“That's right,” said the former marine in a tone Savas was sure would command even the most reluctant of soldiers. “These are Agents Savas, Rideout, and Lightfoote with me,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the back. He flipped open his badge case and continued speaking as the bewildered gate guard stared at the ID. “Son, we have some inside information that some of the terrorists who hit the city last month are transporting munitions using cargo carriers. We've traced them to the JFK terminals. We need to get inside and see your superiors immediately. We've got to stop these guys while we still can.”
The guard stood there thunderstruck. “Terrorists?”
“Clearly this is not something you're used to dealing with, son, but we need your most efficient cooperation on this. Please, take my badge back to your station and phone this in. Wake them up if they fell asleep. We need to get in and inspect these planes an hour ago!”
The man stepped back at Miller's tone but looked subdued. “Ah, OK, let me call this in. Hell, I'm not even sure who's on call right now.” He stumbled over to the small station. Within ten minutes, the van was rolling into the main section of the JFK cargo terminal.
Savas was amazed at what he saw. He knew JFK was big, but he had never seen a cargo-dedicated area of an airport before. Enormous warehouses extended one after the other, lit dimly by streetlights in the evening darkness. Aircraft after aircraft, narrow and wide-body, upper-deck and belly. Inspection sites and rows of eighteen-wheelers from long-haul trucking companies lined up to unload. In several places, as they sped by, were the refrigeration units for enormous climate-controlled and chilled facilities for shipping perishables. There was even a fairly good-sized animal shelter, clearly designed for animals far beyond house pets, facilities that could easily handle many large zoo animals.
At one of the main office complexes, a man was standing outside waving them over. Miller pulled up the van. “OK, everyone, let's look professional. File out with me. There's strength in numbers. At least intimidation. Give him your most dour looks.”
Miller exited and strode confidently up to the man, and the rest followed. Savas and Rideout stood beside Miller, serious and silent. They tried to ignore Lightfoote, who glanced around the terminal in her space-cadet fashion. We should have left her in the van, he thought.
The man introduced himself. “Hey — I'm Robert Coon, night manager for the facility. Gerry called in. What the hell — you're FBI? This for real?”
Miller paused a moment, staring at the man, then looked back to the van and its bright-white ‘FBI’ letters that stood out quite visibly in the light.
“Yes, sir, this is absolutely for real. I don't know what your guard at the gate told you, but we are on a high-priority mission. We have received information that the same terrorist group that has bombed this city twice and hit places all around the world is using your cargo terminal to ship its explosives across the country and to Mexico, planning new attacks in several major cities.”
“Holy shit!” gasped Coon.
“There's nothing holy about it,” said Miller. “We have word that one of these planes bound for Mexico tonight is loaded with such cargo. We need to get into that plane and search the cargo.”
The manager pulled out his clipboard and searched through it. Do they all carry clipboards here? thought Savas with impatience. The manager flipped through several pages and stopped. “Yeah, there's the flight to Tampico, Mexico, hangar 12A. Is that the one you're looking for?”
“The very one,” said Miller. “I can't impress upon you how important this is, Mr. Coon. We need immediate access to that plane. And we need your complete silence about the matter.”
The manager looked worried. “Sir, I don't know. You need to have a warrant or something, don't you?”
Savas looked impatiently at the man, like he was a poorly educated schoolchild. “Son, you've heard of the Patriot Act, haven't you?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“Do you know what it says?”
The man looked caught off guard. “I dunno — something about tapping phones to find terrorists and the like?”
“The Patriot Act is what gives law enforcement new powers to stop terrorists from attacking this country. Phone tapping is just one part of it. Section 3.4 of the act specifically states that federal agents can, upon immediate threat to the nation, perform search and seizure without warrant.”
“It says that?” the man asked.
“Yes, son, it does. It also states that interference with antiterrorist activities can be prosecuted as criminal aiding and abetting. I know that's nothing you would have to worry about, Mr. Coon, but it's important that no wrong impressions are given.”
The young manager looked positively terrified. He licked his lips and nodded. “No, sir, there's no reason to worry. I'll take you over to the plane myself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coon. Your aid in this matter is greatly appreciated.”
The manager walked briskly ahead of them, and the FBI agents followed. Miller leaned forward and spoke in a whisper to Savas. “Section 3.4 of the Patriot Act, John?” Savas looked fleetingly over toward Miller. “Effective section, isn't it?”
They approached a wide-body aircraft. It had an image of an American and Mexican flag, crossed, with the words “TransMexico” emblazoned in fiery red underneath. Robert Coon stopped in front of the plane.
“This is it,” said the manager. “It was loaded half an hour ago, or should have been, anyway. It's scheduled to depart in an hour. If you look, the bay is open, and even the lift is still there. You just need to get up in there and you'll see all the cargo.”
Savas nodded. “We'll get right to it. We'll be done in half an hour or less, I'm sure. If it's clean, we won't hold things up, I promise.” He turned to the others. “All right, let's move in.”
One by one, they ascended the lift into the belly of the cargo plane. Inside were rows of stacked crates with hardly the width for a person to walk through. All were labeled in English and in Spanish, housing items from foods to equipment.
“He's not checking up on us,” said Miller, glancing back down.
“All right,” said Savas. “Let's find us a place to hide out. Once we're in place, the rest of you hang out a few more minutes, then head back down and try to convince the man that we've already left the aircraft.”
Rideout looked over at Savas. “And if he isn't buying it?”
“Well, we'll just have to play it on the fly.”
Twenty minutes later, Robert Coon walked back out toward the plane. He was uneasy about this whole thing. Patriot Act or not, he wasn't in the habit of letting people wander onto the planes at night, FBI, CIA, or NYPD. He had gone back into this office to look through the manuals, but he couldn't find anything to help him figure out what to do in this situation. However, he wasn't about to wake up Sammy for this. He'd tell him in the morning. I'd better not get into any trouble.
As he approached the plane, he saw two of the agents, the girl and the thin one, walking back from the aircraft. The man waved him down.
“Mr. Coon,” said Rideout, “we've finished our search, and I'm happy to report that there are no items out of the ordinary that we can identify. It looks like our lead was wrong. I want to thank you for your help in this investigation. It's a dangerous world now, and we've all got to work together to protect our nation.” He extended his hand toward the man.
The manager nodded, shaking hands with the FBI man. “OK, no problem. I do what I can. So, where are the other agents?”
Rideout gestured toward the van. “They already headed back. Now, Mr. Coon, I just need a little information from you before we leave, for our investigation. Agent Lightfoote, would you join the others in the van and wait for me?”