Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

  After two rings, a neutral male voice answered. "Hello?"

  "Extension 342," Charley said. He looked at the clock. It would be just past eight o'clock in Tyson's Corner.

  "One moment."

  There was a click and a deep male voice answered. "Hello?"

  "Hello, David. It's Charley."

  "Charging Charley," said David Dunn, an intelligence specialist with the CIA's Counter-Terrorism Unit. "And how are the friendly skies?"

  "You know better than me. I need something regarding a mutual friend of ours."

  The other man hesitated and said, "Who?"

  "Our friend that's gone missing."

  The other man's voice was cold and curt. "We're not going to discuss that."

  "Yes, we are," Charley Dey said. His voice was hard. "Yes, we are. You're going to tell me all about it. All about it."

  ***

  MARANA, ARIZONA:

  "How does shit like that happen?" Donald Gene demanded. He was leaning in the open doorway of the instructor's office, a cup of coffee forgotten in his hand.

  Charley shook his head sorrowfully. "He was never a shooter, Donald Gene. He loved his shooters and he took care of us, but he was an administrative guy, through and through. He never had the mindset for operations. That's what he had us for."

  "Where was his security?"

  "Compromised," Charley spat.

  "They still among the living?"

  "One. And he's wishing he wasn't."

  "Fuck him," Donald said.

  "They are."

  "Good." Donald Gene stalked to his desk and threw himself into his chair. He reached out and spun his Debbie doll in her secretary's chair till her wig fell off. "Sounds like we might be in the shit, home boy. This must be what the new Headquarters yo-yo is coming out here about."

  "Yeah," Charley said, distracted.

  "When does he get out here?"

  Charley looked down at the memo on his desk. "This afternoon. You seen the latest mission schedules?"

  Donald Gene laughed. "They're flying the shit out of the crews. All of the old dogs are sniveling like rats eating onions -- it's cutting into their shopping time."

  "We're going to have to work these kids," Charley said.

  Donald grinned a feral grin. "Yes, sir. Nothing like a little taste of the for-realies to get somebody serious."

  ***

  Charley and Donald Gene stood out on the dusty helicopter pad and watched a Department of Transportation helicopter approach. The huge airstrip they stood beside was in the middle of heavily restricted airspace. On one side of the airstrip was the sprawling training compound managed by the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, Marana Facility, named for the 453 person town that was the closest piece of civilization. The facility was down six miles of rough road from an unmarked exit off US 10 between Tucson and Phoenix, one of the many classified installations that dotted the Arizona desert. FLETC, Department of State, and the Central Intelligence Agency had conducted sensitive training operations here since the Bay of Pigs. The airfield, owned by Sequoia Air which had once been known as Air America, had seen everything from blacked out C-141s loading up spec ops troops to restored P-51 Mustangs flying close air support for black ops in Central and South America. The Bell Ranger helicopter, the logo of the Department of Transportation on its side, "the wheel that goes nowhere" as the Air Marshals said, hovered, then settled down onto the helipad.

  Donald Gene turned away from the rotor blast. "This guy think he's a general, or what? I'm surprised we weren't supposed to bring out the band."

  "A light colonel, Marines," Charley said.

  "Very light," Donald Gene said.

  Lieutenant Colonel Simon Dinkey (retired) got out of the Bell Ranger and waited for his two companions to climb out. Dinkey was a stiff ramrod of a man, with a Hollywood streak of gray running through his carefully combed and expensively cut hair. His hand brushed at his hair until the helicopter rotors stopped turning. The two men with him, even dressed in civilian clothes, had senior non-commissioned officer written all over them. They fell in behind the colonel and matched him step for step as he strode towards the two instructors.

  Dinkey stopped before Charley and Donald, ignoring their outstretched hands. "Which one of you is Dey?" he barked.

  "I am," Charley said, withdrawing his hand.

  "Simon Dinkey. You know what I'm here for?"

  "Well..." Charley began.

