NEW YORK -- ''So. Turns out, I'm the security threat,'' I told my editor, calling him from my airline seat. The police with their assault rifles had left, along with the cop who moments before had shoved me against a jetway wall.

Like many regular fliers, I have a finely honed security routine. Lotions and hand sanitizer in the little plastic bag. Laptop in a form-fitting case for X-ray adventures. My shoes almost untie themselves. But I recently found there are still things you can't predict. More than half a dozen years after 9/11, little may prevent an innocent traveler from becoming an imagined threat.

In June, I flew JetBlue from New York to Las Vegas to report on a telecommunications conference. It was the day after Father's Day. I had my 3-year-old son in my thoughts and the gift of a blue tie in my luggage.

At the airport, my gadget-filled carry-on got a common close look -- extra X-rays, bomb residue swabs, a hand search. I thanked the agent for thoroughness.

Expecting delays, I bought two sandwiches and two bottles of water. Sitting right beside the gate, I sorted BlackBerry e-mail, ate a banana and drank orange juice.

With no cup handy, I tipped water in the empty OJ bottle and tossed in a tablet of Airborne, the dissolving vitamin supplement intended to ward off colds. With the plane boarding and the tablet still melting, I dropped the bottle in the plastic ''I Love NY'' bag from the sandwich counter. I soon drank the water at my seat.

JUST ANOTHER DELAY

I wasn't surprised when we waited nearly an hour on the runway. But I didn't expect a return to the gate. Certainly not the Port Authority Police car waiting for us and the four more cars and trucks speeding our way. I was really surprised by the two guys in black body armor who strode toward the front of the plane with automatic weapons.

I write about many things. Tech, telecom, toys, terrorism. I even write about airlines and the aftermath of 9/11. As police arrived, I was dialing my editor and had my camera at the ready. Passengers were looking for our plane in the news, tuning seat-back TVs to CNN.

The police boarded, guns and all. Two rows behind me, they picked out a young woman with short blond hair and a stud below her lower lip. They left with her and her bags.

A flight attendant chastised me for trying to get a picture.

I was talking to my editor when a JetBlue worker told my row to get up. He directed me to go immediately to the front while he gathered my bags. Uh oh, I thought, they're upset about the camera. Occupational hazard.

Outside, many very serious police awaited. The blond woman was nowhere in sight.

''Do you have ID?'' one asked.

''Yeah, back at my seat,'' I said.

''Back at your seat? Outstanding,'' he sighed.

My bags arrived, but I had no chance to show my driver's license or New York Police Department press pass. Or mention how many times I've been cleared by Secret Service background checks.

I barely had time to ask ''What's up?'' before a cop grabbed my shirt and pulled me to the side.

''Excuse me?'' I protested. He put his hands on my shoulders and chest and pushed me against the wall.

''Stand there and be quiet,'' he said, an edge in his voice. I obeyed and leaned back against the curving corridor.

''Let me see your hands,'' he ordered.

``Yes, sir.''

`HERE'S THE DEAL'

An older officer approached. ''Here's the deal,'' he said. ``A passenger saw you doing something suspicious.''

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