Sean said, ‘AirBox one-oh-seven’ as he changed the radio’s frequency. Then a different voice announced itself: ‘AirBox one-oh-seven.’
‘Departure, AirBox one-oh-seven, passing feet for five thousand,’ Sean said.
‘AirBox one-oh-seven, climb to one zero thousand, heading zero two zero, proceed to CENTRALIA when able, and proceed via your flight plan.’
Carrie loved this, loved the feeling of going up into the air, everything under control, everything nominal, clear night sky and nothing ahead but hours of blissful flying, heading to CENTRALIA, their first departure point — or fix — on their way to Boston.
‘What do you say, Sean? Let’s have a good flight.’
‘You got it, Carrie.’
Brian looked up as one AirBox aircraft, and then another, and another, took off over him, deafening him with the noise of their engines. The pistol was out of bullets. He dropped the useless piece of metal on the ground.
He twisted his head to follow the aircrafts’ flight, knowing that each of them was carrying something horrible, something deadly, and that he had failed to prevent them from taking off.
He clenched his fists, screamed up in frustration at the departing aircraft.
Adrianna lowered the binoculars, smiling widely with happiness. One after another, her gifts to America had taken off to spread across this wide and darkened land. She felt her heart swell with joy, thinking of what was in every one of those aircraft, thinking of what was going to be sprayed out over all those cities in just a matter of hours.
She went back to her car, binoculars in hand, ready to leave this soon-to-be-dead nation.
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Alexander Bocks was in his office at 2:30 a.m. when the phone call came in.
‘Mr Bocks?’
‘You got him.’
‘Sir, this is Carl Goodson, on-duty airport manager.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Sir, we’ve got a threat report from Homeland Security. We’re shutting down operations, sealing the grounds and aircraft.’
Bocks leaned forward in his chair, something nasty beginning to chum in his stomach. ‘What’s the basis of the threat?’
‘Not known at this time, sir. We’ve been advised to close down. More information to follow.’
‘Who’s your contact with Homeland Security?’
Goodson said, ‘Deputy Director Janwick. From the Northwest Office.’
‘Give me his number.’
Goodson did just that. Bocks said, ‘All right. I’m out of my office now. I’m going to my Operations Center. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
He could hear Goodson sigh. ‘Might be a while, sir. I’ve got other calls to make.’
Bocks stood, ready to hang up. ‘I’m sure you have.’
By the time he reached his office door, he was running.
Something flickering and blue caught Brian’s eye. He turned and saw a patrol car coming up the access road, blue lights flashing, headlights flickering left-right-left-right. About goddamn time.
A side spotlight nailed Brian as he stood there, still listening to the jets taking off. He raised his arms as the car stopped and two airport cops stepped out.
As they approached he held his palms flat out, showing that he wasn’t carrying a thing.
One cop said, ‘Freeze — don’t even think of moving.’
‘You got it.’
The other cop said, ‘Kneel down.’
‘Nope.’
The first cop said, ‘Kneel down, or we’ll—’
Another jet roared overhead.
Brian said, ‘I’m Brian Doyle. Detective from the New York Police Department. Detached to the Federal Operational and Intelligence Liaison Agency. This is an emergency. I need to see Alexander Bocks, head of AirBox, right now.’
The second cop said, ‘What the hell were you doing, shooting off your pistol like that?’
‘Trying to get somebody’s attention.’
‘You sure the fuck achieved that,’ the first cop said.
‘You got ID?’ the second cop asked.
‘Wallet. Left rear pocket.’
The first cop said, ‘Pull it out, using two fingers, toss it over here.’
Another jet went overhead. Brian did as he was told and said, ‘Guys, no offense, but we’re wasting time. This is a Homeland Security emergency. We’ve got to—’
‘Hold it. And stand right there.’
The two cops huddled, looking at his wallet, and he was mg to say something, something sharp, when he realized how quiet it was.
Quiet.
The aircraft had stopped taking off.
Brian looked over at the runway. Aircraft were there, sitting still. More flashing blue lights from other vehicles were racing along the runway, heading to the parked aircraft.
The cops came to him. ‘Where do you need to go?’
‘AirBox. I need to see General Bocks.’
The first cop said, ‘We can get you there, but it’s not up to us whether you get to see the General.’
‘Got it.’
Monty Zane stifled a yawn, looked down at the lights of the runways and the city beneath him. It had been a long, long day, and an even longer night. The trick in flying so much was to catch as much sleep as you could, no matter which way you were traveling across the globe, no matter which time zone you ended up in. Earlier Monty had read stories about those ‘business-class warriors’ who traveled on behalf of their corporate masters and who tried to cope with jet lag. Everything from special diets to special exercises to special music CDs to listen to as you ‘reorganized your inner energy’ or some such shit. Hah. Just get as much sleep as you needed and try to store up some zees, ‘cause in some of the places Monty had traveled to jet lag was for wimps.
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.