by Tom Barber
He had dual nationality with an English mother and an American father, who’d also been a cop, although both his parents had now passed away. Their son’s time in London and New York as a police officer had been a rollercoaster ride to say the least and after numerous close brushes with death, he’d been told more than once that he had more lives than a cat. He’d rather not have needed to prove that repeatedly during the various operations he’d been involved in, but knew it beat the alternative.
Suddenly a shout came from the back of the cabin, instantly snatching his attention. Archer turned and saw what looked like a passenger having a fit, jerking and shuddering in his seat, froth coming from his mouth.
No other flight he’d ever been on had had two such disturbances in such a short space of time and coupled with what had happened on Friday, Archer was instantly on his guard.
‘Dad? Dad!’ a young man shouted beside the guy having the fit. ‘Someone help him! Please!’
Archer tensed in his seat but didn’t move, scanning the entire cabin. Two rows behind him and across the aisle, a young female passenger unclicked her belt and moved over to the fitting man.
‘We need a doctor!’ she called. ‘Anyone here a doctor? Or got first aid training?’
As Archer turned to scope out the rear of the cabin, he saw the woman was looking at him.
‘You! Can you help?’
There was something in her tone that immediately put him on alert.
As he looked at her, he saw her eyes flick down to his waist.
Archer realised that when he’d turned to look at the sick passenger, the edge of the 9mm Sig Sauer handgun clipped to his belt must have appeared from under his sweatshirt.
And as the flight attendant who’d been dealing with the rowdy passenger rushed down the aisle to check on the man, the hijacking attempt began.
The woman suddenly grabbed the flight attendant after she passed Archer and whipped out a ceramic knife from her jeans pocket.
‘Put your hands up!’ she screamed at Archer, holding the blade to the cabin crew member’s throat. ‘Do not touch that weapon!’
Like many before her, she’d completely underestimated his reaction speed and it was the last mistake she made. Before the female hijacker could blink, Archer was out of his seat and had already fired, dropping her with a clean shot to the forehead. As she hit the seat behind her, leaving the flight attendant frozen in shock where she stood, Archer heard screaming coming from behind him and ducked down, reaching out and yanking the flight attendant with him.
A split-second later, shots were fired from further up the cabin, hitting the seats just above his head. Archer snapped out and fired left to right, using the seat in front of him as cover, and double-tapped three hijackers with guns in less than three seconds, his shooting groups tight, the trigger work incredibly fast. One of the hijackers had grabbed a passenger to use as a shield and Archer’s shots missed the innocent man’s neck by an inch, hitting the hijacker between the eyes.
After the last round, he rose, weapon held double-handed, scanning up and down the aisle as petrified screams echoed around the cabin. He moved up towards where the men had been standing, checking every line of seats, every passenger, all of whom were staring at him, terrified.
The plane hit another patch of turbulence. Archer stumbled and caught the seat beside him, trying to regain his balance, then felt an unfamiliar and sudden pressure in his head, making it feel as if his temples were going to burst.
Through blurred vision, he saw the drunk guy rise out of his seat, but he wasn’t singing anymore.
He was holding a knife.
The plane shuddered again just as Archer fired at the man; he missed with the first and got him with the second. Staying low, he made his way down towards where the big man was slumped across the aisle, shot in the chest.
Archer rose and checked the cabin.
After a few moments he was satisfied it was secured.
Suddenly, the lights in the cabin were turned up and the turbulence on the plane stopped.
‘Out of role!’ a voice called over an intercom system. ‘Everybody check safeties and holster.’
The passengers who’d been hiding behind their seats rose and the five hijackers Archer had shot came back to life, wiping paint off where the wax projectiles from the simmunition weapons had hit them.
‘Depressurising,’ a voice over the intercom said. They all waited a few moments as the training cabin returned to normal oxygen level. Then a door opened and a pair of air marshal instructors entered, wearing navy blue sweaters with FAMS printed on the front. The people already in the cabin pushed up the protective glasses they were wearing, wiping sweat from their eyes. The ‘terrorists’ and Archer did the same, the NYPD detective’s heart-rate still high from the training exercise.
