Eventually I was brought back to George’s office and lectured some more. I was definitely bored by this time. I started thinking about going back to bed. I can stand a lot, especially when I deem it necessary, but I hate being bored. The most important part of the procedure was the discussion of the ‘Rules of Engagement’, so to speak. The Feds were the ones responsible for my being issued the ‘International Sidearm Permit’, and they wanted to make it perfectly clear to me when and how I was authorized to use said sidearm. After being briefed by Inspector Kelchasa, I was very clear on the rules I was to abide by. The guns didn’t come out of the holster unless direct bodily harm was about to be inflicted on their operative, Godsen, or either of the material witnesses associated with the case. The one we already had and the one we were going over to find. And of course my own self. That seemed to be added as an afterthought. All of this was quite clear up to the point where the gun reached the hand ready for action. Then it got a bit fuzzy. It was all well and good to have a drawn pistol in my hand, having met the criteria for drawing it and all, BUT… if I were to actually fire it, and God forbid, hit my target, then I would have to be able to clearly demonstrate not only the threat of bodily harm, but of deadly harm. In other words, I could only fire if fired upon, or to prevent being fired upon, in a provable manner after the fact.
I was just thinking to myself that it sounded a lot like the Rules of Engagement for a United Nations Chapter Six Peacekeeping Mission, when Commander Jack Hong reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a laminated card, about the size of a card from a regular poker deck. He handed it to Inspector Kelchasa, who then handed it to me, indicating that I should read it on the spot and ask any questions that I may have in order to clarify in my mind unequivocally that I understood the issue of firing my sidearm.
I gave it the once over. It was a brief point-by-point summary of the conversation we’d just had. The format was identical to the ‘Soldier’s Card’ that was issued to Canadian peacekeepers going off on a U.N. mission.
I slipped it into my side jacket pocket. I had no questions. George had sat mutely, witnessing the meeting in observer mode. At that point one of the people from administration knocked lightly on the door and walked in. She had a red file folder in her hands, which she placed on George’s desk, then left just as quietly as she had entered. It was a fat folder.
Rick then reached over the side of his chair and opened the rather large leather briefcase he had brought with him. It was a square type of case, that can hold just about anything but the kitchen sink. Typical government issue. Out of this he pulled a large Manilla envelope, and a file folder, both of which he placed on George’s desk. Opening the envelope, he produced what looked like a black leather wallet. He laid it open beside the envelope, exposing a gold shield on one side, and a clear plastic card holder on the other side. He opened the red file folder that had just been delivered. Out of this he took a laminated card which had my photo in the top right corner. Sliding it into place in the leather holder, he closed it and laid it on the desk. George leaned over and took a similar leather wallet out of the red file folder, this one was a deep burgundy. He flipped it open to reveal a silver shield and an I.D. card already in place, then closed it and placed it next to the black one on the desk. Then Rick and George started pulling documents out of the envelope and file folders and sorting them into neat piles. When they were done, George vacated his seat behind the desk, and had me sit there while I went through these last stacks of papers, opening each one at the pages flagged with small yellow post-it papers. Those were the pages that required my signature. Again.
I slogged through it all, and somewhere I think I saw a report referring to my Colts. I wondered idly where they were, as I signed again and again. Somewhere during this laborious process, the techie gopher from forensics arrived with my guns. George motioned for him to lay them on the desk, which he did, and then left again. I stopped what I was doing and reached for them, but Commander Jack finally had something that piqued his interest about this affair. He held up a hand with one finger up, kind of a ‘Just a moment laddie’, and it worked. I stopped in mid-grab and let him reach over the desk and choose one of the Colts for inspection. It occurred to me at that point that he was, indeed, a commanding figure. Probably served him well in the Federal Forces. I shrugged it off, got back to signing my name. I kept one eye on him the whole time. Commander Jack Hong had better know how to handle a gun, because I wasn’t above hugging the deck if he inadvertently pointed that cannon my way. I was pretty sure the lab guys hadn’t chambered a round prior to giving them back, but in my book the rule of thumb with guns is pretty simple: if it is in the hands of someone other than yourself, assume the worst-case scenario. In this case that would be that the gun had one in the chamber and the safety had become defective. I could see that it was in the ‘on’ position, but like I said…
He carefully hefted the gun, ejected the clip, and checked the chamber, then ran his fingers along the barrel, pausing briefly at the sights. Smart guy.
