"You realize that was evidence in a terrorism investigation?" It's Flaherty, her voice on the testy side.
"You realize that our boss was working for the terrorists?" I'm just as testy in return. Technically, he wasn't our boss, but his head was so far up our boss's ass, it's close enough.
She nods. "We had to double check, it limits their options without it." She pauses for second. "I'd rather you destroyed it than think about what might have happened if you had turned it in to Crane." I nod back at her. "You'll have a new watch detail tonight when you leave."
"How about if I just hang a photo of me dropping it into the lava on my front door?"
"Funny. They killed two of my men, and then half of theirs, but I can't see why. Until I do, you stay under surveillance.
They fumble their way out off the flight deck and back toward the terminal.
Perez looks at me. "Would you really teach me how to fly?"
"With or without the plane?"
"Let's start with ‘with.'"
"Sure."
We finish lunch, Perez goes back to the terror investigation, and I go back to walking my terminal.
At five, I change into my civies and drive downtown to pick up Jen, then off for Italian food. She asks me what's up, and tells me about her conversation with dad. I tell her to go away for the weekend, and not ask too many questions.
"That's what Kiana told me too, when I asked her."
"She's a smart woman, you should listen. Oh, and by the by, why did I have to find out that she's gay from a terrorist?" That last word came out, when I should have known better. Fortunately, Jen does not seem to have noticed.
"I told you that you weren't her type." Jen's laughing at me. "You should have figured out on your own that she plays for the other team. I didn't want to get you started until I knew her better. I remember," she gets all sexy, "how much it turns you on when I talk about the times I experimented with my roommate at Santa Cruz."
"Those are my favorite all time stories. We might have to run through them again tonight."
Jen smiles. She's got something else up her sleeve, and I'm sure I'm going to enjoy it.
We go back to my place, the FBI in tow. Jen makes sure to blow them a kiss before we go upstairs together, her hand in the back pocket of my jeans. She's wild, playful, in a way she hasn't been in a long time, finally rolling me over and climbing on top. Her hips begin a slow rotation, circular, no up and down, her hands locked behind her head, elbows out, leaving her body exposed. I groan intermittently. Then she starts to tell me a story, not of college, but of the night my apartment was robbed and Perez stayed at her place. In the same bed. In each other's arms. In each other's mouths. On each other's breasts. I can't stand it anymore and explode. No windows shatter, but it's not from lack of trying.
Jen collapses on top of me, breathing hard, sweaty. When her breathing returns to normal, she picks her head up, inches from mine, our breath mingling, and let's me know that she did indeed spend an evening with my partner, and that no straight girl could possible kiss another girl that well. I am still inside her. Without asking, I pick her up, roll her over and start round two. All my girlfriend says to that is, "Fuck me Air Force, fuck me." And I do.
In the morning, I go running while Jen cooks breakfast, then a quick shower together and we're in Starbuck on our way to drop her off for work. She holds up rush hour traffic on Olympic to give me an extra long kiss, says she'll go with my parents in the morning, and tells me to be careful. I tell her to have fun and not worry. I could have told her that I am not in any danger, and I know she deserves to know, but I'm a whimpy dumbass superhero.
Ms. Mankat is her usual smiley self behind her brand new shiny hardwood counter. I almost feel good about getting the old one shot up, almost. She tells me that she's headed to Vegas to experience New Year's on the Strip. I encourage her as much as I possibly can.
Captain Amos and I taxi our bird over to 24 right, then it's ‘position and hold,' ‘cleared for takeoff,' ‘climb and maintain 1-7 thousand,' and all those amazing words that mean the 188 people behind me are going to be safe this weekend. The landing in Kona brings a sense of relief, that I have actually accomplished something good, instead of my persistent habit of knocking people out to make it easier for someone else to shoot them in the head. I'm five for five on that ground, not including all the widows and orphans in China and North Korea who owe their tears to me.
I shoot the best round of golf I ever have, my drives 30 yards further than they normally are. Almost getting Perez killed and knowing that a million people might die because you're a dumbass adds a little spark to one's swing. Captain Amos is happy at least because he and I win a lot of money from the American crew we're playing against.
Perez calls to let me know that they still have nothing, and are setting up teams at every major venue across the three county area where large numbers of people are set to gather in the next two days. We both know that it's a meaningless gesture, because the gas dispenser only has to be close and downwind to do its damage. No fence or police cordon with stop it, and might only result in a thin dead blue line. She's been pushing to get Ali's photo out to the media, but the powers that be are too worried about a panic starting, and they still have no proof that he's anything but the rooms manager at the Marquis.
The weather report for the weekend is bad. Hope was that the Santa Anas would appear, strong winds that blow east to west, which would take any gas out to sea. Instead the forecast is for light winds out of the west, perfect for spreading death across the vast three sided valley that is Los Angeles.
Darkness comes to Kona, and I get naked, which except for last night, has not been nearly as fun as it's supposed to be lately. I stay low and supersonic, not wanting to create a flash of light to worry people by going suborbital. Once I get to LA, I close my eyes and fly gently, letting my feelings guide me, hoping to sense something other than the cool air in my face. Nothing. I center over downtown, close my eyes, listen to myself breathe, but even that fails me. I have no urge to push, no direction to take, nothing except the feeling that I'm being watched.
