by John Ringo
“You’re expected, Mr. Jenkins,” Street said. “But your… companion…”
“Lieutenant Britney Harder,” the girl said, pulling an ID out from under her shirt. “SOCOM.”
“Oh,” the captain said, starting to straighten then realizing that he outranked her. “Yes, you’re on the list, too.”
“They got a captain doing guard duty?” Jenkins asked, honestly curious.
“Just catching a smoke,” Street said. “The actual guards are through the door. I’ll escort you. We’re going to be starting soon.”
“So what’s a nice girl like you doing with an asshole like him?” the sheriff’s deputy asked as the Kildar and the Guardie headed to the security desk.
“Fucking up terrorists and killing people,” Britney said, pulling off her own glasses and giving him her best thousand mile stare. “What have you been doing today?”
“Right,” Dunn said, frowning.
“Right,” Britney stated. “So far we’ve stopped thirty-two barrels. And all of those on purpose. What’s FDLE’s record? Two on a routine traffic stop? You want to go beat your dick, go beat it somewhere else. I got nothing for you.”
Mike tried not to sleep through the meeting. He felt like it was important to attend at least one. This one had a National Guard colonel chairing it. And the guy was… Mike could feel a fuck-up coming on big-time. He wasn’t one of the NG battalion commanders; he was a guy sent down from Tallahassee to “manage” the situation. From Mike’s perspective, the situation was completely beyond “managing.” If he’d had his way, every damned vehicle heading north from Miami would be stopped and strip searched. Not that it probably mattered. Most of the barrels were on their way to the destination or there already.
“In conclusion,” the colonel said as Mike tried not to yawn, “the commander’s intent is to action the enemy’s action plan by insertion into the decision-making cycle and loop closure. By joint tasking and transformational processes, this situation can be deconflicted in a rapid and decisive manner. I have the positions and taskers of all the associated agencies prepared, however, there is one issue on taskers. Mr. Jenkins,” he concluded, turning to Mike. “What is your task in all of this?”
“I’ve been detailed to put my people into Disney,” Mike said, lying.
“Who gave you that tasker?” the colonel asked pointedly. “The action plan for defense in the Reedy Creek AO is fully tasked.”
“I think there’s a need-to-know issue there,” Mike replied, shrugging. “Why don’t I just make myself useful? We’ll mingle as tourists. Plenty of foreigners in Disney. We’ll need to have Disney security aware of it, though, and I’ll be making some suggestions in that regard. Actually, I’m going to be making demands. And if they’re not followed, the park will be shut down.”
“Excuse me?” Lieutenant Dunn asked, leaning forward. “How, exactly, are you going to get Disney to do that?”
“By presidential order under the War Powers Act,” Mike said, not bothering to look around. “There are, from my perspective, five probable targets in the Orlando area. Disney, specifically the Magic Kingdom, Wet and Wild, Universal, Sea World and possibly EPCOT or Studio Center. The top three I listed are the most probable targets. I put Magic Kingdom as top. I’ve discussed this at the highest level. Disney security is good. There’s going to be National Guard. Your department, Lieutenant, will be in place. And so will the Keldara. And we will be looking for very specific attacks and prepared to engage them with lethal force.”
“You want to carry weapons into Disney World?” the colonel said. “Out of the question.”
“Colonel, I can have you relieved, stripped of rank and stripped of retirement by picking up a phone,” Mike said, turning his head like a turret. “You don’t even begin to tell me what is ‘out of the question.’ You don’t begin to tell me what I can or cannot do to accomplish my mission. Stopping these terrorists with zero loss of life is going to be ‘out of the question.’ But that is our mission and I’m going to do that mission. And your job, Colonel, is to do what the fuck I tell you to do. Is that clear?”
“So you’re assuming command?” the colonel snarled. “Over my dead body.”
Mike shoved back his chair, walked down the conference room and jerked the chickenshit idiot out of his chair.
