Final Winter

‘AirBox,’ he said.

‘You got it.’

~ * ~

A half-mile and thirty feet underground from his corner office, Alexander Bocks exited an elevator into his company’s Operations Center. Protected by steel-reinforced concrete and with its own independent power, water and air supply, the Operations Center kept track of every single AirBox aircraft in the air, from takeoff in Memphis to any of the scores of destinations in this part of the hemisphere.

Bocks walked into the dimly lit room, lined with desks and monitors. On the far wall was a large plasma screen depicting the continental United States, Mexico, the Caribbean, Canada and, in smaller subsets off to the left, Alaska and Hawaii. With a practiced eye, he looked up at the screen, saw the triangular icons marking those aircraft that were now airborne prior to the airport’s shutdown.

The overnight manager — an ex-Air Force air traffic controller named Pam Kasnet — stood up from her desk, headset on, as he approached.

‘What do we have up?’

‘Nineteen aircraft, all on their paths, all on schedule.’

‘Any word on a reopening?’

‘None.’

In the room there was the soft murmur of the operations staff who were keeping an eye on the aircraft and also keeping an eye on the package-sorting and distribution center. Smaller screens on some of the terminals displayed the interior of the buildings where packages and envelopes were continuously sorted, bagged and tagged. Bocks spared them a quick glance and went back to his overnight manager. What a fuck-up. Besides hammering his company’s schedule for the night, there was the more important Final Winter project, and he knew that very shortly he would need to let Adrianna Scott know what was going on.

‘The word I got is that there’s a threat against the airport, leading to the shutdown. You got anything more than that?’

Kasnet went to her desk. ‘Got an info fax from Homeland Security about two minutes before you arrived, sir. Seems two men on the terrorist watch list crossed over into the United States through Washington State last week.’

Bocks said, ‘Washington State? Hell of a thing to get us all spun up about.’

She said, ‘True, sir, but the county sheriff’s department found the body of one of those terror suspects about ten miles from here last night. They had information that he and his partner might have been in the area of the airport.’

‘Let me see the fax.’

Kasnet picked up a sheet of paper from her desk, passed it over.

Bocks looked at the paper, and felt his left arm fly out to grab the back of a chair so that he could sit down without collapsing in front of his manager. He managed to get in the chair, managed to sit still, all the while staring at two faces, the faces of the two men who had been here just a few days ago.

Mother of God and all the Saints preserve us, he thought. He had never passed out in his life, but he was sure that he was damn close to collapsing right now. Oh God, he thought, oh God.

‘Pam,’ he said, hating how hoarse his voice sounded.

‘Sir?’

‘Get Homeland Security on the line. A Deputy Director Janwick, from their Northwest Regional Office, in Spokane. Now. And— Hold on, wait.’

‘Sir?’

Stared at the paper, stared at the paper, all Bocks wanted to do was stare at the paper, and he felt things slipping away, felt it all slip away, and he forced himself to take a long, deep breath, put the paper down, and then look at his concerned manager.

Took another deep breath.

‘All right. Before you contact Homeland Security, listen to what I’ve got to say, and then do it. No questions. Understood?’

‘Sir.’ Kasnet had a small notebook and pen in her strong hands.

‘Send this ACARS message to all airborne aircraft. “Positive threat to your aircraft. Threat altitude sensitive. Do not descend below three thousand MSL. Declare emergency with air traffic control. Hold present positions at maximum endurance. Contact dispatch upon receipt of message.” Got that? Under no circumstances are they to descend. Make sure all nineteen aircraft acknowledge, and I want their confirmations passed on to me. All right?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. Get going.’

Kasnet went back to her desk, started raising her voice, and there was a quick huddle of her staff. Bocks let her be. She knew what she was doing. In a matter of seconds that message would be going out on ACARS — Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System — to those nineteen aircraft. He could count on her. She had a job to do and, right now, so did he.

He found an empty desk, unlatched his Blackberry PDA from his belt, checked something, and then started dialing a cellphone number. It rang and rang and rang, but there was no answer.

Adrianna Scott was gone.

~ * ~

He knew it was odd, but Randy Tuthill had never been woken up by a telephone in his life. He was always half-awake, laying in bed or a bunk over the years, whenever a phone rang. He claimed to Marla that he was psychic, and she would say, ‘Psycho, maybe,’ and that was that. So when the phone rang at 2:40 a.m. this morning, he got it before the second ring.