Serendipity in SeaTac

It’s August, and the hottest summer on record for most of the lower forty-eight. I’m flying in from the Pacific, bound for San Diego but every California airport is socked in by the first hurricane to hit California since 1939. Global warming must be conspiring with El Nino. Our pilot addresses the passengers in typical, muffled fashion. I can barely discern two out of three words over the roar of the engines though I do catch enough to understand we’re being diverted to Seattle. Seattle is not on the way to San Diego. A collective groan echoes through the cabin.

We land at the Seattle-Tacoma airport…SeaTac. We’re greeted by bright sunshine, low humidity and glorious views of two mountain ranges, the Cascades and the Olympics. August is the sweet spot for Seattle weather. The rest of the year, not so much.

I bob and weave my way through the crowded terminal, follow the signs to baggage claim and there she is. Her dress is the color of a clear, fall sky. It brings out her eyes, cobalt and icy. Eyes that stare into your soul. She walks with purpose. Her dress sashays, giving her the appearance of a floating angel. Shoulder-length blonde hair bounces as she walks. She catches my obvious stare. Our eyes lock, blue on blue. She pauses. I stumble over my suitcase but catch myself before I hit the floor. Smooth is smooth, baby. She giggles. I try to rally and say, “Nothing like a trip at the end of a trip.”

Weary after sixteen hours of planes, trains and automobiles (and trying to recover my dignity), I follow with, “Sorry to bother, but it’s my first time in this airport. Can you point me at a cup of coffee?”

She smiles and says, “It’s Seattle, so it’s hard to fall down without hitting a coffee shop, which is good because you look like you could use a strong cup.”

I reply, “Wow, that bad, huh? Why don’t you join me and throw a cup in my face so it’ll work faster?”

With a coquettish grin she says, “As it turns out, my son’s flight is delayed and I can use the coffee. But why don’t you just drink it instead. Dousing you with it will not go well with your outfit.”

I perform a courtly bow and reply, “I shall respect your sense of fashion. Lead the way.”

Making small talk I ask, “Where’s your son flying in from? The California airports are a mess.”

She replies, “He’s a marine. He was stationed in the Pacific, but he just rotated back to the states.” With a forlorn look she says, “I haven’t seen him in thirteen months. It was just the two of us when he was growing up and I miss him terribly. He’s only here for two days and then flying to San Diego. Camp Pendleton, I believe. Some mystery assignment he doesn’t know much about, or can’t tell me.”

We find a coffee joint and I realize I never caught her name. Coffee shops can help with that. We get to the counter and the barista asks, “What can I get you?”

I defer to my new friend and say, “Pick your poison.”

She replies, “Grande drip, black.”

A girl after my own heart. I say, “Make that two, barkeep.”

The barista asks, “What's the name?”

She replies, “Anita.”

Our barista is wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and asks, “And you, sir?”

I couldn’t resist and say, “Whole Lotta’ Love.”

Our twenty-something barista, who’s obviously an old rock and roll soul, bursts out laughing and my new friend, Anita, snorts. Adorable. We retrieve our cups and snag the one vacant table in the place.

Anita asks, “Where are you headed?”

I reply, “San Diego, then D.C. A few work things.”

“What do you do?”

I say, “I’m inside the Beltway a lot these days, so odds are it’s with the government.”

She says, “That’s vague.”

I reply, “I just met you. Mystery isn’t a bad thing.”

“I’ll grant you that,” and she hits me with a smile that would make a train take a dirt road.

I reply, “Let’s just say I’m in the business of stopping bad people from doing bad things.”

“Fair enough. Are you former military?”

“No,” I reply, trying to deflect, “I do work with some rather remarkable military personnel though. Truth be told, one exceptional young man recently saved my life.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“I can’t give you details but I was in a meeting with two diplomats, who are at opposite end of the political spectrum from some rather staunch fundamentalists. Several of the latter stormed our location and tried to kill one of the diplomats. A young marine interceded like an early version of John Wayne, subdued four assailants and very likely saved three lives, including my own.”