‘Goddam it, Clayborne,’ the woman who’d pulled the knife said to the guy who’d played the belligerent drunk. ‘You gotta take some singing lessons.’
‘Not bad, Detective,’ the lead instructor said to Archer, nodding towards Clayborne, who was wiping paint off his shirt. ‘You didn’t react to our inebriated friend’s singing or when he started giving the flight attendant a hard time.’
‘Or to our medical emergency,’ a female instructor said, standing beside the man who’d been pretending to have a seizure.
Archer nodded, working the fingers of his right hand at his temple.
His head was pulsing with pain.
‘Hijackers will try every trick to try and get you to reveal yourself,’ the lead instructor told him. ‘They know air marshals are ordered to intervene in emergencies. A passenger might pretend to drink too much and fight with the cabin crew or a passenger sitting near them. Someone might have a so-called heart attack. It’s your call whether you help or hold back and assess the situation.'
‘Gotcha,’ Archer said, trying to concentrate.
‘I saw your weapon, Archer,’ the female hijacker said. ‘When you turned. That’s why I grabbed the flight attendant. The sweater rode up.’
‘How do you stop that from happening?’
‘Our marshals often wear inside pant holsters to conceal their weapons.’
‘He’s NYPD, don’t forget,’ the lead instructor said. ‘You’re used to carrying your sidearm there on your hip, right?’
Archer nodded.
‘Which is fine. Just make sure it stays hidden. Maybe wear a sweater a size too big or something.’ The instructor continued his review of the exercise. ‘You didn’t hesitate when she was about to slice the flight attendant. That was also damn slick work with the three guys down the cabin. You’re fast as hell.’
‘Had to learn to be.’ Archer turned and saw the three guys he’d plugged all back on their feet, tight groupings in their chest.
Then the lead instructor walked over to Clayborne and pointed at something. ‘But.’
Archer nodded. ‘Shit.’
Beyond Clayborne, a passenger had been hit by a paintball in the side of the neck.
‘Sorry, man,’ Archer said. The guy smiled and shrugged.
‘You OK?’ Clayborne asked Archer, noticing him rubbing his temple. ‘The pressurisation tool can make you feel queasy from time to time.’
‘Just mad at myself for drilling that guy,’ he said, looking at the innocent passenger he’d shot.
‘This training cabin was updated a few months ago,’ the lead instructor said. ‘We can simulate wind turbulence and changes in pressurisation in case someone messes with the system or the pilot dips or climbs suddenly to disrupt a hijacking. In that last scenario, we had you at a level that simulates very mild oxygen deprivation to see how you’d cope.
‘But up in the air that and turbulence are major issues you may have to contend with. On the ground, you can plant and shoot, but as an air marshal you’re in a metal tube travelling at high speed through sometimes very intense winds. At any moment the plane might lurch, drop or shudder. Or lose pressure if the cabin is compromised.�
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‘Is there any way I can counter the effect?’ Archer asked.
‘As in?’
‘Any portable oxygen as opposed to the masks that drop? I can’t just sit down and grab a mask if things go south up there. I have to be mobile.’
The instructor nodded. ‘There are tanks in the rear and middle galleys that you can access.’
‘What would happen if one of them got hit?’ Archer asked.
‘It would explode and injure anyone close to it, but wouldn’t compromise the cabin. Designed that way. But try to hit the bad guys, not our tanks.’ The instructor paused. ‘On the whole, that was pretty damn good, considering you’ve only been here two days. None of this is easy, Detective. I’m very impressed. You’ve made excellent progress.’
‘Not good enough,’ Archer said quietly, looking at the passenger he’d hit by mistake.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ the lead instructor said. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. Let’s reset, go again and get it right. Scenario Nine, people.’
