Chapter 6: Eagle Flight

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Madam Secretary,” Peter smiled as the severe middle-aged woman rose from behind her desk and stepped out to greet him.

“Yes, well, this is a surprising deviation for me,” State Secretary of Commerce Maxine Caldwell replied, shaking his hand briskly. “Most people wait days or weeks for an appointment to see me. Yet here you are ... Mr.?”

“My name is Peter Shipley, madame. My local friends call me Two-Spirit.”

“You don’t look Native—”

“I’m not,” he interrupted, annoying her eyes. “Of the First Nation, that is. Even though I might dress like one,” he touched the brim of his Geronimo hat. “Still, the People hold a special place in their hearts for me, and I can assure you that the feeling is mutual. That’s why your staff were easily persuaded to fit me into your ... busy schedule.”

He saw her disdain as she returned to her desk and sat, regarding him with open contempt.

“I see,” she replied, not seeing at all, “How may I help you, Mr. Shipley?”

He sat uninvited, crossed his legs, and said, “I think we can help each other, but we’ll see.” Removing his hat and placing it on his knee, he continued, “Where I live in the Whiteriver district of the Apache Reservation, it’s tough to get reliable energy. When I ask about it, I’m tangled in regulatory bullshit from the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, some feud with the Apache County Electric board, and out-of-state interests claiming hydroelectric rights for other reservations.” He leaned forward, uncrossing his legs. “Honestly, it’s pissing me off!”

She blinked and pursed her lips disdainfully at his profanity before tsking. “It sounds like your issue is with the FERC.”

He smiled humorlessly at her. “You, see? That’s what I thought, too. Until I dug deeper. I figured out it all comes down to one thing ... money.” He leaned back and continued spinning the brim of his hat, careful not to bend it. “You see, the FERC requires money to issue permits, and the BIA funding allocated toward resources and development ... well, those funds seem to fall shorter every quarter. And it turns out that said funding is controlled by ... your office.”

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, Mr. Shipley, but I assure you—”

“Rumor has it you’re aspiring for higher office,” he interrupted her again. “Perhaps a run for a retiring congressional seat. Is that correct, Madam Secretary?”

Her face tightened with emotion as he struck a raw nerve. “That information is not widely disseminated—”

“Yet it’s true, and we both know it.” He lifted the engraved brass nameplate off her desk. “Look ... Maxine,” he continued, staring at her with his blue eyes. “Let’s stop playing verbal fuck-me-not and get to the point.” He dropped the plate loudly and got to his feet to look down at her. “It’s no secret that you are diverting BIA funds to further the interests of your other constituents.”

Her face paled at his words.

“It was easy to track down the evidence and copy it.” He let his veiled threat sink in. “But I’ll be honest,” he stared at her with piercing blue eyes, “I don’t care about the money.”

She gazed up at his face in shock and disbelief. In seconds, he stormed into her sanctuary and upended her political future with a few words. And now this...? “I don’t—”

“I know,” he replied condescendingly, “and I doubt you ever will.” He stepped back and placed his hat back on. “Just understand this—as I said before, I don’t care how much you embezzle or what you do with it. It will never amount to anything I can’t replace.”

“So, what—?”

“Money was never the issue, madame secretary. It’s the blatant disregard for the welfare of the people who rely on those resources.” He added a hint of anger to his voice. “The Inde are used to being fucked over by self-serving bureaucrats like yourself. I can overcome the financial hardships caused by your excesses. What I cannot overcome are these draconian regulatory bodies stepping on the necks of these people, preventing them from looking out for their own interests.”

A streak of defiance stiffened the woman’s spine. “Look ... Mr. Shipley. I appreciate your stance and concern for your...” She halted when he suddenly stepped back and turned away. He produced a cell phone and glanced at the screen before pressing a button. He held the device to his ear for thirty seconds, pressed another button, and replaced it in his pocket. He pulled a card from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the desk before her.

“Madame Secretary, 30 seconds after I leave, you’ll receive a call from a Phoenix number. Listen to the message carefully,” he stated firmly. “If you call me at that number before I leave this building, I’ll help you win that Congressional seat.” He turned his back and approached the ornate double doors. “If you ignore the message and squander my offer, your political career will be over before you retire this evening.” He tipped his brim to her astonished face before letting himself out.

Two minutes later, his phone rang as he stepped from the ground-floor elevator. He smiled and answered it without speaking.

“What do you want me to do?”

“For starters, demand immediate deregulation of energy and resource oversight on state reservations, covered by the BIA. Then, call for the resignation of Undersecretary of Energy Robert Gilson. If he resists, you’ll be provided with sufficient evidence for a censure resolution and impeachment inquiry. But his voluntary resignation is preferred. Once he steps down, endorse a representative from one of the three major reservations for the Governor to approve. I’ll provide you with a list of candidates. I don’t care which one you choose. This will benefit us in two ways; first, it will make you look more favorable in your bid for Congress, and second, the Inde will begin managing their own affairs.”

“This could adversely affect my ability to garner financial support for my campaign,” she replied cautiously.

“You scratch my back, Madame Secretary, and I’ll help you decorate your new office.”

It was a brilliant mid-February day. The sun was bright, and the temperature was comfortably warm as they climbed into the White Mountain Range foothills on their way home. Following Hwy 60 back to Whiteriver, Peter began noticing the yellow flashy streak and fog pattern of a crop duster to the north. When they approached a turn-off with a large, weathered sign that read Hosteen Ranch, he pointed toward it.

“Kennedy, turn off here and follow that road,” he told his driver/bodyguard—a fit middle-aged woman with distinctive mixed Asian American features.

