Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  ~ * ~

  Brian Doyle looked again at his hands. Soiled red, turning brown as the blood dried.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said.

  He looked up at the street, saw headlights approach. A car passed. And then another.

  A third car passed, then made a U-turn.

  Could it be?

  Blue lights started flashing from the radiator grille.

  Luck, he thought, luck of the Irish . . .

  The car stopped and a beam of light came out from a side searchlight, illuminating him and his rental car. He held out his hands and two Cincinnati cops came towards him, flanking him on either side, holding out their flashlights.

  One called out, ‘What’s the problem?’

  He said, ‘The name’s Doyle. I’m on the Job. I just got jumped and I think I’ve been knifed. Could you get some EMTs over here?’

  One of the cops started talking into a portable radio as the other approached, cautious, one hand holding up the flashlight, the other hand on his service weapon. Smart. Don’t trust anybody you don’t know on the street. Anybody.

  The second cop said, ‘You got identification, Doyle?’

  ‘I do. But just so you know, I’m carrying. Nine-millimeter, rear right of my waistband.’

  ‘All right,’ the second cop said. ‘You just keep your hands where I can see them, and don’t make any sudden moves.’

  ‘You got it. All right if I bleed?’

  ‘Bleed away,’ the cop said. ‘Just don’t reach for anything.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The second cop now joined the first one, and after a brief talk the first cop said, ‘My partner’s going over to see you, to check your weapon and ID. EMTs are on the way. You just stay still. All right?’

  Brian said, ‘It’d be easier for him if I stand.’

  ‘Go ahead. Stand. But that’s it.’

  So he stood, feeling dizzy, and then the cop was there, pulling out Brian’s gun and then his wallet and his other thin ID holder, and another confab was underway. Then the first cop whistled and said, ‘You’re with the Feds, then, huh?’

  ‘On temporary duty.’

  The cop’s partner said, ‘I guess. Says here you’re a detective from New York City.’

  The sound of an approaching siren grew louder. ‘That’s right.’

  The first cop said, ‘Man, you are so far the fuck away from home.’

  Brian said, ‘Truest thing you’re going to say tonight.’

  ~ * ~

  After getting home from Dulles Airport, Adrianna Scott collapsed on the living-room couch in her condo, stretched out her legs and closed her eyes, refusing to think about anything for a while. Anything at all. Just keep everything blank. It had been one long day in a series of very long days, and her feet were throbbing. She had them resting on a small pillow, elevated up on the end of the couch. More long days ahead, that was for damn sure...and right now there were decisions to be made, choices to be analyzed, and phone calls to complete.

  She looked at her watch. Nearly midnight. Still ... it would be nice to take care of this one chore. She went to her soft leather briefcase, pulled out her PDA, looked to the cellar door. She should go downstairs to her homemade bubble, make the phone call by using the stolen CIA laptop.

  That would be the safest thing to do, to ensure that maximum security was maintained.

  Still. . . damn it, she was so damn tired.

  Back to the couch. She sat down, looked at the phone. Just one phone call. That was all. And what were the possibilities of something untoward happening?

  Very, very slight.

  And she was so tired. The thought of going down to the cellar, manhandling that huge piece of furniture away from the hiding place underneath the staircase, powering up the laptop, setting up the phone-calling software...ugh.

  Adrianna keyed in her PDA, found the number she was looking for, grabbed her cellphone and dialed away.

  It rang three times and a woman’s voice answered. ‘CDC, operator two, may I help you?’

  Adrianna gave her a four-number extension. Waited.

  ‘You have reached the Alpha Directory,’ the automated voice said. ‘Please enter the subsequent extension.’

  Which she did, entering six more numerals. Then, with a practiced touch, she raised the cellphone slightly from her ear so that the low-pitched and then high-pitched squealing of the encryption devices coordinating their signals didn’t burst an eardrum. The squealing stopped and then a man’s voice answered.

  ‘McCartney.’

  She took a breath. ‘This is Adrianna Scott calling. I’m the director of Foreign Operations and Intelligence Liaison Team Number Seven. Also known as Tiger Team Seven.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked to her PDA. ‘You have a shipment ready to be made to the Memphis Airport, under a protocol called Final Winter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My authorization is Bravo Tango Zulu Zulu twelve.’

  ‘Mark. Repeating, Bravo Tango Zulu Zulu twelve. Go ahead.’

  ‘That shipment is to be canceled. Stand down and do not deliver. Please repeat.’

  ‘Message repeat. Shipment is canceled. Stand down and do not deliver packages.’

  ‘Very good. Scott signing off.’

