paul talk about you all the time, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Please, no need for formality. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” Marcus pointed with his thumb in the direction the crowd was moving. “We’d better get your luggage before they put it back on the plane.”

  The four of them rode the escalator down to the baggage area. Lonnie stayed with Mike and Hilde as they collected their bags. Marcus went out to get the truck. A crowd milled around the luggage carousel, some less patiently than others. Standing out from the mix of gray-haired tourist groups, uniformed soldiers, and modestly dressed locals, a contingent of Texans, identified by their Longhorn logo jackets and brash accents, blocked half of the conveyor belt while everyone else's bags passed by. This in spite of the yellow marker line and signs that stated to stay back until your own bags were ready. One of the Alaskan men shouted with a commanding voice, ordering the whole group to step back. Several of the Texan women shot him an evil glare, but his voice was so strong and the irritated glare of the rest of the crowd so direct that the entire Texas party took two huge steps back.

  “I can't stand rude people,” he muttered.

  Mike turned to him. “You sound like a Navy Chief I once knew.”

  “We all sound alike,” the man said. He glanced up at Mike, who stood several inches taller, then asked, “Where did you serve?”

  “Force Recon," Mike replied.

  “A freakin' jar head.”

  “Yeah, you?”

  “Special Boat Team, Senior Chief Petty Officer.”

  “Coronado?"

  “Yeah, Team 12.”

  “When did you retire?”

  “Called it a career in oh-six after three tours in southern Iraq," said the chief. "How about you?”

  “I left full-time service in ninety-four. But retired from the Corps as a reservist the same year you did," Mike said, "Were you with the teams in the early nineties?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I was a frequent flier with your guys back then.”

  “You shitting me?”

  "First Force Recon,” Mike said. “'89 to '94.”

  Hilde nudged Mike. “Honey, our bags are coming.”

  “Holy shit,” said the chief. “Small freakin' world, ain't it? I might'a driven your god-damned boat then, devil dog.”

  Mike held out his hand to shake.

  “Mike Farris.”

  “Jim Walters.” The retired senior chief took his hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. You part of this group?” Walters jammed a thumb at the Texans.

  “No, thank God. I'm up here with my wife for our honeymoon.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Ohio. We're up here for two weeks. A friend of mine from back in recon, Marcus Johnson, is taking us on a 'photo hunt' of Denali.”

  “Mojo Johnson?”

  “You know him?” Mike stepped forward and pulled his bags off the conveyor.

  “Me and Mojo were the only two Alaskans in the big green machine I knew back then. I drove his ass all over the Iraqi coast and river system.”

  Walters stepped up to the belt and grabbed a couple of bags.

  “Hey, if you ever get out to the Matsu Valley, look me up.” He dropped one of his bags and handed Mike a business card. “We can shoot the shit over some beer.”

  “Will do, Chief,” Mike said. “Pleasure meeting you.”

  Mike and Hilde followed Lonnie out the doors toward the sidewalk, pulling their wheeled bags. Lonnie pointed out their truck and waved, signaling Marcus to pull to the curb. In less than twenty seconds, they loaded up and pulled out of the terminal, turning onto International Airport Road. A few miles later, they exited to Minnesota Boulevard and followed it into downtown Anchorage, where they had rooms booked at the luxurious Hotel Captain Cook.

  The Captain Cook, Anchorage's first and foremost luxury hotel, had originally opened in the late sixties. Unlike the sterile look of national chain hotels, the Capt
ain Cook touted old-fashioned elegance with dark teak paneling and burnished brass accents. Interspersed between classy shops that sold everything from expensive fur coats to hand-carved walrus tusk scrimshaw art, murals of the hotel’s namesake, Captain James Cook, illustrated his life on the seas.

  Hilde scanned the crowd awaiting check-in. Many of them she had seen at the airport, including a number of the Texans. She froze in her tracks, a look of surprise on her face.

  “What is it?” Mike asked.

  “That's Tonia Roberts,” Hilde replied, nodding toward a black woman halfway across the room. The woman, hair pulled back in a tight bun, was dressed in a dark blue pant suit that seemed half a size too small.

  “Have I met her?”

