Peril at 40,000 Feet

Landing at the massive airport in Atlanta, the three of us, each bearing facial tattoos and wearing all black, disembark. We carry large backpacks and wide straw hats. A few people look at us with outright scorn, probably assuming we are some weird cult. Most try to slyly check us out. Then I see him, the airport police, I suppose. No mind.

I proceed with Upatu and Wana to the special-purpose baggage area to check on Lady Gray, my sweet wolf. I had tranquilized her to better handle the stress of the trip. The Customs Agent inspects my papers for my unusual pet for hours before signing the travel documents. Finally, the crate is tagged and sent to the international terminal. I will not see Lady Gray again until she arrives at our final destination.

There was no time for quarantine to bring my horse, Peggy, with us. So instead, I will buy horses locally, which will be gifted to the Kaniwa tribe. How I will miss Peggy’s trusting response.

We hastened to the international terminal, allowing enough time for final boarding calls for our flight to Manaus.

The international check-in is delayed when the Brazilian ticket agent questions Upatu, expecting him to understand Portuguese because of his Brazilian passport.

I translate and explain to the woman that he is from an indigenous tribe and never learned the language. I also clarify that Wana is from a North American Native Tribe. It takes twenty minutes before we’re granted boarding passes and are allowed through security. After we are on board, I relax and find our seats on the 747. I take an aisle seat, and Wana sits next to me with Upatu across the aisle.

~

Aside from sideward glances from the other passengers, all seems usual for a crowded plane. But not for me. I sense the seed of Aman, encased in its net as a pendant between my breasts, longing for its home. A child crying for its mother, an uneasiness I try to ignore by taking a nap as the airplane climbs above the clouds. If only my trials would diminish in size like the shrinking buildings on the ground below.

~

Wana nudges me awake, slowly saying, “Wha chin ga,” not as a name but as a warning, big trouble.

Looking back in the indicated direction, I see a tall, sweating man with his arm around a flight attendant’s neck, pushing her up the aisle. He holds a sharp plastic knife to her neck.

Aside from the parents hugging their children’s heads in comfort and protection, passengers stare, mouths gaping. Looking at their faces frozen in fear, I whisper to Upatu in Kaniwa, “Take his knife.” In Mojave, I whisper to Wana, “Grab his ankles.” I release my seatbelt without sound, keeping a pretense of frozen fear until the man is a half-step past me.

I pounce. As the hijacker turns his head to me, I stagger him with a hard uppercut with the heel of my hand. His knees buckle, and his grip around the woman’s neck fails. Climbing his back, I grab his larynx, squeeze hard to close his windpipe, and then rake his face across the eyes until I obtain an excellent grip, pulling his head hard to the side. Upatu grabs the hijacker’s forearm from the flight attendant’s throat and twists hard. I hear a loud crack of bone-breaking, and the big man falls forward, and we become a pile on the floor.

Before I choke the hijacker to death, I release his throat and grip a handful of shaggy hair. Now, I stand astride him, taking the weight off the flight attendant. Pulling the man up by his hair and belt, I tell the attendant to crawl out from underneath. After lowering the man down to the floor, I twist my grip preventing him from jerking loose.

A firm tap on my shoulder captures my attention, and I see a handgun in my face.

I freeze, still holding the thug’s hair. Then, with the point of his gun, the young man, who has a slight smile, motions for me to back up. Releasing the attacker’s hair, I let his face hit the deck. His nose starts bleeding. Good. I stand up and step backward until I straddle Wana, who still clings to the man’s legs.

The gunman wears a badge at his waist. Without changing his expression orders, “Release him.”

I order in Mojave, “Wana, let go. Stand away.”

The man with the gun handcuffs the assailant’s wrists behind his back and binds his ankles together using a cable tie. “You must be the knight they call Wachinga?” he asks.

I say nothing; he knows who I am. So instead, I smile, tapping the tattoo on my chin.

Satisfied, he crosses to the other aisle, where Upatu has his knee pressed into another man’s back and picks up another plastic knife on the floor. I see him sign to Upatu in military combat language.

Where did the other thug come from? I should have seen him.

After zip-tying the assailant and telling Upatu to remain as he is, the plainclothes officer returns to me. “I’m Air Marshal Walters. For now, consider yourselves under arrest until we clear this up. Return to your seats and don’t move.”

Holstering his pistol, the handsome air marshal sits in Upatu’s seat to keep an eye on the prisoner who remains moaning face down in the aisle — and on us. The officer maintains his engaging smile. Stop that, girl.

Only then do I realize the plane is descending. And people are staring out the windows at an Air Force jet flying beside us.

~

Landing in Orlando, Florida, the plane stops at the end of the runway instead of taxiing to the terminal. A mobile stairway is driven out to the plane, and a whole mess of police and FBI cars arrive. As soon as the door is opened, the FBI agents storm down the aisles, grab the two men and carry them out, struggling and shouting.

Air Marshal Walters orders us to exit.

On the tarmac, I’m separated from my companions and grilled without mercy about what has happened. Wana and Upatu also suffer harsh treatment. Upatu, with limited English, can answer simple questions, but he makes what he saw and did clear by pantomime.

