Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘Another mass-immunization program ... it can’t work,’ Victor said. ‘You know it can’t. Not in the space of time we have. Not to mention the media attention. Hell, the news medias’ focus on the program back in ‘76 crippled it. Back when there were only three major networks, no news cable channels. Can you imagine what it would be like now, today? With the cable news channels? The twenty-four/seven coverage? The cameras outside the clinics? The interviews with people who have a bad reaction from the immunization? The chat rooms? The weblogs? It would be a disaster before it even—’

  Monty interrupted, ‘Not to mention that it would give the assholes with the anthrax an excuse to hit us now. Not wait until some special date on their fucked-up calendar. Now.’

  Another pause in the conversations. It seemed like a moment had been reached, and Adrianna knew what it was. She had prepared for it, had practiced it, but still, it was hard, getting the words out.

  ‘Then...then what we’re talking about,’ she began, ‘is that perhaps the only option is to proceed with the immunization. But in private.’

  There, she thought. It was out. From the looks on the faces of the other Tiger Team members, it was as though she had taken a baseball bat to the back of their heads. Darren, now looking even more pale, turned, stared at the other members, and said, ‘What do you mean, private? You’re talking nearly three hundred million people. How can something this huge be done in private?’

  More voices, from Monty and Victor but not, she noted, from Brian. He seemed to be keeping his counsel, and Adrianna raised a hand and the voices quieted down for a moment. She said, ‘Perhaps “private” wasn’t the correct word. Secret, then. An immunization program in secret.’

  Another blow to their heads. More silence. And now it was Brian’s turn.

  ‘You’re looking at hefty prison sentences for all of us, if this goes through,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps. And perhaps hefty prison sentences will be a worthwhile price to pay for saving millions of lives, for saving this country, for saving civilization.’

  Victor said, ‘Adrianna, we’re facing terrible choices, we all know it, but hyperbole and exaggeration isn’t going to help us—’

  She let her voice rise. ‘What hyperbole? What exaggeration? Come on, Victor. You know your history. You know what we’re up against. Let’s say we do nothing about immunization. Let’s say that we depend on Monty and his bright young men and women to intercept the attack teams. I’m sure they’ll be successful in most cases. But they’re not perfect. Let’s say a handful get through...what next? You’re still looking at hundreds of thousands of deaths. Panic. Collapse of our economy. Perhaps even the end of us as a functioning superpower. What then? I’ll tell you what then. Meetings are held in Tokyo and Moscow and Paris and Berlin and even in poor London, and decisions are made. Compromises. Appeasement. Surrender. From the politicians in those nations who don’t want mass graves in football stadiums or wheatfields as a consequence of cooperating with us in our war on terror. And I know it’s a fucking cliche and all that, but by then the terrorists win. And how long before sharia - Islamic law - is imposed in Paris, in Amsterdam, in some of the Asian countries? How long?’

  Underneath the table, Adriana could feel her legs begin to tremble. ‘You’re correct, Victor. There are terrible choices ahead for us. Quite terrible. But there are choices, nonetheless. One choice is to do nothing, and hope that our border security and other forces intercept the attack teams. The other choice is not to wait on hope. It’s to act, and I’m sorry, but that’s the only choice I think is available.’

  She was about to continue speaking when the lights flickered.

  Flickered again.

  And then there was a loud thump, coming from above.

  And in a moment, Monty and Brian were standing up, their hands now gripping pistols.

  The trembling in Adrianna’s legs increased.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hamad Suseel tried to ease the pain in his gut and the anxiety in his heart with the soothing thought that in a very few moments one of two wonderful things was about to occur. The first was that he was finally going to begin his jihad against the unbelievers, and if all went well he would be on his way home before the evening was out, thinking about the victory that he had achieved. And the second was that he was going to begin his jihad against the unbelievers, and if all didn’t go well he would still enter Paradise and meet his mother and father and older brother, and feel joy at such a reunion.

  He drove his rental car carefully into the lot of what was called an office park. There were buildings of stone and glass, plain cubes that showed no beauty, no design. Not even that mongrel in this mongrel country, Frank Lloyd Wright, would have enjoyed seeing these pieces of crap built on such rich land. As a younger man, Hamad had dreamed of being an engineer or an architect, learning to construct better homes than those concrete pieces of shit that the UN built for his family and others outside Jenin, but the education he dreamed about never happened, of course. His education involved the endless intifadah, stealing copper wire and other metals for money, throwing rocks and paving stones at Israeli armored cars and tanks, and going to bed hungry at night while his father dozed in the corner and spoke dreamily during the day of the family farm that had been lost, back in 1948.

  There was an old black-and-white photo of the family farm, creased and faded, which was passed around family gatherings, like one of the relics the Christians loved to possess and collect, and Hamad never had any patience for this reminiscing. Remembering past glories was the sign of losers. Like the Greeks recalling their ancient knowledge and the Italians their ancient empire, many of his family members and others were content to sit still and moan about their misfortune at the hands of the Jews and the British and the Americans.

