Final Winter

They walked to the entranceway leading to the inside of the AirBox terminal system. Around them workers in AirBox jumpsuits were hustling to unload their flight, and Carrie spared a glance back to where the scissors-cargo unloaders were sidling up the fuselage. With the way they worked, the damn plane would be empty in less than twenty minutes. A hell of a system. Still had to give the General credit, though the damn penny-pinching during the last quarter had been a royal pain in the ass. Everything from reduced fuel burn and landing reserves to the per diem being cut back — there were struggles going on out there, and she hoped the General would win this one without too much of a fight. She really needed to fly, and with her record she really needed the job.

Then she spotted another man out there in the unloading crew, with a jumpsuit that looked cleaned and ironed. This guy wasn’t manhandling pallets of freight off the MD-11. He was standing there, holding something in his hand, wearing a set of earphones that connected to the wandlike piece of equipment in his grasp. Every now and then he went over to one of the passing pallets. The other crew members ignored him.

Sean saw where she was looking and said, ‘Homeland Security on the job again.’

‘Yeah, but it still gives me the creeps.’

‘What’s the matter? Afraid we slipped a suitcase nuke into Memphis, on its way to Manhattan?’

‘Nothing to joke about,’ Carrie said, and she walked across the tarmac, her co-pilot at her side. She knew she had been snippy but she was tired and she was in no mood for jokes about terrorism.

As they climbed up the stairs to the main floor of the freight terminal, she said, ‘Sean, see you in a bit.’ Sean looked over, a bit surprised.

‘What’s up?’

‘Got to see a man about something.’

‘Where?’

‘Dispatch.’

He frowned. ‘Be careful.’

Carrie smiled at him. ‘There are old pilots, there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots, and I’m not feeling too bold. Just a tad cranky. But I’ll be careful.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and added: ‘I like flying with you, Carrie. Don’t screw anything up.’

‘I won’t.’

Sean went on, while Carrie kept walking down the hallway, noticing with her mom’s eyes how untidy parts of the building were beginning to look. Despite the cheery commercials on television and the media’s continuing love affair with the General and his somewhat unorthodox way of doing business, AirBox was barely hanging on. And when you’re hanging on from a cliff by your fingernails, worrying whether your hair was combed was way the hell down on your list of concerns.

Down the hallway, up two flights of stairs, and she was outside the dispatch center. There was a row of light orange plastic chairs — and why in hell did these chairs always have to be light orange? Why not blue? Or yellow? — and she took one, placing her kit bag down by her feet. In front of her was a door marked Dispatch with a keypad by the doorknob, and she waited. She should have been checking out with Sean. She should have been getting ready to get home and spend some time with Susan before her daughter went off to school. She should have been doing something else instead of sitting here, but instead she waited.

Carrie hoped that she wouldn’t have to wait long.

And what the hell, her hopes came true.

The door clicked open and two people came out, a heavyset woman and a tall, thin guy with a stringy mustache. Hank, the soft-spoken dispatcher. He must have just cracked a joke because the woman was laughing as they stepped through the door, which snapped shut behind them. Either they didn’t see Carrie or didn’t care. Just another pilot. Down the hallway they went, to the restrooms, and as the guy went into the one marked Gentlemen Carrie stood up and went down the hallway, carrying her kit bag.

She caught Hank as he stood in front of the sink, a comb in his hand. She noted the look of shock on his face as she came through the door. Then he gave her a brief glance of recognition, and started out with a little joke. ‘Hey, Carrie, didn’t you notice the sign outside, the one that—’

Not a word from her side. She stepped up and swung her black leather case at the back of his legs, hitting him hard, and followed that up with a kick to the ankles. Hank yelped and fell down in a tangle and then she was on him, her knees slamming down on his chest, her hand now on his throat.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ he called out. ‘What the hell do you think—’

Carrie grasped his thin throat and squeezed, making him squawk.

‘You shut the fuck up and listen,’ she said, leaning down to him. ‘Shut the fuck up. Got it?’

A muffled squawk, his eyes wide.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Listen and listen well, pal. You call me Splash one more time, either over the air, in private, or in your home while you’re whacking off in the bathroom, then I’m gonna come back and tear your balls off and feed ’em to the catfish. You got it?’