  “I don't think so. She's Secret Service, Presidential Security.”

  Tonia was talking with a tall, serious-looking man dressed in a black suit. Hilde called out and waved her hand to Tonia, who turned at the sound of her name, her mouth gaped open with an astonished smile. She broke off her conversation and walked toward Hilde.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” Tonia said.

  “I'm on my honeymoon. I was wondering the same about you. Don't tell me the big guy is coming up here.”

  “As a matter of fact...” Tonia trailed off, her eyes scanning Mike and the others.

  “Tonia, let me introduce my husband, Mike Farris.”

  “You're Mike Farris?” Tonia raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “The happenin’ chaplain? Superman with a priest collar.”

  “I don’t know about all that. It was just a bad guy who needed some attitude correction.”

  “Yeah,” Tonia said with attitude, “a bad guy with a big bomb. Your name is everywhere in federal law enforcement circles.”

  Hilde jumped in, deflecting the conversation. Mike didn’t like to talk about the incident in Ohio that had introduced them more than a year ago, and had also cost the life of his first wife and only child. She introduced Marcus and Lonnie.

  “Lonnie is a state trooper. We're all pretty much in the same line of work.”

  Tonia looked at Lonnie's protruding belly.

  “They better not have you out on patrol now. Please tell me you're not breaking up bar fights with a package in the mail like that.”

  Lonnie laughed. “No, of course not. I'm a lieutenant, anyway, so most of my work is behind a desk.”

  “Good,” Tonia turned toward Marcus. “And please tell me this stud muffin standing next to you is just a friend, who is single and looking. Tell me he’s not your husband.”

  Marcus grinned sheepishly and held up the hand with his wedding ring. “Spoken for, ma’am.”

  “Damn,” Tonia said. “Are all Alaskan men like these? If so, I may need to extend my stay.”

  “Mike here is just a plain old mid-westerner,” Marcus motioned to his friend.

  “But,” Lonnie interjected, “they’re both retired Marines.”

  “Ooh,” Tonia said. “I'm gonna start hanging around the Marine barracks at 8th & I then. I mean, damn, girls.”

  Mike blushed. “We come with a lot of baggage though.”

  “If you're done flirting with our husbands,” Hilde said, “you didn't answer the original question. Are you up here for business or pleasure?”

  “I wish it weren’t so, but we're working.”

  “You mean the boss is coming here?”

  “Yep.”

  All four of them looked impressed.

  “What prompted this visit?” Lonnie asked.

  “I bet it's for the Alaska Gas-Pipeline opening ceremony,” Marcus said.

  “Double damn,” Tonia said, “a hottie and smart to boot. Girl, you'd better take care of this man, 'cause I am shopping.” She winked at Lonnie, then returned to Hilde's question. “Big guy is coming up for the event next week. A few other international big leaguers are joining too.”

  “Wow. How did we not know about this?” Mike asked.

  “Well, honey,” Hilde said, “we’ve been in the process of getting married for the past few months. That takes precedence over any significant worldwide news.”

  “Gotcha there, Mike,” Lonnie said. “Woman's got her priorities straight. I think we're going to get along just fine, Hilde.”

  The man Tonia had been talking to strode over. “We need to get moving.”

  “Warner, this is Mike Farris,” she said, pointing to Mike.

  Warner looked at him silently. He was the type of person who seemed to see everything, but said little. He was not particularly muscular, and definitely military before the Secret Service. He carried himself with a humble warrior's confidence that could make a weaker man melt in self-doubt just looking at him.

  “Outstanding job in Ohio, sir,” Warner said. “Sorry we can't talk much, but we've got work to do.”

  “Understood,” Mike said.

  “Okay, Mr. Roboto,” Tonia said with a shake of her head. “Sorry, Hilde, I've got to get back to establishing a defensible perimeter and surveying potential vulnerabilities.”

  Warner turned his expressionless face toward her. “We need to finish the sector.”

  “Let's get together for drinks later,” Hilde said.

  “You got it,” Tonia replied. “I'll try to find another date, though. Lurch here only drinks gun oil.”

  Warner crunched his eyebrows.

  “I don't drink gun oil,” he muttered as they walked away.

