Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘Sir?’ answered Gail Crayson, his Public Health adviser.

  ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘First, we need to get Public Health resources into those states as of yesterday. Hazmat teams, medical assistance to area hospitals, Cipro stocks moving in ... everything and anything that’s needed to nip this anthrax exposure in the bud once it gets sprayed. If we can keep the exposure areas to those three states, we’ll be lucky indeed.’

  ‘You got it, sir,’ she said. ‘And your second request?’

  ‘Time is running out,’ he added. ‘Determine the locations of those remaining airborne aircraft, see what areas they’re orbiting, and for those areas I want a seal-and-remain advisory going out, as soon as possible.’

  She said, ‘We’ll lose some people, you know. They’ll seal up their rooms too tight with plastic wrap and duct tape. They will suffocate.’

  ‘Yeah. But if that anthrax gets sprayed out in the next hour or so, we could save thousands. Which is what we’re going to do. Get those advisories out now, Gail.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ~ * ~

  In her vehicle, still heading north and thankfully away from the chaos unfolding in some parts of this cursed country, Adrianna Scott made it a point to listen to the news at the top of the hour, usually getting a CNN or AP news feed. She knew that she was tired and still had hours of driving ahead of her, but oh, was she pleased at what she was hearing.

  She looked at the dashboard clock. It was seven a.m. Pretty soon those AirBox aircraft out there would be falling from the sky, no matter what, and there was no way that this day wouldn’t end with thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, exposed and later dying.

  Time for the news. On went the radio, on went the woman announcer from CNN, who seemed like she wanted to cry: . . Homeland Security has issued an advisory to a number of counties in the states of Kentucky, Missouri and Pennsylvania. Residents in these counties are advised to remain indoors and close all doors and windows. Close dampers and flues to fireplaces. If possible, go into a room or basement with no windows. If you do not have a room or basement without windows, remain in a room and tape the windows closed. In any event, the advisory states that people in these counties need to be in a place with no openings to the outside. The counties affected are—’

  Adrianna turned off the radio, sighed with satisfaction, and continued driving.

  ~ * ~

  Monty put the pen down, raised his head and rubbed at his eyes. It was done, as much as could be done. He looked to the display board and all that was written up there was failure.

  AirBox 15, over Missouri.

  AirBox 107, over Pennsylvania.

  AirBox 22, over Kentucky.

  ‘Doc,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Monty.’

  ‘Worst-case scenario, how many deaths we got flying up there?’

  And for once in his life, Monty thought, the good doctor didn’t dance around or try to rewrite the question. ‘Each canister has enough to infect about fifteen to twenty thou-sand people, if properly dispersed. Let’s say about a hundred thousand, in total.’

  Monty heard the machinist guy whisper in awe, ‘A hundred fucking thousand . . .’

  Yet the doctor wasn’t finished.

  ‘But that’s not the problem. The problem is what happens afterwards. You can’t expect people, once they get sick, to sit still at home. They’ll be heading out to hospitals, clinics, their mama’s house. Even with roads cut off by the National Guard and police forces, people will still get through, unless there’s a shoot-on-sight order, which I doubt this or any other President will issue. Which means more and more infections, more spread of the disease. By the end of a week,- we could have a half-million infected, with more to come.’

  Monty kept his eye on the display screen. Just three aircraft. And he had a brief bout of nausea, thinking what might have happened if all the AirBox aircraft had taken off, and if this damn thing hadn’t been uncovered. Scores of aircraft would be descending over major cities right now, infecting millions upon millions...

  ‘Mister Zane.’

  He turned as General Bocks rolled his own chair over to him. ‘Our crews have less than an hour’s flight time. Pretty soon, unless we tell them otherwise, those aircraft are coming down. What is to be done?’

  Monty felt that nausea return. He swallowed, nodded, knew the harsh advice he had gotten from Homeland Security was the only thing left to do. ‘Sir...there is no choice ... we have to vector those aircraft away from populated areas, to send them to mountain ranges or state or federal parks...and then I’m going to order those three aircraft shot down.’

  ‘You are, are you?’ Bocks said. ‘You’re going to kill six of my people, just like that?’

  ‘No, sir, not just like that,’ Monty said. ‘I’m going to kill those six people after a lot of agonizing thoughts, and I’m going to kill those six people so that six thousand or six hundred thousand aren’t dead this time next week. That’s what I’m going to do.’

  ‘The hell you will,’ Bocks said.

  ‘The hell I won’t,’ Monty said.

  Bocks picked up a phone. ‘You’re not listening to me, Mister Zane. Those are my people, my aircraft up there. I’m the one who’s going to give the order. Not you.’

  ~ * ~

  Steve Jayson of AirBox 15 couldn’t believe who he was hearing in his earphones so he said, ‘Ah, Dispatch, this is AirBox 15, repeat last, over.’

  His pilot, Trent Mueller, glanced over at him with a questioning look, and then the voice came again. ‘Guys, this is General Bocks calling in. Can the both of you hear me?’

