Fog Bastards 1 Intention

by Bill Robinson

  Lope is shorter than me, but wider with arms twice the circumference of mine. He announces that we are starting with holds, ways to control another person without hurting them. He, of course, points at me, and wiggles a finger. I walk over and he motions for me to turn around. He explains a hold, using me as the crash test dummy, then pairs us up with a veteran officer each, and announces that they will put us in the hold, and we should try to escape.

  One of the narcotics detectives locks me, and I can't get away. The two ex-special forces guys do, but they are the only ones, and one of them broke away from a woman half his size. Now it's our turn, and we do a decent job of locking the trainers, though I'm pretty sure an actual bad guy would have tried harder. We keep on with various holds for an hour, and then we turn to some basic self-defense.

  Escaping an assailant comes first. My narcotics detective makes a comment about my needing a jet to get away from him, I say something stupid about donuts, he grabs me from behind, and I manage to flip him over on his back. My guess is he is not going to pick me. We repeat the process without the remarks, and he ends up on his back a second time.

  We work for two more hours, I more than keep up my end. I handle the instructors, and out distance the older guys in the group. Everything's good, except my detective friend won't let it go. The last drill is another hold. He says something to his narc buddies, then comes over to be my partner without being assigned. I reach for the hold, but he ducks my arms, comes up hard with an elbow to my eye, and spins me to the floor. Twenty two people are laughing at me, all except Lope, the airport chick, and the Captain.

  I can feel my eye swelling already. I put my hand over it, and nod to Lope, who jerks his head toward the bathroom. It's a one person operation, a sink and toilet only, with a lock. Perfect. I lock the door, reach inside myself, and just as I flip the light switch with my hand, I speak a magic word, "asshole." The light from me and the light from the fluorescent mix, hiding anything that might escape under the door. He is there, perfect black eyes staring into the mirror. I wait as long as I think is normal, then squeeze the light, and walk as myself back into the training room. My eye feels fine.

  "Gonna have a nice shiner tomorrow," my former partner jokes.

  "Still gonna be better looking than you." Should have kept my mouth shut, but don't really know how.

  Armstrong sends us home.

  I do something I haven't done in a couple weeks, drive down to Anaheim after dark and fly my course through downtown, then out into the desert, back over the hill to Magic Mountain, and then over the valley and out into the Pacific. Running works, but flying is way better. I center myself, thinking about nothing, not quite perfect because I get that "I'm watching you" feeling in downtown, and it stays with me through much of the flight. Fog Dude has got to let it go.

  The morning of day 2 is a staged crime scene, and we work with real investigators to gather fake evidence. This should be a ride at Disneyland, people would pay a lot of money to spend time with these guys, learning technique and listening to stories.

  The afternoon turns into beat on Simon, only this time it's physical, not verbal. My buddy is pissed that I show no sign of our physical encounter yesterday, and goes out of his way to change that, including a baton to the arm when Lope isn't looking and Armstrong is out of the room. The other trainees figure out that they can go harder on me than on each other too, and I have to make two trips to the men's room to fix myself up.

  When we're done, I take myself out for Sunday dinner at the Fish House by home, then settle in to start on course number three (Criminal Investigations), which turns out to be easy after this morning's exercise. Thursday I'm scoring 100 on my exam, and deciding not to start right away on class number four, just enjoy tomorrow's trip to Kona.

  I start the final course (Patrol Procedure and Community Relations) when I get back, and even with a lot of Jen time, I complete that test (disappointing 99) Thursday morning. My 10 to 12 day estimate turned into 21, but after this weekend, I will have completed all my requirements.

  Saturday morning we do a fake crime scene on our own, with the real technician shadowing and grading us. Saturday afternoon is beat on Simon, part 3, with two robbery detectives pretending that somehow I was holding a knife with my eye, not my hand. Doesn't matter, because I can deal with the damage, and I am, at least in my mind, holding my own with everyone but the two special forces guys and Lope, including the former police officers, who perhaps have been off the street too long (or not on it long enough).

  I've been careful not to make any more donut jokes, but I don't think I've managed to mend any fences. I have to hope one of the homicide detectives likes me, because there is no chance I'm going to narcotics or robbery, though maybe it would help if I would just let them blacken my eye.

  The last morning of training is role playing, from witness interviews to confronting a domestic violence offender. Then it's off to part four of beat on Simon, which is a test on everything we've supposedly learned. I've learned that the bathroom is my best friend, in addition to a number of techniques I hope to be applying in the near future. The useful information I've learned in the past three weeks is beyond what I thought was possible, but the psych eval analysis is also correct. I don't know what I'm going to do with it, or what my long term plan is. So I'm relying on Captain Amos: start small, have patience. I refuse to call myself grasshopper.

  Armstrong eventually dismisses the trainers, leaving him alone with the 12 of us. No pep talk, no fakery, just the straight truth. I like that.

  "You've all passed. The officers will pair up with you tonight. When you finish your course work, we'll bring you back in and get you out on assignment. Whatever that is, you have to put in 200 hours before you can ask for a transfer, so grin and bear it if it's unbearable. See you all soon." And, with that, he left us.