  Dinkey cut him off. "The Administrator has personally tasked me to oversee the training operation here. Things are heating up out in the real world. We need to push these troops through here faster than we have been."

  "We don't push troops here, Simon," Donald Gene said laconically. "We train air marshals. It's a little different, you see."

  Dinkey glanced over at Don. "You must be Nelson."

  "That be me," Donald said.

  "SEAL, is that correct?"

  "I be a Budweiser."

  The two Marine NCOs looked at each other, then at Dinkey, then at Don, who grinned nastily. Dinkey ignored him and continued with Charley.

  "Where did you get that information regarding the Bekaa camp and the missing Agency personnel? The information you forwarded to HQ?"

  Charley leaned forward and, in a voice much calmer than he felt, said "From a friend."

  "What friend?" Dinkey demanded.

  Donald Gene laughed out loud, and the two Marines edged forward like dogs on a leash.

  "What's it to you?" Charley said, openly hostile now.

  Dinkey was startled. None of this was going the way he had expected it to. "We don't play this cowboy shit in this organization, mister. There are channels, proper channels, and that's where information gets passed. There won't be any of this 'back door' stuff. You are familiar with the concept of operational security?" he added with heavy sarcasm.

  "How long you been in this organization, Dinkey?" Charley said.

  "I've been in the business since Viet Nam."

  "No you haven't," Charley said. "You've been in this organization for less than three months, and you don't know shit about air marshals or aviation security. With all due respect to your history, Dinkey, whatever that might be, this is a different ballgame than the rest of the counter-terrorist community plays. Why don't you relax? You might learn something."

  "I know all I need to know," Dinkey said calmly. He hid his anger very well. "I know I don't like your attitude. Either of you. I've heard about both of you. You've been out here too long." Dinkey turned abruptly away and stalked toward the office buildings, where the center supervisor and his staff stood waiting. His two Marines, after a quick appraising look at Charley, turned and hurried after him.

  "Dinkey?" Donald Gene said.

  "Dinkey," said Charley.

  ***

  Charley began the tour of the training facility on the shooting range. "We teach basic gun handling, marksmanship and the principles of aimed fire on this range," he said, gesturing at the fifty position range, with concrete pads set up at the 3, 7, 15, and 25 yard lines. "The student must qualify at the 265 and above range on a 300 point federal qualification course in order to minimally qualify. Our basic shooting standard is the highest in the federal government."

  They stood and watched the basic class working from the holster at the 7 yard line, doing 1 shot drills in under 2 seconds.

  "What's the issue weapon?" Former Marine Gunnery Sergeant Purdy, one of Dinkey's shadows, asked.

  "It's a Sig-Sauer P-228 in 9 millimeter. We issue it with a Sparks inside the waist holster. It's got all the bells and whistles: K-Kote rust resistant finish, Trijicon night sights, short trigger for those who need it," Charley recited.

  "Nice piece," Purdy said, nodding in approval.

  "Duty round is the Winchester 115 grain jacketed hollow-point. We're looking at the 115 grain +P+ version, too," Charley added.

  "How's the muzzle flash on that +P+ inside an aircraft?" Purdy asked.

  Charley loo
ked at him. "You know your bullets." He grinned. "It's massive. That's why we probably won't go with it. Hell on the eyes in low light, and that's where most of our action is."

  The next stop was at the "killing house," the close quarter battle training facility. It was a long rectangular structure, open roofed, built of tires filled with sand and set down inside of a wide 360 degree berm of banked earth. Aircraft seats were set up inside the rectangular tire house, and pop up targets were mounted throughout the structure, including two "running man" targets that raced up the aisle in the direction of the cockpit. Movable frames covered with heavy cardboard simulated bulkheads, galleys and lavatories. Charley led them to the observation point on the berm, where from behind lexan armored glass they could observe two students training. Charley noted how the two NCOs pressed forward and how Dinkey held back from getting too close to the shooting. At a random interval, a pop-up target would snap into position, and the designated shooters had to make a shoot or no-shoot decision. In some instances the target was a hostage or passenger. The shooter had to angle and fire past the hostage's head and make a killing shot on the terrorist. The students were doing well; most of the realistic photo targets had a nice cluster of bullet holes on the nose of the terrorists, and so far no holes in any of the hostages.

