Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

‘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.’

A burst of static, and her voice came back, ‘…kill the little bastards. Right? We’ve got to kill the anthrax before it reaches the ground. Why not use jet fuel?’

Monty turned to Victor and said, ‘Is she right? Can jet fuel kill anthrax?’

Victor said, ‘I… I don’t see why not — jet fuel is petroleum-based, quite harsh to anthrax. But how do you get the fuel from their fuel tanks to the canisters?’

Carrie’s voice seemed to carry through the entire room. ‘Not fuel from our jet. Fuel from another jet. A refueling jet, like the Air Force KC-10 or KC-135. They have booms they lower to refuel aircraft. But instead of trying to fuel us up, they’d fly ahead of us while we’re descending to below three thousand feet. And when we cross that mark, they start dumping fuel. I’ve seen it before. The fuel makes a big cloud of vapor, and we and the anthrax will fly right through it. Very precise flying, but if it works… we can dump that anthrax into a big cloud of JP-4 aviation fuel. Kill it before it reaches the ground.’

Brian could not believe what he was hearing. Could it? Would it?

Monty said, ‘Victor — tell me it’ll work.’

Victor swallowed. ‘It’s… it’s possible… I mean, you won’t have a hundred percent… but hell, it’s a lot better than a shoot-down and having the anthrax spray out as the fuselage descends. Question is, can you get those refueling aircraft to those three AirBox planes in time?’