I fart around in the sky as long as I can, then do the molecule hula back to Hawai'i. Captain Amos gets us off the ground headed back to California right on time, and there is no mechanical trouble causing us to turn back, despite my prayers. Contrary to the flight out, "Mountain 4-6-2, cleared to land, runway 2-4 left" signals impending doom for everyone on board except me. Captain Amos has flown us to the land of death and honey, and there's nothing all my rock tossing can do about it.
Perez meets me at the gate, and I jog into the men's room to change my uniform from white with three stripes to blue with none. She and I are on bike duty, riding the wild streets of the LAX parking lots, looking for trouble. It's logical, actually, since the airport is on the ocean, a gas attack originating here would spread out to cover most of the southern half of Los Angeles county and the northern half of Orange County, and it might even reach into the Inland Empire.
I don't know where the attack will be, but I do know it won't be here. Whether or not it is my special insight talking is debatable, but I think Ali wants a high visibility target, with cameras there to record the action. Perez agrees, but on New Year's Eve and Day, there are literally hundreds of those scattered across thousands of square miles.
Our shift ends at eight in the morning, the sun shining merrily down on us as it only does in southern California. Today will be a big day at every theme park, football stadium, basketball arena, soccer pitch, softball diamond, public park, beach, and God knows where else. Perez and I ride back to the command center in Main, hoping that something has been discovered, a tank, a valve, a wayward purchase, an Ali sighting, but there is nothing.
Flaherty wants Perez to stay with her, and wants me home under the watchful eyes of my security detail, just in case there is a last second attempt to find the nozzle. I know there won't be. This operation has been too well planned, and too long in its clockwork like op
eration to base it's end game on a prayer that they can find an eight inch long piece of bronze. Ali is well into plan B, and we have yet to discover the full extent of plan A. Miles behind him, and only hours to go before he sleeps.
I leave, but don't go home. The FBI guys must think I'm crazy, because I drive right past my exit, and keep south on the 405. I go south into Orange County, through the El Toro Y where the 405 and 5 merge into one, then surface streets to turn and head back north. I cruise the 22 west then the 91, out to the 15 and back onto the 10 into central Los Angeles. I'm three hours and 150 miles into my great circle route when my phone rings. It's Perez, and my hope soars.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"What?"
"Air Force, are you trying to lose your tail or have you just lost your mind?"
"Perez, come on, I have to do something, and I can't think of anything worth doing. So I'm driving around, praying that the fog will lift, and I'll know what to do."
"Lost mind. That's what I thought. Flaherty wants you home, you're driving is driving the FBI as crazy as you are."
"Kiana...." I hope she gets the meaning of my periods (that's an ellipsis to you).
"Sorry my friend, go home."
"Yes, ma'am. Is it OK if I go through the Valley first?"
"Go home."
"Ten four."
Her voice goes down to a whisper. "Air Force, I don't know how I know, but I know. You will get your chance. Don't fuck it up."
"Por el poder de Greyskull," I respond. She laughs. I don't know how I know anything anymore either.
"By the way, Adam" she has a sarcastic edge to her voice, "did you tell Teela your secret yet?" Adam, of course, is the secret identity of He-Man, who derives his super powers by calling on castle Greyskull. Teela, of course, is the hot woman who thinks Adam's an idiot, but loves He-Man, not actually a great metaphor for Jen and me, but good on such short notice.
"No tengo las bolas," is my excuse. She laughs again.
"Truer words were never spoken. You still have time to grow them, Air Force, still have time." She hangs up on me.
I stay on the 10 to the 710, and take it all the way into Long Beach. It's lunch time, so we wander the surface streets to my favorite little taco stand. I buy nine, three for me, and three each for the FBI guys. They deserve some presents, even if it's Montezuma's revenge, for having to follow me around.
The afternoon is one big pacing session. I try reading, I try playing Halo, I try exercising, I try to talk one of the FBI guys into running with me, but none of it is at all effective, and I end up pacing across the carpet in my apartment for four hours. Finally, the sun sets, and it's time to sneak out. The FBI guys wouldn't recognize him if they saw him, but on the off chance that they are taking photographs, I will not let it happen. I turn on every light in the house to maximize the brightness, walk into the bathroom, grab the light, and say, "Fuck him," a referent to Mr. Soon to Be Mush on the Bottom of My Socks Ali.
I turn the lights down and the TV on, normal loud to create the impression that I am lost in some show. It's the Rose Bowl pregame, featuring my favorite hot blonde sideline reporter and a bunch of ex-jocks who are getting way too much screen time in my opinion. I'm getting dressed in my leather, stretchy underwear, and black socks, plus eating a snack, pausing every time Ms. Perfect Smile is in a one shot. (That's one person's face on camera, a two shot is two people, etc.).
I zip up the zipper on my jacket, check to make sure I have everything in place, grab my remote, and point it at the television. She's there, half body shot, perfect drooling pose for us losers, when the camera replays the stadium and the surrounding scenery at sunset. The golf course, the mountains, and I suddenly know where Ali is going to be. Perez was right, I am going to get my chance.