The sights have been hand filed and polished by yours truly. A gun never has the sights perfect. They may be perfect on a good gun when it’s new, but perfect is a relative concept. That assumes either 20/20 eyesight, or short distance aiming. I had adjusted the sights myself for about thirty meters. And my particular eyesight. The fact was that for short-shot aiming, the barrel itself was a pretty good indicator of the eventual point of impact. All you had to do was get close enough. If you were over ten meters from your intended target, it became a whole new ballgame. Handguns are typically short-shot weapons. Rifles are the accurate weapon for anything over ten meters, but they’re a bitch to slip under your jacket. Given the character traits of the U.S. postal worker these last fifteen years or so, you wouldn’t get ten feet down the street of any respectable town with a rifle. Even in North Dakota, home of the infamous Badlands. So we all use handguns. The current state of the art has focused mightily on the automatic fire rate and muzzle velocity of handguns, producing a whole generation of small, portable, easily concealed guns that amount to nothing more than little brothers to the good old sub-machine gun. Not my style, and the biggest weakness that they all have in common is that they don’t carry. At least not accurately. Not five meters, never mind ten. A moderately windy day will scatter your burst like paper confetti at a wedding. ‘Gone with the Wind’, and you end up hitting everything in sight, and if you’re lucky, you might even get a piece of your intended target.
With the Colts, I could consistently land my rounds in a one meter square, at thirty meters. I’ve been told repeatedly that this won’t work in real life, what with the weather effect, mobility of the target, and the lack of a solid pistol rest to fire from. I figured we would see what we would see. I had practiced for it, and if it ever came up, well, I knew it was possible. I’d seen it with my own two eyes. Back in the Arabian Peninsula, in Yemen to be exact, but that was a long time ago these days.
He popped one of the slugs out of the clip in his left hand and checked it over. Satisfied he put the whole shebang back together and laid it back on the desk.
I finished the last couple of pages in the stack, stood, and gave George back his desk and chair. He didn’t sit down right away. He looked at me sort of oddly, and walked around the desk, opening the left top drawer. The envelope he pulled out was fairly full, but he didn’t take any files out of it. He just dropped it on the desk with the rest of the bureaucratic mess.
“That’s the file on Therese’s statements from last night. Read it over on the plane.” He gave me his hand, and I took it.
“Will do, George.” We shook hands for a moment, and then he handed me over to the Feds. He had an appointment or whatever, and was required elsewhere, as the saying goes. With Commander Jack there we didn’t have an opportunity to discuss anything personal, so it was just ‘get up and go’.
“I’ll have Sergeant Dixon stand by to bring Therese in when you’re finished.” This was
directed at the Feds. He collected his briefcase from its hiding spot beside his desk, and he left the room, shutting the door behind him on his way out.
I looked at the boys and quipped, “Alone at last.” I think I could have waited a long time for a response. Fun bunch. I tried again. “Well I’m hungry, how about you fellows? Feel like some breakfast?” This got a smile from Inspector Kelchasa. A breakthrough.
“It sounds pretty good just about now, but the job dictates otherwise, I’m afraid.” He looked honest about what he was saying, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay, how about a raincheck? I’ll buy you guys breakfast when I get back.” He eyed me for a second or two, then nodded.
“Sounds fair, I’ll take that raincheck.” Commander Jack didn’t respond at all, so I directed my attention his way. He sensed what was coming and beat me to the punch.
