Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

  "Yes sir, I'm Don Nelson, I'm the team leader for this Air Marshal team. We're aboard for a routine deterrence patrol; there is no specific threat to your aircraft. There is a general threat on this route, as you know, and that is why you have the security measures in place and air marshals on board. The four of us have worked with your cabin crew before -- we know everybody, and your folks know their jobs. Just business as usual, Captain."

  "Okay. If you or your people need anything, just let me know." He followed his co-pilot forward into the cockpit.

  Jon and Joan stood at the rear of the aircraft and looked up the aisle at Don and Butch.

  "I wanted to hear that captain briefing," Joan muttered.

  "You've got it written down in your credential case," Jon said. He'd been irritated with Joan for some time. She refused to resume their training romance and was increasingly stand offish, which only made him try harder.

  "I wanted to hear Nelson do it."

  "You sure you just didn't want to do him?"

  Joan spun on Jon so quickly he stepped back. "You're out of line, Jon," she snapped. "Way out of line."

  "I..." Jon stammered

  "Shut up! Don't you ever speak to me that way again, do you understand me? Who I fuck or don't fuck is my business, not yours. It never was and it never will be, you understand?" She stormed off up the aisle, leaving Jon blinking in surprise.

  "Don?" Joan said.

  "What is it, Joanie?" Don asked.

  "I'd like to swap seat positions. Either move Jon or move me."

  He noted her flush, and looked down the aisle where Jon slumped on an armrest, head down. "Lover's quarrel, huh?" Don said.

  Joan fought to keep her temper. "I would prefer to work elsewhere, if you can do that. I'd appreciate it."

  "I'll swap with you, Joan," Butch volunteered. "That okay with you, Don?"

  "Sure, fine," Don said.

  Butch went to the rear of the aircraft and began speaking to Jon. Jon was waving his arms around wildly, and Don could only hear snatches of their conversation. Joan stood in the galley, her arms crossed on her chest.

  Ilona looked at her and smiled sympathetically. "Men. They are not worth the trouble, are they?" she said.

  "That's for damn sure," Joan said.

  A junior flight attendant stuck her head into the galley. "Passengers boarding!"

  Joan moved to the lavatory door, between the cockpit and the open cabin door, as a passenger bus stopped at the bottom of the stairs and passengers began to enter the aircraft. From where she stood, she blocked access to the cockpit, and could see each passenger as they entered. From his seat in First Class, Don could see Joan, and each passenger as they entered as well. Each passenger got looked over thoroughly as they got on board. The marshals looked for the passenger that seemed out of place, too nervous, too calm, too tuned into with what was going on around him. The young, the athletic, the ones who wore sunglasses on board the aircraft, the tense, the too loud -- they all got looked over, and catalogued by the marshals. Don only noted two who might bear watching: both young men in their twenties who carried themselves with the unconscious arrogance of someone who was not only in good shape, but used to using it: the carriage of a soldier or a cop. They might be Middle Eastern, but it's hard to tell in Germany. You have Turks, Israelis, Greeks, Latinos as well as dark Germans, and without having a chance to spend time calibrating and watching each, it was hard to tell them apart. But if he missed one, he had Butch and Jon behind him to catch them.

  Joan rummaged through the magazine rack as though she were looking for something to read. This was a light load for a flight to Rome, at least from what she had been told. The plane was only about half full.

  "Is that it?" she asked Ilona.

  "Yes, not too full today," Ilona said serenely. "It will be an easy flight."

  ***

  DELTA FLIGHT 102, FRANKFURT TO ATHENS:

  Charley and Karen watched the passengers board There were a lot of wealthy looking Greeks lugging huge shopping bags from the Duty Free Shops. They sidled down the aisles, coats draped over their arms, packages bumping the seat backs as they looked for an empty overhead compartment. Charley watched their faces and their bags. He hated the way the Duty free shops worked. The people who worked in those shops were inadequately screened and as airport employees, they could often bypass passenger screening altogether, bringing anything they wanted into the sterile boarding areas. This looked as though it were an organized shopping junket; many of the people seemed to know each other, but that could be the natural Greek gregariousness as well.