  She powered down her cellphone, felt a tingling in her chest. There. Nothing leaving from the CDC to Memphis. No, ma’am. But oh, there was going to be a delivery there, no doubt about it, and a very special delivery at that.

  Adrianna yawned. Time to go to bed. Tomorrow was going to be another busy one.

  ~ * ~

  Something woke up Vladimir Zhukov, and he wasn’t sure what. It was night, somewhere in South Dakota. Or maybe Iowa. He rubbed at his eyes and looked over at Imad. From the glow of the dashboard dials he could see that the Arab boy’s expression was concerned, and he knew what had awoken him. The Arab had the habit of muttering when something wasn’t going right, and Vladimir was sure that was what his subconscious had heard.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There is a police cruiser following us.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s been following us for the last several kilometers.’

  Vladimir rubbed at his eyes again. ‘Are you speeding?’

  ‘Just a little,’ he said. ‘Only a few miles over the limit. But not enough to— shit!’

  Vladimir looked at the sideview mirror, saw what had gotten Imad’s attention. Blue flashing lights from the cruiser. Damnation.

  Imad started cursing under his breath, and Vladimir said, ‘Pull over.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pull over, now! What do you think, that we can outrun him in this rig? Pull over, and do it slow and polite.’

  For once Imad did as he was told, switching on the turn indicator, downshifting the engine and braking. Vladimir looked around. A long, deserted stretch of highway. It was three in the morning. What a dark hour.

  Imad braked the truck to a stop, the cab shuddering slightly as they halted. He reached under the seat and Vladimir held back his arm.

  ‘No,’ he said sharply.

  ‘We don’t have much time!’

  ‘No, I said! Listen, that patrol officer back there, he has called in what he has done to his police unit. They will know that a truck has been pulled over and they will have a description and license plate number. What then, if you shoot him dead?’

  ‘We get away!’ ’

  ‘And for how long? Listen, that is a police officer back there. Not some degenerate young people in a Jeep who won’t be missed for days. If that officer is killed and they believe we did it, every police officer in this country will be looking for us. This is not your country or my country. Here, they love their men in uniform. Kill him and we won’t make it to Memphis.’

  Imad withdrew his arm. ‘What, then? What do we do?’

  Vladimir looked to the sideview mirror. Doors to the cruiser were opening up. Just their luck, there were two of them back there.


  ‘We wait. We see what they want.’

  Imad glanced over at his mirror. ‘They’re coming. You better know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I do,’ Vladimir said, lying to the boy. ‘I do.’

  ~ * ~

  The phone call that Adrianna Scott had made to the secure CDC facility had been tapped and traced even before she hung up. The particulars of the call - her phone number, the CDC number, duration of the call and key words mentioned - was placed in a routine notification file and sent to a classified internal security mailing list; Among the recipients on the mailing list was one Durlane Foster, an overworked security analyst working for the National Security Agency, who was currently on one week’s medical leave to take care of a prostate problem.

  Unknown to Durlane Foster was the fact that as part of his e-mail address, an enhanced BCC - blind carbon copy -program sent a copy of the message to another NSA employee, who had been detached to a program called Foreign Operations and Intelligence Liaison, known by those in the know as Tiger Teams.

  That NSA member was Darren Coover, member of Tiger Team Seven.

  ~ * ~

  The phone rang and rang and rang and Alexander Bocks sat up in bed, wondering for a moment just where in hell he was when he realized he was in his big old bed in his big old empty home. He looked at the empty spot near him, which should have contained the sleeping and loving form of his wife, Amy. Poor, dear Amy, who had gone with him through all those stations and deployments, keeping things together with love and good wishes, hardly ever complaining, just wanting to share a life with her man, and upon his retirement, share him 24/7, never to share him with anyone else, just lots of travel and rest and catching up for all those missed meals and appointments because of some foul-up on the flight line .. .

  Dear, sweet, patient Amy, who had been taken away from him just after his retirement, by a carcinoma that had no patience at all.

  The phone was still ringing. He looked at the bedside clock, saw it was just past four in the morning, which meant—

  Disaster. A crash somewhere. An AirBox jet down, crew dead, cargo destroyed, a major emotional and financial hit and, oh Christ, grab the damn thing.

  He picked up the phone. ‘Bocks.’

  ‘First thing first, don’t hang up.’

  ‘Don’t hang—Jesus fucking Christ, is that you, Frank?’

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ said Frank Woolsey, his CFO. ‘Look, don’t hang up.’

  Bocks sat up against the headboard. ‘Okay. I won’t hang up. I’ll just sit here and let you hang yourself.’

