Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘We do nothing.’

  ~ * ~

  In Idaho, the switch took just a few minutes, the time it took to empty out some of the Chinese-made toys from the trailer and fill up the empty space with the heavy black containers that had been in the storage facility. Vladimir and Imad then put some of the toys back into the truck. There. Still looked nice and peaceful. Imad leaped up, grabbed the leather strap at the rear of the trailer and pulled down the sliding door. The rattling noise was loud in the empty lot. Vladimir went back to the storage trailer, closed the door, locked it. There were probably ten or twelve cases of toys in there.

  Imad joined him. ‘So what happens to those toys now?’

  Vladimir said, ‘They will stay here forever, I suppose.’ Imad said, ‘A pity. I know some children from poor families in Vancouver. They would enjoy them. Forever, you say?’

  Vladimir looked around at the empty parking area, the lights from the sleeping town. This is what it will be like, he thought, in so many places across this country. The streets will be empty and there will be no traffic and, so long as the power generators keep working, the lights will come on at night, all the while the bodies in the bedrooms and living rooms and hospital rooms will decay and dry out and rot. ..

  He said, ‘I suppose the owner of the facility could open it, but what for? In a matter of weeks, there will be much more important things to concern themselves about than toys in a storage area. No, they will be here forever, until archeologists from Russia or China or Brazil come here to explore the dead cities and dig up the bones.’

  Imad rubbed at his hands. ‘I’m cold. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘That sounds fine.’

  In a few minutes they were back on the highway, heading east, and Vladimir felt more awake. Being outside in the Idaho air had woken him up, and seeing another checkpoint’s assignment successfully carried out cheered him. Just a few more things to do before they reached their destination — and before he reached his destiny.

  Imad shifted the truck into a higher gear and said, ‘I asked you earlier, before we got to that town. What do you fight for?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What do you fight for, Vladimir? Do you fight to see the red banner rise again? To see the Soviet Union come back upon the world stage and take its leading role? Do you want to have Russians take over this land? What do you want?’

  Vladimir looked out at the painted lines flashing before them as they rolled along the highway. He said, ‘Nothing as complicated as that. I just want to smash. And kill. That’s all. There are times for politics and discussion and great thoughts, and there are times to be barbarians. I want to be a barbarian. I want to smash and kill.’

  Imad laughed at that. He kept a merry smile on his face as they continued their drive, and the sun rose on their faces.

  ~ * ~

  In a chair that had been occupied a day earlier by Dan Umber, Blythe Coonrod worked the evening shift in a part of the government archipelago in the United States that was the Department of Homeland Security. It had been a quiet evening, just going over the previous shift’s downloads, making sure the in-house servers were chugging along merrily. But as she sipped her first cup of tea of the evening and thought about heading out of the room for a comfort break, it looked like the screen on the monitor had frozen.

  Everything on the screen had turned black.

  ‘Christ,’ Blythe whispered as she leaned forward - her ID badge, hanging from a thin chain around her neck, clinked against her keyboard - and then she dropped the cup of tea when a bright red icon with a flashing light appeared.

  A real-time hit. Be damned.

  She moved the cursor, double-clicked on the icon.

  WATCH LIST MATCH.

  ENGAGE YOUR PROTOCOLS.

  WATCH LIST MATCH.

  ENGAGE YOUR PROTOCOLS.

  ‘Holy shit.’ Blythe couldn’t remember the last time — if ever! - her shift had experienced a real-time hit on the watch list. She made another move with the mouse. Waited. Somewhere deep in the pedabytes of information that the numerous American intelligence agencies stored were thousands of photographs of men and women of interest who were on the watch list. The system she was working matched those photos with all the people coming into the United States at any recognizable crossing - JFK airport, LAX, San Diego, little burgs in Maine or Vermont, for example - and it looked like she had just received a live one.

  There.

  Photos came up ... and ...

  ‘Fuck,’ Blythe whispered.

  Both shots taken yesterday at the Customs crossing in Washington State. The original photos were displayed, showing two men talking to a Customs officer. And there, the photos in the intelligence database, showing what had been triggered. She didn’t know all the particulars, but she did know that the facial-recognition software looked at key points on a person’s face, everything from the size of the nose to the distance between the eyes to hair length and color.

  First up, Yemeni national called Imad Yussef Hakim, age twenty-three, connected to al-Qaeda and other Islamic groups, traveling with—

  A Russian national believed to be dead. Who certainly wasn’t. Jesus.

  Vladimir Zhukov.

  And then Blythe saw his background and—

  She opened a side drawer so hard that people around her craned their heads in her direction to see what was going on. In the drawer, sitting alone, was a thin folder, bound by a red paper ribbon. She lifted up the folder, broke the paper seal, and opened it. Her hands were shaking. She had never opened this type of folder before, except during training, so many innocent months ago.