It takes about a half-hour to establish our credentials. Besides Upatu’s passport and visa, he carries no other documentation, and Wana fares not much better. Still, at least she has a driver’s license. The FAA and TSA officials are anxious to get the airplane back in the air with its three hundred passengers on board.

“If you keep me, I need the staff from my weapons case. If I am separated from it, I will become sick, extremely sick. The FBI knows this already. Special Agent Bill Brannon is my contact.”

The agent in charge snorts in disbelief. “I’ll just bring you up on charges for lying to a federal officer.”

Desperate, I need to make him call, so I push my luck, “Besides, my wolf is in the plane’s hold and would suffer if I’m not there when he arrives in Manaus. Also, it could mess up relations with Brazil.”

He makes the call, and after a few words, it is confirmed that I am on the good side of the law, even if my FBI file declares I am dangerous.

Grrr, I’ll never get rid of that mark.

It doesn’t hurt our case that some passengers made videos of the attack and our rescue of the flight attendant. Within the hour, they have already gone viral on social media platforms. Thousands of comments praise us as heroes.

A decision is made to let us continue our journey, and we re-board to the passengers’ cheers. The airplane soon heads south to Brazil. Several teenagers insist on having their picture with me, and I oblige. I could get used to this.

~

Senor Herve, Sir Eric the Viking’s agent, greets us at the terminal in Manaus, giving Wana and me kisses on both cheeks and a polite handshake to Upatu. We have a late dinner of aromatic fruit at his apartment and plan for the next day’s activities. Phone calls and arrangements are made before we crash for the night.

In the morning, fully refreshed, Herve drives us out of the city to a horse ranch to buy two mares and a stallion of mixed breed. They are reasonably priced and adapted to the hot, humid forest. I also buy three simple western saddles with tack and make arrangements for everything to be delivered to the airport on schedule. Another ranch provides two huge Clydesdales horses, a mare and stallion, which had been previously negotiated for by Wart and Whisperblade. Again, I buy draft harnesses with the necessary rope and make arrangements for their delivery to the airport.

Wolf had given me a shopping list of supplies and medicines back in New York. I contract a commercial buyer to box and deliver them to the airfield. In addition, an electronics store supplies satellite phones, tablet computers, and solar chargers to back up Wart and Pell’s rapidly deteriorating equipment.

My grandmother, Sir Whisperblade, is not communicating with the outside world. Wart transmitted that she is doing well, but I’m anxious to find out what has happened to her. It takes three days before a well-used Viking Air Transport C-130 arrives. The pilot informs me that they will make several stops to deliver heavy equipment to mines and factories before landing at the small strip near the Kaniwa homeland. After loading critical industrial repair parts for various industries, plenty of space remains in the hold for our horses and supplies. The flight starts late in the evening. We will be landing at instrumented airstrips until we reach the Kaniwa tribe in the morning.

~

Once in the air, I relax with a shudder. I feel my heart, or is it Aman’s agitated seed beating. I am getting closer to my fate, whatever awaits.

My squires and I settle in for a long night of rest, but it isn’t to be. Instead, the horses are strapped on the deck at the load master’s insistence. They have never been subjected to this kind of treatment, and we must constantly reassure them.

On the first landing, to unload equipment, I insist on letting the horses walk around outside the plane for a few minutes and wash the plane’s deck. We compensate the flight crew by helping with the unloading of equipment.

Two more landings are made, the last is at the hated lumber mill, with its randy workers, and the plane unloads the last equipment load. The pilot goes around the airplane and arms the JATO rockets affixed to the sides of the fuselage. They wait on the strip until a C-47 bearing the ensign of the Viking Transport Company lands, pulling up close. After shutting down his engines, the pilot, Ty, walks over to join the crew of the Larger C-130.

He explains, “There are too many horses for my plane on seeing my expression. So I’m coming along to help guide the pilot to a safe landing. The Brazilian Army or loggers made some improvements on the airstrip, but we have to be careful with this plane. I know what and who to look out for.” He climbs up into the cockpit, donning headphones. The plane immediately takes off for the last hop to Kaniwa territory.

After circling twice, we land on the lengthened strip, using the entire length of the runway. The loadmaster opens the rear ramp and quickly unstraps the horses, which we lead out and tie to trees to be guarded by my gentile Lady Gray. Everyone quickly unloads the rest of the supplies. Finally, the plane starts its takeoff, firing the JATO rockets and leaving in a hurry.

~

I spy a Kaniwa huntress stepping out from behind the trees with other hunters. The men start collecting the boxes of supplies while the huntress approaches me, complete with the facial and body tattoos and a woman’s gold nose ring.

Who the… “Hey?”

“Hello, Grace, didn’t you recognize your own grandmother?”

I didn’t see this.

Whisperblade closes my jaw with a finger.

Now permanently marked as a Kaniwa, I realize she will never return to the States. “Why?”

The older Knight points to her nose ring. “I have made my decision, as have you.”

I step forward and give her a hug. “We are truly sisters.”