  But not Hamad. And especially not after that night when an American-built helicopter - an Apache Longbow, built in Kentucky - had been aiming for some visiting Iranian mullah in a Mercedes, traveling down one of the narrow and dingy streets of his village, and the first missile had missed the speeding car and had gone instead into one of those concrete cubes put up by the UN, hiring out corrupt contractors who poured cheap concrete and not enough reinforcing bars, so that when the missile exploded the two stories pancaked into a heap of dust and debris, crushing the bodies of his mother and father and older brother.

  No, not after that night. After that night, Hamad cared about one and one thing only: to do whatever was necessary so that in a very short time what was left of America would have its people dreaming about and remembering their past glories, their past achievements, before the righteous in the world had risen up and had ground them into dust.

  There. An empty space. He parked his rental car, felt his hands shake for just a moment as he switched off the engine. Where to put the keys? In his pocket? Or leave them in the car? What made the best sense?

  He looked at the keys, proud now that his hand was still, like the disciplined warrior he was. The keys went back into the ignition. He would leave the car unlocked. He stepped out into the cool morning air on this Christian Sabbath day and went into the rear of the car. He was wearing a light blue jumpsuit with the name Hank embroidered in red thread over the left breast, and over the right breast was a badge that said Colonial Flowers. He felt slightly disgusted at having to be dressed like a common trader. His intelligence, his dedication, his skills deserved better than this. But then he remembered how it had begun, back near Jenin, when the Sudanese had talked to him.

  ~ * ~

  The Sudanese had been tall and very black, the blackest man that Hamad Suseel had ever seen. But he was a fellow believer and had come to spend some time in their village, speaking to the elders and the members of the brotherhood — the fighters, the holy warriors - and it was during these times when Hamad had sat alone in the corner, not saying a word, just watching. It had been a month since his family had been murdered by the Jews and the Americans, and never in his
life had he been so cold. Even in the warmest nights he needed two or three blankets, for the coldness in his heart would cause him to shiver.

  The Sudanese, with his piercing dark eyes, seemed to have noticed his quiet nature during the meetings, for on the third night he had spoken to him alone. The conversation had been quick and to the point.

  Al-es salaam,’ the Sudanese had said.

  ‘And the blessings of God be upon you,’ Hamad had replied.

  ‘I know what happened to your mother and father and brother. For that you have my sympathy.’

  ‘You are too kind.’

  The Sudanese had cocked his head for a moment. ‘I am told that during the month since the attacks, you have not fought back. Why is that? Are you waiting for the right moment?’

  Hamad clenched his fists, standing in the dark alley that stank of garbage and the open sewer. Why, he had thought, why had it come to us that cities in other countries - and on their flickering television, they all knew what other cities looked like, even if they could not actually smell them -never had this kind of stink, this kind of filth, this kind of grinding day-to-day oppression from invaders with clean uniforms and good meals and warm homes to go to at night?

  ‘No,’ he had said. ‘I am waiting for the right target.’

  The Sudanese had nodded at that. ‘Go on, my friend. I would like to know what you mean by a “right target”.’

  Then it came out, in a torrent.

  ‘What use is this kind of fighting?’ Hamad had said. ‘Our brave boys and girls wear martyrdom belts, they go into pizza shops and buses and playgrounds and kill themselves and other boys and girls, and sometimes old men and old women too. Oh, such glory, such honor, such bravery! For generations their actions will be celebrated in song and verse, like those of the blessed Saladin!’ he added in a mocking tone. And he wondered if he had spoken too harshly, but the Sudanese seemed to appreciate what he had said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the black man had said. ‘I agree.’

  Hamad had then said, ‘The bombs, the shootings, the rock-throwing - what does it accomplish? It makes us bitter. It makes us beggars to the world, asking for scraps of money and support, for bags of rice and beans from the UN, for occasional kind words from the French and the Russians and the Americans. And for what? The Jews have gotten stronger, we have gotten weaker, and when we are not ignored, we are laughed at. Laughed at!’

  The Sudanese had said, ‘And? What is to be done, then?’

  Hamad had said, ‘What is to be done is to strike hard, and to strike hard at the heart. That is what must be done. To wait patiently, to plan, to think ahead...and that is what I have been doing these past days, as I continue to mourn my mother and father and brother. I am planning to kill some big shot, some important American. They come here, every now and then. All puffed up and proud. The head of the CIA. The Secretary of State. The Secretary of Defense. Somehow…somehow, I will find out when such a man or woman is coming here, and then I will kill them. By a bomb in the street. Or from the air. Or from a bomb around my own waist. Whatever it takes. And no doubt I will die in the process, but justice will be done.’

  The Sudanese had suddenly shaken his hand. Hamad had felt queasy for a moment at having the man’s dark skin touch his own, and the Sudanese had said, ‘We will speak later.’