“You want to tell me it’s over your dead body?” Mike hissed. “I’ll cap you right here and nobody will say boo. Not a fucking person. Now you get this straight, jackass. Terrorists are coming to kill American civilians. And I will do whatever it takes to stop that. And if that includes killing you or everyone in this fucking room then everyone in this room will die. Been there, done that. Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear,” the colonel said, gagging.
“Let go of him,” Dunn said, standing up. “I swear to God—”
“Don’t,” Street said, holding up his hand. “What you don’t realize is that he’s serious. I don’t particularly feel like dying. So… don’t.”
Mike shoved the colonel back in the chair and straightened up.
“My meeting is adjourned. We just had it. If you have any useable intel, make sure I get it. All of it. I’ll take it from there.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charles Fisher, head of security for Walt Disney World, wasn’t sure what he was dealing with.
He normally interacted with Orange County sheriff’s department. The entire area around Disney, an area about the size of downtown Los Angeles, was privately owned. Technically, it could have its own police force. But there were problems, legal and image-wise, with corporations having cops. So Orange County handled the police work. But they were careful with Disney; it was the tail that wagged the dog.
Sometimes he worked with National Guard when there was a “credible terrorist threat.” FLARNG was planning on sending a company of infantry with “support units,” meaning, probably antiaircraft teams, to assist. They’d promised to stay low-profile. Disney had had heightened alerts several times and there were places they’d learned they could put the Guardsmen, even including the Slammer trucks, where they didn’t alarm the guests. Disney had a surprising number of out-of-the-way spots.
But this guy was something different. The blonde with him was SOCOM but what he was wasn’t quite clear. CIA? They weren’t supposed to work in-country, but with it being terrorism, who knew?
The guy had pulled into the VIP parking at the Guest Arrival area in a GT. So either he really was rich as fuck or that was a cover. And he hadn’t said much, just shaken hands and said he wanted to see the Magic Kingdom.
Fisher had bypassed the lines at the monorail and gotten him a front compartment. The guy didn’t seem to care much about the view from there even though it was spectacular. The lieutenant with him hadn’t been so reserved, she’d been glued to the window.
The monorail had a great view of the guest arrival area and then the sweeping panorama of the pine trees and palmettos that still covered most of the Disney area. It swept through the Contemporary Hotel which, given some of the resorts out in Vegas, was sort of outdated but still very cool. The guy still didn’t seem to care.
When they got to the park entrance, though, he started looking around. He paused at the back of the crowd, then walked to one of the shorter lines. The gate buzzed when he walked through but Fisher waved to the gate checker; he figured the guy was carrying at least one piece. She was going to let Jenkins through without checking his bag but he handed it over voluntarily.
The checker — obviously feeling this was some sort of test given that the head of security was here — pawed through it carefully. But there wasn’t anything wrong with the contents.
The guy took his bag back with a nod of thanks, then walked through the entrance area to Main Street.
Fisher was getting tired of the silence so he touched him on the arm.
“I can answer any questions you’d like to ask,” he said.
“I’m forming them,” the guy said but then turn
ed. “I’d like to go behind the façade to somewhere nobody is going to wander through.”
“Okay,” Fisher said, leading him to one of the small gates behind Main Street with “Official Cast Only!” on it and a big Mickey waving a finger no for the kids too young, or stupid, to read.
There was a scrubby lot and the guy looked around, walking to a corner at the very back. Finally he seemed to find what he was looking for.
“Could you come here, Mr. Fisher?” the man asked politely. “I have something to show you.”
“It’s a grasshopper,” Fisher said as the guy reached in his bag.
“Yes,” he said. “You might want to back up about ten feet.” He had a can of OFF in his hand.
“Okay,” Fisher said, backing away.
The guy extended his arm as far forward as possible and sprayed the insect. Instead of the normal spray it came out as a stream. The insect barely gave a hop, just dropping to the ground.
“You might want to tape off this area,” the guy said, carefully placing the bug in a Ziploc. “What you just saw was a demonstration of Sarin nerve gas. It will dissipate and degrade in about four hours. Until then, anyone touching it will die.”
