Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Carrie took a breath, thought, forgive me, Susan, and she pushed the yoke forward with a slight roll. The nose of the aircraft dropped like an elevator, and now they were both weightless in their seats as the jet fell from the sky, bits of metal and crumbs and paper scraps flying past her, Sean still holding tight to her hand on the control yoke, the only thing now visible in the windscreen the rapidly approaching waters of the lake.

  ~ * ~

  While the F-16s were ordered to break off, they still kept view of the AirBox aircraft as it approached the lake. In a matter of seconds the lead pilot could not believe what he was seeing as the plane suddenly pitched over and headed down to the lake.

  ‘Chris ...’ said Lance One’s wingman. Lance One said, ‘Yeah, I see it...’

  The jet moved quickly, so quickly, and the wingman choked a bit as he realized what the flight crew had done. Whatever anthrax was in that aircraft was designed to be released when the jet went below three thousand feet but at the speed they were traveling it would be just a second or two and—

  Something was said over his earphones. Not Chris. Had to be AirBox and—

  ‘Jesus God,’ he whispered as the plane disintegrated and crashed in a huge geyser of water and metal debris and flying papers and packages –

  Oh, Christ.

  ‘Ah...Center, this is Lance One,’

  ‘Go ahead, Lance One.’

  ‘Ah...AirBox one-oh-seven has crashed into a lake at this location...advise you send Public Health officials to the area ...’

  ‘Lance One, we acknowledge . . .’

  Another voice, his wingman again. ‘Chris, did you ever see anything like that. . .’

  ‘No, and I never want to, ever again. Hold on, Ed.’

  He looked to the lake, at the widening circle of water, debris, wreckage ... obliterated. Absolutely and totally obliterated.

  ‘Center, Lance One.’

  ‘Lance One, go ahead.’

  ‘Also advise that we monitored last transmission from AirBox one-oh-seven as it descended.’

  Nothing. No answer.

  ‘You copy, Center?’

  An embarrassed voice. ‘Ah, go ahead, Lance One. What was AirBox message, over?’

  ‘Message follows: “This is Smash, signing off.’”

  ‘Understood. Smash, signing off.’

  The pilot known as Lance One didn’t acknowledge. He just kept on circling the waters of the lake that had become a grave.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Bocks looked at the display board. It was empty. No more AirBox flights were airborne. It was over - at least, this part was over. Ahead there would be hearings and charges and TV documentaries and court battles, and no doubt bankruptcy and some jail time.

  But it was over. The country would survive. His duty was done. And so was Carrie’s.

  Smash had completed her last mission, successfully.

  He sat down, exhausted, put his head in his hands, and wept.

  ~ * ~

  Victor Palmer knew that he should be following up with the crash of the AirBox in Pennsylvania, knew that he should be making recommendations to minimize whatever possible exposure was out there, but he was just too damn tired. He was sure that Doc Savage could put up with almost anything, but he doubted that even the Man of Bronze could have handled this.

  Did this make him better than Doc Savage?

  A treasonous thought. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and for the second time that night passed out.

  But this time, he was left alone.

  ~ * ~

  Grayson Carter closed his eyes in repose, praying for the souls of Carrie Floyd and Sean Callaghan. There was a touch at his elbow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Grayson . . .’ the woman said. ‘I’m Pam Kasnet, night Operations Manager...I’m sorry, but. . . well, we have a situation.’

  He saw the troubled look on her face, and said, ‘Well, what is it?’

  She told him. He nodded. God was putting him to work tonight, and that was fine. It was his calling. He would bear the burden as best he could.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’

  ~ * ~

  Brian Doyle saw Randy Tuthill being taken to the conference room, Bocks and the minister joining him and the woman Operations Manager. There was a loud, bellowing, ‘No!’ from Randy before the door closed.

  Monty came up to him, held out his hand, which Brian shook.

  ‘What was that about?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Randy Tuthill. The machinist guy.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘His son was the pilot of the KC-135 that collided with the Kentucky AirBox flight.’

  Brian nodded. ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Brian took in the ordered chaos of the Operations Center, the terminal displays, the phones and the host of people who worked for AirBox, who had done their best to manage a disaster that would have made 9/11 look like a parking-lot fender-bender if it had succeeded, and he just closed his eyes. Couldn’t take it anymore.

  ‘Good job, Brian. A real good job.’

  ‘No, not really. It was a fuck-up. A while ago I knew something was hinky with Adrianna. I should have done more, done better, done it sooner. That’s all.’

  Monty slapped him on the back of his neck. ‘Brian, you fret too much. You did all right. For a cop.’

  Brian said, ‘I’m supposed to take that as a compliment?’