She glanced through her Oakley wraps at the swooping crop duster and turned off with a casual shrug. Though she dressed comfortably in tight leggings and shoes, her light zip-up blazer barely concealed the side-arm tucked in her shoulder holster. “You’re the boss,” she said as they stirred dust over the packed dirt road. “Why the sudden interest in crop dusting?”

He shrugged back. “More of a curiosity thing at the moment. But that plane looks familiar.”

As they drew closer, the agile aircraft grew larger as it dove and swooped over acres of crops emerging from the hard baked clay ground.

“What are they growing here?” she asked absently as she leaned forward to keep an eye on the plane.

“Dunno,” he replied, watching the bright yellow biplane climb away, bank, and dive back toward them. A wide swath of fog emitted from beneath the fuselage as it raced toward them. “I imagine it’s gotta be cold hardy this time of year.” He switched the ventilation to recirculate to prevent the ingestion of whatever chemicals they were about to be doused in. Just as the pilot zoomed overhead, the spray died away, and they avoided the brunt of it as it settled over the crops.

“Looks like he’s gonna set her down across the road,” Kennedy noted as she nodded to their right. The fields on that side were freshly plowed, and they could see the long irrigation pipes lining them.

The plane flared casually and landed in the dirt, slowing to a halt next to a pump house fifty yards from the packed road. Peter pointed to the access route, and she turned onto it, maneuvering the Mercedes Benz G-Wagon toward the plane as the pilot jumped out and walked behind the pump house. “I think he had to take a leak,” she mused as she parked nearby.

They waited politely in the vehicle until the man reappeared behind the concrete and metal roofed structure. It was the same man Peter had seen on the crop-dusting commercial, though he seemed taller in person. He wore dirty coveralls and the Fly-Navy ball cap, and his tanned face was partially concealed behind a pair of mirror-finished Ray-Ban aviators. Peter opened his door and stepped out. Whether the man noticed his prosthetics before his slacks dropped over them, he couldn’t tell. He placed his Geronimo hat on his head and stopped a yard from the scrutinizing pilot.

Kennedy opened her door and stepped out. Her black-cropped hair blew in the gentle breeze, framing her face.

“Ya’ateh,” Peter greeted the man casually.

“Ya’ateh.”

“You’re the guy on TV,” the young man continued, removing his sunglasses with his hat’s brim shielding his eyes, “Bob Firemaker Bodaway.” For once, he was grateful for the Apache’s disdain for physical contact—having no desire to clasp hands with a man who had just finished shakin’ the snake.

“The same,” he replied in a deeper-than-expected voice, “though it’s redundant to call me ‘Firemaker’ and ‘Bodaway’ since they mean the same.” He glanced at the woman, but she had walked behind the Mercedes and opened the back. “White folk call me ‘Apache Bob,’ but you can call me whatever bakes your cookies.”

Peter grinned. “Bob then,” he said. “I’m Peter Shipley. Whiteriver and Rainbow City folks call me ‘Two-Spirit.’”

The pilot nodded. “I’ve heard of you. You’re that rich pale face developing the intersection by the fish hatchery.”

Kennedy reappeared behind the SUV carrying three ice-cold Pepsi bottles and an opener. She popped the top of the first one and handed it to the pilot, who graciously accepted it. She gave the second to Peter before opening her own. They tapped the glass necks before drinking. After appreciative sighs, she nodded at him through her dark shades. “What was your call sign?”

His mouth crimped humorously. “Tonto,” he replied.

She pursed her lips, “Seems derogatory and self-abasing.”

The native man grunted as he took another swig. “Contrary to popular belief, Navy pilots don’t choose their call signs,” he replied with a shrug. “I got it flying Trojans out of Miramar.”

Peter quietly watched the byplay between the two and noticed her intent expression.

“You trained in the T-28?” she remarked with a nearly reverent tone. “Vietnam?” she breathed.

He nodded. “Flew Spads off the Intrepid in ‘66 and ‘67.”

“What is a Spad?” Peter asked.

“Douglas A-1 Skyraider,” she replied incredulously, turning to him. “This man,” she tilted her head back to the pilot, “is a fucking, certified badass ... sir,” she blushed slightly as the words left her mouth. “No offense,” she directed at the crop duster.

“None taken,” Bob grinned. “You know your planes,” he remarked.

“Air Force,” she explained. “Spent three years as an Air Traffic Controller at Kadena and Yokota.”

He raised his bottle in salute.

“What can I do for you?” he asked as he fished a Marlboro Red out of a pack and lit it.

“I don’t know, honestly,” he said. “I saw your TV Ad, and it stuck in my head. When I saw you crop dusting, I felt compelled to meet you.” He toasted the man with his half-full bottle. “I’m glad I did.”

His bodyguard set her bottle on the hood and turned toward the pump house, “Do y’all mind if I go tinkle?” She didn’t wait for a response as she disappeared around the corner.

Bob chuckled after her. “That’s some gal you got there,” he remarked admirably.

Peter nodded thoughtfully.

“You never said what ‘compelled’ you to drive here.”

He nodded and studied the man’s dirty boots. “They call me ‘Two-Spirit’ because I have a ... quirky nature,” he replied carefully. “Sue Meadowlark—Brad Littlewolf’s Navajo wife—calls me ‘Broken-Eagle.’

The Apache pilot nodded casually. “I heard of you,” he said. “And I can see what they mean.”

Startled, Peter looked back at the Navy pilot as he removed his large sunglasses. His piercing dark eyes were full of patience and experience. Peter guessed his age to be mid-fifties. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“It’s in your bearing,” the Native replied. “You look young, barely a man. But you’ve got a sense of ... maturity.”