I wasn’t really sure how I was going to help without a gun. But there was no real choice today. I told myself that sometimes eyes and ears are more important than weaponry anyway. My role this day would have to be that of an informed observer. Someone to blow the whistle if something suspicious arose.
I would have preferred the gun.
Unarmed, I was probably going to be worthless. Still, I had to do what I could.
As I neared the airport, I could see the mass of automobiles collecting in a field several hundred yards from the entrance. I guessed there were already more than a hundred cars here, though some probably belonged to pilots and crew members. Apparently, no unauthorized persons would be allowed to enter the airport by car.
That was good.
I was unauthorized. I parked the Pilot in a location outside the airport where I thought I would be able to make a hasty exit if necessary.
As I traversed the grassy field toward the airport entrance, I noticed that a makeshift barrier of wooden snow fencing had been staked the entire length of the airport access area. The fence wasn’t going to stop a determined invader. But it was better than nothing. I saw at least one Red Wing city cop walking the fence line. That was also good.
I presented myself at the show admission booth. Tickets to the event were twenty dollars a day. I peeled two bills off my money clip and handed them to the ticket woman. She stamped my hand for today and gave me a ticket for access to the grounds tomorrow. I slipped the ticket in my back pocket and went straight to the main terminal.
The place was packed with pilots and crews. Most of the building was reserved for their use only. Civilians like me were only allowed access to the rest rooms in the terminal entryway. I walked into the entry alcove and scanned through the interior window for Gunner. After a moment, I spotted him talking with the airport employee. I moved to the glass door to enter the terminal interior.
A uniformed rent-a-cop security kid stopped me at the open doorway. He didn’t have a gun, just a night stick and a tin badge.
"Sorry. No admittance without a security clearance badge," he said.
I looked past the fake cop, yelled at Gunner and waved. Even at this distance I could see him roll his eyes. He came over to where the security guard and I were standing.
"He’s with me. Give him a badge."
"Yessir!"
I thought the kid was going to salute.
I stepped through the doorway and pinned the plastic badge on my chest as I walked. ‘Security. All Access.’
"I was hoping to not have the pleasure of your company today," Gunner said, looking straight ahead as we made our way through the terminal crowd. "Didn’t really expect it though."
"Always nice to be welcome," I said.
The conspirators had arrived at the staging area Friday night at 9:30. The staging area turned out to be John’s home. It was a small brown house, situated at the end of a long dirt road, and atop one of the many Mississippi river bluffs near Red Wing. The truck, with its precious cargo, was secreted in the garage. The other vehicles were parked on weedy areas to the side of the road.
This morning, the terrorists needed to go over the final attack details.
Brenda and Urland were responsible for disabling any guards at the airport. Deadly force was acceptable. But rifle shots were not permitted. Shooting would draw too much attention. After the guards had been dispatched, John would bring the truck alongside the plane and the three of them would load the containers. John was fairly confident in Urland’s ability to deal with the guards. He was stupid, but brutal.
For now, Farris was to assure that the chemicals remained stable and functional in their garage storage. If the heat in the garage became a problem, the truck would need to be moved, or the containers taken to a cooler location.
Farris and John would also do a dry run to the mud lake later today. The Umbers would stay at the homestead and guard the truck while the other two were gone.
John had been growing increasingly fatigued lately. And the stabbing pain in his abdomen was approaching unbearable. Even the Oxycontin and Oxycodone the doctor had prescribed no longer seemed to dull the pain. He wouldn’t let it show to the others. And he was damn well going to see this thing through. But the narcotics, and the symptoms they masked, did not make it easy.
Gunner ushered me into the conference room. It was otherwise unoccupied. "What can I do for you Beck?"
"How about a sit rep?"
Gunner looked at me sideways.
"You know damn well what I mean," I said.
Gunner outlined the security arrangements for the air show. The FAA had cleared the pilots and crew members in advance. They all had official photo IDs. Besides the photo ident, each pilot and crew member had already appeared in at least a dozen previous air shows in the past year.
"The FAA feels pretty comfortable with the credentials and trustworthiness of that group. And I feel pretty good about them, too.
"On the ground," Gunner continued, "an FAA guy checks everybody’s ID before they can get on board a plane. Same FAA security man that has been working these shows for several years. He knows the faces of all crew members and won’t be fooled by a fake access badge.
"The FAA has also established, and is broadcasting on the appropriate frequencies, a ‘no-fly’ zone within a two mile radius of the nuke plant below 15,000 feet altitude."
"Two miles isn’t very far," I noted.
"The whole damn airport is only six miles from the nuke. They have to be able to take off and land."
"I suppose," I conceded.
"May I continue?" Gunner could be a wise guy sometimes. But I let it slide. I was, after all, on his territory.
"Please do."
Gunner turned to the large airport map on the conference room wall. "The City has got three guys patrolling the fence 24/7 on rotating shifts." He indicated the fence location on the map. "They are required to check in with each other every fifteen minutes via radio.
"I have two deputies on site. One is in cargo shorts and a tan safari shirt, circulating among the fans outside. The other is dressed like a crew member and spends his time in ‘crew only’ areas, mostly looking and listening."
Gunner wasn’t done yet.
"The Prairie River Plant Security Team is overstaffed and on elevated security status. We’ll hope they don’t get trigger-happy and shoot down some stupid tourist trying for a photo-op over the plant. They wouldn’t tell me their rules of engagement.
"The FBI has someone on site here at the airport, too. They won’t tell me who. It would be nice if some of these other guys would share info with us mere mortals. I hope we don’t end up shooting him if he flashes his gun."
"Or her," I added.
"Or her."
"The FBI has arranged for a National Guard F-14 to be available on emergency standby at the St. Paul Airport. Don’t think the fighter would get here in time to engage if anything went down. But fighter availability looks good to the public in case we screw up."
"Politics."
"Makes the world go ‘round. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. The BCA has an observation team set up on one of the bluffs around here somewhere. They’ll be in place day and night until the show is over. Exact location is — surprise, surprise — ‘need to know.’
"We tried to get permission to set up a metal detector at the entrance and deploy explosive-sniffing dogs on site. But the mayor vetoed it. He wants the ‘appearance of normalcy.’"
"Hasn’t the guy ever seen Jaws?" I remarked.
"More politics. Fact of life.
"Other than me, that’s about it. At least that’s all I know about. It would sure be easier if agencies would share more information. But everybody has their own turf to defend."