  ‘Take it any way you like it.’

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Somehow, I don’t think I’m gonna be a cop this time next week.’

  Monty said, ‘Don’t worry. Anything happens, I’ll set you up somehow. You’ve got balls and brains - and a couple of gunshot bruises to the chest. A hell of a combination.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Monty yawned and said, ‘Speaking of Adrianna, I wonder where that little minx is right now.’

  ‘Out there, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yeah...man, if she ever gets caught, I just want ten minutes with her. Ten minutes.’

  ‘What do you mean, if?’

  Monty laughed. ‘Man, that was one smart bitch. You telling me she didn’t have a bag of plans, ready to get her ass out of here?’

  Brian said, ‘Maybe so. But she’s still going to get caught.’

  ‘Hell of a large country. Hell of a large world, Brian.’

  Brian shook his head. ‘She’s going to get caught. Guaranteed. But one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You don’t get first crack at her. I do.’

  Monty shrugged. ‘Considering the bitch shot you and all, yeah, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Good,’ Brian said. ‘Glad to win one once in a while.’

  ~ * ~

  With less than an hour to go to the Canadian border, Adrianna Scott felt a burning sense of frustration at the news coming from her radio, for it seemed like things weren’t going her way, not at all. As she tried to find a different channel to listen to, there was a roaring noise that made her head snap back and—

  A black Kiowa helicopter, landing in the road in front of her, men coming out and—

  BANG!

  Somehow, they had something that shattered the windshield and side windows and—

  The engine died. She scrambled around, trying to get out, trying to move and—

  Black-jumpsuited men were on her, spraying something in her face, something that confused her and made her eyes bum, and now she was on the side of the road, coughing and hacking.

  One of the men removed his face mask, knelt down beside her.

  ‘Adrianna Scott, in the name of the United States of America, I place you under arrest.’

  ‘But...but...this is a mistake. Look at my driver’s license. My name is Dolores Benjamin. There’s been a mistake!’

  Another man came into view, dropped one of her bags on the ground. He poked around in the bag, took out a little pin with a thick metal head on one end.

  She i
nstantly recognized it. A Mark 10 tracking device. She looked back at her bag, and—

  Now she remembered.

  Back at the hotel room, with Brian. When she went into the bathroom the bag had been on the bed.

  When she had come out of the bathroom the bag had been on the floor.

  Brian had bugged her. The bastard.

  The man said, ‘Adrianna Scott, you have the right to—’

  ‘The name isn’t Adrianna Scott!’ she spat at him. ‘My name is Aliyah Fulenz.’

  The man grinned at her as she was helped up and shackles were placed about her ankles and handcuffs on her wrists.

  ‘Adrianna, Dolores, Aliyah, I don’t give a shit - all I know is that your ass now belongs to us.’

  And as she was brought to her feet, the man leaned in and said, ‘You’re ours, princess.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The room had no air-conditioning, and it was stifling hot. Brian Doyle walked in and there she was, sitting in front of him, her hands cuffed to a metal ring centered in the middle of a table. She had on an orange jumpsuit, her hair had been cut short, and her skin was rough. No make-up or beauty products allowed, he thought, as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Was I that lousy in bed that you had to shoot me afterwards?’

  She looked tired, sullen. ‘How long have you been thinking of that little joke?’

  ‘A while,’ Brian admitted. ‘Thought you’d smile, at least.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’

  ‘I guess I did. About a lot of things.’

  She moved her hands, the chain clanking some. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To see you, face to face. To ask you why. The usual.’

  ‘Hah. The usual.’ She leaned forward and said, ‘They showed us a movie the other night. A rare treat, I am told. So what kind of movie did they show us? Ben-Hur. Can you imagine that, with the population they have here, that they would show such a movie?’

  ‘I can imagine almost anything. But to get back to my original—’

  ‘No, don’t you see? I am answering your question, Brian. There is a scene in that movie, early on, when Judah Ben-Hur meets an old Roman friend. They talk politics. Ben-Hur talks about his hatred of Rome, and he says, “The day Rome falls, there will be such a shout of freedom across the world . . .” That’s why I did what I did, Brian. The day America falls, there will be such a shout across this globe, from Pakistan to Russia to France to Vietnam, so on and so on. You have no idea of the hate, the deep and unabiding hatred that so many have for you. Your trade policies destroy small farmers in Kenya and Malaysia. Your chemical companies pollute in countries like India and Zimbabwe. Your media companies turn women around the world into whores. Brian, your America is a large elephant, blundering its way through history, caring not whom you trample, whom you kill, as you pillage and rampage. The world hates you, Brian. The entire world. Don’t you see that?’

