Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Bocks shook his head. ‘A hell of a thing. And where exactly does this canister go?’

  Adrianna said, ‘Your air fleet consists mainly of McDonnell Douglas MD-11 jets, retrofitted from passenger use to cargo use. In each aircraft, in the aft portion of the fuselage, there is a port and starboard exhaust system for the on-board air-conditioning system. Our aircraft analysts believe that the vaccine canisters can be installed as an addon to the exhaust system. The pilots would have no control over the distribution. The radio-altimeter switches would take care of that. It would be automatic.’

  ‘So you want to use my aircraft to secretly immunize millions of Americans against anthrax,’ Bocks said, his voice rising some. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bocks paused, then said, ‘And that’s all you’re going to say?’

  Adrianna felt the trembling increase again. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I was answering your question. That’s why we’re here, that’s why I used the “Sky Fall” protocol. We would not have come here if there was any other option. To immunize publicly would tip off the attackers that we knew they were coming, and would allow them to advance their schedule. To start a public immunization program would result in chaos, confusion and panic. The only alternative - and not a good one, but at least better than doing nothing - is a secret immunization program. We’re calling it “Final Winter”. And using government or military resources would simply not work. We need to use aircraft that are seen publicly every day. Aircraft that travel to every major metropolitan center in the United States. Aircraft owned by one man who has shown his commitment and dedication to this country. General, you’re our only option.’

  Bocks glared at each of them. ‘Again, a hell of a thing. You realize the kind of liability I’m being exposed to, just by sitting here and listening to you? I could go to jail for conspiracy, for one thing. Not to mention that if I do go along I’ll be partially responsible for a number of deaths and injuries. Am I right? You’ve war-planned this out, haven’t you? How many deaths will occur if I lend you my airfleet one night for your secret immunization? Don’t bullshit me.’

  ‘No bullshit, sir,’ Adrianna said. ‘Doctor Palmer and others have gone through the numbers. Best-guess scenario is an additional ten thousand deaths over a period of a month. Infants, the elderly, those with weakened immune systems. Cancer patients, transplant patients, AIDs patients.’

  Bocks stared right at her again, and she wondered what it must have been like to be in the Air Force and to have this man in command over you. ‘Just so we’re clear on this, then, you’re asking me to take intimate part in a venture that will result in the death of ten thousand Americans. Just so we’re clear. Ten thousand people killed. By me and you and your nice doctor with his green canister.’

  ‘True, sir,’ Adrianna said, keeping her voice level even as his rose. ‘Ten thousand will die. Which is truly unfortunate, and the thoughts about those deaths have given me many a sleepless night. But what keeps me going, what has brought me here, is that we will also save tens of millions of Americans. Ten thousand will die to save scores of millions. An awful equation, but one we must face. We cannot see any other way.’

  A pause, and Adrianna waited expectantly, knowing that whatever counter-argument or point the general would raise she was ready, ready for anything. She had an answer for anything that Bocks would bring up, and she waited.

  And in two seconds, she was proven wrong.

  The general’s voice softened. ‘Miss Scott, you’ve made the start of a compelling argument, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bocks looked at his watch. ‘Because in ninety minutes, my machinists’ union will be going on strike, and my air-fleet will be grounded. That’s why.’

  Adrianna couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes, just for a moment.

  Oh mama, she thought. Oh papa. How I’ve failed you.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the small village of Goresh, about fifty miles away from Lahore, Pakistan, nineteen-year-old Amil Zahrain leafed through a copy of the Karachi Daily Jang, the country’s largest newspaper, feeling that little knot of anger and depression grow inside of his chest. Since his meeting with the Sudanese weeks ago and his visit to the Internet cafe in Lahore - which still gave him the shakes sometimes at night, thinking how close it had seemed, when the two policemen had entered the place - he had scanned the newspapers and had listened to the BBC and watched al-Jazeera at his uncle’s store and ...

  Nothing!

  Nothing at all!

  The Sudanese had promised him that something would happen, something dramatic, something that he, Amil, would have helped along through his dangerous journey to Lahore. He couldn’t sleep at night that first week, knowing the news would come out, like that glorious day when New York and the Pentagon were attacked, and that he could take praise from his family for having taken part in such greatness.

  But the papers had been silent. Al-Jazeera had said nothing. All had been quiet, save for the usual gunplay and atrocities in Palestine and Jordan and Iraq and other places.

  And there had been no death in America. Nothing.

  Had the Sudanese been lying?