  Charley led them away from the killing house across the physical fitness field to the classroom facility. "We've got a lecture on aircraft recovery scheduled now."

  "Who is the instructor?" Dinkey asked.

  "Master Sergeant O'Dell, from DELTA," Charley said.

  Dinkey's other shadow, another former Master Sergeant named Moran, said, "Is that the guy they call Moonbuzzard?"

  Charley nodded. "DELTA gave him some time to come over and do the lecture. We have a lot of informal training exchange between us."

  "Who is our formal liaison with that unit?" Dinkey said stiffly.

  "It escapes me right now, Simon," Charley said. "Probably somebody in Headquarters. I'll have to go look it up later." He noticed the carefully veiled look of disgust and discomfort on Purdy's face everytime Dinkey spoke, and made a mental note to himself to seek the former gunnery sergeant out later.

  They all sat at the back of the class during the lecture on the art and science of aircraft recovery, or how to take a plane back from hijackers once it was on the ground. Jim "Moonbuzzard" O'Dell was a captivating instructor, and his extensive slide show, with otherwise unavailable photos of actual aircraft assaults by world counter-terrorist teams held even Dinkey's attention. After the lecture, Charley excused himself and turned the tour over to Donald Gene.

  "Where is he going?" Dinkey asked.

  Don paused just long enough to be insolent. "He's teaching the next class. Over in the hand to hand pit."

  "What's he teaching?" Moran asked.

  "Oh, some of that silly ass hand to hand bullshit," Donald Gene said. "We'll go down and see."

  "You don't think much of hand to hand?" Moran asked.

  "That's what they make guns for," Don said.

  The hand to hand pit was a large sand-filled depression on one side of the physical fitness field. The basic air marshal class was lined up on one side of the pit, while Charley and several students were setting up airline seats in neat rows to simulate a single-aisle aircraft.

  "What's he doing?" Dinkey asked.

  "I don't know," Don said. "Why don't you ask him?"

  Dinkey turned away, and Don was pleased to see that he had finally gotten a rise out of the colonel. They watched Charley seat students in the seats, and then arm himself with a solid plastic training gun. He walked down the simulated aisle brandishing the handgun.

  "What you're looking for is when they gesture with the gun and don't aim it," Charley said. "When somebody is serious about shooting you, they aim. They point with intent to shoot. When they're not serious, they gesture, they point at you." He demonstrated the difference by accenting his words with shakes of the pistol, as though he were wagging his finger at the students. "DJ, come here," he called to one of the students.

  The student stood up and came forward, taking the gun from Charley.

  "You're the hijacker now," Charley said.

  DJ nodded as Charley took a seat. As DJ walked by, Charley talked him through and demonstrated the disarming technique. Charley clamped both hands to the gun, snapped it back towards his chest and ripped the gun out of DJ's hand. The technique was a modification of the knife disarm as practiced in the Filipino martial art of kali. The students looked wide eyed at each other at the speed and simplicity of the technique. They paired off and began to practice the fundamental movements.

  "He's pretty good at that stuff," Moran noted.

  "How come they don't just shoot the terrorist?" Purdy asked.

  Donald asked, "You ever been at close quarters, Purdy?"

  "Yeah," Purdy said, bristling at the challenge implicit in Don's tone.

  "Ever been at close quarters, seated, undercover, with your weapon in concealment and have a tango have the drop on you?"

  "Fuck no," Purdy said. "Wouldn't want to, either."

  "That's when we go to work, Purdy. This is different from flashbanging your way into a house or a plane with all the shooters in the world backing you up. It's just us and our bad attitudes: no back up, no long guns, and one long motherfucking fall if we fuck up. At these ranges, under these conditions, it's faster to take the gun away from the fuck and have your partner cap him than it is to try to get your own piece out and do the deed. Watch and you might learn something," Don said, finishing mildly.

