Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Monty sat up at that. ‘Tell us, doc. Tell us what she said.’

  Victor looked again at the other men, thinking of his residency, thinking of all the times that groups of men and women had asked and poked and prodded. He hated all those questions, all those demands. He just wanted to be left alone.

  God, did he want to be left alone.

  ‘She...she called me at home. She said Final Winter had been canceled, the Syrian cells had been rolled up, that I should take some time off. Which is what I was doing when...Brian, what’s going on?’

  And damn that man if his voice didn’t change, like he was doing his old job, telling a husband or mother or grand-mother that someone they loved and cherished dearly had been killed by a bullet, a knife, or a drug overdose.

  ‘Doc, what happened is this. . . it’s something that makes Pearl Harbor and 9/11 look like overwhelming victories...Adrianna Scott.’

  Brian paused, and Victor said, ‘Yes? What about her? How come she isn’t here?’

  Monty made to speak but Brian raised a hand. ‘Doc, she’s on the run. Her real name isn’t Adrianna Scott. It’s Aliyah Fulenz. She’s an Iraqi. She’s been here since she was a teenager ... I think her parents were killed in the first Gulf War. And she’s been plotting for years.’

  A feeling returned to him, only an hour or so old, of what it had been like, going up in the air in that Air Force fighter jet, his guts squishy, his limbs tingly, like he was on the edge of something magnificent and terrifying.

  ‘Final Winter . . .’

  Brian said, ‘It’s a reality. It’s happening now. Adrianna lied to all of us. There are canisters aboard nineteen AirBox aircraft, nineteen aircraft that are airborne. And those canisters are carrying airborne anthrax. All of them.’

  Somehow Victor got the words out. ‘But. . . but the canisters...they have the automatic radio altimeters. If those jets descend, they’re going to release the anthrax . . .’

  Monty said, ‘That’s right.’

  Victor tried to speak. Tried to gather the words. He . . .It. . .

  Everything slid into darkness.

  Emptiness.

  And a voice:

  ‘I think the poor son-of-a-bitch has fainted.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Randy Tuthill saw the cop and the military guy gather around the doctor, sprawled out on the floor. Randy looked out through the window. He had been in the Operations Center off and on over the years, usually trying to solve some last-minute mechanical problem that was bedeviling an aircraft, either in the air or on the ground. At those times the Center had been a low-key place, murmurs of conversation, men and women at the terminals, the low ring of telephones. But now...men and women were racing from desk to terminal, the ringing phones were now a roar, and the chatter of the people out there in the Operations Center almost drowned out the conversations of the Tiger Team guys.

  ‘General,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, Randy,’ the General replied, joining him by the window.

  ‘You’ve...you’ve got to keep tight control here, sir.’

  No reply.

  ‘Every politician, every nut, every reporter, is going to be calling here and pressuring you and trying to grab a chunk, trying to solve the problem, trying to assign blame, trying to do a lot of shit.’

  Randy gestured to the three men in the corner. The doctor was now sitting up. Randy said, ‘Like it or not, if we’re going to take care of this shit-mess it’s going to happen in this room.’

  The General turned to him, and Randy felt a little something in him die away. The General looked like he had aged a decade in the last ten minutes.

  ‘All my years, all the years of my life...I’ve dedicated to protecting this nation and its people. I’ve sacrificed my health, my happiness...I’ve been stationed in places with no running water, with heat so hot it could melt your brain at noon on the flight line, and I’ve been in places so cold that lubricants turned into jelly. I . . .’

  He couldn’t go on. Randy reached over, grabbed his shoulder. ‘General, please.’

  The General shook off Randy’s hand. ‘And now I’m about to kill millions of my countrymen . . .’

  There was motion at the other end of the room. It looked like the doctor was now back on his feet. Randy again squeezed the shoulder of the man who’d been his superior officer for all these years.

  ‘Don’t give up now, General. Don’t give up now.’

  The General nodded briskly. ‘I’ll do my best. You can count on that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ~ * ~

  At the Peterson Air Force Base Lt General McKenna was on a conference call with his boss of bosses, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the Chairman’s boss, a former governor who was now orbiting a patch of Albertan prairie land, hundreds of miles away.

  ‘McKenna,’ the Chairman said. ‘Are your flights in place?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ he said.

  ‘All right. What then?’

  ‘Awaiting developments, sir, from AirBox and the Tiger Team that’s running the show.’

  The Chairman said, ‘Are you comfortable with what they’re doing?’

  A hell of a question. McKenna glanced out his office window to the terminals and display screens that were designed to protect this nation and its borders, from the time of the Soviet empire to now, when the threat had been changed to hijacked aircraft being flown into office and government buildings. Now? Nineteen aircraft, airborne biological bombs, and so far, the only defense he and his staff could devise was to blow them out of the sky.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said finally. ‘No, I’m not. But I’m afraid I don’t have any better ideas.’