  Steve toggled the microphone switch on the control yoke. ‘Sir, you’ve got us both. Go ahead.’

  The General cleared his throat. ‘Guys, I’m not going to sugarcoat a damn thing. You’re in a hell of a spot. A hell of a spot due to decisions I made, bad decisions based on...well, that sounds like an excuse, and this isn’t the time for excuses.’

  Fucking understatement of the year, Steve thought to himself. The General said, ‘We’ve gotten most of you safely on the ground. But there’s you and two other flights. Guys, we’re running out of time, and you’re running out of fuel. Those are hard facts. I’m sorry. But we’ve got to send you ... we’ve got to send you over the remotest area that’s nearby. We’re going to have you head out to the Ozarks...we’re still trying to come to an answer, we haven’t given up yet, but if we don’t have that answer...we’re going to need you to be over the mountains. Do you understand?’

  It was Trent’s turn to reply. ‘Sir, we understand. And I need to know something...sir.’

  ‘Go ahead, son.’

  ‘Our families. We need to know that our families will be taken care of. Get everything they need. No bullshit or stalling.’

  Bocks said, ‘You got it. No bullshit or stalling. My personal guarantee.’

  Trent said, ‘Then you’ll see us over the Ozarks, General. AirBox 15, out.’

  ~ * ~

  Hugh Glynn was the captain of AirBox 22, and when the general signed off the air, his co-pilot, Stacy Moore, said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand that. What the hell was that all about?’

  Hugh said, ‘We’re heading for the Smoky Mountains, Stacy. What else do you need to know?’

  ‘And what are we going to do when we get there?’

  Hugh liked Stacy, had flown with her for several months, admired her skill as a co-pilot and her eye for details, but when it came to the big picture...Jesus. Sometimes she was as thick as a plank. He rubbed at his chest. Damned indigestion was coming back again ... he was going to visit his doctor later this week but his schedule looked pretty damn full over the next seventy or so minutes.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Our fuel is...oh...oh, no...please...’

  ‘Stacy, we’re heading to the Smokies. Get the charts out, all right?’

  No answer.

  Hugh looked over. Tears were in her eyes. ‘Stacy, we need those char
ts.’

  He waited. Wondered what she was going to do. Wondered how this was going to end.

  And then Stacy went to her chart pack, and for some reason Hugh felt good, even with the discomfort in his chest. They would go out as professionals. Not in a panicked frenzy.

  Something to be happy about, at least.

  ~ * ~

  Carrie Floyd of AirBox 107 sat in silence as they continued to go around in circles. For once Sean was silent as well. They had just gotten off the horn with General Bocks himself, and the brief conversation had just laid it out there. Nowhere to go, nowhere to land. But in a while it would be done. No doubt about that.

  She looked at the fuel gauges. Less than an hour to go. Some decisions could be put off, some decisions could be put off forever. But the gauges didn’t lie. They were now outbound to the Poconos, and there was a sort of grim sense of humor there, about her and Sean ending up in that honeymoon paradise, no doubt to be spread over a few mountain peaks in a tumble of wreckage and scorched protein.

  And all because of fuel. Ah, the gift of fuel. If there had been some way of getting more fuel into their aircraft, they could stay up another six, eight, twelve hours, with no problem. Oh, shit, they’d be cramped and hungry, but at least they’d be alive. Give the folks on the ground more time to figure out what in hell to do with the little canisters of death they were carrying back there. She recalled all the times back in the Navy, flying the S-3 Viking, and the comfort of knowing that there were usually airborne fueling stations out there, other Vikings modified to carry fuel, Air Force KC-135s and KC-10s, all ready to lower a boom and give you all the fuel you needed.

  Fuel. A lifesaver.

  God, such a lifesaver.

  Carrie rubbed at her tired eyes, stopped. Looked out the windscreen. Thought for a moment. Thought again.

  Well, she said to herself.

  ‘Hey,’ she said to her co-pilot.

  ‘Hey yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Sean, did I ever tell you about my grandfather, my dad’s dad?’

  ‘No, Carrie,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘I don’t think you ever did.’

  ‘Let me tell you about him,’ she said.

  Sean shook his head. ‘Sure. Why the hell not? I could use a good story about now.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Name was Frank Floyd. Double-F, they called him, when he flew in the Navy. He was in World War Two. Flew Grumman TBMs. Know what TBMs were?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Torpedo aircraft. Flew off aircraft carriers, went against Japanese ships. Especially Japanese aircraft carriers. They carried a single torpedo and their job was to fly low, slow and level, heading towards a target. All the while, they’re being shot at by anti-aircraft fire from Japanese ships. Machine-gun fire, anti-aircraft artillery, exploding shells, shrapnel, all being tossed up in front of them. And if that wasn’t enough, Japanese fighter aircraft - Zeroes - were strafing them as they flew in. They made nice fat targets, because they had to be low and slow to drop their torpedoes, and they couldn’t fly evasively. It was the nearest damn thing to a planned suicide mission that the US Navy ever created.’

