Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

He saw the familiar shape of the KC-135 out there on the horizon, felt his chest tighten with excitement — a welcome change from indigestion. Stacy was excited and who could blame her? Less than a half-hour ago, they were looking forward to becoming one of the first civilian aircraft to be blown out of the sky since 9/11 — a hell of an achievement that he could cheerfully have skipped.

Now, now there was a chance. A chance to make it through this day alive.

In his earphones, he heard Stacy say, ‘Pegasus Four, AirBox 22, we’re visual…’

The strong voice came back. ‘Roger, AirBox 22, you’re cleared in. Time is short, ma’am, so let’s get going.’

‘A pleasure, Pegasus Four,’ Hugh sent back. ‘A real pleasure.’

Steve Jayson of AirBox 15 had flown on some serious ass-puckering missions, including one in a sandstorm over Kuwait, and another time, coming into Gander when he was flying FedEx, with one engine and then two quitting on him just before landing. But nothing had prepared him for this particular mission, with his asshole crawling up to his mouth.

Ahead of them was the steel-gray KC-135, flying slightly below them, and behind the jet, trailing out, was the refueling boom, with a tiny wing on each side, spraying out fuel, a pinkish cloud that spread out wide. Trent was flying so tough and hard, chatting it up with Cheyenne Six, and Steve’s job was to monitor the instruments, especially the altitude, engine performance and time.

‘AirBox one-five, maintain two thousand feet.’

‘Roger that, Cheyenne Six. Maintaining two thousand feet.’

The KC-135 was so close that it seemed to fill the sky in front of them. In a bubble just above the refueling boom, a man was visible, maneuvering the boom. The boomer, he was called, and Steve was praying that the older man knew what in hell he was doing.

‘Looking good, AirBox 15.’

‘Thank you, Cheyenne Six.’

Another look at the gauges. Everything looked normal and level at two thousand feet. That was for sure. And down there, in the belly — the belly of the beast — that damnable anthrax was being sprayed. If the guys on the ground knew what they were doing, the vile stuff was being killed before it could reach the ground.

Steve kept his mouth shut, knowing that Trent was so fucking busy, keeping everything in place. Just a few minutes more and—

Jesus!

A bump of turbulence or something and the damn refueling boom was closer and closer and—

THUD!

The top of the boom struck the hull, right near the wind-screen, and Jayson didn’t know what to say, when—

Trent tweaked the yoke, just tweaked it, and the KC-135 was where it should be, back in position. Steve swallowed and the radio crackled. ‘Nice job, AirBox one-five.’

‘Thanks,’ Trent replied

Steve tried to swallow again. He couldn’t. His throat was too dry.

Hugh Glynn on AirBox 22 got to where he had to be, his chest burning again, and saw the fuel boom extend from the rear of the Air Force jet. His co-pilot said, ‘All right, just twenty minutes of flying, Hugh. That’s all. We can get on the ground nice and safe. Twenty minutes of flying and we’re done.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

The jet seemed to grow larger in the windscreen as they approached.

In his earphones, Captain Thomas Tuthill heard his boomer Master Sergeant Bobby Hiller say, ‘AirBox flight is in place, captain.’

‘All right. Start the dump. When you reach fifty thousand pounds, shut her down. We’ve got another AirBox flight depending on us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He switched from intercom to radio, called out, ‘AirBox 22, Pegasus Four.’

‘Pegasus Four, good day.’

‘Good day, sir. We’re dumping fuel now. Maintain altitude and speed.’

‘Roger, Pegasus Four.’

Thomas Tuthill looked over to his co-pilot, Lt Travis Wood. ‘Hey, Trav.’

‘Sir?’

‘What a job, huh?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well, at least you’re getting what you want.’

‘What the hell is that… sir?’

He punched his co-pilot lightly on the arm. ‘You said you wanted to do more in the war on terror — so here’s your chance.’

‘Shit. Lucky me.’

‘Nope,’ Tuthill said. ‘Lucky us.’

The pink cloud in front of AirBox 15 suddenly slowed and disappeared. Steve Jayson said, ‘Trent, what the fuck is going—’

And then the interruption: ‘AirBox 15, this is Cheyenne Six. Gas station is empty, we’re heading home — suggest you do the same.’

Trent Mueller said, ‘Cheyenne Six, nearest piece of flat concrete you got, that’s where you’ll find us. Thank you and good day.’

‘Good day to you, AirBox 15.’

Steve checked the fuel gauge. Less than twenty minutes’ worth of flying. He was going to say something but what was the point?

‘Trent?’

‘Yeah?’

The jet was now descending and turning, and off there in the distance was a beautiful, beautiful county airfield that was probably too small but was going have to do.

‘Trent, whatever happens, a brilliant piece of flying. Beautiful.’

‘Hey, that’s very nice of you. Want to do something for me?’

‘Sure.’

‘Shut the fuck up so we can get this piece of metal on the ground.’

‘You got it, Trent.’

Back in the Operations Center the low roar of phone calls, keyboards being tapped and people talking was starting to subside. Monty sat back, feet up on a desk, looking at the display board and the three icons marking the last of the AirBox flights. Brian Doyle sat next to him, hands folded across his lap. Tuthill and the General were confabbing about something, and Victor being Victor, the doc was keeping to himself.

Monty said, ‘Ever hear the expression “hoist on your own petard”?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Know what it means?’

‘Not sure. I think it means something about getting fucked-up because of something you yourself did. Am I right?’

Monty kept his gaze on the display screen. ‘Yep. Came from a line in Shakespeare, from Hamlet. A petard was a crude explosive device, used to breach gates. But they were tricky to use. Sometimes the fuse burned too quick and blew up the guy setting the bomb, as well as the gate. Hence, to be hoist on one’s own petard.’

Brian said, ‘When this is all done with, I guess the Tiger Teams will be one huge petard.’

‘Yeah. Lots of books and TV scripts will be written about this fuck-up when we’re through — but they’ll miss the essential story.’

‘Which is what?’

‘Which is that we had to do something after 9/11. The Tiger Teams were a great idea. It was the staffing of them that caused this disaster. Always goes back to the people factor. Not the technical factor. It’s the people that make it work, and in this case, it was the people — Adrianna and those CIA people, years ago, who did a shit-ass job of checking out her background — who failed us.’

‘Nice essential story, but I don’t feel too essential. I feel like we came within minutes of killing several million people. Not the kind of way I’d like to spend my days.’

Monty reached over and slapped Brian on the leg. ‘True enough, my friend. And I’ll make you two predictions. By the end of this week, the Tiger Teams will be done. And a week after that, they’ll be planning something else to replace them. For something like the teams are always needed. No matter what we and others did, the main essential truth still remains: there are many, many people who want to do us harm, and the old ways of protection don’t work.’