“Coming back slowly, Colonel. I won’t be flying anytime in the future,” Ken replied, shaking hands with Reskova. “At least I didn’t lose it.”
“You going to Detroit on this flight?” McDaniels asked, gesturing for Folley to sit down with them.
“Yeah, I have a new gig going,” Folley answered. “Want to go have a coffee with me? We can get a booth.”
“Sounds good,” McDaniels agreed, while Folley picked up his briefcase. “That okay with you, Diane?”
“Sure, I’ll have something with you two.”
When they were seated at a booth in the restaurant near the gate, Folley kept glancing at McDaniels and chuckling as the waitress took their order.
McDaniels grinned. “Okay, Ken, what the heck’s so funny?”
“You first, Cold Mountain,” Folley countered. “How the hell did you beat the rap?”
“It was public outcry, Mr. Folley,” Reskova answered for McDaniels.
“I caught a break because of Senator Hokanson,” McDaniels added.
“Call me Ken, Diane. I’m a little surprised to see you two together. I read the transcript of your call down from the mountain. You weren’t too happy with Cold here.”
“We… ah…” Reskova stammered out, not knowing how to proceed. She was not to advertise the fact McDaniels would be working with her task force.
“It’s okay, I’m with the Air Marshals,” Folley said, lowering his voice. “We heard there would be two FBI agents on the plane and one of them spoke the lingo of our adversary. Cold here wasn’t in handcuffs. I know he speaks about twenty languages, so…”
“You’re in the Air Marshal service, huh?” McDaniels lowered his voice too. “How many of you guys will be on the flight with us?”
“Me and three others. We were relieved and pissed at the same time when that reporter made us look bad over the Syrian musician thing. When I heard we’d be having FBI company this time I thought maybe you folks had decided to show us up again.”
“We didn’t do too well either,” Reskova replied. “It wasn’t your service that met those jerks and missed the expired Visa dates. If the State Department is going to insist on letting the enemy exploit our goofy travel policies, we should at least learn to read dates correctly.”
Chapter 6
Apache Upbringing
Folley was silent for a moment, looking at Reskova speculatively. Reskova figured he was trying to discern if she meant the comment she had just made. Folley seemed to reach a decision.
Folley smiled. “Thank you. How’s John and Sara, Cold?”
“They passed away while I was in Iraq,” McDaniels replied.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Folley said somberly. “They had a long life though.”
“Thanks. You’re right. They were both almost ninety. John went first. When Sara wrote me about his funeral, I could tell from her words she was changed. I called her from overseas. She mostly sounded lost. I put in a call a month later when my letters went unanswered, but she had already passed on too.”
“You weren’t one of the marshals on that flight, were you, Ken?” McDaniels asked, changing the subject.
“No, but I’ve noticed more than a few flights I thought were dry runs. They weren’t on a scale like that one, but they were overt enough for me to report the incidents. Nothing was done, of course, with that pinhead Minetta in charge of Transportation.”
Reskova and McDaniels both laughed at Folley’s reference.
“Diane and I were talking about Normy ourselves.”
“Were you two together overseas?” Reskova asked.
“Ken here ferried us in and out of a few bad spots in Afghanistan. He took a round in the leg towards the end. He’s a Major in the air force.”
“Retired. I never thought I’d see you again after I left the hospital. I should have looked you up. It took some time to come to grips with civilian life again. Did you end up sticking it out with Delta or did you get drafted by Langley?”
“I sort of ended up shifting back and forth until after Naseria,” McDaniels answered. “Langley needed more intel and we started playing kissy face with the local thugs instead of…”
“Cutting all their heads off?” Reskova broke in, evoking a laugh from Folley.
“Okay, I walked right into that one. So, you guys get briefed on this bunch doing the dry run, Ken?”
“We’re in the dark again,” Folley admitted as the waitress brought their orders. “All we really know is you two would be on the flight with us. What were you two supposed to do, other than the Colonel here listening in?”
“That was all I was told,” Reskova replied.
“They’re all getting seated together, whether they like it or not,” Folley informed them. “There will probably be a dust up about it at check-in when they get told they won’t be getting the seats they asked for. They wanted to be dispersed throughout the plane as if they didn’t know each other.”
“Where do you have them designated for?” Reskova asked.
“Smack dab right in the middle of commercial. The two in first class will have to sit together at the front of first class seating. They’ll play the bathroom card all flight long, but we have an agent up there with those two.”
“Can you get us seating right next to their group?” McDaniels asked.
“I’ll take care of it. You aren’t going to do anything rash, are you, Cold?”
“You aren’t going to keep calling me Cold, are you, Major?”
“Ah… that would be an affirmative, Cold. Now, you aren’t going to do anything rash, are you?” Folley repeated.
“I plan on practicing my language skills only,” McDaniels answered after a moment’s hesitation.
“That was a pregnant pause, Cold.”
“I agree,” Reskova added, staring at McDaniels. “Are you planning something goofy?”
“Define goofy.”
“Don’t make me have to handcuff you, Cold,” Reskova warned.