  Amil crushed the newspaper in his hands, stood up from the stone bench where he had first met the Sudanese all those months ago, the Sudanese who had promised him everything: fame, pride, and at last, a sense of belonging, of being part of a jihad, of something that would make his club-foot irrelevant. He walked awkwardly out of the village center, past the stores and booths and stone buildings with the loud radios playing immoral music, knowing that nothing really awaited him when he got home, save for his mother and his sister, and they would argue with him and demand that he find work, even with a clubfoot, he should do something for the family, and even though he was the sole male he knew he deserved better, and—

  A man’s whisper caught his ear, coming from a narrow alleyway. He turned.

  The whisper was louder. ‘Amil?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who wants me?’

  ‘Come here, my friend. You’ll know me when you see me.’

  He turned, saw a man standing there in the shadows, barely lit by the gas lamps from the dirt street he had been walking on. The voice did seem familiar ... he walked into the shadows and then the man stepped forward, and Amil’s heart started thumping. It was the Sudanese!

  ‘Amil,’ the man said, smiling. .’You do remember me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I do...tell me, what has happened? Why are you here? What news?’

  The Sudanese smiled. ‘So many questions from such a brave young warrior. I do have so much to tell you, but we need to go to a place that is private, out of sight. There are Jews and Americans out here, even in a place like this, who seek to halt what work we have done.’

  Amil nodded in excitement. ‘Yes, yes, I know of a place. Follow me. It’s not far.’

  They exited the alleyway. Amil had spoken the truth, but he wished that he hadn’t, for the place was indeed nearby, but he would have rather walked a distance with the Sudanese, with hopes that he could meet friends or cousins or aunts or uncles, and say to them later, that black man, the Sudanese, he is truly a holy warrior, and he has asked for my help.

  A short distance away - Amil walked as fast as possible with his poor foot - there was a home that was being built. The home had a view of the Hindu Kush and it was said that the rich man who was building it for one of his wives had run out of money, so the place was only half-built. A wire fence surrounded the property but Amil and others knew how to get in, and long ago the place had been stripped of its wiring, windows and piping. There was a gap near an old pine tree and though it was dark there was light enough from the other buildings to light their way. Amil led and the Sudanese followed until they were on the property, near a half-built brick wall.

  Amil turned to his friend. ‘Sir - please tell me what is going on.’

  T
he Sudanese clasped Amil’s shoulder. ‘Yes, all is going to plan.’

  ‘But...nothing has happened! You promised that I would strike a mighty blow against the Jews and infidels, but I’ve not seen a thing!’

  ‘All in God’s time, my mighty warrior,’ the Sudanese said. ‘All in God’s time.’

  Amil was confused but happy. ‘I understand now ... I think I do...but tell me, sir, why have you come back? Is there more to be done?’

  The Sudanese said, ‘There is always more to be done. But I need to know something. Your work that day, going to the Internet place in Lahore. Did you tell anybody what you did there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anybody in Lahore who would recognize you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you have kept your secret well, all these weeks?’

  Amil nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, I have.’

  The Sudanese slapped him gently on the back. ‘You have done so well, my friend. You truly have. Here, I must show you something.’

  Amil watched as the Sudanese reached into his robes and pulled out a small pistol. It was a dark and ugly thing, and there was something odd attached to the end of the stubby barrel, like a short length of pipe wider than the barrel itself. Amil eyed the pistol as the Sudanese raised it.

  ‘Is...is that for me?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘But I have no experience in using such a thing!’

  The Sudanese shook his head. ‘No experience is necessary. But I have one more thing to tell you, Amil.’

  ‘Yes, what is that?’

  The Sudanese’s easy smile disappeared in an instant. ‘Greetings from the people of the United States of America.’

  And the end of the pipe-length was pressed against Amil’s forehead, and all was darkness.

  ~ * ~

  On the island of Bali, Ranon Degun looked out through a window of his aunt and uncle’s home, watching the rains fall. The exhilaration and joy he had experienced at making that cellphone call and feeling that he had been doing something great and exciting had dribbled away, like ice melting in a glass. What worth had it been? What great thing had he accomplished? There was so much to do and he thought he had done his part. .. and silence. Nothing. He looked back into his uncle and aunt’s home, saw the disarray of dishes in the kitchen, laundry to be folded, floor to be swept - women’s work, not work for a man, yet his uncle had demanded that the home be cleaned before he and his wife came home later that night. ‘You must do something here to support yourself,’ his uncle had shouted, ‘for we cannot feed you for free! You understand? We are not your slaves, to feed you and clothe you at your demands!’

  So there it was. Women’s work. When just a while ago he had been a proud jihadist, taking the first step to fight against the enemy, to free his beautiful island from the filthy—

  A man was coming down the pathway, a tall man, a black man—

  The Sudanese!

