by John Ringo
"So you're saying you want sixty thousand people to act as bait?" Fisher asked. "Jesus Christ. That's cold."
"I keep repeating myself and nobody listens," Mike replied. "I am not a nice guy. Want a suggestion?"
"Right now my brain's sort of shut down," Fisher admitted. "So, sure."
"Ask them," Mike said.
* * *
"Thank you for your cooperation," Fisher said over the announcement system. "I'll explain what just happened. Disney was informed that there might be an attack using disguised poison gas. But we weren't sure that would occur until just a moment ago, when the first can was discovered. When that happened, terrorists in the crowd attempted to use their cans to attack, well, you people."
He paused as the crowd, which was back on its feet, sorted through that.
"By checking the contents of their bags, we can now definitely state that all the men just shot by snipers were terrorists. And that should be most of them. But I cannot, and Disney cannot, guarantee that another attack will not take place. I have spoken to the head of park operations and we are trying to decide whether or not to shut down. If we do, all of you will be given a voucher for another day at the park. But I also know that some of you are here on tight schedules and this may be the only day you have this trip. So I have been authorized to ask you what you think Disney should do. I'd like a show of hands of everyone who is still willing to risk going to Disney today."
At first none of the multicolored throng reacted, then a little girl down front raised her hand. After a brief discussion, her brother, sister and then parents raised theirs.
Before long just about everyone in the slightly diminished crowd had their hands up. The few that didn't were headed for the exits anyway.
"Okay, folks, we're still running the security check, but . . . Welcome to Disney World."
When Will and his family reached the security station, the checker waved them through.
"You're not going to check our bags?" Will asked, holding out his backpack.
"If you're terrorists, I'm a Nazi," the old woman who looked vaguely Jewish said, holding out a sheaf of tickets. "Everybody gets a three-day pass, by the way. They're useable any time in the future. Please stay alert, though. We really are expecting another attack. The terrorists had the gas in those orange OFF cans. So if you have one, I'd suggest getting rid of it to prevent getting mistaken for terrorists by the men with guns. Other than that, have a good time."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mike was not having a good time. Honestly, picking out people who were of "Middle Eastern" extraction was more art than science. For various historical reasons, many Hispanics had similar facial features. And there were huge numbers of groups in the Middle East that didn't support Islamic terrorism, Lebanese Christians being the first that came to mind and descending through a list that included Druze and actual "moderate" Islamics. The guy at Wet and Wild had been one of those, pretty obviously. Mike made a mental note to ensure he wasn't thrown in jail; he'd acted damned decently, all things considered.
But there were various cultural clues. Mostly they were the way that a person walked and body language. Most terrorists had not been in Western societies enough to have those clues completely erased. The 9/11 attackers had been smart in that they had worked, very hard, to eliminate all trace of such cultural clues. Mohammed Atta had been one smart SOB.
So far, however, every one of the tangos they'd taken down had been pretty clearly right off the boat. They still had the Islamic Shuffle that came from always using slippers or pushing down the backs of their shoes. It just made sense when you were taking them off five times a day to pray. It was one of the things that Mike was looking for, pushed-down shoes. Such a person was not, definitively, a terrorist. It just meant they were ardent Islamics and the second did not equal the first. But it was more than worthwhile to watch any such person.
He was looking for other things, though. He was certain the third attack was going to be airborne. It was the best way to kill the most people with VX. So while he wasn't watching the sky, he was looking for people who were. People in Disney didn't spend a lot of time looking up; they were looking at the rides, at the shops, at maps. Anybody who was occasionally glancing at the sky was a potential terrorist. And if he found a guy with a canister in his backpack who had been looking at the sky, well . . .
So far, though, no joy. He'd walked down Main Street, turned through Future Land and headed back on the loop through Fantasyland and up through Adventureland. In all that walking he hadn't seen anyone who really twigged his jitter meter. There were a fair number of Muslim-looking people, including women in dhimmie scarves and men with the shuffle. But all of them were accompanied by kids. While it was conceivable that a terrorist would use kids for cover, so far none of the ones they'd taken down had been so accompanied.
Pity that Orange County had collected the one terrorist they'd found. He could have gotten everything they needed out of the guy. So far, Orange County was getting nada. But he was pretty sure there was at least one that had gotten through. And he was going to find him.
Jamal sipped a cup of Coke in the Main Street Café, trying to look inconspicuous. He'd picked up enough of the conversation around him to know that most of the rest of the team had been taken down at security.
He glanced at his watch, knowing that it made him slightly conspicuous, and wished the time would go faster. Another forty minutes.
* * *
Farzad checked the connections again then nodded at the two fedayeen at the pumps. They turned on the pumps and started filling the converted Piper Cub.