Chapter 19
The view through the little eye thingy in the door is clear, no one is in the hallway. I pop quickly and quietly out of my apartment, and into the stairwell, followed by a hop over the railing and a fast descent to the ground. I can't take Starbuck, because the FBI guys would recognize her and stop me from leaving, so Anaheim is out. I'm around back of the building on the ground, staying low, sneaking behind the dumpster and then a quick world record high jump over the block wall.
I sprint at human speed down the street until I'm out of what I think is the FBI's range, then pick up the pace. I slip between two dark beach houses and pop into the air, searching for anyone who might see me. There is a couple on the beach, but they are too busy to notice. I'm up to a couple hundred feet in the darkness, invisible to anyone on the ground who's not looking really hard.
Due west for a mile or so, enough distance off shore to further minimize the possibility of detection, I accelerate to a few hundred knots and set course 360 degrees, due north. I clear myself to climb to 500 feet, a safety margin from eyes, but something of an increase in radar signature. It let's me fly faster though, without stirring up the ocean below.
My arms are at my sides, my hands open, palms toward my thighs. The wind blows across my face, cool as it always is. I know my hair is not moving, despite the 500 mph velocity. I get north past Santa Monica pier, and turn inland, crossing over the state park, picking up Mulholland, then over Griffith Park carefully avoiding the observatory, taking the 134 into Pasadena. Slowing so as not to miss anything I need to see, I do my best to listen to myself breathe, listen for any hint, not let my emotion cloud my senses. I may know where the attack will be, but that simply limits the options to a few thousand. Or million.
The stadium lights are bright in the distance, illuminating the sky even to my altitude. A blimp and five helicopters float over the stadium, one LAPD and four TV channels. I sweep around them, working to stay out of sight. The golf course is there, cars parked across its fairways. He could be in any of them, but no bells ring in my brain. I make a wider loop, crossing over Pasadena, into La Canada, Glendale, Eagle Rock, South Pasadena, and back to Colorado Boulevard.
Twice I loop, twice I fail to feel. Half time is nearly ended, the sounds of the bands fading. The announcer's voice carries for miles in the air, and I know the second half is about to start. Ali is out there somewhere, and I can't find him. It could be a van, a rental truck, a light aircraft, a missile. Too many possibilities for the grape jelly where my brain is supposed to be. I'm heading west once again, a third pass into Glendale, when I see it.
It's a Bell 222 helicopter, which Perez would certainly recognize instantly as Airwolf, except this one is navy blue. It's flying low, too low, below what the FAA would allow. It's following the route I took, straight down the 134 toward the stadium, now only a couple miles out. At its present speed, it will be there in under three minutes.
Trust the light, yet I don't. To beat it there before it reaches the eyeballs of a hundred thousand fans in the stadium and millions of television viewers around the world, I would have to shatter every window in three cities. Don't fuck it up. Don't. Once again, Perez's wisdom has come home to roost. Frak the Fog Bastards for not giving me better eyes.
I turn toward the stadium, but stay at my steady subsonic pace, gaining a little altitude in fear of the lights and blimp. Then the chopper makes its move, a sharp turn off the freeway and due south. Frak me, I am too far away. Without the nozzle, it can't be a spray attack can it? I had assumed a more brutal assault, a bomb, a truck crash into the exterior, something. This looks wrong, my Brain by Welch's can't cope.
He's reached the stadium and I have reached the final choice point. Right or wrong, in or out, I must be somewhere, and I must be there now. Molecules leap to my aid, and I shatter only half the windows in Pasadena. I beat the helo to the stadium by a tenth of a second, and there he is, sitting in the right hand seat, my buddy Ali.
I am on his four o'clock, right and behind, he can't see me. All eyes in the stadium are on him, I remain invisible to the crowd as well. He pulls back and initiates a hover, the LAPD chopper maneuvering to intercept, but too slowly, death to 100,000 people too slow
ly.
I have no choice. Fuck me, I never have a choice.
One final massive push and I am standing on air, five feet in front of him, staring through the cockpit glass, my right fist cocked at my side. There are six large metal cylinders in the helo, and what appears to my television educated brain to be plastic explosive. The bastard looks me in the eye, I happily see his fear, then he yells something I cannot hear, and pivots the chopper hard to his left. I beat him to the spot, my right fist now clenched so hard I am hurting myself, even in my invulnerable form.
The air is ripped by screams from below us, and by the LAPD chopper using its speaker to order him to the ground. We all know he's not going. Except he is. He tilts his head down, eyes closed, quietly saying something else I cannot hear, then looks at me, yells a few final words, shakes his fist in defiance, and chooses.
He pushes the cyclic between his knees fulls forward and drives the 222 earthward at its maximum velocity. I dodge the blades and grab for the hub between them as he flies past, my one chance. My left hand catches it, and swings the chopper around, its turbine engines straining against me. Ali stomps the control pedals and pulls the throttle, spinning the tail of the helo wildly side to side, trying to shake me.
Fog Bastards 1 Intention Page 20
