It’s my firm conviction that when Uncle Sam calls,
by God we go, and we do the best we can.
R. Lee Ermy (1944-2018), Gunnery Sergeant, USMC (Ret.)
“Kathie!” Charlie Bird yelled out of his glass-enclosed office. She poked her head around the corner of his doorway.
“Yo.”
“Is everyone ready to greet the clients?”
She smiled her saccharine you-already-know-this-answer smile and said, “Yes, skipper, I believe we are ready.”
Charlie and all MDZ were still stunned by the information that they were planned to be pawns in a 9/11-style terror attack on the World Series—and that the plan didn’t provide for their survival.
General McCandless put Charlie officially on the meter for interdicting the plot from his end. This was attractive to both sides. One, McCandless had full confidence that Charlie and his team of former military special operators could handle the task. Two, this meant MDZ was billing for roles they would gladly have played for free.
But it would be no consolation at all if the wrong people were hurt or killed.
Today was originally planned to be a full-dress rehearsal for the World Series skydive into the opening ceremonies. Thirty-five jumpers and all their equipment were arriving separately in their own transportation. Tigers marketing vice-president Steve Harris was also bringing the leader of the ceremonial jump team, known to him by the name of Albert Saladin.
“Call me Al,” Saladin said with a wide grin in their first office meeting downtown.
“Al Saladin it is then,” Harris replied.
Harris and Saladin would drive up to Owosso Airport in Harris’s black Cadillac Escalade, leaving Saladin’s car—and its GPS tracking device—in the Tiger’s executive parking lot. Federal agents would sit surveillance on the lot for hours without knowing Saladin had departed in Harris’s darkly tinted SUV.
“When Steve gets here, let’s be sure everyone is standing by in the ready room,” Charlie Bird said. “I want a full-court press this morning, full DV visit prep. I don’t care if it is just a show, they must be convinced we consider them distinguished visitors, our clients, and our esteemed guests. They don’t have to know they aren’t really getting a training jump today. Although, we are taking them for a ride.”
Kathie Murphy came around the corner of Bird’s office to join the meeting with a pad in her hand and a concerned look on her face. This was no time for jokes.
Charlie turned to Christa “Christmas” Kieszek, the Navy Reserve C-130 pilot and MDZ’s plane driver.
“Weren’t you scheduled to drill with your unit this weekend?” Charlie asked Kieszek. “Couldn’t get to Andrews?”
“We’re going to string together a few duty weekends onto our two weeks of annual active duty training, and get maybe three weeks out of a deployment to parts unknown. With our maintenance issues, it’s more flying than we’ve done in a year, so we’re getting ready for that. Prepping for this HALO mission has me busy enough. And there’s never enough time out here with you folks. I mean, I appreciate that you pay me. I just don’t think your ROI is too good with my Navy Reserve obligations sucking all the air from the room.”
With the up-tempo operational posture in the world these days, and the long-standing integration of Reserve components into the active forces, most Navy Reserve jobs anymore were nearly full-time gigs at part-time pay, especially for leaders. Kieszek was sometimes in the field when needed at MDZGI.
Everyone thought Kieszek harbored a small crush on Charlie Bird. At any other time or place in life, that might have been a grand idea. Kieszek was smart, funny, warmly attractive, and you could bounce a quarter off her abs. But Bird had a strict policy of not fraternizing with people he paid to sometimes put their lives at risk on his orders.
“Okay, so, they think they’re getting a familiarization jump, but once we corral them in the ready room for the mission brief, we all kinda slip out casually. Then,” Charlie pointed at Baker, “you’re supposed to get the jump on them.”
“You ain’t kiddin’,” Kerry Baker said with an evil grin. “They probably won’t be armed today, but remember that Saladin asshole is a spitter.” The reference was meant to be lighthearted gallows humor, but it failed miserably. The MDZ team had gotten the full post-homicide brief on Jeff O’Brien’s case.
Chastened, Baker continued. “The joke is totally gonna be on them. I coordinated a ground force with General McCandless and the Michigan State Police. Between the state’s Special Operations Division and the Army Reserve military police Special Reaction Team we laid on from 303rd MPs in Jackson, snatching up thirty-five stinkin’ goatherds shouldn’t present a big problem. All those SRT MPs have been to the sandbox on recalls. They will be just fine.”
Kathie Murphy said, “Yeah, I spoke with the sarnt major over there. We were in Germany together my second time. Confirm, he and his people know their stuff, for sure.”
“Posse Comitatus, for the MPs?” Charlie asked.
Baker shook his head in the negative. “Doesn’t apply.”
The Posse Comitatus Act of 1878 prohibits U.S. military from performing civilian law enforcement functions on American soil.
“General’s officially declared our guests as enemy combatants. This isn’t a police action—in fact, the state police are actually supporting the MPs in a combat action.” Baker raised a thumb. “We’re covered.”
He leaned back in his worn leather arm chair. Few in the group were ever more laid back than Kerry Baker.
“These tangos don’t know this is their bust, obviously,” Charlie said, “so Crimmas, you still gotta get the Herk warmed up and over here in front of ops as a big, impressive display for our distinguished visitors to see and be awestruck by on their way in. The shrink-wrappers finished up late last night and the thing looks great with the Tigers colors and team logos on it.”
Charlie took a long look at his people. He hoped they would all still be looking back at him tomorrow.
“Once all the MDZ folks are clear of the ready room, the ground force will bust in and take them all at once. They won’t have their jump gear on, so they won’t have a hard time running away—we’re leaving the east and west bay doors open so nothing looks suspicious. But if they try to escape, let the SRT MPs handle it. They will be ready for anything, and we’ll just get in their way. Remember their motto: No cuts, no bruises, no scratches.”
No one spoke for a moment. Then the stillness was broken by Christmas Kieszek.
“Okay. I gotta go get the plane ready.”