Farzad had chosen the plane because it was ground transportable. It had been purchased in North Florida and driven to the industrial building near Eva where it had been parked for the last week. The doors of the building were large enough that the wings would clear when they were rolled up and there was a straight stretch of little used road in the industrial park. As soon as the plane was filled he could take off. But he was going to wait just a little longer. Everything wasn't in place, yet.
Joe Pallozzi had been a security guard at the Clearwater Air Park for about three months.
A former deputy sheriff from New York, he had come down to Florida hoping to get a job with either the State Patrol or one of the local departments. But a lot of cops got tired of the winters up north and the waiting list for slots was pretty long. While waiting for something to open up, he pulled down various security gigs working an average of sixty hours a week to keep ahead of the bills. He'd thought that upstate New York had a pretty bad cost of living until he'd moved to Florida. All sorts of people drifted to the Sunshine State expecting every day to be the beach. And a lot of them were young people willing to work for peanuts if they didn't have to go back to Bumfuck, Missouri. So wages were low unless you had a serious degree, while the cost of living was awful.
So Joe hung out, hoping to get a sheriff's slot or something, and humping his tail off in security in the meantime.
Despite only being at the airport gig for a few months, he'd come to know the regulars, and their planes, pretty well. He occasionally scagged rides and was half thinking about getting a pilot's license. A couple of the regulars had even let him take the controls for small bits.
One of them was a judge, a former corporate lawyer, who lived up in Dunnellon. So when Joe saw a crew working around Mr. Morris' plane he got a little suspicious. He knew it wasn't up for maintenance any time soon. And sure as hell it wasn't supposed to be going anywhere. So when the guys pulled the chocks he started trotting towards it.
One of the guys, both of whom were wearing blue coveralls, pulled out a device and opened the door. But it wasn't keys to the plane, it was a pick gun, a device used by locksmiths and car thieves. The fuckers were stealing Bob's plane!
"Hey," he shouted, drawing the lousy .38 he was forced to carry. "Stop!"
The guy still on the ground reached down to the big toolbox they'd carried over and pulled
out a Czech Skorpion submachine gun.
Joe realized he was totally fucked as he dropped to one knee. There wasn't a bit of fucking cover anywhere. He triggered two rounds from the crappy little revolver and was glad to see them hit.
On the other hand, the fucker with the Skorpion had fired at the same time. The last thing Joe Pallozzi saw was the flash from the suppressor.
"Kildar."
"Go," Mike said, looking around Adventureland. Families with kids. Teenage girls. Teenage boys watching the teenage girls. Fucking nada. Disney security was starting to clear the road for the afternoon parade and moving through the crowd was getting harder.
"A plane has just been stolen from the Clearwater Air Park in Clearwater, Florida. That is just across the bay from MacDill Air Force Base. The plane is being tracked on radar and is heading for MacDill. SOCOM believes that this is the next attack."
"Fuck," Mike snarled, drawing a look from a passing tourist. "What about the CAP?"
"The current combat air patrol is four F-16s, operating out of MacDill. Two were over the Tampa Bay area but are east of the contact and are turning west. The other two were south of Orlando, covering the Orlando area. They are actually closer to the contact, so they have been vectored to intercept."
Mike had heard the sonic booms in the distance a minute or so ago and filtered them out. Now he wanted to curse again.
"It's a feint," Mike said. "Call SOCOM and get the damned CAP turned around. You can't rig a regular plane in a few minutes to drop this shit. It's a damned deception plan. Is there an AWACS up?"
"Yes," Greznya said. "And we're getting the take from their local screens."
"Keep an eye out for a liftoff soon," Mike said. "And make sure that Dragon is aware of the situation. Put all the teams on high alert; we're going to get hit soon."
He looked around and blanched. The rides were emptying out as people gathered to pack along the street in anticipation of the parade.
"Oh. My. God."
"Kildar, what?" Greznya said.
"The parade," Mike said, stepping under one of the barriers and starting to trot down the road towards Fantasyland. "Call Fisher. Tell him the target is the parade."
Farzad started the engine of the Piper as soon as the three-man ground crew pushed him clear of the big doors and turned onto the empty stretch of pavement. He had gotten the word that Gibron had gotten into the air. He would soon be a martyr. But they were all martyrs, now. He did not expect to survive the flight.
The Piper nearly didn't make it into the air but it managed to claw upwards at the end of the road and over the low pines surrounding the industrial park.
The flight time to the Magic Kingdom was only four minutes. It was a good time to pray.
"Kildar," Greznya said. "A contact has just appeared that is not a cleared aircraft. It took off from just off Florida Highway 33 and is headed for Disney."
"Dragon?" Mike asked. He was at the square behind Cinderella's Castle and now sped up.
"Already lifting off," Greznya said. "But she is out of position to intercept. She estimates she will reach the Magic Kingdom about the same time as the aircraft, but from the east instead of west. We anticipated that the attack would come from the Kissimmee area."