  Blythe flipped open the thin red cardboard cover. A single sheet was stapled inside with three instructions:

  DENOTE DATE AND TIME OF WATCH LIST MATCH.

  With a black Bic pen, she did just that.

  CONTACT EXTENSION 4444.

  She picked up the phone, dialed the four digits.

  IDENTIFY YOURSELF AND REPORT STATUS TO OPERATOR.

  A bored young man’s voice: ‘This is Operator Four-four-four-four.’

  ‘This is Blythe Coonrod, Redmond Station. I have a Watch List match.’

  ‘Your monitor identification?’

  She peered at the letter and number sequence embossed on the sleek black plastic case.

  ‘Four one two, B as in Bob, C as in Charlie.’

  ‘Repeating, four one two, B as in Bob, C as in Charlie.’

  ‘Correct.’

  The man said, ‘Remain at your station, please. You’ll be contacted in sixty seconds or less for follow-up. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  The man hung up. So did Blythe.

  She folded her arms. She suddenly no longer had the urge to go to the bathroom.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was early morning in Memphis, and Brian Doyle sat alone, back in his room, sipping a cup of coffee, watching the hazy early-morning sunshine over the Mississippi River. He felt tired and flat and tangled up. What had happened last night with Adrianna had happened, and he didn’t feel guilty about it. Not at all. It had been nice and delightful and tasty and all that good stuff. But what was pissing him off was what had happened about an hour ago. The woman had woken up in a panic, like she had realized that instead of bedding Mr Right she had bedded Mr My-God-I-Can’t-Believe-What-I’ve-Done.

  So Adrianna had bustled him out of her room, thoughts of having breakfast together put aside, thoughts about what he had said about his dad put aside, his demand to be sent back to New York put aside. All put aside. Hell, even what he had going on for today: put aside. As he had left Adrianna had called out, ‘Take the day off, Brian. I’ve got other meetings with the General and his people...please, take some time.’

  Which was a pretty clear message. Brian had fulfilled his duty earlier, with Adrianna using his father’s death to score points with the General, and to get the General and his company to sign
on for Final Winter.

  Duty.

  He went over to his luggage, picked up a carry-on case. It was locked and he put in the combination, popped it open, and from inside he took out a file folder. Presented to him a few days ago by the good colonel, the Director of the Tiger Teams. A peek into Adrianna Scott’s life and background. Part of his job with the Tiger Team, part of his secret duty.

  Brian held the file in his hand. He’d remembered earlier that he was going to review this file once Final Winter was done and over, and that had made sense at the time. But now...What the hell, if Adrianna had told him to take the day off, then what was he going to do today? Go to Graceland? Stay here and watch soaps and order room service?

  He went over to a small round wooden table, sat down, opened the file and started to read.

  ~ * ~

  In Maryland, Montgomery Zane was in the small kitchen area near the conference room, which was next to the offices for his fellow Tiger Team members. The damn place was empty, with the Princess, the cop and the doc out on a run to Memphis, and the code-puzzler not having shown up yet. Which was fine, since lots of times the Tiger Team members kept to their own lives and schedules and long ago, coming in, he had reserved the right to go on special missions without much oversight from the Princess. Like his recent adventures overseas, triggered only by pager and text messages from those who had the power. No big deal.

  Monty poured himself coffee in a big mug that had Seal Team Six and the trident-and-eagle insignia of the Navy Seals glazed onto it. He leaned against the counter, wondered about what to do next, which was a very big deal. In his old units, having something squirrelly come up just meant going to your CO about what was what. And what Bravo Tom had told him yesterday had kept him up for most of the night. If such a heavy shit-storm was heading their way in just a couple more weeks, then why was Bravo Tom going on leave? Why was his unit involved in nothing more arduous than the usual deployment and training schedule? What in hell was going on?

  He took a swallow from his mug and looked up and saw that an answer to what was going on had just come into the kitchen.

  ~ * ~

  Victor Palmer sat in his hotel room, staring at the locked case on the table. The cable was once more connected to his wrist. Adrianna was coming over to pick him up, to head over to the AirBox facilities to brief the General and his head machinist over what they were going to do with the dreamy little canisters that Victor’s crew had thought up, and his stomach churned at what was going to happen in just a few short days. The whole idea of the terrorists slipping past the border with their little plastic containers of anthrax was still esoteric to Victor’s mind. This, the canister in the metal case at his side, this was real. It was something that he could touch and feel. It was going to happen and what was going to happen sickened him.

  It was easy enough to think of what was out there. Thousands upon thousands of innocents ... slumbering in their beds, hanging on to some sort of life in hospital rooms or hostels, the very young, the very old, the very sick . . .thousands for sure, and each one of them counted, each one of them was cared for and loved and had a life and history ...

  Thousands upon thousands.

  All up until that night in the future, when the aircraft of their nation would take off in the middle of the night, and silently and secretly descend upon their cities and homes, spraying out something invisible to the eye. And in a matter of weeks they would all be dead.

