by John Ringo
"What was the take?" Mike asked.
"There were only twenty-eight containers," the admiral said with a sigh.
"We're getting there," Mike said, cursing under his breath. "Twelve missing. Four we got. Two the Commercial guys found. I don't suppose anybody went to the pick-up points?"
"No," the admiral said. "Not so far. FDLE has them under stakeout with blue barrels sitting there. But they're probably not going to go for it."
"Probably not," Mike admitted. "Not after we got blown sky-high. Six barrels in play. They're inside, too."
"Agreed," the admiral said. "The question is . . . where?"
"Targets," Mike said. "Lots of possible targets. We're coming inside."
"Where?" the admiral said. "When you got dumped on me I was pissed as hell. Now I know what the President meant about your nose. Where are you going?"
"Now that we've saved the Bahamas we're going to Disney World."
"Hi, my name's Jack. What's yours?"
John R. "Jack" Garcia wasn't sure about the latest up. The guy was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops and cargo shorts that had seen better days. And he was looking at the GT they had on display. But, hell, everybody did. GTs were rare as hell but a customer had traded this one on a stocked-out Expedition when he had a change of life. A change from wife and mistress to ex, new wife and a new baby.
The Ford GT was one of the top performance cars in the world. With a body closely based on a 1960s Ford Can-Am racer, the car still looked futuristic. Low-slung, wide, sleek and powerful, it was a car-lover's wet dream. Bright red with double racing stripes down the middle, it was also spectacular as hell.
"Mike," the guy said. "That's a pretty car."
"Yes it is," Jack said. "Hardly used at all. And only three thousand made. Very rare. A real collector's item."
"Yeah," the guy, "Mike," said. "Hell of a sticker, though."
"Like I said, rare and very fine machinery," Jack said, mentally sighing. All the customers looked, none of them ever bought.
"Gimme a discount for a large additional order?"
"How large?" Jack asked. "And I don't think we can take much off the GT. It's pretty much at invoice as it is."
"Can't move it, huh?" the guy said, taking off his sunglasses and turning. Jack froze at his expression. Then the guy held out an American Titanium card. Technically referred to as a Senior Corporate Agent's Card, it was called the "Titanium" because whereas a gold card wasn't made out of gold nor a platinum from platinum, well . . . The SCC was a thin stamped sheet of black titanium with, literally, no limit. "I need ten Expeditions. Black. And the GT. Make me your best offer."
"Holy fuck, who's that, James Bond?"
Lieutenant Bob Dunn, Orange County sheriff's department, was a twelve-year veteran of the force. He'd spent his time in traffic then SWAT then detective and finally made lieutenant. He knew the capability of his department and the groups surrounding and interacting. But this Miami Vice character . . . Fuck.
"You might want to keep your voice down," Captain Spencer Street said. The Florida National Guardsman had had a call from an old friend that told him a group was coming up to work the Orlando area and to not only treat them with kid gloves but with respect. That was all, but the tone was enough. He wasn't sure who the guy was, but he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, the fellow captain, a team leader with 20th Group, had sounded . . . shaken. Anybody who could shake up Tom was worth listening to.
"Fuck him," Dunn said. "Anybody that turns up at a JTF meeting in a fucking GT with some blonde on his arm is a poser."
The guy had parked in a "distinguished visitor" parking space, right by the door in other words. So he caught the end of Dunn's words as he approached, literally with a blonde on his arm.
"I see Orange County's finest are on the case," the man said. "Killed any good hostages lately?"
"Fuck you," Dunn snapped. OC had had a bad run a few years back. In four separate hostage negotiations the hostage had been killed either by the holder or, in one case, by fire from the police surrounding the house. Given that all of them had started off as domestic disputes it was, in Dunn's eyes, a tragedy and not something to be joked about. "This is a restricted area."
"Michael Jenkins," the guy said, sticking out his hand to the Guardsman. "Pleasure to meet you. Now will you ask your trained monkey to move out of the way of the door?"
"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 turned. "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 s
ome '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 . . . ."