Fate and Things That Fly

I look down at my bare feet smacking against the burning tarmac. The mid-August sun has probably made the ground hot enough to cook an egg. Or seriously burn my feet. I think of turning back, but then I think of my grandfather and can’t make myself turn around.

My parents died in a car accident when I was a kid. My grandfather raised me. He was gruff and stoic, but he always showed up. He never talked much about his time in the air force, but I know he flew planes in Vietnam. Not fighter plans, just supply plans. The distinction seemed to matter a lot to him, but he never elaborated. He'd say there wasn't much to talk about, that he flew supplies in, then he'd shrug it off. It wasn't until I spoke with one of the men in his squadron that I got a glimpse of the bigger picture. He flew supplies in; he flew bodies out. He also told me how in my grandfather's final flight, a fellow airman named Theodore Davenport had saved his life. And died in the process. I can understand why he wouldn't want to rehash these memories, least of all to a kid.

It was his birthday, and I was thinking of him when the mission came up, and it just seemed too perfectly aligned to be merely coincidental, so I volunteered immediately. I mean, the air show where it would take place was even on the anniversary of his death. Something about it just seemed like fate. Or kismet. Or the universe sending me some weird message.

Except I keep hitting snags that make me wonder what I was even thinking believing that nonsense. It was supposed to be a simple drop-off, giving a small package that was probably a flash drive to an airman with the codename Sparrow. Easy enough. Too easy, in fact. Usually, this is the kind of assignment for the new agents still fresh from “the Farm”. It's low-risk, low-stakes. It’s a good ease in. But absolutely nothing about it has been easy.

Snag number one, my handler was a no-show. My handler was supposed to drop off a uniform and credentials, so I could get into the air force personnel-only areas without raising suspicion. No luck there. I have the package, my phone with a picture of my contact, and what I'm already wearing. And that's about all I'm working with. I wore sandals and shorts, so that required a change of plans. I "borrowed" an unopened can of beer from a family absorbed in the show. I gargled some like mouthwash and poured some on myself. When in doubt and trespassing, create plausible deniability in case you get caught by acting like you're just drunk and lost. Thankfully, it was a non-issue, and I made it to the rendezvous point.

Which is when I hit snag number two. He wasn't there. It looked like there was a struggle, and the floor was covered in bright red, wet paint. Which was not ideal, and neither was the fact that I stepped in it. I found the edge of the puddle of paint and stepped out of my sandals; best not to leave a trail behind me.

I called HQ to give them the update, which is when I spotted snag number three, Sparrow, being escorted towards the parking lot with a gun pressed to his back.

I am unarmed, with no backup, and no footwear. The odds aren't exactly in my favor, which is why Conrad at HQ told me to stand down. They'll send a team. Observe from a distance.

But I'm not sure Sparrow has that kind of time. And I can't help but think about my grandfather and what he would have done for the people he served with.

I looked around and saw a toolbox. Maybe a hammer isn’t the best weapon to go up against someone with a knife, but with the element of surprise, I might fair alright. So, I’m barefoot and smelling like a brewery as I run across the tarmac towards the parking lot. And man, am I having some regrets, but I keep going.

I duck behind a car when I hit the edge of the parking lot and weave my way through, all the while glad that they're walking and not particularly fast either. I'm only a car away when he stops at a van and pulls open the door himself, which I am hoping means he's alone, or this could go very badly.

Sparrow ducks his head to get in the back with the gunman's focus solely on him when I sneak up behind them and swing the hammer down on his arm. After all, can't question a dead man, and HQ will want answers. He drops the gun but turns to swing at me. It's easy enough to dodge, and Sparrow has him in a chokehold before I can swing back. It takes a moment or two, but he's out cold soon enough. Well, alright then.

Sparrow helps me tie him up with some rope we found in the van, and then we tuck him in the back and close the door. I tell him backup is coming and move to the front of the van to keep watch. He follows me, which feels like an invitation to question him, starting with his name.

“So, what’s your real name anyway?”

He turns to me with a smile and says, “Theo. Theo Davenport.”

It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but I still feel I must ask, “you wouldn’t by any chance be named after a Theodore Davenport, would you?”

“Yes, actually. My grandfather,” after a moment of silence he asks, “why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

Between commuter and air show traffic, it takes almost an hour for backup to arrive; all the while, we talk. And once again, I can't help but find myself wondering about fate and weird messages from the universe.