V. C. Bird International Airport, Pavilion Drive, Osbourn, Antigua.
The man walked up the Jetway and into the terminal like any other passenger would. He was in his early sixties, but years of tough living had taken their toll. Such signs of outward wear are often the result of years of drug and alcohol abuse. But for this man, it was the result of something different.
For him, the wear and tear showed in two physical areas. First, there was constant tension in his shoulders, as though he might need to react at any moment. It was tension that would not abate, the result of years of being on guard, never knowing what direction the next attack may come from. And the second was written in his eyes. They decried a deadness like those carried by soldiers who had endured a long, intense war. Often referred to as the “thousand-yard stare,” the wartime gaze might come and go. But this was different. His eyes carried in them crushing defeat. It was like looking into the soul of a person who had died inside, yet been forced to carry on.
Across from Gate 14, he stopped and reshouldered his carry-on then stared out the massive windows onto the tarmac and to the buildings beyond. It was a bright, clear day and the blueness of the sky hearkened something from deep within. He withdrew a photograph from his shirt pocket, inadvertently dropping his American Airlines boarding pass in the process. He stared at the photo of a young woman at what appeared to be a graduation ceremony. She was shaking hands with a much taller man in a business suit. To the man’s thinking, her eyes seemed to be staring back at him, as if she was watching his every move. Yet he knew his mission. He knew his goal. He flipped it over and read the words etched in pencil on the back. It said simply “Jana Baker.”