Magic Kingdom — Lake Buena Vista, FL
Universal Studios Hollywood — University City, CA
SeaWorld — Orlando, FL
Six Flags Magic Mountain — Valencia, CA
Luna Park, Coney Island — Brooklyn, NY
California’s Great America — Santa Clara, CA
Six Flags Darien Lake — Darien Center, NY
Six Flags New England — Agawam, MA
Knott’s Berry Farm — Buena Park, CA
Worlds of Fun — Kansas City, MO
Cedar Point — Sandusky, OH
SeaWorld — San Diego, CA
“Twenty-five theme parks. You know these places. You’ve packed up your families and traveled there. Perhaps you’ve even seen some identified as potential terror targets. But you’ve never imagined the tactics.
“On the perfect date, let’s call it K-Day, one hundred guests across the United States will simultaneously enter these theme parks. Did you catch that? Not terrorists, not soldiers, not enemy combatants… guests. One-zero-zero. Four in each park. And trust me, none will comply if asked to hand over the weapons strapped under their clothing. One MP-5 machine gun, two automatic handguns, and one thousand rounds of .40 caliber ammunition in fast-load magazines. For those of you who at this very moment are so anal as to want to calculate the ammo weight, I’ll save you the trouble — approximately forty pounds. Easily concealed and carried. Two pairs of shooters in each park. One pair protects the other. At a precisely coordinated time, they’ll open fire and continue until all ammunition is spent. Ever hear the expression ‘shooting fish in a barrel’? These fish will include women and children, young and old. At the end of this random killing spree, seventy thousand Americans will be dead or wounded.”
A new list appeared.
KOMODO TWO
Wrigley Field — Chicago, IL
Fenway Park — Boston, MA
Yankee Stadium — New York, NY
Oriole Park at Camden Yards — Baltimore, MD
Coors Field — Denver, CO
Progressive Field — Cleveland, OH
Turner Field — Atlanta, GA
Dodger Stadium — Los Angeles, CA
Safeco Field — Seattle, WA
Rangers Ballpark in Arlington — Arlington, TX
“Precisely timed with the theme park attacks, forty fans will enter these ten baseball stadiums. Four-zero, same weaponry. They’ll take seats near the home and visitor dugouts. They’ll enter the field of play, calmly open fire at both bench and active players, and then continue targeting general stadium fans until their ammunition is spent. You can add another ten thousand to the casualty list…” Riley paused. “And twenty major-league baseball teams will cease to exist.”
The audience sat stunned.
Riley stayed silent for a full fifteen seconds.
“The shooters will drop their gear and disappear into the chaos, and believe me, there’ll be chaos. Authorities will never be certain of their exact number. Within the hour, al-Qaeda will publicly reaffirm their February 23, 1998, declared fatwa calling on all Muslims to kill Americans wherever they are found. K-Day. It will be quite historic, for at that precise moment, we’ll all need to sign up for Yiddish class. America will have become Israel on steroids, complete with military curfews, roadblocks, checkpoints, and religious persecution. Anyone with dark hair and a suntan will feel racial mistrust and bigotry so severe it’ll make slavery in the old South seem like, well, Disney World.
“In the aftermath, Americans will start making life-altering decisions to avoid major cities in a rationalized attempt to live and raise their families in terror-free environments spelled r-u-r-a-l. People will establish virtual safety zones, and any outings beyond those zones or into crowds will carry overwhelming tension and suspicion. Fear will bear on every decision involving congregating in large numbers or traveling, and millions will simply stop doing either. For how long is anyone’s guess.
“In the next segment, we’re going to examine why K-Day will happen, why we won’t or can’t stop it, and why the incomprehensible violence and subsequent threat of open warfare in our beloved country are only a means to an end. Remember, I said Komodo is only the fuse. I haven’t explained what it leads to. But first I suggest we all take a break. Based on your facial expressions, it looks like some of you could use one.”
Chapter 5
Milwaukee’s airport was quiet, filled with only a handful of business travelers, a few young people, and a custodian and his cart. Shop lights flickered on. The terminal smelled of fresh-baked goods and coffee mingled with an occasional wisp of jet fuel that had sneaked through the jetways. The TSA security lines were empty.
Sitting at a Starbucks kiosk, WITI local Fox 6 News reporter Neela Griffin booted up her laptop and opened a Microsoft Word folder named Carly Simon. She scrolled through the document list and opened YoureSoVain.doc. She stared blankly at the 1973 hit song lyrics and sipped her extra strong Americana. Her senses steadily improved, and she spotted her camera operator, Terry Lee, at the checkout counter. He was rolling his T-shirt sleeve over his bicep, exposing a new Celtic sunburst tattoo to a young female server.
Lee was twenty-eight years old, with rugged, dark features, and his unshaven beard and unkempt hair rang GQ. He had natural on-air confidence and occasionally expressed interest in the opposite side of the lens. Sadly, the average news viewer might never get past the body ink.
Lee’s official union title was Remote Broadcast Specialist, a new breed of electronic news gatherer. His oversized, cable-free backpack could capture and transmit live news video over cellular networks, completely eliminating the need for a typical HD satellite truck. Finished with a shot, correspondents could manipulate a scene themselves via laptop or upload the raw footage for studio editors.
Lee set his breakfast on Griffin’s table and flopped into a chair as though he had been slapped. He held a bottle of apple juice up to the light and shook it vigorously.
“Are there any normal babes in this world?” he lamented. “I asked where she hung out, and she said she’s in hot water a lot. The last thing I need is somebody with a criminal record.”
Griffin chuckled. “For your information, Hot Water is a dance club on Water Street downtown. It’s rated as Milwaukee’s best.”
Lee stared at his coworker. “I hate mornings. My head hurts, my arm is sore, and everything just feels out of sync.”
“I’m surprised you had any bare skin left. How many tattoos is that now?”
“Nine,” Lee said, peering at Griffin’s laptop screen. “I think I’ll do my name next. A letter on each knuckle like my cousin. Then I’ll be obsessed too.”
“I am not obsessed,” she shot back.
“Riiiiight. That old tune is all you think about.”
“I’m trying to unravel a mystery.”
“I know. You’ve told me a hundred times,” Lee said. “Why don’t you just let it go? Everybody knows that Carly Simon wrote You’re So Vain about Mick Jagger or that prune-faced, old Playboy dude.”
“Wrong.”
“Whatever,” Lee said dismissively. “Nobody knows or cares about any of those old farts, so why should you?”
“Because it’s still a huge media secret,” Griffin said. “I’m not positive myself, but I’ve done enough research — newspapers, political issues, media stories, especially from the early seventies. I had to experience the same events, influences, and lifestyles that Carly Simon encountered when she wrote that song. Anyway, I think I got into her mind-set. I found eleven confidence indicators. I call them pointers — eleven unknown facts that all pointed to the same guy. It was incredible. He’s such a perfect fit I’m surprised no one has ever suspected him before. I’m ready to go public.”