  ‘Me? Hang myself? Look, first you don’t answer my phone calls, you won’t see me, you won’t answer e-mail, you won’t—’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Busy! I guess the hell you have been busy, settling the labor contract all on your own. Jesus Christ, General, you realize what you’ve done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bocks could make out the breathing on the other end of the line. Frank said, ‘I’ve already heard from a number of board members. They are fucking shitting bricks. You’ve put the company in an untenable position.’

  ‘It’s my company.’

  ‘Oh, sure, it’s your company, but it also belongs to the stockholders, pal, and the board of directors are there, representing their interests, and if you think they’re going to let you run the company into the ground because of some old concept of loyalty, why, you’re off your rocker. It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘It’s going to happen, Frank. Just wait and see.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s a new world, General, one that won’t allow you to run this company like your own private air force or something. I’m calling a meeting of the board, and if you’re still running things by the end of the week, I’ll be—’

  Bocks hung up the phone. He picked up the base, found the phone wire that led into it from the wall, and pulled the plug. Shut off the light and lay back down, and gingerly, quietly, ran his hand across to the empty space beside him. Some nights, dear Amy would just lie there, listening to him bitch and moan about missing parts, missing personnel, missing directives, or whatever other nonsense he had to put up with, and despite the hour and time, never once had she seemed to mind.

  A good woman. He could use her now, to talk to her about what he was doing for the next few days, for he was doing more than just opening the company up to financial ruin because of a dental plan for the union. Now it was much more than that: he was using his aircraft to save his country and his people from some terrible disaster that was approaching.

  But now, would an eleven-member board still let him run AirBox? That was going to be the question. And what would happen if his fleet was grounded because of some court injunction, while those terrorists planned their anthrax attack? What then?

  His hand stayed on the empty side of the bed as he waited for answers, as he waited to fall back asleep.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Vladimir Zhukov thought about those four young people back in Wyoming. Had somebody seen them approach the truck as it was being painted? Was it possible that they were being traced? What was going on—

  By leaning over he could look into Imad’s sideview mirror and see the approaching police officer come up on the driver’s side. Imad rolled down the window and the officer called up, ‘Your license and registration please.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Imad replied, and Vladimir was pleased at the boy’s quiet tone. Imad passed over the paperwork through the window and said in a low voice, ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  Imad snorted and Vladimir checked his own sideview mirror. The other officer was standing there at the side of the road, flashlight in one hand, his other hand resting on top of his service pistol in his holster. What were the options? What was to be done?

  ‘Well?’ Imad said. ‘He’s going back to his cruiser. What do we do now?’

  Vladimir felt his palms moisten. ‘We wait. Nothing has happened yet. We wait.’

  So they waited.

  Imad said, ‘He’s coming back.’

  And Imad’s hand reached down for his pistol.

  ‘No, not for a moment,’ Vladimir said. ‘Leave it be.’

  Imad said, ‘I will give you your moment, but I will not end up in Guantanamo, or in any American jail. Understand?’

  Vladimir looked over again. The second policeman was still standing there.

  The first one approached the open window. Imad turned awkwardly, still holding his right hand at his side, ready to reach for his pistol.

  ‘Here you go,’ the policeman said. ‘The reason I stopped you is that you have a taillight burned out on the right side.’

  ‘Oh,’ Imad said.

  ‘Here’s a chit, saying we stopped you. You’ve got twenty-four hours to get it fixed. All right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Imad said.

  ‘Have a good trip.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The policeman walked away. Vladimir closed his eyes and said, ‘All right. Leave. Nice and slow. Don’t give them any excuse to stop us again. All right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Imad said. ‘Stupid fuckers. Didn’t even ask to look in the trailer. What kind of country is this, when the police don’t want a payoff or a cut?’

  ‘Shut up and drive.’

  Imad chuckled as he started shifting gears, and the truck lurched out onto the empty highway. He said, ‘I never thought I’d say what I’m about to say.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘That you were right back there.’ Another laugh. ‘If it were up to me, they would both be dead.’

  Vladimir folded his arms, closed his eyes. ‘Thankfully, it wasn’t up to you.’

  ~ * ~

  Late morning, Memphis International Airport. Brian Doyle sat in a waiting area near his gate, legs stretched out, resisting an urge to scratch at his chest. It had been one long goddamn night. When the EMTs had gotten to him outside Mamma Garrity’s house, it had turned out to be n
ot as bad as it had first looked. The two EMTs - professional young women who managed to ratchet down his tension with their soft voices - had wiped and cleaned the wound, which had only needed a few butterfly strips. No stitches necessary. They had suggested a trip to the ER but filled as he was with memories of how chaotic urban ERs could be on a busy night he had politely but firmly declined.