“We’ll be escorting you and the witness to a rendezvous with Inspector Godsen. The meeting point is out at Pearson International.” He checked his watch. “Time is marching on, let’s go.” The tone of his voice, his whole demeanor in fact, was military-like in its delivery, and I surmised in its intent.
I collected the files into my briefcase, and stored the Photo-I.Ds. in the inside pocket of my jacket, then picked up the Colts, chambered a round in each one, ejected the clips and switched them for full ones from the set I carried. From the weight of the clips, the forensics boys had used a few shells from each one. I holstered the finished product and smiled at my babysitters.
“Ready when you are.” I sounded overly bright and cheery for this time of morning. I think.
Kelchasa smiled and held the door open for me, and we all trooped out of George’s office and into the arms of the ever-on-alert Sergeant Dixon. Dixon was one of George’s favoured bets to wind up in plain clothes, in the Homicide Division. I always thought she was the kind of girl who would look good in anything at all, but I wouldn’t mention that to her face. Or to anyone else, come to think of it. It might get back to her. Not that she scared me, exactly, but for a five-foot two-inch blonde… well, bombshell comes to mind, she was rather militaristic in her approach to life in general, and to the Force and her Job in particular. Big blue eyes aren’t everything, you know. Sometimes it’s nice to think that you could be the protective one in a relationship, even if you have to make a schedule and take turns. I don’t think that Dixon was the type to let anyone else in on the fun.
She had Therese with her, and of course, forms to be filled out. I’d done mine, these were for my pals. Kelchasa did the honours, and Therese and I caught up with one another.
“So, Therese. Did Sergeant Dixon show you a good time?”
“Ah, oui, there was a class, yes? It was, umm… Judo, n’est pas?” This query seemed to be aimed at the good Sergeant, although it was thrown up in the general direction of the ceiling. Dixon nodded her head without taking her eyes off of the paperwork.
“Very nice, I suppose you’ve been taught how to keep me in line then. Excellent. You can be my backup.” Therese looked a bit vague, then dismissed me with a noncommittal shrug. No sense of humour.
Kelchasa and Dixon finished the transfer papers, and Dixon wished us good luck, then left. We went down to the underground parking in one of the express elevators. The staff had a car ready for us, and what a car. A brand-new forest green Cadillac STS. One of those jobs with that new NorthStar System, where you could get your radiator punctured while driving through the desert wasteland and still be able to drive a hundred kilometers to safety. What anyone would be doing off-road out in the desert in a Cadillac, I have no idea. Maybe the Mob? Sometimes I wonder who these ads are aimed at.
Anyway, Therese and I got in first, and after we squeezed in through the tipped-back passenger side seat, it was pretty roomy. Downright comfortable actually. For a two-door, at least. I felt like commenting on the car, but my pals didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so I let it go and eased back into the soft leather for the drive to the airport. I didn’t encourage Therese to talk, and after a couple of half-hearted questions about the trip, to which I responded with a ‘We’ll see’, she turned and stared out of the window for the rest of the drive.
The traffic wasn’t as bad for 8:00 AM as it could have been, and when it got a bit too heavy, Kelchasa turned the wheel onto the soft shoulder and reached under the dash in front, coming up with a cherry, which he dutifully placed in the front window. I always wanted one of those. In the end, it only took us about twenty-five minutes, and we were on the cutoff to Terminal 3, the newest of the Pearson terminals. At the last minute, coming down from the raised exit ramp, we pulled right into the Silver Dart Drive exit. I dragged myself out of somnambulance. This road led to the cargo areas, where all of the big, and not so big, cargo shippers had their offices and warehouses. I didn’t get it.
Kelchasa must have been expecting it because he didn’t even look back at me before he spoke.
“It’s Okay Mr. Claxton, we’re not going commercial that’s all.” I looked at the rear-view mirror and caught his eye.
“Right. Do me a favour, will you Rick? Call me Jeffry. And tell me what ‘not going commercial’ means.”
Kelchasa glanced over at the Commander, who nodded imperceptibly, then came back to catch my eye in the mirror.
