Club America
Miami International Airport, Concourse F
Miami, Florida
2205 4 February 2007
Roscoe J. Danton of The
Washington Times-Post was not in a very good mood. Eagle-eyed officials of the Transportation Security Administration had detected a Colibri butane cigar lighter and a nearly new bottle of Boss cologne in his carry-on luggage and triumphantly seized both.
The discovery had then triggered a detailed examination of the rest of the contents of his carry-on luggage. This had uncovered a Bic butane cigarette lighter in his laptop case and three boxes of wooden matches from the Old Ebbitt Grill in his briefcase/overnight bag. Two small boxes of matches, he was told he should have known, was the limit.
With the proof before them that they had in their hands if not an Al Qaeda terrorist cleverly disguised as a thirty-eight-year-old Presbyterian from Chevy Chase, Maryland, then at the very least what they categorized as an “uncooperative traveler,” the TSA officers had then thoroughly examined his person to make sure that he wasn’t trying to conceal anything else—a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, for example—in his ear canal or another body orifice.
With no RPG or other potential weapon found, he was finally freed.
Danton—convinced that his near crimes and misdemeanors had probably caused him to miss Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 1007, nonstop service to Buenos Aires—had then run all the way down Concourse F to Gate 17 hoping to be proven wrong. There he learned that “technical difficulties” of an unspecified nature were going to delay the departure of Flight 1007 for at least two hours.
As he walked the long way back down the concourse to the Club America, he recalled that C. Harry Whelan had called Miami International Airport “America’s Token Third World Airport.”
Say what you want about Harry—and there’s a lot, all bad, to be said about Harry—but the sonofabitch does have a way with words.
Which is probably why he’s always on Wolf News.
I wonder what they pay him for that?
Roscoe found a seat from which he could have a good view of one of the television sets hanging from the ceiling. Then he made three trips to the bar, ultimately returning to his seat with two glasses of Scotch whisky, a glass of water, a glass of ice cubes, a bowl of mixed nuts, and a bowl of potato chips. Then he settled in for the long wait.
When he looked up at the television, he saw C. Harry Whelan in conversation with Andy McClarren, the anything-but-amiable star of Wolf News’s most popular program, The Straight Scoop.
The screen was split. On the right, McClarren and Whelan were shown sitting at a desk looking at a television monitor. On the left was what they were watching: at least two dozen police cars and ambulances, almost all with their emergency lights flashing, looking as if they were trying to get past some sort of gate.
A curved sign mounted over the gate read WELCOME TO FORT DETRICK.
Their passage was blocked by three U.S. Army HMMWVs, each mounting a .50 caliber machine gun. HMMWV stood for “high-mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicle.” With the acronym a little hard to pronounce, the trucks were therefore commonly referred to as “Humvees.”
“That was the scene earlier today at Fort Detrick, Harry,” Andy McClarren said. “Can you give us the straight scoop on what the hell was going on?”
You’re not supposed to say naughty words on television, Roscoe thought as he sipped his Scotch, but I guess if you’re Andy McClarren, host of the most-watched television news show, you can get away with a “hell” every once in a while.
“A lot of arf-arf,” Whelan said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Careful, Andy. That’s two “hell’s,” probably the most you can get away with. Three “hell’s,” like three small boxes of wooden matches, will see the federal government landing on you in righteous indignation.
“That’s the sound—you’ve heard it—dogs make when chasing their tails.”
“You said that earlier today, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. To describe various senior bureaucrats rushing around, chasing their tails.”
“And so did President Clendennen. Or his spokesman, What’s-his-name.”
“John David Parker,” Whelan offered, “more or less fondly known as ‘Porky.’”
“Okay. So, Porky said the press was playing arf-arf, too. Which meant they were chasing their tails, right?”