Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

  AIR MARSHALS

  BY

  MARCUS WYNNE

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 1997, 2011 Marcus Wynne

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  NOTE TO THE READER

  This novel was written in the 1990s, before the hijackings on September 11, 2001, and it's set in that time frame. That being said, much of the commentary contained herein remains pertinent to any discussion of aviation security today. All information is derived from open sources, and any resemblance to any specific situations or individuals is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  PROLOGUE:

  SNATCH AND SCRATCH

  BEIRUT, LEBANON:

  Bucknell Leigh was a fine-boned and fair-skinned man. His wife thought he looked like one of the pale Romantic poets, Shelley or Keats. The intelligence officers who worked for him in the Central Intelligence Agency's Beirut Station thought he looked like a delicate bird. The way his hunched shoulders scraped within his baggy white dress shirts did give him a bird-like appearance. Leigh wore the hesitant expression of a man who knew he was about to be denied admission to an exclusive club. That was an accurate description of his career prospects. After Viet Nam and his controversial work with the Phoenix Project paramilitary operators, Bucknell Leigh had been exiled to the twilight zone of training administration and support. His more ambitious and politically savvy peers had long ago passed him on their way up the ladder.

  This was his station chief assignment, normally the peak of an operations officer's career. He knew better than that. He got this assignment because no one else would go near it. After almost all the Agency's Lebanese and Middle Eastern specialists were killed in the massive car bomb attack at the embassy, few officers remained with any substantial Middle Eastern experience, let alone the necessary language skills. Those few fought hard to avoid the bloody wilderness of mirrors that was Beirut. So it was Bucknell Leigh, the administrative workhorse of the Anti-Terrorism Assistance Program, whose name came up when it was time to fill the slot.

  His office was a weary place, the paint a cheap industrial white, the furniture threadbare and battered. Those CIA offices not located within the Embassy or Consulate compound proper shared a common dinginess fostered by the need to maintain cover and to conserve funds. The only bright spot was a brilliant oil painting of a sunflower between the heavy Mosler safe and the dull-green filing cabinets. His wife had given him that picture when he was sent to Beirut. A picture of his wife and daughter in front of their house in Williamsburg sat on the corner of his tidy desk. There was another picture next to it, of Leigh and his friend Charley Dey outside of the Special Forces team-house where they had worked in Viet Nam.

  Charley Dey had sent him a gift when Leigh got his orders detailing him to the Beirut station. The UPS driver brought the package to the house in Williamsburg, had him sign for it, and asked, "Present from somebody, Mr. Leigh?"

  "From an old friend," Leigh said.

  Inside the cardboard box was a wooden presentation case with the logo of Wilson's Gun Works engraved on it. He lifted the lid and looked down on a Wilson Custom Combat Series 70 Colt .45 Government Model pistol and three matched magazines, along with a Milt Sparks Summer Special concealment holster and magazine pouch.

  "Only the best," Leigh murmured. "You'll never get that I'm no shooter, will you, Charley? But I appreciate the thought..."

  That pistol was his favorite paperweight. It rested now on top of a pile of manila working folders. He tossed the folders and pistol into his briefcase as he cleared his desk and called through the open door to his secretary.

  "Darlene! Call Rashid and have him bring the car around, will you please?"

  Darlene, a short plump Iowan who doted on Leigh, came to his office door. "I'm sorry, Mr. Leigh, but Rashid left early. He was feeling sick again."

  "Again?"

  "He said he thought it was from lunch."

  "He should eat at a better place, then. He's been sick almost every other day."

  "Should I call the motor pool for another driver?"

  "Yes, go ahead," Leigh said. "Tell them to meet me out in front in ten minutes...that'll give me time to stop at the fruit stand."

  "You bet, Mr. Leigh." Darlene waddled off to make her call.

