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Authors: Bernard L. DeLeo
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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 woman.”
“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
“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 woman.”
“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
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