  They checked in, then got into the elevator.

  “I’ve made seven o’clock reservations at the Crow’s Nest restaurant on the top floor of the hotel.” Marcus said as they ascended. “Until then, get some rest in your room to work out the jet lag.”

  Lonnie suddenly winced and pressed a hand on her belly.

  “You okay?” Hilde asked.

  “Yeah.” She took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. “Little Marcus is just trying to tunnel his way out through my belly button.”

  “Why do you always give the child my name when it hurts you?”

  “Because I love you, baby,” she replied as they exited the elevator.

  “Okay, here we are,” Marcus said. “See you guys upstairs at dinner.”

  From their room on the nineteenth floor, they were able to see almost the entire city of Anchorage, as well as the surrounding Chugach Mountains. To an Alaskan, it was par for the course. But for a couple from Ohio, especially Hilde, who had never been west of the Mississippi, it was breathtaking.

  Hilde picked up a brochure from the nightstand that listed some facts about the city of Anchorage. The entirety of the city rests at the edge of a compact triangle of low land at the end of Cook Inlet. The Chugach Mountains to the east and the salt water of Knik Arm and Turnagain Arm, northern limits of the Pacific Ocean, flank the city, forming the sides of the triangle. The Knik Arm is a mostly flat, calm inlet fed from the mouth of the Matanuska River. Turnagain, on the other hand, is a beautiful mountainous fjord that sports some of the highest tides in the world and is home to pods of beluga whales and other creatures. It got its name from William Bligh of HMS Bounty fame, who was a young officer on Cook’s ship. Tasked with finding the Northwest Passage, he found himself turned around yet again at the end of the body of water, hence the name. The city of Anchorage itself, founded as a railroad depot village in 1914, eventually grew to become the home of nearly half a million residents. It was devastated by a 9.2 magnitude earthquake in 1964, the second-largest earthquake in the history of the world, but quickly and fully recovered and today, Anchorage is home to fifty percent of Alaska’s population.

  “Interesting history,” Mike said.

  Hilde folded the pamphlet and placed it back on the nightstand.

  “I love this view,” she said, staring out the window at the mountains.

  “Me too.”

  She turned and saw that he was staring at her.

  “Mr. Farris,” she said with a coy swish of her hip, “are you being flirtatious?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, ma’am. Dinner isn’t for two more hours.”

  She sauntered over to the bed. “Then let’s have dessert first.”

  Chapter 3

  Lake Hood Float Plane Port

  Anchorage

  Friday, June 17th

  9 a.m.

  “Too bad you can’t come with us, Lonnie,” Hilde said. “It would be nice to have another girl along.”

  “Something tells me little Marcus will make any camping adventure pretty miserable for me,” Lonnie said as she watched Marcus load the bags into the plane.

  “Yeah,” Marcus said. “I don't think the plane can carry all of the food she'd need to bring along for the two of them.”

  “Anyway,” Lonnie said, looking sideways at him, “I've been where you are going. You'll love it. It’s beautiful. But while you're enjoying that wonder of creation, I've got a wedding to attend here in town. So I won't be lonely.”

  “Hopefully we can spend some time together after we get back,” Hilde said. “You seem like someone I can talk to. Most other women shy away from me once they find out what I do for a living.”

  “I know what you mean, sister,” Lonnie said. “Until Marcus came back to save me, I could hardly get a dinner date or have a girls night out without someone being afraid I'd bust them for something.”

  Hilde looked at the aircraft before them, took a deep breath, and let out a nervous sigh. “I can't believe you talked me into going up in a boat plane.”

  “Float plane, honey,” Mike said.

  “It's just as safe as a regular plane,” Lonnie said. “Either way, it's a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “Oh, that helps,” Hilde said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “That's what I do best,” Lonnie said. “Instill confidence.”

  “This thing has been accident free since 1952,” Marcus said.

  “1952?” A nervous smile quivered on Hilde’s lips. “This thing is sixty years old, built the year my parents were born, you call it a Beaver, and you want to take me and Mike to the tallest mountain in North America in it?”

  “It's perfectly safe,” Marcus patted the engine cowling. “I've got all the state inspection certificates, if you would like to look them over.”