  And speak later they did. In the early morning hours the next day, as the Sudanese was preparing to leave, he had said, ‘There is need for a thoughtful man such as yourself, Hamad. Will you come with me, to fight your war? And not here, but in America?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hamad had said and had left at once, not even bothering to pack anything. For the Sudanese said everything would be taken care of, and the Sudanese, Hamad quickly learned, always told the truth.

  ~ * ~

  Hamad opened the rear door of the rental car, took out the long cardboard box with the red and white ribbons. Again, he felt like a fool, but the moment was a fleeting one. He was no fool. He was a warrior.

  He walked the distance to the squat glass and metal building, pasting on a phony smile that all Westerners loved to see on dark-skinned men who came to their country. He took his time going up the walkway, the box in his hands. He supposed it should have felt heavy and awkward in his grip but it was as though he was carrying a bag of rose petals, it was so light.

  Up ahead was the arched trellis, and Hamad recalled what was there. He’d been told by the someone who had sent him e-mail messages once he got to the United States who had also told him what was beyond the trellis and the glass doors. He took a breath, and just as he reached the trellis—

  He broke into a run. The cardboard box falling open in his hands, the bandoleer with the Russian-made RGN-86 fragmentation grenades coming out and over his shoulder, in his grip the folded-up and cut-down Chinese-made SKS-12, a cheap piece of shit that wasn’t good at long distance, but distance wasn’t his concern, what mattered was close-in firing, and in seconds he was through the doors. There, just as predicted, a large-titted whore sat behind the desk and before she could even react he fired three times into her chest, making her fall back with a squeal and a spray of blood and tissue on the wall behind her.

  Discipline, Hamad thought, discipline. There were videos out there of brave fellow warriors, standing and holding their rifles like they were fire hoses, proudly spewing dozens of rounds at a target. Oh, how mighty they looked - and how stupid! For it took whole seconds to empty a clip, and for a disciplined force facing you - like the British SAS or American SEALs or the Israeli Shin Bet — all it would take would be one or two well-placed shots in response to send you to Paradise. Which was why he had only fired three times. There was neither time nor ammunition to waste.

  A quick check to make sure that the whore was dead -she certainly was - and Hamad started towards the hallway behind the desk. There were office doors on either side, both of them unlocked - such bad security! - and he opened each one and tossed into each small office a hand grenade. Women and men were there, at their desks, looking up at him with surprise, with fear, with concern, but none of them reached for a weapon, none of them did a damn thing. He felt this sudden rush of exultation, knowing that the Sudanese had been right, it had been right to fight them in their home, for here, they were not brave, they were like children, and like children in his village they died where they stood or sat.

  After tossing in the hand grenades, he slammed the doors shut, ducked down and placed his hands against his ears and opened his mouth as the explosions ripped through each office. Perfect, it was going perfectly. He got up and kicked open each door again, and this time he let the fire discipline slip just a bit as he hosed down each room, but making sure that his shots were well aimed at the slumped bodies sprawled on the floor, over the desks, and against the walls.

  There. Done on this floor. Hamad popped out the spent magazine and punched in a fresh one, worked the action, got to the entrance of the elevator, and slid open the keypad. The number sequence from the e-mail message that he had memorized over and over again came into his mind and he punched in the numbers. Waited. Managed to hear the whine of the elevator coming up to this level. Stepped back and held the Chinese assault rifle up to his shoulder. The doors popped open and his finger was tight on the trigger.

  Empty.

  The elevator car was empty.

  Praise God.

  Hamad stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the lower level so hard that he hurt his thumb. Moved to one side. The elevator went down and the anxiety and pain in his gut were now gone. Gone, gone, gone. This was what it must have been like to be under arms with Saladin, defeating the Crusaders outside Jerusalem, watching their banners with their Christian symbols tumble to the dust. To be at the outskirts of Constantinople, moving in through the walls, seeing the Christians cover their faces in fear. To be in the cockpit of that American Airlines aircraft, flying towards Babylon, seeing the tower of Babel, the hated one, grow and grow in one’s view.

  Th
e sweet feeling of the Holy Warrior.

  The elevator came to a halt. The door slid open.

  He went forward, to continue the fight.

  ~ * ~

  Brian Doyle looked over at Monty, surprised at how quickly the man had gotten his weapon out, not even knowing that the military guy carried. Damn, he was good.

  Monty said, ‘Elevator?’

  ‘Only place in and out,’ Brian said. ‘Adrianna, get to the farthest office. Mine, I guess. Lock and barricade the door, start working the phones.’

  ‘Brian, I—’

  ‘Lady, shut the fuck up and move. We don’t have time to talk.’

  Monty said, ‘We’ve wasted enough time already. C’mon!’

  They went out of the conference room. Darren at least was moving right, he shut and locked the conference-room door behind them. He and Monty raced down the hallway. Brian’s weapon felt heavy in his hands. He looked around, thought about dragging some furniture out for cover, but there was the sound of the elevator motor working as the elevator car came down. Monty was kneeling down, flat against the far wall, his own pistol held out in a two-handed grip.