"Tell her to hammer it," Mike said, slowing down. The aircraft was going to be coming in from the northwest. It might hit Fantasyland, first, but he was just as sure that the target was the parade, which came down from Adventureland, turned at the square, then went south to Main Street. He pulled the communicator off his belt and keyed on the take from Greznya. Sure enough, the bird was coming from the northwest and already over Disney property. Dragon was up and hammering for the park but she was way out of position. "Greznya, gimme all teams," Mike said. "All teams. Go hot at this time. Target coming in from the northwest. Converge near . . ." He looked around and shrugged. "Converge near Haunted Mansion. Grez, give me Colonel Olds . . ." he said, putting the communicator back on his belt and dumping his backpack.
"Colonel, it's that Kildar guy," the RTO said, holding out a telephone.
"What?" Olds snapped, taking the phone.
"We have an inbound at Disney. What is your intent?"
"As far as we can determine, it is a civilian aircraft that is off-course," the colonel replied. "I don't have a shoot order from higher."
"You're authorized to fire at your discretion," Mike said, incredulously. "That's why they gave you Slammers. Now are you going to take it out?"
"I . . . I do not have a shoot order," the colonel stammered.
"FUCK SHOOT ORDERS," the man screamed. "TAKE OUT THE DAMNED PLANE!"
"Colonel," the RTO said. "One of the Slammers has eyeballs on the target and is requesting shoot authorization . . ."
"I will have to call you back," the colonel said, handing the phone back to the RTO. "Get me Tallahassee. I need authorization to shoot . . ."
Sergeant Ray Thompson had been an Air Defense Artillery gunner since he'd first joined the Florida National Guard. However, in Iraq there wasn't much need for ADA so his unit had been "converted" to infantry then back to ADA when they redeployed to the states.
In Iraq he'd pulled more than his share of guard duty on roadblocks, quite a few convoys and various other spots where mujahideen tried to add him to the growing list of dead and injured. And in the process he'd occasionally seen "The Look." "The Look," that is, of a guy who is bent on martyrdom. Not many guys who saw "The Look" lived to tell about it and it wasn't precisely describable. It wasn't wide-eyed it was more like a thousand mile stare crossed with, of all things, joy.
He was using a pair of 60x binoculars to ID the incoming craft. Piper Cub, steady approach, the bird was locked by the Slammer and it was headed straight for the Magic Kingdom. And he could see right in the cockpit, see the pilot's eyes. And he had The Look.
"Tell higher that this is a definite bad-guy," Ray said. "And we need a Go order."
Mike zipped open the large backpack and started drawing out the parts of the M-60E4, assembling them as quickly as he could. He'd assembled one as a demonstration one time in under thirty seconds. He was trying to beat that record.
"Hey, buddy," a man said, ducking under the barricade and running over to him. "What in the fuck are you doing?"
"Getting ready to shoot down an airplane," Mike said without turning around. "I'm with SOCOM. Now I'd suggest getting under shelter, sir."
The man paused and looked over his shoulder.
"Dafney! Where are the kids?"
"Allison's here," the woman yelled back. "Jason and Lindsey are up at the Haunted Mansion, I think."
"Get under cover," the man said, picking up the overlarge box of ammo and drawing out the linked 7.62 rounds. "I used to be a gunner in the National Guard."
"You got ammo bearer," Mike said, pulling the linked ammo over and slapping it into place. He dropped the feed tray down and cocked the weapon. "Greznya, where is this thing?"
"Just west of the employee parking lot," Greznya said. "It should enter the park just west of Haunted Mansion."
More people were watching what was going on, and shouting, as Mike lifted the machine gun to his shoulder. The crowd surged back, obviously fearing he was going to open fire on them, but then paused as it was apparent he was pointed at the sky. He could hear the plane now, a slow drone and low.
"Anybody else got this?" Mike asked.
"Oleg," Oleg called. "I'm . . . Fuck, Kildar, I don't know where I am. East of that big castle thing."
"Nikolai. I am in Cinderella's Castle. I have partial eyeballs on the target. I do not have enough to engage."
"Kildar, Kildar, Dragon. I am crossing Bay Lake at this time, heading for Main Street. I have eyeballs on the bird but will not arrive before it enters the park."
"Keep an eye out for secondaries," Mike said, pointing the weapon over the trees to the west. "I think this one's all mine."
Farzad had seen the Slammers tracking him and was surprised they did not open fire. Tha
t would, of course, have ruined his mission. But he still would have been a martyr. As it was, he would simply have to send many infidels to hell.
He crested the trees that surrounded this end of the park and smiled. The infidels had gathered in huge numbers to see their parade. This would be a good killing, perhaps even better than that of the martyrs of 9/11. Many of the Americans would die and that was always a good thing.
He flinched, though, as tracers flew past the nose of the aircraft and looked down. A man was standing in the roadway holding a machine gun to his shoulder and firing up at the plane.