  The retired police officers head off for celebration dinner, as do the ex-military men. None of them invite the pilot. He doesn't care. I head home, happy with what I've accomplished. Jen is waiting inside my apartment, naked, holding a graduation cake. I definitely made the right decision not to try and get a dinner invite with the other trainees. How cool is it that she thinks it's stupid, and still supports me?

  Next morning Ms. Mankat, who's dressed in an Indian outfit for Halloween (the day, not my cat) that makes her look stunning, demands a synopsis of my accomplishments, and she seems suitably impressed that I finished everything so quickly (the training that is, not my sex with Jen). In fact, I skip the part with the naked girlfriend.

  Matt is my captain today, and he gets a mouthed "fuck you" out of Taylor when he walks away after trying to say good morning to her. I give her a smile, a brief laugh, and a compliment on her outfit.

  We head on out to the gate, Matt goes to get an orange juice, I stop into the LAPD office, intent on gloating. The sergeant who tried to talk me out of joining is not there, another one is. His eyes narrow when he sees me.

  "You're the pilot who finished the reserve program in record time." I just nod in response. "I've heard a lot about you. Hope we get the chance to work together. Sam Johnson." He offers me his hand, and I shake it best I can.

  "Simon Packer. Thanks. I'm off to Hawai'i, just decided to stick my head in and say hello." My reply is not what I'm thinking, but I'm not sure what I'm thinking. How does he know a lot about me? Did they keep the officer who gave me the forms informed, even though I mailed them in? Curious. Not likely we'd work together, unless we got assigned the same holiday duty.

  He laughs. "If you don't want the entire LAPD asking you for favors, I'd keep that Hawai'i stuff under my hat."

  "Thanks for the advice." I give him another nod, and back out of the room. Matt is waiting for me with an OJ (no LAPD reference there, is there? OJ...), and we head off to our gate.

  "You really join the police?" Matt's voice is intense.

  "Yeah. I know everyone seems to think it's crazy." Matt apparently doesn't, because he's slapping my back.r />
  "Pilot and police officer? The chicks are going to be lining up. Made me think about signing up."

  "Not why I did it." We've reached the gate, and fortunately have to go our separate ways. The walk around is bad, the wind is howling, and it's started to rain, but it's still better than hanging with him.

  Take off is normal, but the weather remains stormy, and traffic is heavy, so we spend an intense first half hour fighting through and around the storm clouds, while obeying various ATC commands for different altitudes and directions than we normally fly. Finally, we get far enough off the coast, and high enough up that we can relax, though it's bumpy enough we leave the seatbelt sign on.

  Matt gives me a blow by blow of the date for the next hour, which almost did come to blows. I'd throw him out of the window, but that might damage the aircraft. I envy where his hands have been, but how they got there is beyond belief. Truly deserves more than a "fuck you," yet the only thing that seems to bother him is not getting further.

  The last three hours are smooth, as is my landing. All the flying with Captain Amos has had a positive effect on me in more ways than one. A year ago they changed the dispatch system, giving the first officers like me a standardized schedule, and keeping us with a small number of captains, rather than rotating us with everyone. It's been both the best of times, and the worst.

  In Kona, I turn down Matt's offer to go snorkeling, and instead head off to golf with a couple flight attendants who have been taking lessons from Captain Amos. At least half the Kona flight crews have been golfing with him, and God knows what else. That old fart stills has a trick or two up his sleeve with women. Who knew?

  As we get back into Kona town, my cel phone rings my new ring tone. "Look, up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's a frog." It's Armstrong's office, wanting to set up an appointment ASAP, and we work out a first thing Wednesday meeting. I should have told them I'd be there in 30 minutes, after all, it's only 2,500 miles.

  The whole crew goes to a Halloween luau at the Sheraton, and swim with the manta rays. Despite my suggestions, none of them eats Matt (I mean the manta rays). After midnight, checking first to be sure no pain in the ass old people are watching, I come back over and really swim with the rays. They don't seem to mind, and show me a few sights off shore.

  Matt grumbles at me all the way home, Ms. Mankat and a couple of the flight attendants having apparently told all the other flight attendants to avoid Captain Hands, as he is now known. It takes all my skill to keep the poker face on.

  No Jen at dispatch, and that's fine by me, because I decided coming home to test my navigation skills. I head for Anaheim, grab the light, speak "Captain Hands," harass some molecules of unknown gender, and head west. Once I'm well clear of the coast, I hit the afterburners and head in the direction I think I will find Hawai'i.

  If you're wondering how my GPS melted, but my clothes didn't, I'll give you a hint, they did, I just didn't tell you. This time I didn't put them on. If you haven't had your junk out while flying at Mach 6, you have not lived, particularly close enough to the ocean to pick up some spray. My senses turn out to be sharp, I pass the lights of Hilo, make a wide turn, and get back to Starbuck in a total of just over three hours.