“Why don’t you two worry about how good we can screw with these clowns, instead of wondering how we can keep from hurting their feelings?”
Folley chuckled. “You have a point, Cold, but we don’t make those calls. Look what happened to those poor suckers at Abu Grayab prison. They screwed with a few of those murderous shitballs and what did it get them? If you’re planning on playing games with these guys, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll just abide by the Golden Rule - do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I think they should have put medals on those kids’ chests, and sent them back to Abu Grayib with the thanks of a grateful nation.”
“Oh boy,” Reskova murmured, shaking her head as Folley laughed.
“I’ll go get the seating fixed,” Folley said, standing up. He shook hands with both Reskova and McDaniels. He leaned down conspiratorially. “Nice seeing you again, Cold. You do understand the marshals do not run around the plane announcing who they are, right?”
“I’m glad you weren’t this touchy-feely when you were drivin’ those AC-130’s.”
“It’s a kinder, gentler, terrorist war, Cold,” Folley said turning to leave. He turned his head for a parting shot. “Get with the program, you freak. Nice meeting you, Diane.”
“Same here, Ken, good luck,” Reskova replied. She looked at McDaniels, who was watching his friend exit the restaurant. “Who was John and Sara?”
“John and Sara Noche - sort of my parents.”
“Sort of?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“We still have two hours before the flight. Unless of course you’re one of those strong, silent types.”
“My Mom took a job teaching at the Mescalero Apache Reservation school after she became pregnant with me. Her folks had died in a car crash when she was six. She was raised in foster homes until she graduated from high school. With the help of a student loan, she received her teaching credential from New Mexico State.”
“Your Mom was a tough wo
man.”
“She was that. Her name was Jane McDaniels. She fell for a guy in her senior year at New Mexico State. She was three months pregnant when she graduated. My Father was going to marry her when his tour of duty in Vietnam was up. He never made it back. She applied for a job on the Reservation, teaching grammar school kids how to read. John Noche offered her a room in his house near the school. His wife Sara and my Mom hit it off right away. They adopted us. When I was nearly four, my Mom caught the flu. She died almost a month later of pneumonia. The reservation Doc said her immune system broke down. John and Sara raised me instead of sending me away.”
“They were Apaches?”
“Full blood Mescaleros,” McDaniels affirmed.
“So this John taught you how to track?”
“He taught me nearly everything I know. John and Sara taught me Spanish and Apache too. John knew some French, so I managed to pick up nearly four languages before I made it through school. I was constantly getting into fights at first when I attended the Reservation school. John taught me what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”
“Why did you leave? I mean what made you go into the Service?” Reskova asked, completely taken with McDaniels’ background.
“No work. John and his wife barely had enough to feed themselves. We had to hunt and poach constantly to make ends meet. By the time I turned seventeen, there really wasn’t much further to go in the reservation school. We had a big drop out rate. I passed my GED and joined the army. I had been in for almost three years while working my way up into Special Forces just in time for the first Gulf War.”
“Did you go back to see the couple who raised you very often?”
“I spent every leave with them. John and I would walk the old trails where he had taught me how to track. Then the three of us would sit around into the early morning hours, sometimes in silence, and sometimes talking of old times. John told me the tales of his ancestors who fought fierce battles with the Comanche, Spanish, and Americans. I don’t remember how many times I heard them but he would always remember something new.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“Actually, pretty bleak. Life on the reservation was full of the good and the bad. God knows what I would have done if I hadn’t joined the army.”
McDaniels laughed suddenly, shaking his head at a memory.
“What?”
“Nothing, only when I first came home in my uniform and Green Beret, John used to call me Custer.”
“Was he mad at you for joining the army?”
“No way! It was just his way of putting me in my place a little. I was pretty swelled up with myself. We better get out of here. Maybe the Syrian Fig Newtons will arrive soon.”
“I think they’re on a soccer team this time. Stay in here for a little bit while I check with your friend about the seating. You stick out like a sore thumb. There’s no use in tipping anyone off.”
“Okay,” McDaniels agreed, as Reskova stood up to leave. “Ask Ken if he has an exact head count.”
“I will.” Reskova walked out of the restaurant. She spotted Ken sitting by himself, reading a newspaper. Reskova looked around for any sign of the Syrians. When she didn’t spot any of the Middle Eastern party she sat down next to McDaniels’ friend. Ken glanced over from his paper and then went back to reading.
“You’re all set,” Folley said without looking at Reskova.
“Cold wants to know if you have an exact headcount.”
Folley chuckled. “Fourteen.”
“Damn! Our intel was eight.”
“I guess the State Department wants to make sure they have a small army aboard if they decide to make their move.”
“How did you know about the Colonel’s Apache guardians?”
“They flew out to see him at Walter Reed. We ended up there next to each other. He was surprised to see them. I guess they blew a bunch of the money he’d sent them to live on, to visit him.”
“He was wounded too?”
