Final Winter

Monty said calmly, ‘Yes, I’m the military rep for this Tiger Team. Go ahead.’

‘When the jet tries to shoot down a cargo aircraft like this, how does it happen? Do they have laser beams? Anti-matter disintegrators? When they shoot it down, does everything turn to dust?’

‘No,’ Monty said. ‘You know that.’

‘Maybe I do, but I think you’ve all forgotten. Tell me how the aircraft would be shot down.’

Monty said, ‘There are F-15 Eagles or F-16 Falcons up there, with air-to-air missiles. Probably AIM-9 Sidewinders. If they get the order, they drop back, fire one, maybe two missiles. Heat-seekers. Go right into the engines, explode… aircraft spirals down, breaks up.’

Victor slapped the table for emphasis. ‘Exactly! You damn fools, don’t you see what this means? The fuselage remains intact. It spirals in. Even if the fuselage does start to break up, the canister is in there, self-contained, with its own radio-altimeter-triggered switch, and as it’s spiraling into the ground, sure as shit, gentlemen, that anthrax will be released, no matter how many missiles get fired at those aircraft.’

~ * ~

AirBox personnel might wear the same uniforms and have the same pension plan, and most had the same military background. But in the air that early morning were thirty-eight scared and angry men and women whose company loyalty was under a severe strain.

Among them was Helen Torrinson, the co-pilot aboard AirBox 10, which was currently orbiting a patch of Mississippi sky about twenty thousand feet above Biloxi. With her, in the captain’s seat, was Hank Harmon, also known as ‘Hammerin’ Hank’, not only for his checkered flying past with the Marines but also because of his habit of heading straight to one of Memphis’s nightspots whenever he got back from a flight. Helen — who had flown CM 30 transport aircraft in the Air Force Reserve — knew that in most other carrier companies Hank might have been grounded months ago for his drinking.

But AirBox, as the advertisements liked to point out, wasn’t like any other carrier.

And ever since that ACARS message had come through, Hank had remained pretty quiet for Hank, though Helen had noticed that his face had been turning grayer, with trick-les of perspiration dripping down his cheeks and neck. Her own attempts at conversation had been met with an occasional ‘yeah’ or a grunt as they continued to fly on autopilot.

But it had been the arrival of the F-15s — calling themselves Sword One and Sword Two — that finally triggered something.

Hank had whipped his head back and forth, leaning forward in his seat to get a better view of the escorting fighter jets, and he had started murmuring something, about plots, about death, and Helen had sat there, almost frozen with indecision.

What to do?

And then Hank made the decision for her.

He turned and said, ‘You know we’re dead, don’t you?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Christ, yes,’ he said. ‘We both know this fucking aircraft. You can’t get to those air-conditioning packs, you can’t unplug ’em, you can’t block ’em. If there’s anthrax down there, the only solution is to give those guys flanking us the shoot-down orders.’

‘Hank, we should just give them the time to—’

‘Fuck that. We need to act before they realize that a shoot-down is the only solution. Put on your oxygen mask.’

Helen put on her mask and switched on her microphone, and there was a click-click sound as Hank disconnected the aircraft’s autopilot and associated autothrottles.

Hank turned to her and said, ‘We’re going to get this piece of shit on the deck now!’

His right hand pulled the throttles to idle and extended the aircraft’s speed brakes. As Hank pushed the control yoke forward and lowered the nose, the aircraft’s rate of descent quickly increased.

Over the cockpit’s speaker, Helen heard the voice of one of their escorts: ‘Ah, AirBox Ten, this is Sword One, level off and halt your descent, please.’

Hank keyed the microphone. ‘Houston Center, AirBox Ten, we’re an emergency aircraft and we are now descending for immediate landing at Keesler Air Force Base.’

Helen felt herself being pressed back in the seat as the jet quickly descended. Declaring an in-flight emergency meant that for most intents and purposes Hank was the closest thing to an air god. He and she and this aircraft now had priority for everything, including an immediate clearance to land at any airfield in the vicinity. Hank could pretty much do anything he wanted to get the aircraft on the ground, and it was a hell of a gamble, because once they had landed there would be some serious hell to pay, from the FAA to the military to the General himself.

But they would be on the ground. That was what counted. Yeah, most times it would work.

But this wasn’t most times.

An urgent voice in the earphones: AirBox 10, AirBox 10, this is Sword One, Sword One, immediately resume your previous altitude. Immediately. Please acknowledge.’

Hank said nothing. The ground was approaching. Helen swallowed.

‘Hank?’

Not a word.