  An older woman in her fifties or sixties, a wealthy Greek dowager from the look of her carefully coifed and shellacked hair to the heavy gold around her neck, bumped into Charley's arm. She said something in Greek.

  Charley nodded and smiled. "No problem, it's okay," he said.

  The woman stopped. "Oh, you are American! I used to live in America, New York City."

  "That's nice. Great city.'

  "Oh, yes," she said. Someone pushed her from behind and she went on. The man who'd pushed her held his canvas carry-on tight to his chest. The man looked Turkish with his hooked nose and the unusually dark skin. His face seemed tight beneath his large sunglasses. He was in good shape. Something about him bothered Charley; it was how he didn't look around in First class, the way most coach passengers did. The man brushed past the older woman who was behind Charley, struggling to get her things up into the overhead compartment. Charley noticed how the man kept his elbows in close to his body, pressing his leather jacket in tight. He saw Karen working the remaining passengers from her vantage point in front of the lavatory. He filed the man's face away and settled back into his seat. Something about that man bothered him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man looking back at him, then quickly looking away. Charley felt a tingle in the pit of his stomach and the adrenal rush that raised hair on the back of his neck. 'There's something there,' he thought. 'Something's not right.' Karen looked at him and he saw that she had made the man as well. The last of the passengers were on board. The lead flight attendant was checking over her passenger manifest with the gate agent. Karen went to her seat, and hesitated before turning front and sitting. Charley waited a moment, then stood and went to the front to the lead flight attendant.

  "There weren't any last minute profiles, were there?" he asked her in a low voice.

  She looked at him with surprise and a little annoyance. "No, none on the manifest and no last minute pax. Why?"

  "Just checking," Charley said, smiling and projecting innocence. He turned and saw the man leaning out to look at him. He was about halfway down the coach cabin, halfway between Charley and his back-ups in the rear of the aircraft. Charley slowly settled into his seat, tense. He felt the cross-hairs settling.

  ***

  Stacy had made the guy as well. She tapped Steve on the shoulder and said, "Come back here for a minute."

  Steve followed her into the narrow aisle between the galley and the lavatory.

  "You see that guy with the canvas carry-on, up there, the one hanging his head out in the aisle?" she said.

  "Yeah," Steve said.

  "I don't like the look of him. Walk up by him and get his seat number -- like you're going up the front to get a magazine or something."

  Steve strode up the aisle, slowing for a moment when he brushed by the man. He went to the front of coach and rummaged through a magazine rack for a moment before a flight attendant said," I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to be seated now. We're preparing for take-off and departure."

  "Sure," Steve said. He walked slowly back down the aisle, flipping through Sports Illustrated. In 14D, on the aisle, the man held his canvas carry-on in his lap, and stared openly at Steve. Steve nodded pleasantly to him and went back to his seat, where he wrote 14D and the word "DIRTY" on a piece of paper , slipped into the Sports Illustrated and handed it across the aisle to Stacy.

  "Did you want to read this magazine?" he
asked Stacy. The other passengers looked up and then away.

  "Thanks." Stacy took the magazine and looked at the note and nodded. She loosened her seatbelt and pressed her elbow against the butt of her Sig, locating it. She leaned away from the seat rest and lifted it up out of the way. The male passenger at the window looked over the empty seat between them and said, "That's a good idea," and lifted his seat arm as well. Stacy nodded absently. She fixed her attention on the back of the suspicious man's head. He seemed very interested in what was going on up in First Class.

  ***

  VECTOR AIRLINES FLIGHT 127, FRANKFURT TO ISTANBUL:

  Harold was uncomfortable in First Class. No matter how many times he rode up there he still felt out of place, as though the other passengers could tell that he was a blue collar kid from Missoula, Montana. He knew he looked stupid sometimes, with his swaggering and loud bravado, but he couldn't seem to help himself. That wasn't the problem on this mission. Caught between Don Nelson and Charley Dey, he was on his best behavior for this mission. It was no fun. Like most of the third and fourth generation marshals, he'd grown used to the old-timers running the missions, making the important decisions, interfacing with the embassies and the pilots and the customs and the police everywhere they went. He didn't enjoy the responsibility that came with the team leader assignment. The perks were nice: first class seating if he wanted to take advantage of it, control of the team, making decisions -- or at least they'd looked nice from when he'd been riding in coach and business. Even though he'd been a team leader before, it had always been under the guidance and supervision of a senior guy. He'd never had so many senior guys on his team. Charley Dey had been good to him so far, he had to admit, and Don Nelson had backed off, probably because of Charley, but Stacy Bagley was merciless in her pointed and public humiliations of him. It wasn't his fault that Dinkey had assigned him to this job. If it had been up to him he would have given a pass to the whole damn thing. There was all kinds of shit going on he didn't have a clue about. Dey and Nelson were close-mouthed about what they were meeting with that embassy guy about. And there was Karen...he could have a thing with her, he thought, grinning, but there was something between her and Stacy. That bitch could be pretty scary when she was wound up and she seemed wound up about Harold and Karen. He'd have to ask Karen about it when he got together with her back in Frankfurt. He had scheduled a down day with her and he meant to take her on a day trip to Heidelberg. Harold smiled at the thought and paged through the airline's on-board magazine. He didn't notice the attractive woman sitting behind him across the aisle. She watched his every move and followed closely his conversation with Dyer Shaw across the aisle from him.

  ***

  WESTERN AIRLINES FLIGHT #223, FRANKFURT TO ROME:

  Donald Gene prowled the 727 restlessly. Even though it was a short flight, he couldn't stay in his seat. The truth was he hated flying and he hated sitting for so damn long. 'Then why fly?' Don asked himself and the question made him laugh out loud. A woman passenger looked up at him and smiled. Why fly? It was the chance to travel in style for once in his career, instead of by sub or swimmer delivery vehicle or parachute. It was pretty damn good to go First Class and stay in nice hotels on the taxpayers dime, surrounded by attractive and single flight attendants, far from home in romantic cities. He had a job where the bureaucrats gave him a gun, a badge, a couple of passports, an American Express with no limit and $2500 in cash. Why fly? You didn't need to be a rocket scientist to get that. The truth was, though he'd never admit it, was that his body -- shot up in Vietnam, blown out of the water once in a training accident, dinged and banged up -- wasn't what it could have been. He'd found that he couldn't keep up with the younger SEALS anymore, and he knew then it was time to move on gracefully. But he still wanted to stay in the game. He didn't have the patience for the consultant game, and he'd had the chance to be a contract trainer for CIA, but gave it a pass. He chose the Marshals. He'd known Charley Dey in Viet Nam, not well, but they linked up in the first air marshal training course, and had been partners since. They'd both been selected to be trainers by Colleen Nicolovich, the feisty ex-FBI bank robbery squad agent from New York City, who'd been appointed the head of the new Air Marshal Unit.

  "Well, boys," the hefty, chain-smoking daughter of Russian immigrants said, "You're going to be the ones to go and make us a name. Most of the CT community won't talk to me cause I don't got a dick. Rest of them the idiots in this outfit have pissed off for one reason or another. You boys are well known. I'm gonna send you to the CIA. I'm gonna send you to Bragg. I'm gonna send you down to Seal Team Six. I'm gonna send you over to the Bureau, to Secret Service, to State Department, and to FLETC. You're gonna steal all their best shit and bring it back here to mama. You're gonna impress all those people and leave them saying to each other, 'What a squared away outfit that is.' You do that for me, boys, and I will make sure that you get everything you want to make this happen right. You'll get the money, the best toys, training facility, whatever. Cause the big boss man in the White House says he wants marshals now and he means yesterday. So go get it done."

  Old Colleen had been an eye-opener for Don. She was the best boss he'd ever had. After twenty years with the SEALs, he would never have believed he'd been so happy working for a woman if he hadn't been doing it himself. He'd been genuinely disappointed when she was promoted to a position with the Secretary of Transportation. Life was funny that way.

  "Hey, Ilona, got anything sweet back here?" he said through the drawn galley curtains.

  "There is much sweet in here, Mr. Don, but nothing for you," she replied primly.

  "Why do you torture me, honey?"