TWO
Across the Federal Air Marshal Training Center, which was based at an FAA Compound outside Atlantic City Airport, New Jersey, shafts of the day’s cold November afternoon sunshine filtered through some blinds and fell on three men sitting in a row outside an office.
However, the light did nothing to improve their collective mood. All three had bigger concerns right now, which centred around the noise coming from an office next door.
‘Explain yourself!’ they heard a man shout.
‘I….I..’
‘Aye…aye? What are you, in the navy?’
‘I’m an air marshal!’
‘So explain how you’ve been acting!’
The trio outside the office looked at each other nervously. Between them, the three air marshals had a collective forty two years of law enforcement service, which sounded relatively impressive, but they also had seven suspensions, three failed marriages, a mountain of credit card debt from extravagant living, a severe case of acid reflux, one restraining order and about a hundred and ninety extra pounds of body fat.
Two of them were wearing a suit with no tie. One of them reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled red number and started to put it on.
‘Should’ve thought of that,’ the other man commented. ‘Shit. You got a spare?’
‘Nope,’ the other man replied, looking smug. ‘It’s every man for himself in there.’
On the opposite side of the room, a door opened and an overweight guy in his forties walked in. He was wearing a sports jacket, shirt and jeans, his hair messy, at least two days’ stubble on his cheeks.
‘Where the hell have you been, Bangor?’ the man with the tie asked.
‘Just got in from New York,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
‘You sure it wasn’t a bar?’
‘What’s the deal with dragging us all the way down here?’
‘It’s judgement day,’ the first man said. ‘Hope you brought a change of underwear. Weems is getting reamed out in there.’
The air marshal beside him chuckled, looking at the newcomer. ‘Man, if he’s going hard on Wes, he’s gonna shit the bed when you walk in.’
‘Don’t know why you’re laughing,’ the tie man replied. ‘You’re up next.’
There wasn’t a spare seat and the newcomer stood there anxiously, his nonchalant attitude rapidly disappearing as he heard the shouting from next door.
Inside the office, Federal Air Marshal Wesley Weems stared ahead woodenly as he stood in front of two men sitting behind a desk. One of them was FAMS Special Agent in Charge of the New York Field Office, Cody Hallenbeck; the other was his Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Rory Shugart. Black, forty two years old and former Secret Service on President Obama’s protection detail, Hallenbeck almost always had his temper on a tight leash, but right now the chain was off.
‘Your disciplinary record is a disgrace,’ he told Weems, leafing through the man’s file. ‘Two convictions for drink driving. Several counts of turning up to work under the influence. A United flight attendant accused you of sexual assault three years ago on a red eye to London.’
‘No sense of humour,’ Weems mumbled.
‘Excuse me?’ Shugart asked.
Wisely, Weems bit his tongue and didn’t repeat his comment. Hallenbeck turned the page.
‘And here’s the icing on the cake. Four times you’ve been reported by flight attendants for falling asleep when you were supposed to be protecting everyone on the goddamn plane. Four times!’
Hallenbeck snapped the file closed angrily.
‘Do you have anything to say for yourself? Anything at all to explain this behaviour?’
Weems didn’t reply, knowing he had no defence. Hallenbeck picked up a stamp and slammed it down hard on the front of the man’s file, leaving the word Terminated clearly visible in red ink. He tossed the stamp to one side and threw the folder across the desk.
‘Due to gross misconduct, your employment in the Federal Air Marshal Service is ended with immediate effect. Go back to New York and clear out any personal possessions from the Field Office before the end of the day.’ He leaned forward. ‘I never want to see you again. Ever. Now get the hell out.’
Weems seemed about to say something, but then clearly thought better of it. Without making eye contact with the two men in front of him, he turned and left the room.
Hallenbeck watched the disgraced former air marshal walk out and shook his head, exasperated. ‘How in Christ’s name was a man like that allowed to carry a gun on a commercial plane?’