  Ranon ran out of the small house, went down the stone path, the sodden leaves on the tree branches slapping him in the face and on the shoulders, and the Sudanese gave him a wide grin as he met up with him. He grasped the black man’s hands with his and said, ‘How wonderful! How wonderful! Do you have any news?’

  The Sudanese smiled back at him. ‘Yes, wonderful news...but only if we can speak quietly. Can we do that?’

  Ranon released the man’s hands, quickly nodded. ‘Yes, yes, right here. I know the place. Come along!’

  He walked quickly, not minding the downpour, as the Sudanese kept pace with him, following behind him, as he peppered the older man with questions. Did his phone call really make a difference? How goes the jihad? Why was there no news of a major strike against America? Was the day coming soon? Could he, Ranon, join the Sudanese and leave Bali to do God’s work?

  They came into a small clearing. Almost out of breath, Ranon said, ‘This is my secret hiding place. It’s where I come to pray and think when my uncle and aunt. . . when they yell at me too much. This is where I come to be alone.’

  The Sudanese nodded, and Ranon noted something odd, as if the man was troubled by what he said. But the Sudanese simply said, ‘And of my visit. And what you did. Was anyone told?’

  Ranon shook his head. ‘No one. I swear.’

  ‘Very good.’

  The Sudanese slid a large hand into his clothing, took out a pistol. Ranon was fascinated with the black shape. The Sudanese said, ‘Ranon, do you know how to use one of these?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  The Sudanese shrugged. ‘It does not matter. I do, and that is all that, is important.’

  And while Ranon was trying to figure out what the man meant, he felt the touch of the cold metal upon his forehead and flinched. Something inside him froze when the last words he heard were, ‘Greetings from the people of the United States of America.’

  ~ * ~

  Henry Muhammad Dolan yawned as he exited the Tube station, carrying a plastic bag of groceries. It was a five-block walk home and his feet hurt with every step. He didn’t like picking up groceries - women’s work, of course — but since his wife was ill he had no other choice. He walked slowly, burdened not only by the weight of the bag in his hand but by other things as well. His wife had nagged him in that gentle way which wasn’t nagging, asking why she and their daughters could not go to Detroit to visit her sister. He had forbidden it, over and over again, but still she had come back to it, like a cat circling a meal, going around and around, until late one night he had lost his temper and said, ‘Because, woman! There will be something bad happening in America, and soon, and I do not want you or the girls to be there when it happens!’

  Oh, curse it, for what had happened then was the probing and nagging and questioning. While Henry had said very little, he had said something about his meeting with the Sudanese and the work he had done and the warnings he had received and...

  He stopped at an intersection. And another thing. The Sudanese should have come back. Should have told him more. Should have—

  And, God’s beard, like something out of a fairy tale, the Sudanese was there, standing next to him!

  The Sudanese smiled. ‘You look surprised, my brother. Hide your shock well. I do not want to draw attention to either of us. Continue your walk.’

  ‘I... I was just thinking of you, and what you asked me to do ... tell me, can you tell me when—’

  ‘Hush, now,’ the Sudanese said. ‘I cannot tell you a thing. Not yet, at least. But I need to talk to you in private. Do you have the time?’

  ‘Of course!’

  They walked among the crowds, the lines of people flowing about him, and Henry Muhammad Dolan was proud that the Sudanese had returned, for it meant something of importance was going to happen. Of that he had no doubt. None whatsoever. Like the vision he had once, that the black flag of Islam would one day fly over Whitehall, there was not a doubt. It was to be a reality, and sooner than anyone would think—

  At a small hostel, the Sudanese went through a side door, up a narrow set of stairs. Henry followed. A television was playing loud and there was music and cooking smells, but it all meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the tall Sudanese dressed in a shabby dark brown suit, walking ahead of him. The Sudanese took out a key, opened another door. He walked ahead of Henry, put his own grocery bags on the floor. The room was simple, with a small bed, a table with a television on it, and a washbasin in a corner. The window shade was drawn, and on the floor was the oddest thing: a square of green plastic, two or three meters to a side.

  The Sudanese said to Henry, ‘Before we begin, I must ask you something.’

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘The task I assigned you - did you tell anyone of what you did?’

  Henry felt his face grow warm and was wondering what to say when the Sudanese looked at him sharply and said, ‘You will speak the truth to me. Did you tell anyone?’

  Henry looked down at the floor. ‘My wife. I told her a little. A
bout you.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Only that she was forbidden to travel to the United States next month. To visit her sister. I told her something bad was going to happen to America. That she had to stay home.’

  The Sudanese seemed upset at something, but not at what Henry had just said. It was like some inner struggle was taking place. Then the Sudanese closed his eyes for a moment and said, ‘Very well. What is done is done. But no harm will come to your wife and children. None.’