Son the Terrorist
John M. Peters
by John M. Peters
was getting ready to board a plane to take me from the dreary snow
of late April in Michigan to sunny Florida. I serpentined my way
through the line for the baggage check in. At the counter I began
using a touch screen monitor to process boarding passes for my wife,
myself and my three sons. I entered the information correctly, but
the process seemed to simply stall. I chalked it up to a computer
snafu and began all over again. Once again I reached a dead end
my plight, the airline agent smiled at me with that smile. You know,
that smile that says "Here stupid, let me do that for you,
before the 87 people in line behind you have you for lunch."
I watched as she entered the exact same information I had entered
twice previously. It did not respond for her either. She walked
back behind the counter where she and another employee examined
another computer screen and exchanged words.
me, the agent asked if I had a son named John. I replied affirmatively.
She asked for his birth date which I quickly provided. She asked
what city he was born in. Again I was prompt with my answer. The
smile on her face disappeared as she informed me that my seven-year-old
son was on the governmentís no-fly list.
I know he had a couple of time outs in kindergarten, but the no-fly
list? There I stood, in painful recognition of the fact that despite
the best efforts of my wife and myself we had raised a terrorist
right under our noses.
her eyes, the perplexed agent confided that she had previously had
a two-year-old show up on the list. Yes, kids are truly getting
worse at much younger ages. Despite his confirmation as a terrorist
suspect and a threat to national security, my son was given a boarding
pass, a pair of plastic wings, three airplane collecting cards and
sent along with us to board the plane. Hey, what about my safety
not to mention the safety of the nation? How could they force a
plane full of unsuspecting adults to fly in the company of a known
terrorist? Discreetly, the embarrassed agent advised me to check
in with an agent upon my return flight rather than experiencing
the futility of another e-check in.
the flight made its uneventful way to Florida with my son aboard.
I must admit I was watching him much closer thanks to the governmentís
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!)
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 havenít already practiced hours on a simulator!)
guess it wasnít 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?
Tom Ridge, George Tenet or the thousands of federal agents in scores
of federal agencies know more than I about my sonís secret life
at age seven. I feel so much safer now. Donít you?
M. Peters [send him mail]
is a practicing attorney in Michigan.
© 2005 LewRockwell.com