  Purdy nodded. "I can see how that could be," he allowed.

  "There's hope for you, Purdy."

  "That's enough," Dinkey snapped. "Let's get on with it."

  ***

  The tour concluded, the two Marine NCOs, Charley and Don sat on the low wooden rail fence that surrounded the administration building and sipped cold sodas in the dry afternoon heat. Dinkey had disappeared into the building with John Sayles, the FLETC administrator responsible for oversight of the marshal training program. The trainers and their two guests looked out over the physical fitness field to where the students, most of them in swimsuits and headed for the pool, wandered out of their quarters.

  "Pretty young bunch you got here," Purdy observed.

  "Were you in training?" Charley asked.

  The Marine nodded. "I was a drill at Parris for awhile, in between stints with First Recon. I taught patrolling out at the Recon course and did a stint under Carlos Hathcock out at the Scout Sniper course."

  "No shit? You knew Hathcock?"

  "Yeah. He's a great man."

  "What do you think about all this?" Charley asked, making a sweep with his arm that took in the students, the training facility, the airfield.

  Purdy shrugged and ignored Moran's warning glance. "You got a tough job, Dey...I mean, I know your background and what you've done, but you guys are still working with a lot of young kids, right out of college, 22 to 25 year olds who have never done anything. All this affirmative action, equal opportunity and grievance procedures bullshit hamstrings you when you need to wash somebody out." He sipped on his coke and went on. "You guys aren't recruiting the same people you were...or your administrators aren't. When you guys started up, it was all guys like you two, or us," he said, gesturing at Moran. "Now..."

  "Bureaucrats," Donald Gene said. "They don't like having us old wardogs around because we question their silly ass bullshit."

  "It's the same wherever you go," Purdy said. "Old Dinkey thinks he's going to change things, but it'll still be the same."

  "What do you mean?" Charley said.

  "Shut up, Purdy," Moran said.

  Purdy turned to him and said coldly, "Don't talk like that to me, Moran. These guys got history."

  "We've got history, and we've got business to take care of," Moran said.

  "Yeah." Purdy turned to face Charley and Don. "You guys should know this up front. I don't have any patience for this s
illy-ass political shit. Dinkey's mission is to come down here and turn this operation into a model Marine Corps training camp.

  "In case you hadn't noticed, this ain't the Marine Corps," Donald said.

  "No shit," Purdy said. "Dinkey needed a job when he retired, and your boss General Stone gave him one. Where else you going to put him other than in training? This is the nearest thing to a fighting unit DOT has." Purdy shrugged. "He's got his own ideas how things should be run. He's not a bad guy...he's just as mission oriented as you can be. There's his way and the highway. He's done some good things."

  "I heard he was an administrator and not a shooter," Charley said.

  "Yeah, that's true. Don't tell him that, though. He likes to think he can loot and shoot with the best." Purdy drained off his coke and pitched the can into a recycling bin. "Just stay out of his way. He'll find a way to fuck you long and hard if you get in his way. You don't have to like him...you just have to do what he says."

  Donald Gene laughed and crushed his soda can. "I have a feeling that Dinkey and us are going to have a long series of disagreements."

  Charley stood up and arched his back. He stood off by himself for a moment and watched the sun settle down across the Arizona desert.

  ***

  Donald Gene took the Seal Team Two plaque off the wall and placed it carefully in a cardboard box along with his other wall ornaments. In another box against the wall, the disassembled Debbie Doll peered out forlornly from beneath her mussed up wig.

  "Due to the increased threat against civil aviation," Donald recited in a high falsetto, "You are hereby relieved of instructor duty and reassigned to mission status. You will report immediately to Federal Air Marshal Unit 10, where you will assume duties as assistant team leader under the direct supervision of team leader Charles Dey."

  He taped the box shut and looked over to where Charley was cleaning out his desk. "You know, Charley, I spent twenty years doing the duffel bag drag. I thought we were through with all that shit."