  Leigh looked around his office, glanced to make sure his pistol was in his briefcase, then locked it. He went out to Darlene's desk in the reception area and said, "Good night, Darlene. I'll see you Monday morning. Have a good weekend."

  "Good night, Mr. Leigh," she said. "Oh...Ismail will meet you with the car out front in about fifteen minutes...they're trying to find the spare keys."

  Leigh shook his head in disgust. "Beirut," he said.

  He stepped out and let the cipher-locked metal door click shut behind him. He walked down the hallway to a checkpoint, where he signed out on a logbook presided over by a sleepy guard. Leigh went through the checkpoint to another dull green hallway, and then out into the front reception area, where the logos on the lexan windows said Beirut Electronic Systems.

  He stood outside for a moment. Though it was late in the day, it was still hot and dusty. Cars and taxis buzzed the streets, and a steady stream of pedestrians flowed past Leigh, who stood blinking in the sudden natural light. Across the street two men in a parked Audi watched him. Thirty-five yards further down the street, two other men in a double-parked minivan straightened in their seats. Two young Lebanese men, their eyes hidden by sunglasses, sidled through the sidewalk crowd with the ruthless innocence of sharks in a school of fish. They fell in step behind Bucknell Leigh as he crossed the street towards his favorite fruit stand.

  The owner eased himself up off his wooden stool and rubbed his hands together when Leigh paused to pick through the neat rows of fresh fruit.

  "Hello, Mr. Aboud," Leigh said genially. "How are the oranges? No soft spots today, huh?"

  "They are very good today, Mr. Leigh. You know they are very good everyday, Mr. Leigh," the fruit stand owner replied.

  "You're right as always, Mr. Aboud. I must have soft spots in my head."

  "Yes, Mr. Leigh. Perhaps you have hit your head today."

  The two men laughed together. Leigh picked out a few fat oranges and a large lemon and handed Mr. Aboud a bill. He pocketed his change and said, "Thank you, Mr. Aboud."

  "Thank you, Mr. Leigh," the shopkeeper replied, nodding respectfully. He watched Leigh walk away from his fruit stand and start across the busy street. The two young Lebanese men, who had lingered nearby while Leigh selected his fruit, came up on both sides of the CIA officer and seized his hands. One of the men from the Audi appeared out of the crowd, a can in his hand, and sprayed Leigh in the face. Leigh's body convulsed and he struggled to bring his hands to his face, which positioned his hands perfectly for the plastic flexicuff one man slid over his wrist. Then the other man jackknifed Leigh's arm behind his back and cuffed the other wrist. The minivan pulled up, the rear sliding door open, and the three men bundled Leigh into the van and slammed the door shut. The van pulled away, not having paused for more than ten seconds. One man remained in the street, his pistol held casually as he scanned the passerby. He tucked the pistol into his belt as he returned to his Audi, and pulled the car out into the steady stream of traffic.

  "Yes, Mr. Leigh," murmured Mr. Aboud, shaking his head mournf
ully. "Today is the day you hit your head."

  ***

  The chemical spray had Bucknell Leigh gagging and wheezing, and the hood over his head made it worse. He knew he was in serious trouble. The snatch had been quick and professional. The van altered speed and direction constantly, sometime coming to a stop, the engine idling, and then accelerating off in a new direction. After about twenty minutes, the vehicle ground to a halt. The kidnappers seized Leigh under his arms and frog-marched him out of the van and down a flight of stairs. Leigh felt the coolness on his skin and knew he was underground somewhere. His arms were firmly pinned by two unseen men and the flexicuffs were cut off. He was wedged into a heavy chair and his arms and legs secured with leather straps to the thick posts and armrests. Then the hood was gently lifted off.

  "Could I get you some water, Mr. Leigh?" the man seated behind the table said. He was a middle-aged Lebanese, with an easy, facile smile. His hands were folded in front of him on the wooden field table. The man's eyes frightened Leigh. His look of sad and professional competence was a familiar one; Leigh had looked the same way across similar tables when facing a prisoner and setting the tone for the lengthy interrogation to follow.