‘I’m not surprised anymore,’ Shugart said. ‘Not after what we’ve been discovering about the state of affairs in this place.’ A Virginian born and raised, Shugart was slightly younger than Hallenbeck at thirty nine and had known his boss for eight years, having worked under his direction at the White House. ‘The New York office seems to have all the discipline of my frat house in college. On the rare occasions he was awake, we’re lucky that idiot didn’t shoot himself by mistake on one of those planes.’
‘Maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing,’ Hallenbeck said. Still hot with unaccustomed anger, he rose out of his chair and started pacing around the room, needing to walk some of it off. ‘Anything from the Newark Office yet?’
‘Yeah, and this isn’t going to make you feel any better, boss.’
‘Go on.’
‘I spoke to the SAC’s secretary. She said he’s out of office and isn’t due back for another week.’
‘After the crash on Friday? Where the hell is he?’
‘She told me he bumped a marshal off a flight to Edinburgh to take a golf tour in Scotland. Said when she called him, all he wanted to talk about was the 68 he scored yesterday.’
Hallenbeck stopped pacing and looked at Shugart in disbelief. ‘A commercial airliner that personnel of his were supposed to be protecting is blown out of the sky and he’s trying to figure out which iron to play from the fairway?’
Shugart shrugged. ‘Look at what just walked out of here.’
‘Get on the phone to Newark. Tell that secretary I said to get her boss’s ass back here immediately or I’ll fly over there and dig his grave in one of those bunkers.’
Shugart rose from his chair. ‘We’ve still got the other four guys outside waiting for their review.’
Hallenbeck stalked over to his desk, picked up the Terminated stamp and printed it on each file in rapid succession. ‘I’ve read enough. Order them to go clear out their desks in New York. And if they object, I’ll be happy to fight any unfair dismissal claims in court.’
Shugart got up and left the office; moments later, Hallenbeck heard him talking to the men outside. In no mood to deal with more underperforming air marshals right now, he left the office through a side door to his right and stepped outside, glad to see the back of the space he’d been allocated by the training staff for the dismissals.
Hallenbeck had extremely valid reasons to be
so furious. In his book, protection jobs required the utmost professionalism and attention to detail. Those given that responsibility were entrusted with people’s lives and from past experience, he knew precisely what that involved: working security for the POTUS had given him a lot of sleepless nights. Passengers didn’t know much about how the FAMS operated, but they rightfully expected if a marshal was on their flight and something happened, that the US government and FAA would at the very least have ensured they had selected the best people to protect them.
Instead, he and Shugart were having to deal with a load of overweight drunks paying for hookers and driving intoxicated, treating the Service like an ongoing bachelor party. Some of the marshals’ lack of professionalism was extraordinary; a guy they’d canned last week had been let go for firing his gun repeatedly at a civilian’s feet in Corona in a dispute over a parking space outside a Costco. Not only were they making a laughing stock out of a professional service, they were besmirching the reputation of the FAMS, their behaviour reflecting unfairly on the rock solid marshals who were out there right now doing a great job.
Jamming his hands in his pockets, Hallenbeck headed through the watery sunshine towards the main training warehouse for the FAMS Training Center, the cold air not really helping to cool his temper.
Seven months before Obama left office for President Trump, Hallenbeck had been approached about taking a role in the Federal Air Marshal Service after voicing some interest in joining. He’d felt he’d done his time protecting the Commander-in-Chief and dealing with the level of stress that came with that particular job. In the past, a lot of guys from the Secret Service had transitioned into the air marshal service, but Hallenbeck wasn’t just looking to score a retirement job which had turned out to be just as well.
The role the FAMS leadership had in mind for him was something more demanding.
After the press had reported on several severe transgressions committed by marshals in the Service which had gone public, Congress had recently set its eyes on the air marshal programme and the NYC Field Office was at the top of the shit-list. The previous SAC and ASAC had been forced to resign in March, and Hallenbeck had been offered the top position by the FAMS Director. He’d agreed on the condition that Shugart come with him as his ASAC and it was only then that they’d discovered exactly what they’d taken on.
