Alexander Bocks felt the iron band of tension around the base of his skull start to ease, just a bit. He looked to Zane and said, ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘What branch of the service did you serve in?’
Monty smiled, started making notes on a legal pad in front of him. ‘All of them.’
The police detective interrupted. ‘All of them?’
‘Sure. Special program, set up after 9/11. Besides intelligence communities not talking to one another, there were also problems with branches of the military not talking to each other. Each branch had its own bit of turf, guarded quite jealously. Bunch of us were recruited to spend time with each branch, make contacts, know deep down how each side ticks. Help break down barriers. So I’ve trained and deployed with Army Special Ops, Air Force Special Ops, Navy SEALs… so forth and so on.’
‘And what branch did you start with?’
Zane said, ‘Coast Guard.’
The detective looked incredulous. ‘No shit?’
‘No shit. But as my mama used to say, let’s look to the future. General Bocks, how much time do we have with your aircraft before they have to land?’
Bocks said, ‘Depending on how far they got before we told them to hold and orbit — four, maybe five hours.’
‘Know this is a wild question, but I’ve got to ask it. Any airborne-refueling capability for your aircraft?’
Bocks shook his head. ‘No. They’re MD-11s, converted to cargo carriers. Pilot and co-pilot for a crew. That’s it. When they get low. on fuel, they’re going to have to come down. No choice about it.’
Monty turned to Randy and said, ‘These canisters — is there any way for the crew to get to them? Any access hatch, inspection plate — any way they can get their hands on them?’
‘No,’ Randy said.
‘Can they be disabled? Power shut off to them — circuit-breaker popped — anything like that?’
A violent shake of the head. ‘No, damn it… these canisters — they were designed to operate automatically. The radio-altimeter switch arms the canisters when they go above a certain altitude — and when the aircraft descends to the critical altitude they open up and start spraying. There’s no way to stop it. No fucking way. Guys, let’s face up to it. In a few hours, no matter what we do, those canisters are going to start spraying airborne anthrax over the United States, and there’s not a goddamn thing we can do to stop it.*
Carrie heard Sean work the communications through her earphones. ‘Ah, this is AirBox 107, broadcasting to our F-16 neighbors to port and starboard. How’s it going, guys?’
A male voice, coming through, loud and clear. ‘This is Lance One, lead aircraft here, good morning.’
‘And good morning to you. Where you from, guys?’
‘Ohio ANG, out of Toledo.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Sorry, repeat.’
Sean said, ‘Lance One, what’s up? What’s going on?’ His voice rose some. ‘Come on, Lance One. What’s your mission?’
A pause, another hiss of static. ‘AirBox one-oh-seven, we’ve been told to escort. That’s all.’
‘Escort us where?’ Sean demanded.
‘Don’t know yet, AirBox.’
Sean said, ‘Are your weapons hot? Are you? What’s going on with us? Is there a bomb on board? A nuke? A chem weapon?’
‘Ahh… AirBox one-oh-seven, be advised, we’ve been ordered to escort. And that’s all I can say. Lance One, out.’
Sean swore and Carrie looked at him, raised an eyebrow. ‘Goddamn Air Force, eh?’
He said, ‘Days like this, I cheer for the fucking Navy.’
Brian saw the General glare at his machinist guy and heard him say, ‘We’ve got a few hours. And in those few hours, we’ll come up with something.’
Monty said, ‘You got any ideas?’
‘Not a one,’ the General said, suddenly scribbling on his notepad. ‘But there is one thing I’ve got to do.’
‘What’s that?’ Brian asked.
The General stood up, and Brian saw that he was holding a sheet of paper, and that his hand was shaking. ‘Time to be straight with my crews. Time to tell them what’s going on.’
Brian said, ‘Sir, are you sure that—’
Bocks looked pissed. ‘They don’t know because me and you and your goddamn Adrianna thought they didn’t have a right to know. But they sure as hell do have a right to know now. And I’m going to take care of it, right now.’
He went out of the room, striking a chair with his hip as he went out to the main Operations Center. Monty said to Randy, ‘Your boss is one hard charger.’
Randy toyed with a pencil on the conference-room table. ‘The general’s doing just fine. Over a week ago, his biggest worry was whether my union was going to strike his ass over dental care. Now he’s worried about nineteen aircraft and thirty-eight people that work for him, plus the fact that his equipment is getting ready to kill hundreds of thousands of his fellow citizens. So cut the General some fucking slack, all right?’
‘Sure,’ Monty said.
‘Sure,’ Brian said.
The flashing light from the control pedestal caught her eye again, and Sean said, ‘Incoming message, Carrie.’
‘All right, then.’
The ACARS communication coming out was one long goddamn message. The strip of paper came out and came out and came out, and Carrie sighed as Sean reached down and tore it off. She held it up to the light and read:
AB 107
YOUR AIRCRAFT AND EIGHTEEN OTHER AIRBOXES CARRYING TWO CANISTERS IN AIR CONDITIONING PACK EXHAUSTS THAT CONTAIN AIRBORNE ANTHRAX.
REPEAT, YOUR AIRCRAFT CARRYING TWO CANISTERS IN AIR CONDITIONING EXHAUST PACKS THAT CONTAIN AIRBORNE ANTHRAX.
CANISTERS SET TO RELEASE ANTHRAX UPON DESCENT BELOW THREE THOUSAND FEET SORRY TO SAY NO METHOD CURRENTLY AVAILABLE TO ALLOW YOU TO DISABLE OR REMOVE CANISTERS.
CONTINUE TO HOLD CURRENT ALTITUDE. AVOID ICING CONDITIONS, MAXIMIZE FLIGHT ENDURANCE.
WE ARE WORKING TO RESOLVE ISSUE,
GET YOU AND AIRCRAFT SAFELY TO GROUND WITHOUT RELEASING ANTHRAX.
MORE TO FOLLOW.
Sean read the message and said, ‘Well, the General is there.’
‘Hurray for the General,’ Carrie said, crumpling up the message sheet and letting it fall to the cockpit floor. ‘Notice what he left out?’
‘Huh?’
She pointed out the windscreen, to their quiet escorts. Lance One and Lance Two.
‘He didn’t tell us what we already know. That those fine pilots out there, if they start seeing us descend, are going to blow us out of the sky. That’s what he left out. That if they don’t figure out something, something quick, we and the eighteen others are going to be shot down.’
Ahead of them dawn was breaking.
Brian listened to Monty and Randy debate options, plans, possibilities, and Brian yawned and rubbed at his sore chest and hoped that in the next few hours the Memphis police wouldn’t figure out where he was and come arrest his ass for assaulting that cop and the EMT. And for stealing the cop’s service weapon, one of the worst crimes to commit against a cop.
Monty said, ‘Look, isn’t there any way to get fuel in those wing tanks? Get a guy lowered down from a helicopter or something… get the cap off… get some fuel in. Anything to buy us some time.’
Randy said, ‘No. Shit, man, this isn’t like one of those Airport movies, where you’re going to get somebody dangling from a cable, ten thousand feet up, and ask him to unscrew a fuel cap about seven inches in diameter while the outside air temp is twenty below. Not going to happen. And even if you were able to get those fuel caps off, where is the fuel coming from? Air Force and Air National Guard are the only outfits that have airborne-refueling capability, and only with aircraft that have the refueling ports designed to receive a refueling hose. Otherwise you’d be trying to dangle something like a garden hose into a small hole while traveling at two hundred knots in mid-air. Can’t happen. Trust me, 1 know. I was in the Air Force long enough and my own son is a pilot for a refueling jet, the KC-135.’