  Thousands upon thousands.

  And Victor had helped it along.

  My God, he thought, his stomach spasming and rolling: this is what it must have been like to have been a medical officer at Auschwitz or Birkenau or Bergen-Belsen...this is what it must have been like to have the fate of thousands in your hands, and to wash yourself of concern about it, to leave it alone, because it was your duty. It was what had to be done. The few sacrificed for the many. Work will make you free. The lies of the ages.

  My God. How could he go through with this?

  He picked up the case, headed for the door. He wouldn’t, that was how. He would walk out and run away, and maybe the Final Winter project would go on, but it would go on without him, and wouldn’t Doc Savage be proud of what he was doing, to face up to evil and to fight it and—

  Victor’s hand was on the doorknob. All right, let’s be honest, now. We’re not facing evil. We’re not even fighting it. We’re just running away, and that’s all we can do and—

  Victor opened the door. Adrianna was standing there, wearing a smart black business suit. A slight smile was on her face and she was carrying her leather briefcase.

  ‘Very good, Victor,’ she said. ‘You beat me to it. Are you ready?’

  He looked at that confident woman’s face, took a breath, felt the quivering in his knees ease up.

  ‘Yes, Adrianna, I’m ready,’ he said.

  ~ * ~

  Darren Coover went into the kitchen near the conference room, saw Monty Zane standing there, leaning against the counter. The counter probably had to be pretty strong to handle a weight like that, all muscle and bone and sinew. Monty nodded at him and Darren nodded back, and he was going to grab a cup of coffee when Monty said, ‘Ask you a favor?’

  Darren tried to hide his amazement. He had always enjoyed what little interaction he had with Monty, and he had always been thankful that the military man had treated him with respect. There was usually very little love lost between those in the field and those ‘info pukes’ in safe areas who sometimes determined when and how military options would be used. There were untold tales out there, of Special Forces groups being sent into harm’s way on the basis of information gathered by people like Darren only to have those ops turn disastrous because of bad info or bad intel.

  So Darren was always grateful for Monty’s attitude, and when the question was asked Darren quickly said, ‘Absolutely.’

  He grabbed his own cup of coffee and followed Monty into his office, which was austere compared with those of the other Tiger Team members. Desk, chairs, bookcase, computer terminal, and only a few photos, and then only of Monty and his wife and two kids. Having visited a number of military officers over the years, one thing Darren always counted on was a display of plaques or certificates or some other memorabilia. But not for Monty.

  Monty settled back in his chair, the chair creaking ominously from his weight, and he said, ‘Just come back from a job.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What kind of job doesn’t matter. It was a job. But it was the afterwards that freaked me out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Darren held his coffee cup still in his hands. If some-thing was freaking out this soldier in front of him, he wondered if he really wanted to know what was going on. But he had to. His damnable puzzle-curiosity would not allow anything else.

  Monty said, ‘Don’t know if you’re aware, but there are ... places where guys who are on jobs go to unwind before being sent back to their home base. Allows them to let off steam, relax, get a good meal and a drink. That’s where I was yesterday, unwinding.’

  Darren just kept his mouth shut, knowing the story would come at Monty’s own good pace. Monty took a swallow of coffee and said, ‘Met a guy there. Friend of mine. Done some training together, one op. He works for the Hymen Squad. Heard of them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Darren said, feeling pleased that he could show Monty that he was in the loop. ‘Deep black support group. Working the borders, north and south.’

  Monty nodded. ‘Yeah. Pretty secret. Thing is, this bu4dy of mine’s been assigned to the Hymen Squad for over a year. We got to chatting. Tell me, Darren, you being a bright guy and all, with Final Winter coming down the pike like it’s supposed to be, what do you think my buddy would be doing?’

  Even though he had just poured coffee into it, the mug in Darren’s hands felt suddenly cold. He said, ‘I know what he should be doing. But you tell me what’s really going on, Monty, after you’ve let me guess. Nothing. Am I right?’

 
; The skin around Monty’s eyes tightened a bit. Darren felt that for a guy like Monty that was a good way for him to show a surge of emotion. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t. But there’s something you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Darren shifted his legs, which had started trembling. ‘You and I have clearances for lots of things. Not sure if you have it but I’ve got one called “Gatekeeper”. Lets me go into classified and compartmentalized bulletin boards, discussion areas, that sort of thing. One of the changes since 9/11 was breaking down the information barriers. If a guy in the field from the CIA needed to know the background of a Pashtun chieftain in some remote village in Baluchistan, it might take a week or two through normal channels. But by using Gatekeeper, he could hear from an FBI source who fingered this character as an opium smuggler. Or it could be a Defense Intelligence Agency analyst who helped this chieftain smuggle out some SA-7 missiles. Guy could get the answer he needed in minutes, not days or weeks.’