  "Yes, please," Leigh said, controlling himself. "Some for my face also, if you would."

  "Of course," the interrogator replied with courtesy. "Bring me some water and some cloths for our guest," he said to one of the young men standing beside Leigh's chair. The young kidnapper disappeared. He returned and set a greasy glass of water, a small pail, and a washcloth on the table. The interrogator stood and came around to Leigh's side of the table. He dipped the washcloth in the pail of water, wrung it out, and delicately swabbed Leigh's face, continually rinsing and dipping the rag in the water. He was careful not to drip water onto Leigh, who sat rigid as an obedient child in his chair.

  "How is that, Mr. Leigh?" the interrogator asked.

  "Much better, thank you. Could I have that water now?"

  "Of course." The interrogator picked up the water glass and held it to Leigh's lips and let him drink. "Would you like some more?"

  "Please."

  The interrogator let Leigh drink his fill. "More?" he asked.

  "I'm fine right now. Thank you for your courtesy," Leigh said.

  "Of course, Mr. Leigh. We are a courteous people. Without courtesy, we would have no civilization. But you know that, don't you, Mr. Leigh?"

  Leigh looked into the dark and liquid depths of the interrogator's eyes, and felt a deep and profound sadness come over him. He had nothing but the nuances of his training and the dim hope that his people might even now be looking for him.

  "Yes," he said. "I know that you are a courteous people, sir."

  The interrogator smiled. "You have spent a great deal of time in the Middle East, have you not, Mr. Leigh?"

  "I'd imagine you know that already."

  "Yes, Mr. Leigh, I know that. As a courtesy, from one professional to another, let me tell you some of the things I know. I know that you are the Chief of Station for the American Central Intelligence Agency's Beirut Station. I know that you were assigned here because no one else would come. I know that before you were assigned here, you coordinated the Middle Eastern Anti-Terrorism Assistance Program. I don't know very much about that program, Mr. Leigh, and that is one of the many things I look forward to you telling me all about."

  From a still, cold place deep inside him, Bucknell Leigh gathered his strength and smiled. "What should I call you?"

  The interrogator matched him smile for smile. "It will be a pleasure to work with such a professional, Mr. Leigh." He leaned forward and his breath filled Leigh's face. "But as a courtesy from one professional to another, let me say this. We both know about pain, and chemicals, and sleep deprivation. We know about time and the principle of delay. We know if we can just hold out that our people will find us, that if we can just hold on we will save lives, maybe even our own...as a professional, Mr. Leigh, do you think we would have taken you without having considered all that? It's a matter of time and how much you are willing to fight me. You know that. As a professional, I ask you to work with me. You and I, we've done this too many times."

  The interrogator went back to his side of the table. He sat down and pulled a tablet of paper and a manila folder out of the table's single drawer. "Now," he said briskly. "Shall we begin?"

  "I can't..." Leigh said.

  The interrogator hunched over his tablet. "Let's begin with your professional history, Mr. Leigh..."

  ***

  Bucknell Leigh had passed through the land of pain into numbness. He no longer had any coherent sense of time passing. First came the sleep deprivation and the beatings. Then the chemicals, carefully orchestrated by a Syrian doctor who stood by and dispensed advice and treatment. In and out of the interrogation room, back and forth down the hallway to the stone cell where he lay curled on a foam pad between sessions, the darkness swirling around him like turbid water down a drain and the sound was his life passing away. He had visions there in the dark, visions of his wife and his daughters, visions of his friends, and at one point, in a rare lucid moment, he cried like a child calling for a friend to save him from the neighborhood bully, "Help me, somebody...help me..."

  No one came, though he willed them to find him. None of the black-hooded commandos he'd trained came down the hallway, MP-5 submachine guns in their hands and death in their eyes, calling his name. No one came except for the silent men who dispensed careful beatings and dragged him back and forth to the interrogation room. He was dragged yet again down the hall and slammed into the chair, the hood snatched from his head, to face his patient interrogator.