  Illona stuck her head out and grinned impertinently. "Because you are so terrible to women, Mr. Don."

  Butch laughed from behind Don. "It is because you are so terrible to women, Mr. Don," he repeated in a falsetto.

  "Shit, nobody around here's seen terrible, yet," Don said.

  ***

  DELTA FLIGHT #102, FRANKFURT TO ATHENS:

  Charley was tense. He felt that man behind him; the man's attention like a beam of light cutting through the dark to rest on Charley. It seemed to take forever for the plane to taxi into position, then accelerate and hurtle itself into the sky. Karen kept looking over her shoulder; she felt that passenger, too. Fifteen minutes into the flight, the seat belt lights still lit, he heard the lead flight attendant say, "I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to return to your seat."

  Charley looked over his shoulder and saw the suspicious passenger, his carry-on clutched to his chest, standing at the bulkhead that separated first class from coach.

  "I have to use the restroom," the man said in heavily accented English.

  "I'm sorry, you'll have to wait until the captain turns out the seatbelt light," the flight attendant said. "Really, you'll have to return to your seat now, sir."

  Charley eased the buckle open on his seat belt and shifted his weight to his left leg.

  "Okay," the man said. "Okay." He turned and went back to his seat.

  Charley's heart was pounding. He took a disciplined breath through his nose to calm himself. Karen hadn't missed the exchange; she was flushed bright red, and gripped the armrest so tightly her fingers were bone-white.

  "Are you okay, Miss?" the older gentleman next to her said. "Will you be sick?"

  "No," she blurted out. "I'm fine. Something I ate didn't agree with me. I'll be okay."

  The aircraft finally leveled off, and the captain announced that passengers could move about the cabin. Charley got up out of his seat and moved to the front of the first class cabin, in the left front passenger door, and looked back through the aircraft. He saw Steve on his feet in the rear. Stacy caught his eye and nodded, twice. They were up to speed. The profiled passenger stood up, his bag in his hand, and made his way forward again.

  The lead attendant stood right in front of him and said, "Sir, you can't use that lavatory. There are others in the rear that are available to you."<
br />
  "Someone's in those ones," the man said.

  "No, they're empty. No one is in them. Please, sir!"

  The man turned away and returned to the rear of the cabin. He brushed by Steve and entered the lavatory. Steve took the magazine he'd been browsing through and held it in his left hand. He turned away from the passengers and Charley saw that he had drawn his weapon. The magazine in Steve's left hand went over his right hand, concealing his pistol. He set himself up against the back stairway door, between the two lavatories. Stacy stayed in her seat and turned to face the aisle, where she could see Charley, and still see the lavatory door. Charley nodded to Karen, then leaned against the bulkhead next to the cockpit door. The lead flight attendant looked puzzled. She looked at Charley, then down the length of the aircraft at Steve, then back at Charley. She paled and her hands began to tremble.

  "What's happening," she whispered. "What's going on?"

  "Just hold," Charley said. "Stand over here," he said, guiding her into the galley.

  The rear lavatory door opened and Charley saw, as in slow motion, Steve's hand come up. The passenger stepped out, his hand in his bag. He stopped, withdrew his hand, and zipped up the bag. He looked up and stared back at Steve for a moment. He dropped his eyes and returned to his seat.

  It was as though the aircraft was a balloon that all the air had suddenly rushed out of. Trembling with adrenaline, Charley stared into the man's eyes and started down the aisle towards him. "Karen, stand by," he said tersely as he passed her. Karen got up and stood at the cockpit door. Charley went to the man and stood where he could see both of his hands, still clutching the canvas carry-on. "Could I speak to you for a minute, sir?" Charley said courteously.

  "Who are you?" the man said. He wouldn't look at Charley.

  "I think we met in Frankfurt, didn't we? You're a salesman..." Charley said.

  The man looked up at him. "I don't think so," he said. "I don't know you." He clutched at his bag.

  Charley stared down at him. Something about this wasn't right. It felt contrived; not all there. The man was too obviously afraid and he wasn't looking around for support from anyone. All of a sudden he didn't feel dangerous anymore.