Final Winter

He yawned again. Though, he thought, this particular wimp sure could use another few hours of sleep, in a real bed, not a red-webbed seat or some other airline chair.

The aircraft came down to the runway in the darkness. Monty folded his arms, idly thought of how many times he had been in aircraft before, and lost track just as the wheels touched down and there was a shudder as the plane settled in on the runway. There was the usual whine as the engines reverse-thrusted, and Monty looked around the interior of the well-lit cabin.

A woman’s voice came over the intercom: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to report that we must be the luckiest flight in the world tonight. We’ve been informed that due to some unknown circumstance at this time, the airport has closed, and no other aircraft will be allowed to land. Or take off.’

Some of the passengers started talking. Monty sat still, listened. Lucky choice, he thought, to disobey his pager orders and come back here to find out what the hell was going on.

‘In any event,’ the flight attendant continued, ‘thank you for choosing United, and welcome to Memphis.’

Soon enough, the aircraft reached the gate. There were plenty of blue lights flashing from vehicles on the runway, and then the flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom again, a bit shakier than before.

‘I’m sorry to say, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been informed that all passengers are to remain seated. There…there appears to be a security concern. Thank you for your patience and understanding.’

Monty looked at the faces of the other passengers, didn’t like at all what he was hearing. He unbuckled his seat belt and got up — always take an aisle seat, you don’t have to wait for some grandma or grandpa to let you go — and went to the overhead bin. He retrieved one of his black duffel bags — a bigger one was in the luggage hold, and he doubted he would see it before tonight was over — and he strolled up the aisleway. Some of the passengers started talking and pointing him out, and he ignored them.

A flight attendant came toward him, saying, ‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sit back down. We’re not allowed—’

He showed her his identification, waited a moment, and said, ‘Ma’am, I’ve got to get off this aircraft. Now.’

She looked at the identification, looked at him, and back to the identification. ‘We’ll go see the captain.’

Monty followed her perky butt as they went forward, and a passenger in first class eyed him closely as he went by. The guy had close-cropped hair and had on a coat and tie, and Monty nailed him right away: sky marshal, just making sure things were copacetic.

At the forward area, the attendant went into the open cockpit, where the captain and first officer were still in their seats. She passed over Monty’s identification, there was a quick confab, and the captain stood up and came to him as he stood by the closed cabin door.

‘Hell of an identification card you’re carrying there, Mister Zane,’ he said.

‘That it is.’

‘Says here… well, you could probably requisition me and this aircraft to fly you to Peking if you wanted to.’

‘Probably, but right now I just need to get off this aircraft.’

The captain handed Monty back his ID. He said, ‘Nothing’s moving out there. I can open the cabin door but you’ll be on your own.’

Monty shrugged. ‘I’ve been on my own in worse places.’

The captain said, ‘I’m sure as shit you’re right.’ Then he said to the flight attendant, ‘Louise, go ahead. Pop her open.’

Louise went to the red-colored door handle, swung it forward and there was a gentle whoosh as the door opened. The fresh air felt good. Monty went to the edge of the door, sat down, let his feet dangle over the side. He dropped the duffel bag to the runway below him, and then scooted out, grabbed onto the edge of the open door. He stretched out as far as he could, hanging there by his fingertips, and then he dropped. He let his body curl in a parachute fall, rolled onto his left side and shoulder, and then got up.

A spotlight got him before he reached his duffel bag. He raised his hands.

Two guys in black jumpsuits, body armor, helmets, and carrying automatic weapons with lit flashlight attachments under the stubby barrels approached at a fast trot. One guy shouted out, ‘You got someplace fucking important to go to, pal?’

Monty said, ‘That I do.’

‘Unless you’re the fucking president of the United States, I don’t think you’re going anywhere but a lock-up.’

Monty said, ‘All right if I slide my ID over?’

The second guy said, ‘Sure. Make it snappy.’

He dropped his identification wallet on the ground, gently tapped it with his foot so it slid over to the two guys. One of them picked it up and examined it with a small flashlight, while his partner kept his weapon trained on Monty. Good tradecraft.

‘Sorry, Henry,’ the guy examining the ID said.

‘Huh?’

He tossed the ID back to Monty, who snatched it in midair. The guy said to his partner, ‘Guess we had a presidential election and missed it. Mister Zane, where do you need to go?’