  The Chairman grunted. ‘Yeah. Who does? All right. We’re trying to work the problem on our end as well. But remember one thing. Those aircraft are not going to fly low enough to release their payloads. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Very good.’ Then, the Chairman’s voice changed, and he was talking to the other man on the line. ‘Sir? Any questions for General McKenna?’

  ‘No, not right now,’ the third voice said. ‘Appreciate all you’re doing. Both of you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the Chairman said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ General McKenna said, though he couldn’t imagine that he would be in this job at the same time tomorrow.

  ~ * ~

  When news was released about the supposed hijacked aircraft in the United States that were carrying anthrax, Mexico, quickly followed by Canada, closed its airspace to United States-flagged aircraft. Japan followed, then the Caribbean nations, France, and lastly, reluctantly, Great Britain.

  ~ * ~

  Victor was helped to his seat. He rubbed his hands together and then rubbed at his face. He was tired and he felt humiliated by what he had done, and he despised the look of pity from the other men in the conference room.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Honest. Jesus.’

  Again, the face, staring at him, waiting for information, waiting for a miracle. It brought back bad memories of his residency, working in the ER during the night shifts, looking at the same expressions from moms who wanted to know if their young boys were going to live, even with the tops of their heads blown off by nine-millimeter bullets. He said, ‘Nineteen aircraft. Where are they?’

  The General said, ‘Orbiting at various locations in the southeast, over areas with the least amount of population.’

  ‘How long can they stay up there?’

  ‘Another three, four hours. Tops,’ the General said.

  Victor said, ‘Can’t they get refueled up there? The Air Force or something?’

  Monty shook his head. ‘No. Civilian aircraft. They don’t have aerial-refueling capability.’

  Three or four hours...Christ on a crutch . . .

  ‘And what happens at the end of the three or four hours?’

  Bocks said, ‘They start to descend. And before they get to three thousand feet.
. . the Air Force will shoot them down. They can’t be allowed to let those canisters release the anthrax.’

  ‘No,’ Victor said.

  ‘No, what?’ Bocks said.

  ‘The aircraft. They can’t be shot down.’

  The machinist guy, Tuthill, said, ‘Well, yeah, we don’t want them to be shot down. I mean, they’re our guys and—’

  Victor said, ‘Excuse me, am I speaking in fucking Latin or something?’

  Tuthill’s face reddened. Everyone else kept their stare on him. Monty said, ‘I’m afraid we don’t understand, Victor. Tell us what you mean.’

  ‘The aircraft. They can’t be shot down.’

  ‘Tell us more,’ Monty said.

  Victor couldn’t believe that they didn’t realize what was going on. He said, ‘Monty. You’re our military whiz, Right?’

  Monty said calmly, ‘Yes, I’m the military rep for this Tiger Team. Go ahead.’

  ‘When the jet tries to shoot down a cargo aircraft like this, how does it happen? Do they have laser beams? Anti-matter disintegrators? When they shoot it down, does everything turn to dust?’

  ‘No,’ Monty said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Maybe I do, but I think you’ve all forgotten. Tell me how the aircraft would be shot down.’

  Monty said, ‘There are F-15 Eagles or F-16 Falcons up there, with air-to-air missiles. Probably AIM-9 Sidewinders. If they get the order, they drop back, fire one, maybe two missiles. Heat-seekers. Go right into the engines, explode ... aircraft spirals down, breaks up.’

  Victor slapped the table for emphasis. ‘Exactly! You damn fools, don’t you see what this means? The fuselage remains intact. It spirals in. Even if the fuselage does start to break up, the canister is in there, self-contained, with its own radio-altimeter-triggered switch, and as it’s spiraling into the ground, sure as shit, gentlemen, that anthrax will be released, no matter how many missiles get fired at those aircraft.’

  ~ * ~

  AirBox personnel might wear the same uniforms and have the same pension plan, and most had the same military background. But in the air that early morning were thirty-eight scared and angry men and women whose company loyalty was under a severe strain.

  Among them was Helen Torrinson, the co-pilot aboard AirBox 10, which was currently orbiting a patch of Mississippi sky about twenty thousand feet above Biloxi. With her, in the captain’s seat, was Hank Harmon, also known as ‘Hammerin’ Hank’, not only for his checkered flying past with the Marines but also because of his habit of heading straight to one of Memphis’s nightspots whenever he got back from a flight. Helen - who had flown CM 30 transport aircraft in the Air Force Reserve - knew that in most other carrier companies Hank might have been grounded months ago for his drinking.

  But AirBox, as the advertisements liked to point out, wasn’t like any other carrier.

