John Ringo: A Deeper Blue

“A second attack was attempted at Wet and Wild. That attack was prevented, fortunately without loss of life.”

He took a breath and, knowing that it would be bad politics to snarl, tried to put a good face on the rest.

“Both of the attacks were stopped with the assistance of a special operations team working through the U.S. Army Special Operations Command. As you are all aware, the federal government has been providing support during this crisis under the War Powers Act. Federal agents from the FBI as well as military personnel are involved in this investigation. With their support, both attacks were stopped. I will now take questions.”

“Lieutenant Dunn,” the first reporter said. “There’s a rumor that the special operations team was, in fact, the Georgian commando group called the Mountain Tigers. Could you comment?”

“No,” Dunn said, trying not to snarl but his jaw worked. “I cannot comment on the nature of the special operations team.”

“Lieutenant,” the next reporter said. “About the car chase on I-4. The helicopter that took out the stolen chopper and the Mercedes was a black Hind, just like the one that was seen in the Keys. The U.S. military does not use that type of helicopter. Was it the same helicopter?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Dunn replied. “I am not privy to everything that is going on on the federal side. You might want to ask them.”

“Lieutenant, was the car involved in the chase a Ford GT? Because only one of those has been sold recently in the Orlando area. It was sold to a corporation called Mountain Tiger Beer, Inc. on Friday according to open records. Was that the same GT?”

“I am not able to comment on that,” Dunn said, angrily. “I don’t know when or where the damned car was bought. For all I know the idiot—”

The sheriff stepped forward and nudged Dunn to the side with a nod of thanks.

“All the attractions in the Orlando area, with the exception of Wet and Wild and those in the immediate area of the attacks, remain open. We are not going to let terrorists stop people from having fun. We are going to stop them from doing that. We’re just asking that people keep a sharp eye out for potential threats. Report anything suspicious through the normal 911 center or to a local security person. Thank you for attending, no more questions.”

Will Carter sighed when he exited the monorail. The lines to get into the Magic Kingdom were insane .

Will and his wife Dafney had brought their three children, Lindsey 11, Jason 9, and Allison 6, to Disney several times before. It was an annual pilgrimage from their home in Radcliff, Kentucky. Dafney’s mother and father lived in a retirement community near Clermont, a town just west of Orlando. They came down on winter break because, normally, the lines were a bit better than at Christmas.

But not this time. Even though there was a terrorism threat in the Florida area, it seemed as if everyone in the world had descended on Disney.

The press of bodies on the monorail ramp slowly moved forward and he could see why it was so packed: Disney was obviously taking the terrorist threat seriously. Each of the entry points had a security guard on it and they weren’t just checking bags but wanding each person. And “Mouse-trail” lines had been set up stopping about fifty feet back from the actual entry point. It was going to take forever to get through them but he was sort of glad to see that Disney was taking the steps; he didn’t want his kids dying at Disney.

“It doesn’t look bad once we get into the park,” Dafney said, laying a hand on his arm. She knew that her husband got frustrated waiting in line.

“I can see,” Will said. From the top of the monorail ramp you could just see into Main Street and it was apparent there weren’t all that many people on the street. But getting there was going to be a nightmare. “I’ll try to keep my cool.”

Some of the characters were out working the line. Maybe that would keep the kids from getting out of hand…

Mike walked along the line of security booths, watching the bag checkers. Most of them were following Fisher’s orders, carefully checking not only the obvious contents but things that could be disguised. He saw one of the checkers pull out a can of OFF, identical to the one that he’d demonstrated to Fisher, and hand it to the person being checked. Of course, Mike wouldn’t have bothered, given that it was a blonde teenager. But the girl, after a moment’s confusion, sprayed some on her arm.

Mike paused as another person came to a booth near the far right. The man was Middle Eastern in appearance, carrying a new backpack.

“Konstantin,” he said. The communicator was voice activated, so he didn’t even have to press a throat mike. “Booth Four.”

Konstantin Shaynav was already on the target. The man appeared nervous, but a lot of the targets had. He kept the crosshairs on the man’s head, though, dialed back far enough that he could watch general actions.

“Bag’s being checked,” Dzintars, his spotter, said. “Can of spray… Shit.”

Mike watched as the checker on Booth Four, an elderly woman who had a vaguely Jewish look, lifted a green spray can out of the bag then set it back in as she pawed through the contents. She had an expression that told him she was clearly pissed at the stupidity of the intense search.

“Fisher,” Mike said, gesturing with his chin.

“What?” the man said. He’d been examining the lines and trying to figure out how to move the people through faster. There were two reasons it was on his mind. One was simple customer service. People had come to Disney to have fun, not stand in line waiting to get in. There were going to be massive complaints. The second was security related; he wasn’t happy with that many people packed in together.

“Booth Four. Spray can. Didn’t get checked.”

The man had completed his check and nodded at the checker with a smile as he started to walk away.

“Booth Four,” Fisher said into his radio. “Stop him.”

Mike and Fisher walked forward as the security guard backing up the checker put his hand on the man’s arm.

“Excuse me, sir,” the guard said. “We’d like your cooperation…”

“You are stop me because I am Arab!” the man said, raising his voice. “This is prejudice against Arabs! I insist that you treat me as human! You kill Arabs in Iraq and you don’t care…”

“Sir, if you’ll just calm down,” Fisher said, stepping over to the irate customer.

“Sir, if you’ll just look at your chest,” Mike said, much more quietly.

“What?” the Arab said angrily. Or at least he appeared angry on the surface. But his eyes weren’t.

“Look down,” Mike said in Arabic. “And stay still.”

The man looked down and his dark face went gray at the sight of a spot of red light wavering over his heart.

“Now,” Mike said, still in Arabic, “if you’ll just accompany us I’m sure that this can all be resolved quite quickly. And if you continue to present a problem to me, innocent or not, I’m going to splatter you all over the ground. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the man said, his jaw working.

“Slowly hand the bag to the security guard,” Mike said. “Then step towards that door, slowly,” he continued, pointing to a door marked “Cast Only.” Two of the Keldara, wearing much the same clothes as Mike, including the extra bulkiness, were walking over. They flanked the man as, followed by the security guard, he was marched over to the door.

Fisher had gotten a new security guard for Booth Four and went over to the checker.

“Mrs. Meier,” Fisher said as the entry supervisor hurried over. “You didn’t check a spray can.”