“After I got hit and my co-pilot had been killed Cold dragged me out of the AC-130 which was on fire. Just when he handed me over the outcropping his team was covering us from, a mortar round landed near us. It blew him right over the outcropping and into our position. A bunch of shrapnel made it around his flak jacket and helmet. One piece carved a furrow up the back of his neck, and along the side of his head.”
“You guys are lucky to be alive.”
“You don’t know the half of it. His neck and head bled like a stuck pig. Man, I thought he’d bleed out before anyone could work on him. Anyway, Cold started telling John and Sara they shouldn’t have come. The old man told him they had to come out to see how their Little Big Horn was. Those two looked ancient. Sara just held his hand the whole time while John kept riding him, calling him Custer, and asking him if the Afghans had taken his hair. Cold’s head was all bandaged up. He introduced me in between laughing at the insults.”
Reskova stood up. “I’ll go let the Little Big Horn know we have our seats.”
“I hope this dry run deal turns out to be nothing,” Folley replied, grinning at Reskova’s quip without looking up from his paper.
“See you later.”
She rejoined McDaniels at his table. He looked up from his iced tea questioningly.
“Fourteen.”
McDaniels laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Reskova asked.
“Not one damn thing. This country has become a politically correct joke.”
“Just remember,” Reskova reminded him, “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
“Maybe you better handcuff me. I feel a Bad Moon Rising. What are you looking for, head lice?”
Reskova had been checking out the whitened scar running up from the back of McDaniels’ neck over his right ear and ended just above his right temple. “I wanted to see where the shrapnel hit your head. It looks like it harmlessly bounced along the side of your thick skull. It never had a chance.”
“How…” McDaniels began and then looked out toward the gate waiting area. “You’ve been grilling Ken, I take it.”
“I just wondered how he knew your guardians and he told me.”
“At Walter Reed, when John started in on me with the Custer routine, Ken was bustin’ up laughing. It was the first time since we had returned I’d seen him laugh. He and John spent a couple hours holding me up to ridicule. A good time was had by all.”
“It’s hard to reconcile the way you are here and the guy holding the black plastic bag in the woods.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll do something in the near future to remind you of my psycho killer status.”
“If you’re finished, Cold, let’s go sit down in the waiting area. Those soccer allstars should be checking in shortly.”
“Repeating the line from Cold Mountain was not one of my brighter moments.” McDaniels stood up from the table. “I just thought I was so cute.”
“And now you have a great nickname to go along with your smart-ass attitude,” Reskova needled him.
“You have a mean streak, Agent Reskova.”
* * *
Half an hour later, just fifteen minutes before boarding, McDaniels spotted three of the Syrians. A squad of guards, holding M16’s, nonchalantly moved around the gate area. McDaniels alerted Reskova as the rest of the Syrians showed up, all carrying bags to take on with them. They sat in seats dispersed around the gate area, without speaking to one another. No more than two of them sat together. They filed up to the check-in desk at different intervals. Only after half of them had been informed of their seat assignment changes did McDaniels notice they began to whisper urgently to the ones who had not been to the desk.
“This looks interesting,” McDaniels observed, tugging on Reskova’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go check-in and I’ll see if I can pick up some conversation.”
McDaniels and Reskova moved up into the line, ending up between five of the Syrian group. Some of the other people waiting for
the boarding announcement were visibly uncomfortable as they watched the Syrians check-in. The Syrians, on the other hand all checked out McDaniels’ manner and size appraisingly. The Syrian at the front of the line began arguing heatedly with the woman at the check-in desk.
His tirade had very little effect on her. She simply repeated the instructions for seating and tried to hand him his boarding pass. A man walked behind the desk who also looked of Middle Eastern origin. He smiled at the woman and took over check-in. With a wave of his hand he told the Syrian in Arabic to take the pass and sit down. The Syrian took the pass, rage plain on his face. The appearance of a man who spoke Arabic diffused the situation. The other Syrians checked in without comment. Reskova and McDaniels took their boarding passes and sat down.
“See, now that’s how you take care of a potentially volatile situation,” Reskova pointed out.
“I believe you’re forgetting the young men walking around in uniform carrying M16’s. Granted, the airline guy turned their water off. On the other hand, I didn’t pick up anything useful. Still, it was very satisfying to see. We’ll need to keep our eye on that clown who was told off. He’s the ringleader.”
“How do you know?”
“His body language. The first bunch who were reseated all glanced at him. He immediately jumped up in line at the front of his crew. I hope we’re close to him.”
“So you might pick up some conversation, right?”
“Of course.”
* * *
On board the plane, Reskova again marveled at McDaniels’ agility. He avoided bumping things almost as if his body was radar guided. Three of the Syrians were seated in the middle row as Reskova and McDaniels came abreast of their seating. Although McDaniels pretended not to notice the Syrians at all, Reskova saw them check out McDaniels as they had at check-in. A little blonde haired boy of about three hopped out into the aisle right in front of McDaniels who came to a halt so quickly Reskova bumped into his back. The little boy looked up into McDaniels’ smiling face with a look of awe. The boy waved his right hand at McDaniels.
“Hi,” the little boy said, as a middle-aged man with graying hair came out into the aisle to retrieve the boy.
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