“It’s like this, Jeffry.” I smiled inwardly at that. He was coming around. “We’re going to send you off with Godsen, and Godsen doesn’t fly commercial.” He quickly added, “For reasons of Rank, Security, and so on.”
He had neatly anticipated and intercepted my questions before I’d had a chance to pose them. I took the only opening he’d left me.
“And so on?” I left it hanging, and he obliged me.
“Yes, we have a private jet ready for you. Godsen will be on board by now,” he checked his watch just to make sure, “and we’ll have a quick conference there before take-off.”
At that moment, we had just passed off of the cargo road, and turned in at one of the gates to the plane loading area of the cargo section of Pearson’s fields. His attention was turned to the guard at the window of the car, and that effectively cut off our little tête-à-tête. I sat back again, and pondered this new development. I knew we had missed the flight I had had reserved on my ticket, but I had anticipated no trouble in changing the reservation with my Federal pals along. Apparently, that scenario was a wash. I didn’t get much opportunity to ponder in the end, because about sixty seconds after passing through the gate we pulled up alongside a very impressive jet airplane. It looked to be about a twenty, or thirty-seater from where I sat in the back of the ‘Caddy, depending on the interior layout. There were six passenger windows on this side, but there could have been more, it was big enough for at least four more. Three-engine job. One on each wing, and one on the rear tail-fin. I wondered if we were dead-heading on someone else’s ride.
There were more guards, and more security motions to go through on our behalf. This time they were handled by Commander Jack. One of the guards took the Commander’s papers and went up the stairway into the open door of the plane. He reappeared less than a minute later, and motioned to his buddy at the base of the stairs. He in turn motioned to all of us in the car, and we piled out onto the tarmac. The Commander led the way up the stairway, pausing at the top just long enough to see that we were following. Therese was in front of me, right behind him, and Kelchasa was bringing up the rear. Jack turned and walked through the doorway. We all followed.
I was the third in line to walk through the door. Just before I stepped through the entrance I glanced up at the sky. The cloud cover was complete, but they were running high now, and the morning sun filtered through them a bit more than I’d seen recently, making me squint. Figured. I was leaving town, so the sun was probably going to poke through and say ‘Hi!’ the minute I did. The dimness of the plane interior hit my eyes as I stepped through the entrance, and I almost stumbled into Therese, who had stopped right in front of me. Kelchasa came
into the open doorway behind me, blocking it pretty effectively. He was a big boy, Ricky, no two ways about it.
My eyes adjusted quickly as I stood there, and then I started taking in what was going down. The Commander was going over some papers with what looked like one of his own. The cop who was checking us in was female, about twenty-five, wearing a nicely tailored business suit. Standard colours, charcoal grey, thin light grey pinstripes, like that. She was dark-haired, and very tan, or maybe Mediterranean. There was a valid reason for our bunching up in the doorway. She was responsible. We were being checked out online via a notebook hooked to a cellular. It was sitting on a small fold-out table that came out of the wall set perpendicular to the entranceway. There was a small black-box looking affair attached to the cable between the notebook and the cell phone. Scrambler was my guess. I leaned forward over Therese’s shoulder and spotted a guard type standing by an inside door. Also female, dressed in what appeared to be upscale outdoor wear. Like Tilley Casuals or an L.L. Bean outfit. Mostly khaki. She was tall, maybe five eleven, and looked professional. Very serious. I say door, but the only indication of that was the hairline cut in the wall that was shaped like a door. There were no latches or other hardware. The guard was standing at parade rest in front of it. The wall cut across the aircraft completely, dividing the entire three quarters rearward section off from the rest of the plane. As I was taking all this in, our pin-striped door-deputy got confirmation for the Commander, and motioned him back to the interior doorway. The guard spoke into a miniature lapel microphone, and the door instantly opened from the inside. The Commander stepped through, the door closing behind him. I didn’t get to see anything of interest. Now ‘pinstripes’ had done Therese, and the same routine cycled again while she processed me.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 22