"Doesn’t Wisconsin want in on the action?" I asked.
I can offer no explanation for the fact that the Red Wing, Minnesota airport is located on the Wisconsin side of the river. But it is.
"Hell no! They just want somebody to blame if the shit hits the fan. Lewiston County will send in the posse if a firefight breaks out. That’s all they would commit to. They think the whole ‘terrorists attacking the nuke’ thing is funny, by the way."
"Tell ‘em to get in line," I said.
"I gotta admit that, at times, I’m feeling pretty stupid myself," Gunner said. "I mean, setting up all these resources to defend against a damn improbable event. But don’t worry. I’m here. So I’ll do my part. Just feeling a little dumb, that’s all."
"I understand completely. And I’ve gotta thank you again for all your help."
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
" So what are you gonna do?"
"I plan to just hang out around here. Mingle. I’m unarmed. If I see anything unusual, I’ll let you know. Should I call on your cell or what?" I asked, feeling useless.
"Cell will be fine. My ass would be grass if anybody heard you on our radio frequency."
"Okay then," I said.
"And Beck."
I had started to leave, but turned around to face Gunner.
"Don’t screw anything up."
"Have I ever let you down before?"
Another eye roll from the Chief Deputy.
CHAPTER 43
By nine o’clock the area around the outside of the terminal was filled with eager spectators. They were lined up along another snow fence segregating the runway from the throng. Several of the classic warbirds were parked at various locations on the taxiways between hangars.
A popular activity was having your picture taken beside the P51. You could also buy separate admission for $10.00 and get an inside tour of the mammoth B17 bomber. The entire time, awe-inspiring WWII war planes were taking turns roaring down the runway on takeoff, doing high speed fly-bys, and performing daring aerial acrobatics, before touching down to the cheers and applause of the crowd.
For obvious reasons, the Red Wing Airport was closed to all civilian air traffic during the show. The FAA had also cleared airspace inside a five mile radius for air show use only. Any gawkers hoping to get a bird’s eye view from their private planes were going to be disappointed.
The five-mile airport radius and the two-mile Prairie River no-fly zone overlapped to form a sort of Venn Diagram, the overlap zone being space within which even the air show planes were not permitted. All pilots in the show had both zone demarcations graphically displayed on add-on cockpit GPS units. It didn’t pay to sacrifice safety to preserve technological authenticity. Using this bit of 21st century technology, the show planes had no problems staying inside the airport clear area and outside the nuclear plant no-fly zone.
The show was truly spectacular. So much so, that I occasionally found my eyes straying to the aerial display in progress, instead of paying attention to the folks on the ground. I had to remind myself that the most distracting moments in the air would also provide the best opportunities for foul play below. I needed to improve my concentration.
Although I hadn’t been able to spot him, I knew that Bull was here somewhere, also observing the crowds and crews. But I still needed to do my job. Too many operations fail because each person assumes his backup has the situation under control, while the backup assumes the same of his principal.
Images of the Chernobyl aftermath flashed in my head.
Focus.
I walked the length of the spectator area observing faces, postures, behavior. I was looking for indications of tension, frayed nerves. Or for a person who seemed disinterested, not paying attention to the show for no apparent reason. Or for a facial expression of determination, agitation, maybe even unnatural calm.
I saw the plain clothes deputy. He was doing pretty much the same thing as I was. I hadn’t made the Fibbie yet.
The day marched on.
Lunchtime had come and gone two hours ago. I allowed myself a hot dog and Diet Mountain Dew from an onsite purveyor.
During a short break in the action, fans stormed the concession stands and portable biffies. I remained on station, working through the crowd. Real men don’t pee when duty calls. Well… some do, depending on the duty. I had once been deployed under circumstances where I had to remain perfectly still for entire days, under a pile of hay. In that situation, peeing on station is part of the assignment.
But I digress.
The B17 was due to take off next. You could feel the subsonic rumble of its four engines as it taxied to takeoff position. When it was at the absolute end of the runway, the bomber made a 180 degree turn to make its run into the wind. The B17 was a lot of propeller plane to lift off and clear fifty feet of altitude before passing the end of the runway.
The Flying Fortress was ready. All eyes were locked on the plane except for mine and the deputy’s. I heard the engines rev up. The pilot would hold the brakes until the engines were up to speed, then let her go.
As the B17 thundered toward the terminal, the tarmac trembling, the engine noise was impressive. The roar did a red shift as the plane passed the terminal with its landing gear barely ten feet in the air. I sneaked a quick peek as the historic bomber climbed upwind and upstream, toward the nuclear plant.
If that pilot were willing to die crashing into the Prairie River Nuke Plant, there was no way anyone was going to stop him. Fortunately, this particular pilot was more interested in making a safe landing back at the airport… but not before climbing to about a thousand feet above surface and making three memorable passes almost directly above the runway.
On final approach, the plane appeared to slow nearly to a stall. In reality, it was still traveling about a hundred knots when the wheels hit the runway. It just seemed incredibly slow to anyone who had seen a commercial jet land.
CHAPTER 44
John and Farris took the fishing boat down to the river late Saturday afternoon. Trailering the boat behind an old Ford pickup, the two had driven to a remote public launch on the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi. The launch was rustic. No concrete or asphalt. Just two dirt tracks through the grass leading to the water’s edge. This launch location was also seldom used — its most attractive characteristic.
Back at the house, John had explained to Farris everything he needed to know about the boat. Now John wanted to confirm that Farris could execute the plan.
With John watching from beside the truck, Farris slowly backed the trailer into the water until the boat floated. He got out of the truck and tied a good length of bow rope from the boat to the trailer hitch. The last thing he wanted was for the boat to float away in front of the infidel. Now he could safely release the trailer crank, loosen the cable and unhook the boat.
When the Sylvan floated freely in the water, he let it drift out past the end of the trailer, paying out bow line as it went. Then he towed the boat back to shore, heaving it far enough up onto the grass to keep it in place for the time being. Finally, Farris drove the truck and trailer up the ramp and out of the water, parking them in the weeds to one side of the launch.
Returning to the boat, he pushed it back out into the water, jumping into the bow when it floated freely again. John climbed in, too.
Farris lowered the outboard motor into the water. With the gearshift in neutral, and the manual throttle advanced just slightly, he grasped the starter rope by its black rubber handle and pulled hard. The motor revved to life — pouring oily blue smoke into the air. Farris released the starter rope and throttled the Evinrude back to an idle.