  ‘Carrie, this is all just fascinating stuff, but—’

  ‘One time,’ she pressed on, ‘right after I joined the Navy, I had a nice long talk with him, just before he died. I had done some reading about the torpedo squadrons and found that on an average mission the pilot and gunner had about a twenty percent chance of coming back alive. Can you believe that? Twenty fucking percent. And they still went out, mission after mission. So I asked him. I said, “Grandpa, how in God’s name did you get in that torpedo bomber each time, knowing what was out there for you?” Know what he said?’

  ‘No, but I guess you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘He said a twenty percent chance was better than no chance at all, and that a good pilot would do everything and anything to survive. That’s what he said.’

  By now Sean was staring at her, his eyes moist with tears. ‘Carrie, what’s the point? What’s going on?’

  She said sharply, ‘The point is, my dear heart, is that we still have time, I’m still a good pilot, and we’re not calling it quits at all. Get Dispatch back up. I want to talk to General Bocks. Right away.’

  He said, ‘You think he’ll talk to you?’

  ‘Sure he will,’ Carrie said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the poor bastard is feeling guilty, and that’s half the battle, right there.’

  He said, ‘You’re not going to start—’

  ‘Sean, hurry up. Please. Trust me on this. I’ve got to talk to him. Now.’

  He kept on staring at her, and she knew that he wanted answers, but she didn’t want to start discussing, arguing, or debating. She just wanted the damn general on the line.

  Sean pressed the radio switch. ‘Ah, Dispatch, this is AirBox one-oh-seven. I have an unusual request for you...’

  ~ * ~

  Now the four of them were in a conference room, away from the low roar of the Operations Center. Brian sat on one side of the table, looking at the three other men. It was coming to an end, and he was exhausted by it all. He knew what was ahead for him, at least. Possible arrest, probably Congressional investigations, blah blah blah. Maybe he’d get back on the job. Maybe not. But at least he wouldn’t be in a small room, waiting for tens of thousands of Americans to die over the next few days. So much for being a guard for the guardians.

  Monty was slumped in a chair, looking out the windows to the display board, and Doctor Palmer sat next to him, staring at his laptop, not moving. General Bocks seemed to be talking to himself, as he said, ‘Bankruptcy. As soon as we can, we’ll declare bankruptcy...sell the assets, try to get some settlement with the lawsuits ... set up a trust fund for the families of the crews ... Pay for the medical care of those who get sick . . .’

  The doctor shifted slightly in his seat. ‘Monty.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Homeland Security is going to have to be advised where those planes go down. If we’re lucky, we can get a perimeter set up around the crash areas and the anthrax dispersal footprint. We can keep the outbreak to within reasonable limits.’

  ‘How reasonable?’

  ‘A thousand, maybe less. If we’re lucky.’

  Monty said, ‘Fuck, doc, with luck like that—’

  The phone on the conference-room table rang. Bocks picked it up and said, ‘Who? Are you sure?’

  He put a hand to his face. ‘Sure. Put her on.’

  Brian saw some agony in the General’s eyes, and with something cold starting to spread in his gut he realized that the man was talking to one of his flight crews, one of the doomed flight crews who would be dead within an hour.

  ‘Yes... Carrie ... I’m sure I’ve met you before ... thank you for all you’ve done ... I understand ... but there’s... hold on . . .’

  Then something changed in the General’s expression. Brian leaned forward. The General sat up and said, his voice now entirely changed, ‘Hold on, Carrie. I’m in a conference room with some other people, including a DoD representative and a doctor from the CDC. Hold on.’

  The General looked down at the phone and said, ‘Shit, there’s a speakerphone here somewhere...but I sure as hell don’t want to disconnect her...Christ, here we go.’

  A button or two were pressed, the handset was replaced, and a hiss of static burst from the speaker. Bocks said, ‘Carrie, can you hear us?’

  ‘AirBox one-oh-seven is here, General.’

  ‘Carrie - repeat what you said to me. Please.’

  ‘All right. Look - we know the score up here. We know there’s not much time. But we’re not ready to roll over and play dead for you or anybody else. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, Carrie,’ the General said. ‘We got it.’

  ‘Good. The way I see it, everything comes back to making sure that the anthrax doesn’t reach the ground. Right?’ ‘That’s right,’ Bocks said.

  ‘I know that sounds simple to
you guys, but I’ve been thinking. We can’t get to those damn canisters, we can’t turn them off, we can’t plug them up. So that anthrax is coming out, one way or another. Thing I see is, how do you stop the anthrax from getting to the ground? I think I’ve come up with something...shit, I know I’ve come up with something, and sorry, Mr FAA, for that little slip back there .. .’

  Now Monty and Victor were staring at the speakerphone, and Brian thought they looked like religious pilgrims, staring at a holy relic that was going to save them and their family.

  His voice louder, Bocks said, ‘Carrie...please ... tell us what you’ve got.’