Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

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.

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 instantly 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.’