Wide-eyed she replies, “Wow, when you said you worked for the government, I expected something a little more mundane.”

I reply, “My job requires me to travel and sometimes to…not so nice places.”

“So, the mystery continues. Travel, diplomacy, bad guys. Are you a spy?”

I laugh and say, “Hardly, but if I am, and I told you, I’d have to kill you,” and wink. “I’ve been told I’m good with people and keep my head about me when things get heated, so I often get sent to places where the kettle is about to boil.”

She replies, “Then I guess you do travel a lot these days. It seems like half the world is pissed-off at each other, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Oh, I’m fluent in that kind of French, so no worries.”

She asks with a concerned look, “Was there shooting involved with the diplomat?”

“Yes.”

“Were you scared?”

I reply, “Of course, but time sort of slows down when things escalate, and you do what you have to. The adrenaline rush and the inherent shakes tend to kick in afterward.”

“What did you do?”

“It sounds like a bad movie script, but I flipped over our table and dragged my two guests behind it and, just like the movies, the marines came in to save the day.”

“That’s quite a story and…” Her phone rings. She answers and says excitedly, “Michael, are you on the ground? O.K, I’m here at the airport. What gate? Perfect. I’m at a coffee shop just outside of the terminal entrance so I’ll meet you when you come out.”

Bright-eyed, she turns to me and says, “I’m sorry, but I need to go. My son says he’s, what do you call it? ‘Hitting the head’ and he'll be here in a minute.”

I reply, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tag along and meet this young man.”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

“Well, thank you, ma’am.”

“Geez, am I old enough to be a ma’am?”

In my best southern drawl, I reply, “Merely a southern boy showing respect.”

We make our way to the mouth of the terminal and a squared-away young man in jungle-camouflage fatigues, with eyes as blue as mine, exits the concourse. I’m surprised. He, even more so. He stops dead in his tracks and snaps to attention. His eyes click from me to his mother…and back…and back again. He says, “Colonel??”

I reply, “At ease, sergeant major” with a devilish grin, “I hope you don’t mind but I bought your mom a cup of coffee.”

The young soldier stands easy at perfect parade rest. His mother is stunned with mouth agape. “No, s-s-sir. Not at all, I’m just a little surprised to see you here and, and I’m just a First Sergeant, sir.”

I ask, “Do you believe in serendipity, son?

“I believe I’m beginning to, sir.”       

“Do you know why you were recalled to Camp Pendleton?”

“No, sir. I assumed I was just being reassigned,” he replies.

I say, “Not quite. There will be a little more pomp and ceremony once we land in San Diego but since fate has brought your mother, you and I all together in Seattle of all places, I’ll give you a little preview.”

I look from mother to son. Both have a look of bewilderment painted across their faces. I snap to attention and say, “Ten-hut!” Her son, six-feet, three-inches of chiseled marine, becomes ramrod straight in the airport terminal. A small crowd starts to gather around us. I continue, “On July 15, 2024, our embassy in Manila was attacked by radical insurgents. At great risk to his own person, First Sergeant, Michael Adelman, waded through a hail of enemy fire, suppressing several insurgents, saving the life of the Philippine Foreign Minister, our American Ambassador and one very grateful marine colonel. His exemplary courage and gallantry bring great credit to his family, his country and the Marine Corps. In recognition of your multiple acts of heroism on that day, you will receive the Silver Star and be promoted to the rank of Sergeant Major.” I move forward, shake his hand and continue, “The next time I go to war, son, I want you watching my six.” I snap a crisp salute which is returned in kind. Applause is heard from our small audience as a tear rolls down his mother’s cheek.

I toss my cup into a nearby trash can and say, “To hell with the coffee, Sergeant Major. Why don’t we go buy a plane ticket to San Diego for your mother and then get a drink worthy of a warrior?”

The sergeant beams; his mother returns the smile and he says, “Yes, sir, but I’m buying.”

“The hell you are, son. You can buy me a drink after you’re an E-9.”

His mom grabs my arm, smiles and says, “I thought you said you weren’t military?”

I reply, “I said I wasn’t Ex-military. Geez, do I look that old?”