“Motherfucker!” Fisher snarled. “I can’t believe you—”
“I just brought enough Sarin through your security to kill several hundred people” the guy said, turning and taking off his glasses. “What does that tell you, Mr. Fisher?”
Charles paused, then shook his head.
“I’m not stupid,” he said. “It tells me that you just smuggled Sarin into the park. Despite a very careful check. Anything else?”
“Oh, some plastique,” the guy continued, pulling out a soap container. “Detonator,” he continued, pulling out a multicolor pen, opening it and sliding out what was clearly a detonator. “A timer…” A Mickey Mouse watch. He pulled out two bottles of what looked like soda in two different colors. The labels weren’t a brand Fisher recognized, but they looked legit. Something European. “Binary explosives.”
“Okay, you got me,” Fisher said, nodding.
“If the terrorists get you, you’re fucked,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Containers like this… Well, I’ve seen them before. And this is a very technically sophisticated attack. I can think of several methods of attacking the park. I would actually put this as a secondary or even tertiary attack. If you have an attack, you’re going to move a lot of people into the tunnels, right?”
“How do you… ?” The entire Magic Kingdom was built on top of a massive tunnel that was more or less circular. It was a loop that looked something like a “male” sign, with the arm going up under Adventureland. The base of the loop was the only major entrance, a cavernous opening on the employee parking lot. The tunnels were why you rarely saw anyone in “costume” moving around the park unless they were crowd management or characters. All of the concessions and rides had back entrances to the tunnels, permitting supplies and personnel to move without disturbing the guests. Their secondary purpose, however, had a more sinister side.
Disney World was constructed at the height of the Cold War. Given the imminent threat of nuclear war that seemed to always be in the air, Walt Disney, personally, insisted that the entire facility be capable of keeping the guests and cast alive in the event that nearby McCoy Air Force Base was struck by the Soviets. The gates on the main tunnel entrance were heavy-duty blast doors as strong as those at Cheyenne Mountain, the concrete walls were nearly eight feet thick, the pumps to keep the facility dry were connected to interior generators, the entire facility could be sealed or vented by central controls and each of the surface accesses could function as an air lock.
The tunnels, while not a secret, were little known. Their design and original function was even less well known, including by current senior management.
“I did my homework,” Jenkins said. “So, you have an attack. Doesn’t matter what type. And you start evacuating people through the tunnels. Then some ‘martyrs’ start spraying VX or set off suicide bombs. Pleasant scenario, Mr. Fisher? All the blast doors in the world won’t help in that situation, will they?”
“No,” Fisher admitted.
“So the idea is to stop them before they come in the park, Mr. Fisher,” Jenkins said. “Here’s how you do that. You have anyone wearing a jacket,” he said, opening his own and revealing tubes that could have been explosives as well as the pistol that had set of the metal detector, “open their jacket. These things are normally triggered chemically; a metal detector will not pick them up. Everyone has to take a sip of every drink. Every container of spray has to be sprayed on the person. You set up a method to keep people from approaching the turnstiles, your security area. Keep the lines back thirty feet or so. It’s a massive fucking headache, I know. But those are just the baby steps. Because you’re going to fucking love the rest of it…”
“That’s not going to be the only target,” Britney said.
They were driving up I-4 towards Orlando with Mike carefully obeying the speed limit. The GT was going to be a cop magnet.
“They’ve got six barrels,” she pointed out.
“I know,” Mike said, pulling off of I-4 onto Sand Creek. “The problem is effective distribution. The cans are only going to get a few people. Sure, that’s terrorizing, but they’re going to want something that is going to horrify.”
“Aerial?” Britney said. “There’s a combat air patrol. Anything flying unrestrictedly will get shot down.”
“Will it?” Mike said. “That’s never been tested. That’s why the Keldara are going to be enjoying the wonders of the Magic Kingdom while I try to figure out what the other targets are.”
