Peter Kirsanow: Second Strike

“No go, Mikey. Too removed from the chain of command. By the time they get the authority to ground the flights, it’ll be too late.”

Knox braked violently as the Explorer jumped the curb onto the sidewalk in front of the sliding glass doors leading to the United ticket counter. Dozens of people scattered frantically.

Garin considered the dilemma for a split second. They had to move immediately, no time for locating and engaging in protocols, niceties, and permissions with airport security. Besides, the moment they entered the terminal with weapons, they’d be deemed threats to be neutralized instantly.

Given the circumstances, Garin spoke with preternatural calmness. “This will likely be suicidal. Security will cut down anyone who enters the terminal with a firearm, and if they somehow miss, Bor won’t. You’re civilians. It’s not your fight.”

“Not your fight either, Mike,” Knox said. “You’re a civilian too.” Knox looked at Dwyer. “We’re in.”

Garin considered the circumstances.

“Leave the rifles; SIGs only. Keep them hidden as long as you can,” Garin said. “Dan, spare mags?”

Dwyer reached behind him into a small munitions kit and passed around several spare magazines, which they stuffed into their pockets. “How we going to play this, Mike?”

“No way to finesse this. They may be boarding as we speak. We need to stop them,” Garin replied. “Any way we can.”

“Mike,” Knox said. “We need to go to security or air traffic control and tell them to halt all boarding.”

“Time. By the time they verify who we are and get permission, some flights will have taken off. Once they’re off the ground, Bor’s agents can control them. But”—Garin opened his door—“you and Dan are going to security. Tell them everything and see if you can persuade them to ground all flights, or if you can’t, get them to call the White House. On your way there keep trying to reach Olivia. Go. ”

Garin stepped out of the vehicle.

“What are you going to do, Mike?” Knox asked.

Garin was already moving toward the entrance to the terminal, intensity covering his face. Over his shoulder, he said simply, “Speed kills.”

Dwyer and Knox ran toward the first uniformed security guard they saw standing near the American Airlines ticket counter, the rapid approach of the two large men causing him to tense. Dwyer raised his palms to assure the guard he wasn’t a threat. In a low but urgent voice he said, “I’m Dan Dwyer, CEO of DGT, the military contractor. I know you’ve heard of us. We have a national security threat emerging here. You need to alert the federal security director, who needs to alert the manager of airport operations that all flights need to be grounded immediately.”

The guard appeared bewildered.

“Tell them to contact DHS if they want verification,” Dwyer continued. “ Move. ”

Bor calmly surveyed the gates along Terminal B, scores of travelers seated or milling about the boarding areas and ticket counters adjacent to Gates 10 through 14. Strapped across his left shoulder was a canvas bag. It contained a PP-2000, fully loaded with armor-piercing shells, and several spare mags.

Hassan Ali Daar had done precisely as instructed. The submachine gun was where it was supposed to be. Bor had no difficulty retrieving it. In a few minutes he would have no use for it. Most of the volunteers were in the process of boarding their respective flights or had already boarded. The flight to Chicago departing from Gate 10, for example, had already pulled back from the gate and would soon taxi to the runway for the two-hour flight to O’Hare.

It wouldn’t make it. Shortly after takeoff it would bank slightly to the south, to the bewilderment of those on the flight deck and in the tower. Less than five minutes after that the aircraft would approach the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant on the western shore of the Chesapeake, less than forty-five miles outside Washington, D.C. Two minutes later it would make a steep dive and its ninety-one thousand pounds of metal and composites would crash directly into Unit 2 at a speed of 520 miles an hour, instantly killing all 110 passengers and crew members and imperiling the health and safety of the nearly three million souls within a fifty-mile radius of the facility.

At Gate 11, to Bor’s left, a group of college students laughed while boarding the United flight to Hartford, Connecticut. The Jetway door would close momentarily. It would become airborne at almost exactly the moment the sirens would sound along the Chesapeake. Forty-five minutes later United Flight 7174 with eighty-nine souls on board would obliterate the Hope Creek Nuclear Generating Station in Salem County, New Jersey, along with the futures of many of the six million people who lived forty-five minutes’ driving distance from the site.

And on it would go. Two hours from now nuclear power plants, oil refineries, and hydroelectric dams throughout much of the eastern half of the United States would be destroyed. The lives of millions would be devastated.

Bor noticed a look of curiosity appear on the faces of a few of those waiting to board. Next he heard shouting coming from a distant area of the terminal. Then the low rumble and buzz of some kind of commotion followed by scattered shouts and an alarm. The monitors along the concourse flickered and went blank.

Taras Bor knew Mike Garin was on his way.

Aminute earlier Garin had descended the escalator to the main level near the wine bar approximately one hundred feet from the line for the TSA checkpoint leading to Terminal B. The instant he came to the bottom he sprinted at top speed toward the checkpoint. Though the sudden movement immediately captured the attention of several startled security guards, they remained frozen for several moments before reacting. Two of the more alert guards—one a K-9 unit—instinctively gave chase. Alarmed travelers in the TSA queue scattered as Garin barreled past them and toward the scanning machines.

The screams of bystanders mixed with the shouts of the security guards and the barking of the guard dog in hot pursuit. A 280-pound blue-uniformed TSA agent stood obstinately in front of the scanner toward which Garin was heading, blocking his path. A mistake. Without breaking stride, the former all-state running back lowered his left shoulder and plowed into the doughy obstruction, driving him over a metal table and onto the floor.

An airport alarm sounded as Garin, having cleared the TSA checkpoint, veered sharply to his right toward Terminal B for no other reason than its departures were primarily toward East Coast and Midwest destinations. Farther destinations presented a chance, however remote, that there would be enough time to intercept and shoot down the subject planes, if necessary.

As he turned toward Terminal B, Garin glimpsed a Belgian shepherd, its leash trailing behind it, rapidly gaining from the rear. Just as the dog reached him, Garin turned and seized its muzzle with both hands until he could secure its jaws with his right hand. With his left hand he grasped the leash and wound it tightly around the dog’s jaws several times, inserting the handle through the collar in a slipknot. The unharmed but stunned K-9 ran whimpering in circles as Garin resumed sprinting alongside the conveyor belt to Terminal B.

Within seconds, Garin entered the concourse. Three security guards, trailing approximately forty feet behind, commanded him to stop. Travelers scattered frantically; others froze.

Garin saw the unmistakable figure of Taras Bor standing at the far end of the concourse in front of Gate 11 and came to an abrupt halt. A couple of beats later the three security guards, brandishing handguns, also stopped, one flanking Garin’s right, the other two to his left. Garin’s SIG remained secured at the small of his back.