  And ever since that ACARS message had come through, Hank had remained pretty quiet for Hank, though Helen had noticed that his face had been turning grayer, with trick-les of perspiration dripping down his cheeks and neck. Her own attempts at conversation had been met with an occasional ‘yeah’ or a grunt as they continued to fly on autopilot.

  But it had been the arrival of the F-15s - calling themselves Sword One and Sword Two - that finally triggered something.

  Hank had whipped his head back and forth, leaning forward in his seat to get a better view of the escorting fighter jets, and he had started murmuring something, about plots, about death, and Helen had sat there, almost frozen with indecision.

  What to do?

  And then Hank made the decision for her.

  He turned and said, ‘You know we’re dead, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Christ, yes,’ he said. ‘We both know this fucking aircraft. You can’t get to those air-conditioning packs, you can’t unplug ‘em, you can’t block ‘em. If there’s anthrax down there, the only solution is to give those guys flanking us the shoot-down orders.’

  ‘Hank, we should just give them the time to—’

  ‘Fuck that. We need to act before they realize that a shoot-down is the only solution. Put on your oxygen mask.’

  Helen put on her mask and switched on her microphone, and there was a click-click sound as Hank disconnected the aircraft’s autopilot and associated autothrottles.

  Hank turned to her and said, ‘We’re going to get this piece of shit on the deck now!’

  His right hand pulled the throttles to idle and extended the aircraft’s speed brakes. As Hank pushed the control yoke forward and lowered the nose, the aircraft’s rate of descent quickly increased.

  Over the cockpit’s speaker, Helen heard the voice of one of their escorts: ‘Ah, AirBox Ten, this is Sword One, level off and halt your descent, please.’

  Hank keyed the microphone. ‘Houston Center, AirBox Ten, we’re an emergency aircraft and we are now descending for immediate landing at Keesler Air Force Base.’

  Helen felt herself being pressed back in the seat as the jet quickly descended. Declaring an in-flight emergency meant that for most intents and purposes Hank was the closest thing to an air god. He and she and this aircraft now had priority for everything, including an immediate clearance to land at any airfield in the vicinity. Hank could pretty much do anything he wanted to get the aircraft on the ground, and it was a hell of a gamble, because once they had landed there would be some serious hell to pay, from the FAA to the military to the General himself.

  But they would be on the ground. That was what counted. Yeah, most times it would work.

  But this wasn’t most times.

  An urgent voice in the earphones: AirBox 10, AirBox 10, this is Sword One, Sword One, immediately resume your previous altitude. Immediately. Please acknowledge.’

  Hank said nothing. The ground was approaching. Helen swallowed.

  ‘Hank?’

  Not a word.

  The earphones. ‘AirBox 10, AirBox 10, acknowledge. This is Sword One.’

  ‘Hank . . .’

  ‘Fuck them all. . .’ he said.

  Suddenly bright lights flared in front of them...flanking them, reaching out ahead of them.

  Tracer fire, from the F-15s’ cannon.

  ‘AirBox 10, this is Sword One. You will level off immediately. You will climb back to altitude. You will continue to hold.’

  ‘Or what!’ Hank shouted.

  ‘Sir, we are authorized to engage. Don’t force us to shoot you down!’

  ‘Fuck you! You don’t have the balls to shoot down a civilian aircraft! Go ahead, Air Force!’

  Helen watched in horror as the altimeter unwound as the jet descended. Twelve thousand feet and lowering...She thought of the anthrax in the belly of her jet. She thought of her husband Tony, her two kids, thought about the Air Force pilots back there, knowing what they had to do ... knowing that after 9/11 so many of the rules had been rewritten or tossed out.

  ‘Hank, pull up! C’mon, they’re going to shoot us down!’

  Hank yelled back. ‘Shut up! They don’t have the balls. They’re not gonna do it!’

  ‘How do you know that? Hank! Pull up.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Ten thousand feet.

  ‘AirBox 10, Sword One. Your last warning. We are weapons hot, repeat, we are weapons hot.’

  Eight thousand.

  What to do, what to do - a fight in the cockpit? Helen remembered that Egypt Air flight years back, when the copilot flew the jet right into the ocean, even with the pilot struggling with him and the controls ... Hank was taller than her, stronger, and thirty pounds heavier ... it wouldn’t work.

  Seven thousand.

  ‘AirBox 10! Last warning!’

  Six thousand feet.

  AirBox 10!’

  Five thousand, five hundred.

  Helen rotated in her seat, reached up back against her seat restraints...reached out, fingertips barely touching, Hank busy with flying . . .

  There. Gr
abbed it.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, forgive me,’ she breathed. Then she bashed in the back of Hank’s head with the emergency crash ax.

  And bashed him again.

  And again.

  She dropped the ax, grabbed the controls so she was now in command of the aircraft, started pulling back on the control yoke and adding power.