“Why do you have to do it all?” Britney asked as the car turned onto International Drive.
The GT, especially with Britney in the passenger seat, drew plenty of stares but Mike was ignoring them.
“Because I get lucky,” Mike said, frowning. “But I don’t feel fucking lucky about this op. I feel that it’s fucked to the max. They’re going to get through. Somewhere. We’ve got over three hundred gallons of that shit in play. Inside. Right here. Somewhere.”
There was a packed line for Wet and Wild, over a hundred people in bathing suits even in this weather. One teenager, probably about fourteen, was arguing with her parents. She had the one flattest stomach Mike had ever seen. She stopped arguing and frankly stared as the GT drove by.
“They’re going to get through,” Mike said, thinking about that lovely little girl lying on the ground twitching like a dying cockroach.
“You are prepared?” Farzad asked the assembled fedayeen.
“Yes, Haj,” Jamal said. “We are prepared to sacrifice ourselves. We will strike the infidels as they have never been struck. This will make us heroes beyond even the martyrs of the Twin Towers.”
“Stay near to cover,” Farzad said. “When the panic starts, mingle into the crowds. Then you know what to do. We will strike as one and the Satan will tremble.”
“… Yes, sir, I understand,” Colonel Olds said, hanging up the phone and trying not to curse.
Colonel Freeman Olds had spent most of his career in staff positions. He was, in fact, very close to a perfect staff officer. He was meticulous in the extreme and could juggle multiple tasks quite effectively. He was also a workaholic, putting in eighteen to twenty hours a day pretty much consistently.
However, one of the reasons that Olds had had, in his opinion, far too few commands was hidden in his generally excellent reviews. It was not so much that negative terms were included as certain positive ones were missing. He had hardly noticed but phrases like “capable of critical decision making under pressure” were notably absent. That’s because what many of his reviewers had realized was that he, well, wasn’t. He could make recommendations and create multiple scenarios, but to get him to make a hard decision — one that could negatively affect his career if he was wrong — he had to be cornered like a rat in a trap.
He had been just as meticul
ous and risk avoidant in building his career. He had carefully gotten all the merit badges, worked the buddy system, gotten all the right positions at all the right times. His time as a battalion commander had, admittedly, been less than perfect but that was understandable. The battalion he took over had been terribly poorly managed and undisciplined in the extreme. It could hardly be his fault that it had failed the annual Army Readiness and Testing Evaluation Program. He had managed to argue that to various people who, despite the unit being decertified for combat operations after two previous trips to the sandbox, had kept him from being relieved and forcibly retired.
But he was well aware that this position was his last chance to get stars. If he could manage the conditions carefully enough, if he could avoid serious incident, he’d pin on stars by the end of the year.
The fly in that ointment was this Kildar character. The local FBI office, Orange County, City of Orlando, all the other federal and state groups in the task force, they were all on board with the plan. Maintain a low profile. Make the public aware that there was a threat but also ensure they knew the powers-that-be were on the situation. Avoid serious incident. Reduce public strain. Deconflict the situation.
This joker’s idea of deconflict, though, was “kill them all and let graves registration sort them out.”
Which was why he had called an old friend from the Point. The general was a couple of years ahead of him and despite being, in Olds’ opinion, less than stellar in the brains department he’d managed to pin on stars almost four years ago. The general was also in a very good position, the Plans office in the Pentagon. Oh, he might complain that he wanted to get back to the sandbox, preferably with a command, but Olds knew he was just doing the Good Soldier routine. Plans and Ops ran the Army; commanders just followed Plans and Ops’ directives.
But it also put him in an excellent position to deal with this Kildar fellow. So Olds had explained his problems, leaving out that Jenkins had threatened to kill him. The general had been pretty busy, which might have explained the bluntness of his response. It boiled down to a.) Jenkins got things done, b.) Jenkins had the support of the CJCS and the President so the general couldn’t do anything if he wanted to. He’d added that the colonel might want to pay attention to actions in his AO and not spend time trying to get his support personnel changed.