  Chapter 10

  I am a half hour early for my appointment. Homicide, has to be. I'm the first one done, record time. Maybe the narcs or robbery guys rethunk after seeing my test scores. Armstrong's assistant takes me right in, no waiting. He's standing in front of his desk with Lope and Officer Kiana Perez of the frakkin Los Angeles International Airport Patrol. Fuck me. Now I get Sergeant Johnson's "hope we'll work together."

  My jaw must have dragged all the way across the floor, because their smiles are not as smiley by the time I get to the desk. I shake all three hands and pull my self together. Sort of.

  "I won the LAX patrol?" Not my most sarcastic voice, but pretty close. Armstrong puts his hand on my shoulder.

  "If it's any consolation, you had the highest score on every written exam, and in the practical exams last Sunday too. Besides, it's important work, and Kiana will be a great teacher."

  "I should have let those assholes break my nose." The three of them laugh.

  "That's why I was happy to get you," Perez offers a smile with the compliment, "You are tougher than the SEALs, and smarter than everyone too." She pauses for a second. "I know you wanted to solve some major homicide or crack a Columbian drug ring, but take my word for it that actually patrolling at LAX is far more interesting that doing paperwork and getting donuts for the asshole patrol. And, knowing what you know, you may even be able to teach me a thing or two about the airport."

  Armstrong reaches over to his desk, picks up something attached to a blue lanyard emblazoned with the LAPD logo. It's the reserve officer equivalent of a badge: a plastic ID with my picture that gives me access to every office and crime scene. I take it from him. Kiana takes it from me and puts it over my head. She holds out her hand again.

  "Deal?"

  "Deal," is my reply, taking it and shaking it. I'm still disappointed, but what can I do? No crime scenes at the airport, or at least few and far between, no investigating, but at least I'll have access to the computer system, and LAX does get it's share of inbound drugs.

  Lope congratulates me and shakes my hand as well. "I'm starting an advanced class around the first of the year, if you're interested." I tell him I am, and I appreciate the vote of confidence. "I'll send you an email," he says as he heads for the door.

  Perez and Armstrong lead me over to his conference table, where we go through technical details. I get a new email address (official business only or it's my ass), a password to the LAPD computer (also my ass if I lose it), and a key to the LAPD facilities at the airport (both legs, and my ass if I lose it). Only the sworn officers get keys to LAX (actually, it's an electronic key that they might slip to me one day). I remind them that I already have such a key that lets me into about a fifth of the airport, the 60, 70 and 80 gates.

  They hand me a box and tell me to take it to the bathroom. I return a few minutes later, dressed all in blue, with leather accouterments, a black wooden stick, and my very own handcuffs. Perez fixes me up so that I am wearing it correctly, adds the bullet resistant vest, and reminds me to get the right shoes. I get one free uniform a year, she says, don't mess it up. They'll give me a radio when I'm on duty.

  We work on my schedule. I want to get going, and put in a lot of hours. Since I am always home on Thursday, we plan on me being in each and every Thursday at 8, plus scattered Wednesdays through the end of December. Since my flight schedule has me returning to LAX from Kona at 9:30 p.m. on New Year's Eve, I also pick up the over night shift then for my holiday time, plus Thanksgiving day.

  "Any questions?," she asks, while looking me over again.

  I shake my head.

  "Good. Get out of those clothes, and I'll see you eight a.m. sharp tomorrow at the office in terminal 7."

  I hold out my hand again. "Sorry for the long face, I'll give you my best."

  "I know you will," she hits my arm, "or I'll kick your ass." And then she is gone. Armstrong sends me to change back into my civies, and has all of my gear stowed in the box on my return.

  "You're going to do more real policing in the next three months than you would have done in three years working the front desk at homicide or narcotics. Be open to whatever comes your way, and you'll find what you were looking for."

  What am I looking for? Not sure.

  I thank him again, grab my box, and head for Santa Ana in need of shoes and tacos. I get two pairs of shoes and three tacos, chicken, hot sauce, soft shell. I hang at Starbucks (the shop not the car) for a while, catching up on my newspapers, and plan out another trip here as him to replace the phone. I am less sure of the need for a new GPS.

  Jen and I do Italian dinner to celebrate my new assignment, though she can't stop laughing about me working at the airport. She laughs a lot less hard when I describe Perez to her. I intent
ionally under-state her looks, and remind Jen that she kicked my ass more than a few times in training. It works, at least a little.

  We get up early in the morning, giving me enough time to have Jen help me make sure I'm dressed right. She pretends I'm her five year old headed off to his first day of school, and tells me not to get into any fights with the other kids.

  Instead of parking in the LAPD lot, I park in my usual spot at dispatch so I can show Taylor my snazzy new clothes and ID. She's all smiles, and even comes out from behind her desk to check me out. I've never seen her standing before. She stands only inches from me, and straightens out my leather, which starts to straighten out one of my body parts. She's taller and far more shapely than I thought, and smells as exotic as she looks. I take my leave and head for the shuttle bus to the terminal.

  It's 7:45 when I get to the LAPD office, and Perez is already there with Sergeant Johnson. We make pleasantries, then she hands me a radio which I put into its holster on my belt. Have to be careful not to melt it.