Somehow the flight made its uneventful way to Florida with my son aboard. I must admit I was watching him much closer thanks to the government’s tip. In five days of sunshine, shell collecting and swimming, I somehow managed to be lulled into a false sense of security about my son. At one point he asked me, "Daddy, what does no-fly mean?" (Oh yeah, play innocent with me!)
On our return, I went to the agent at the counter and explained the situation. He appeared not the least bit interested and sent us on our way through the usual myriad of airport screening and on to our gate. As my son boarded the plane, I felt the urge to blurt out his status as a terrorist to permit others to save themselves. The next thing I knew, the pilots had invited my son into the cockpit for a nickel tour. He looked around with the wonderment of a child. (Oh sure. Like you haven’t already practiced hours on a simulator!)
I guess it wasn’t in the works that day. Perhaps my son had not been given his secret command to attack. He chewed bubble gum, drew pictures in his journal and looked endlessly out the window. The perfect operative! Who would even suspect him?
Maybe Tom Ridge, George Tenet or the thousands of federal agents in scores of federal agencies know more than I about my son’s secret life at age seven. I feel so much safer now. Don’t you?
