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.

Cox Newspapers (ENLARGE)

David Ho, a New York correspondent for Cox Newspapers

DAVID HO/Cox Newspapers (ENLARGE)

Here's what you don't want to see out of your airliner's window: police arriving to deal with an apparent problem.

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But I found there are still things you can't predict. More than half a dozen years after Sept. 11, 2001, little may prevent an innocent traveler from becoming an imagined threat.

On June 16, 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 the plane to be delayed, 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.

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 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.

Two rows behind me, the police 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."

An older officer approached.

"Here's the deal," he said. "A passenger saw you doing something suspicious."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Mixing something," he said.

Mixing something? I was stunned. This was about me?

I thought for half a second and then laughed before blurting out unwise words.

"It's Airborne," I said.

"What's airborne right now?" the officer asked sharply.

"No, the cold medication you take when you go on an airplane," I said.

He asked me if it was still in my bag. Sure, I said.

"Dissolves in liquid, right?" the officer said, holding the brightly labeled plastic tube. He spoke with a resigned disgust that seemed to say he was tired of never-ending false alarms.

"Wonderful," another said. Someone muttered about wasted money.

The officer who shoved me took my name, address and other information. I hope a no-fly list isn't in my future.

A JetBlue worker offered brief apologies and took still more information.

I told him I understood the need for caution, and I felt bad about everyone getting delayed over such a ridiculous thing. "I wish everybody had that attitude," he said.

I went back to my seat, greeted by curious stares. I told nearby passengers my tale. Many said the blond woman had called the police on me. She soon returned, moved to the front row.

As our trip resumed, I felt shaky as it all sunk in.

Off the plane, the sympathies of fellow passengers raised my spirits. Some questioned what terrorists would have done with police so obviously closing in.

I spotted the blond woman at baggage claim and demanded an explanation. She apologized. She said she had seen something that concerned her and she called her sister, who called the police. "I have a very cautious family," she said.

And I am left with questions. Should I have protested more? It's hard to argue with an outcome that doesn't involve a small, windowless room.

Would someone paler or older plopping an antacid turn any heads?

How often does "see something, say something" save lives? How often does it burn up jet fuel and cause nationwide air traffic delays?

And how many people have this kind of disturbing experience but don't get to tell their stories?