  "Would you like a drink of water, Mr. Leigh?"

  "Please..." Leigh slurred from between broken lips.

  The interrogator poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and held it for Leigh as he slurped and sucked at the glass, helpless as a child. Leigh's fine-boned features were as broken and worn as the engraving on an old coin. His lips trembled constantly, and his eyes wandered, focusing on nothing.

  "Easy, Mr. Leigh. Easy. There, that's enough for now." The interrogator set the glass down on the table and seated himself on the edge, leaning towards Leigh. "You've been very brave, Mr. Leigh," he said gently. "What you have told me has been interesting, but it is nothing we could not have found out elsewhere. I didn't expect such resistance from you. You were never really an operative, were you? You were primarily a reports officer and a training administrator?"

  "I...hurt..." Leigh slurred.

  "I know, Mr. Leigh. I'm sorry. But we haven't really begun yet, have we?"

  "I...don't know...what else...you want from me."

  The interrogator went back around to his side of the table and sat down. He pulled his tablet towards him and Leigh hunched his shoulders.

  "Tell me about your work in aviation security, Mr. Leigh. Tell me about counter-hijacking." The interrogator studied Bucknell Leigh, and the sad, broken depths of his eyes. He leaned forward on the table. "Tell me about the air marshals, Mr. Leigh."

  Leigh twitched as though he had already been struck. His cracked and swollen lips tightened.

  "Tell me..." the interrogator said softly and patiently. He paused for a moment, and then gestured to someone Leigh could sense but not see. The beating began, and Bucknell Leigh screamed until he could no longer use his voice.

  ***

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA:

  The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency's office is a large and palatial one, rich with mahogany paneling and deep leather couches. Built into one wall is a state of the art video monitor and player, and from those high-tech speakers came the gut-wrenching screams of Bucknell Leigh. The Director stabbed the stop button on his remote control, threw it onto his desk and stalked to the window that looked out on the sprawl of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  "Where are we at on finding him?" he asked.

  The man he directed his question to wa
s slumped on the long leather couch, staring at the wall, depressed by the sights and sounds of the video they had just seen. He was the Director of Operations, the man who ran the clandestine operations and oversaw the paramilitary operations of his Agency.

  "Not good," the Director of Operations said. "We've got direct action units, both ours and Department of Defense, on the ground. We're not making any headway. Intelligence Support Activity has a few good leads, but that's all they are -- leads. We've lost two operators so far, not counting the ones that got shot up in Berlin."

  "There is no higher priority than this," the Director said.

  "Understood."

  "Is this how they..." The Director stopped and cleared his throat. He had known Bucknell Leigh in Viet Nam. Leigh had been a promising young reports officer and the Director a base chief and then Saigon Chief of Station. "Is this how they got the hard intel they used on the Kuwaiti hijacking? The operational details?"

  The operations man sighed. In the months since Leigh's kidnapping, a Kuwaiti airliner had been hijacked. The hijackers had operated with a never before seen level of proficiency and knowledge. They had brought their own pilot on board. They were familiar enough with the security procedures to bypass them and smuggle weapons on board. After seizing the aircraft and killing the on-board security personnel in their seats, they had wired the aircraft with explosives and configured their defenses to defeat a sophisticated aircraft recovery team.

  "It would appear so," he said wearily.

  The CIA Director turned away from the window. "Where else have these videotapes shown up?"

  "One here. One to the White House. One to the head of the House Sub-Committee on Intelligence." He paused and looked away from his boss. "One to his family."

  "Christ!" The CIA Director kicked at his chair, a surprising physical violence in a man of his age. "I want these fuckers and I want them now! I don't care what it takes!" He gathered himself and took a deep breath. "What about our people? Are we ready to deal with this?"