We had been warned about this. On Jan. 29, Bob Condron, director of media services for the USOC, sent out a refreshingly cut-to-the-chase e-mail to all reporter types heading to Salt Lake. Getting around out here, he wrote, “will not remind anyone of the Oklahoma land rush. It’ll be more like trying to check out of a hospital.” He then urged us to “make this a coinless Olympics,” to wear belt buckles “no bigger than a grain of rice” and to never, ever, under any circumstances, ask questions like, “Will my grenade go through the metal detector?” All helpful, all amusing, but with all due respect to Mr. Condron, not altogether surprising. Now, the sentry-studded, too-crazy-for-Kafka, epic maze of checkpoints set up to regulate vehicular access to the MMC–that was a surprise.
Nine checkpoints. That’s right, nine. Just to park the car. We debated whether or not to include the very last one–the parking-garage attendant–but since he asked to see our press credentials, he got added to the count. The other eight were no-brainers. If you had a gun, checkpoint. If you had a walkie-talkie, checkpoint. If you blocked our path with a Dodge minivan and didn’t move until you got a nod from a large man with a gun and a walkie-talkie, checkpoint. Maybe three of the stops had a specific purpose; the rest seemed like they were there just to run up the score.
On our first morning in town, we pulled into Checkpoint 1 at 9:28 a.m. Seventeen minutes later, we were out of the car. Honestly, not that bad. (Day 2 took a bit longer–our fault, but more on that later.) Each station got its work done quickly and cheerfully; vehicles were never backed up at any point. Everyone smiled. The first two checkpoints were SLOC volunteers who just needed to see our credentials. The third was a soldier in Army fatigues, and he even cracked a joke about our driver, Olympic team leader and Senior Editor Mark Starr, making up his name. He waved us through and we turned a corner, arriving at Checkpoint 4.
No. 4 was by far my favorite checkpoint. It looked like a car wash staffed by the 3rd Rifle Infantry: a camouflaged U.S. Army soldier waved us into one of three lanes beneath a large white canopy, then four more circled our black Pontiac Bonneville for inspection. They looked under the hood, they rummaged through the trunk, they pulled out some kind of giant dentist mirror and checked underneath the chassis. One guy with glasses and a clipboard followed them around. Two more men stood off to the side and watched. They were smiling and chatting and cradling unbelievably large guns in their hands. It briefly crossed my mind that if one of us bolted suddenly from the car, it was their job to take us down.
Adding to their menace (and to my delight) was the soldiers’ credentials. Every laminated Olympic credential has an icon–a color block and a letter–indicating the wearer’s role and level of access. My credential, giving me access to all sporting events, is yellow with a black “E.” The soldiers’ credentials, giving them free reign to shoot people, are black with a spooky white “X.” Very cool. Very “X-Files.” And, you bet your bottom dollar, very intentional. Comparatively speaking, the final five checkpoints were a bore.
On Day 2, however, we screwed up. We accidentally blew past Checkpoint 7 (the one with the obstructive Dodge minivan) and wound up in the parking lot of the nearby Wyndham Hotel. Despite the tight security, the fence-lined vehicle entry route is long and windy and has brief stretches where you’re on your own. Wrong turns are easy to make–at least that’s what we keep telling Starr. We hailed the nearest soldier and explained our gaffe. “Yeah, Rrrrrroger that,” he said in an accent we couldn’t place. (Irish? Scandinavian? We ultimately settled on “Appalachian.”) With deep and sincere apologies, the soldier explained that, because our vehicle had veered from the proper route, its security “could no longer be guaranteed” and we would have to return to Checkpoint 1. It was like a game of Chutes and Ladders, and we had landed on the big slide. Back at Checkpoint 1, the volunteer recognized us immediately. “Well,” he shrugged, “try, try again.” Total entry time on Day 2: 32 minutes.
Inside the MMC, the armed presence isn’t quite as flashy, though we spotted plenty of sidearms in the cafeteria near the McDonald’s stand. The sole security checkpoint is a garden-variety airport X-ray machine–just one of them. And once you’re in, you’re in. Outside the cafeteria, the only time I notice security is when I need to hit the bathroom: there’s a volunteer with a walkie-talkie perched outside the door, 24/7.
Of course, like John Ashcroft keeps saying, our last line of defense against an attack isn’t the forces arrayed to protect us, it’s ourselves. And to that end, the MMC provides each press outlet with a copy of its “Emergency Response Plan.” Page 6 offers instructions about what to do if you answer the phone and the caller makes a bomb threat. Leaving aside for a moment the irony of giving journalists tips about how to handle a hostile interview subject, the ERP recommends some pretty sensible questions. For example: “Where is the bomb?” “What does the bomb look like?” “What time is the bomb going to go off?” All worthy. But if this actually happens to me, I know exactly what my first question will be: “How on Earth did you get through Checkpoint 4?”