  Brian looked at that sharp face, wondered how he had ever been attracted to her. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I don’t come from the world. I come from New York City. And if it wasn’t for us, the world would—’

  She tried to raise a hand but the chain stopped her. ‘Yes, I know. You are so generous. You are a beacon for the world, the shining example, the shining light of freedom. You defeated fascism, communism, and you fool yourself that you are on your way to defeating radical Islam. But you are so alone...your so-called friends laugh at you, your so-called allies work to make deals with your enemies, all to isolate you, to keep you confused...you are in the throes of destruction, Brian. Like a wounded elephant that is too stupid to know that it’s about to die.’

  Brian said, ‘Pretty bold talk for a woman in your position, whatever your name is. We’re an odd country, with even odder people, but we’re resilient. Most of the time we’re underestimated. Ask the Germans. Ask the Japanese. Ask the Russians.’

  ‘Ah, but look what I did.’

  ‘And what was that? You gave Wall Street a jolt, bankrupted one company, destroyed four aircraft, directly or indirectly caused the deaths of scores of people...not much return on such a long investment, from when you were a Baghdad teenager. ‘

  She smiled. ‘Ah, but enough.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Truly. Here’s a secret, my friend. You and yours have to be lucky, all the time. All the time. Those who follow me, wherever they are, they just have to be lucky once. And, trust me, they will keep trying. And, trust me, they will be lucky.’

  Brian said, ‘Someone once said that God looks out for fools, drunks, and the United States of America. I like that saying better. And that’s what I’m going to leave you with, Adrianna. Or Aliyah, whichever you prefer.’

  He got up, made to leave, and then he turned and said, ‘For what it’s worth, that night we had ...’

  She shook her head. ‘Spare me, Brian. It was nothing to me. Nothing.’

  He said, ‘You know, I almost pity you, Adrianna. You let all that hate eat you up, year after year, crippling you, changing you...You could have done so much with all that strength, all those smarts, if it wasn’t for the hate. Yeah, I almost pity you, Adrianna.’

  Brian Doyle leaned forward, over the desk, looking down at her. ‘Almost.’

  Then he left.

  ~ * ~

  She waited for the Marine guards to come in and take her back to her cell, and she felt her legs and arms quivering with emotion. The talk with Brian had disturbed her more than she had let on, for she had felt something when she had seen him.

  Utter and total defeat.

  And as she was finally led back to her cell by the large and unsmiling Marine guards, she tried to apologize again to mama and papa, for letting them down. But strange music distracted her, strange music caused her to stop everything and look up at the small hill above the prison.

  ~ * ~

  It had been a favor, but once the news had been sent around to the right people Brian could have done pretty much anything he wanted to do, which was why he was here at Camp Delta, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, playing his bagpipes. The tune this time seemed to make his hair rise straight up as he stood there, playing for Adrianna, playing for the other prisoners down there, playing for the Marine guards, some of whom stood in a respectful half-circle, watching him.

  The sound of the pipes seemed to carry out in the tropical air, the keening and whining cutting right through him, and he played the tune twice, conscious only at the end that he was weeping, which upset him, for he had never cried, not once, while playing the pipes at all those funerals that had haunted that fateful September.

  Then he was done. The pipes fell silent. He stood there, sweating, looking at the camp buildings and the cell blocks where the enemies of America awaited their fate.

  ‘Sir?’ came a voice.

  Brian turned. A young Marine stood there, ramrod-straight, and he said, ‘Sir ... if you don’t mind, what was that tune you were playing? I’ve never heard it before.’

  Brian tucked the silent bagpipes under his arm and said, ‘In the original Gaelic, it’s called “Cogadh no Sith.” It was made famous by a piper named Kenneth MacKay, who served with the 79th Cameron Highlanders during the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.’

  ‘No shit. Really?’

  ‘Really. The Highlanders were set up in a square, waiting for the French forces to counterattack. It was a desperate time. Nerves were on edge. Men were gripping their muskets, waiting for the charge. And Piper MacKay, he stepped out beyond the square of soldiers, beyond his comrades, and stood out there on the battlefield. Alone. And he marched around the square, playing “Cogadh no Sith”. Taunting the enemy to come out and fight. Which was what they did. And when the day was over, the French were defeated.’

  The Marine nodded. ‘Some story. The tune...what’s it called again?’

  “‘Cogadh no Sith.’”

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Brian said, ‘It means �
��War or Peace.’”

  “‘War or Peace.” Hell of a choice.’

  Brian looked at the confident face of the Marine, at his comrades lined up behind him, at the base here and everywhere else, out there in the big wide world that was more than New York City, much more.