‘Yes, sir.’
In her vehicle, still heading north and thankfully away from the chaos unfolding in some parts of this cursed country, Adrianna Scott made it a point to listen to the news at the top of the hour, usually getting a CNN or AP news feed. She knew that she was tired and still had hours of driving ahead of her, but oh, was she pleased at what she was hearing.
She looked at the dashboard clock. It was seven a.m. Pretty soon those AirBox aircraft out there would be falling from the sky, no matter what, and there was no way that this day wouldn’t end with thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, exposed and later dying.
Time for the news. On went the radio, on went the woman announcer from CNN, who seemed like she wanted to cry: . . Homeland Security has issued an advisory to a number of counties in the states of Kentucky, Missouri and Pennsylvania. Residents in these counties are advised to remain indoors and close all doors and windows. Close dampers and flues to fireplaces. If possible, go into a room or basement with no windows. If you do not have a room or basement without windows, remain in a room and tape the windows closed. In any event, the advisory states that people in these counties need to be in a place with no openings to the outside. The counties affected are—’
Adrianna turned off the radio, sighed with satisfaction, and continued driving.
Monty put the pen down, raised his head and rubbed at his eyes. It was done, as much as could be done. He looked to the display board and all that was written up there was failure.
AirBox 15, over Missouri.
AirBox 107, over Pennsylvania.
AirBox 22, over Kentucky.
‘Doc,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, Monty.’
‘Worst-case scenario, how many deaths we got flying up there?’
And for once in his life, Monty thought, the good doctor didn’t dance around or try to rewrite the question. ‘Each canister has enough to infect about fifteen to twenty thou-sand people, if properly dispersed. Let’s say about a hundred thousand, in total.’
Monty heard the machinist guy whisper in awe, ‘A hundred fucking thousand…’
Yet the doctor wasn’t finished.
‘But that’s not the problem. The problem is what happens afterwards. You can’t expect people, once they get sick, to sit still at home. They’ll be heading out to hospitals, clinics, their mama’s house. Even with roads cut off by the National Guard and police forces, people will still get through, unless there’s a shoot-on-sight order, which I doubt this or any other President will issue. Which means more and more infections, more spread of the disease. By the end of a week,- we could have a half-million infected, with more to come.’
Monty kept his eye on the display screen. Just three aircraft. And he had a brief bout of nausea, thinking what might have happened if all the AirBox aircraft had taken off, and if this damn thing hadn’t been uncovered. Scores of aircraft would be descending over major cities right now, infecting millions upon millions…
‘Mister Zane.’
He turned as General Bocks rolled his own chair over to him. ‘Our crews have less than an hour’s flight time. Pretty soon, unless we tell them otherwise, those aircraft are coming down. What is to be done?’
Monty felt that nausea return. He swallowed, nodded, knew the harsh advice he had gotten from Homeland Security was the only thing left to do. ‘Sir…there is no choice… we have to vector those aircraft away from populated areas, to send them to mountain ranges or state or federal parks…and then I’m going to order those three aircraft shot down.’
‘You are, are you?’ Bocks said. ‘You’re going to kill six of my people, just like that?’
‘No, sir, not just like that,’ Monty said. ‘I’m going to kill those six people after a lot of agonizing thoughts, and I’m going to kill those six people so that six thousand or six hundred thousand aren’t dead this time next week. That’s what I’m going to do.’
‘The hell you will,’ Bocks said.
‘The hell I won’t,’ Monty said.
Bocks picked up a phone. ‘You’re not listening to me, Mister Zane. Those are my people, my aircraft up there. I’m the one who’s going to give the order. Not you.’
Steve Jayson of AirBox 15 couldn’t believe who he was hearing in his earphones so he said, ‘Ah, Dispatch, this is AirBox 15, repeat last, over.’
His pilot, Trent Mueller, glanced over at him with a questioning look, and then the voice came again. ‘Guys, this is General Bocks calling in. Can the both of you hear me?’
Steve toggled the microphone switch on the control yoke. ‘Sir, you’ve got us both. Go ahead.’
The General cleared his throat. ‘Guys, I’m not going to sugarcoat a damn thing. You’re in a hell of a spot. A hell of a spot due to decisions I made, bad decisions based on…well, that sounds like an excuse, and this isn’t the time for excuses.’
Fucking understatement of the year, Steve thought to himself. The General said, ‘We’ve gotten most of you safely on the ground. But there’s you and two other flights. Guys, we’re running out of time, and you’re running out of fuel. Those are hard facts. I’m sorry. But we’ve got to send you… we’ve got to send you over the remotest area that’s nearby. We’re going to have you head out to the Ozarks… we’re still trying to come to an answer, we haven’t given up yet, but if we don’t have that answer… we’re going to need you to be over the mountains. Do you understand?’
It was Trent’s turn to reply. ‘Sir, we understand. And I need to know something… sir.’
‘Go ahead, son.’
‘Our families. We need to know that our families will be taken care of. Get everything they need. No bullshit or stalling.’
Bocks said, ‘You got it. No bullshit or stalling. My personal guarantee.’
Trent said, ‘Then you’ll see us over the Ozarks, General. AirBox 15, out.’
Hugh Glynn was the captain of AirBox 22, and when the general signed off the air, his co-pilot, Stacy Moore, said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand that. What the hell was that all about?’
Hugh said, ‘We’re heading for the Smoky Mountains, Stacy. What else do you need to know?’
‘And what are we going to do when we get there?’
Hugh liked Stacy, had flown with her for several months, admired her skill as a co-pilot and her eye for details, but when it came to the big picture… Jesus. Sometimes she was as thick as a plank. He rubbed at his chest. Damned indigestion was coming back again… he was going to visit his doctor later this week but his schedule looked pretty damn full over the next seventy or so minutes.
‘What do you think?’
‘Our fuel is… oh… oh, no… please…’
‘Stacy, we’re heading to the Smokies. Get the charts out, all right?’
No answer.
Hugh looked over. Tears were in her eyes. ‘Stacy, we need those charts.’
He waited. Wondered what she was going to do. Wondered how this was going to end.
And then Stacy went to her chart pack, and for some reason Hugh felt good, even with the discomfort in his chest. They would go out as professionals. Not in a panicked frenzy.
Something to be happy about, at least.
Carrie Floyd of AirBox 107 sat in silence as they continued to go around in circles. For once Sean was silent as well. They had just gotten off the horn with General Bocks himself, and the brief conversation had just laid it out there. Nowhere to go, nowhere to land. But in a while it would be done. No doubt about that.
She looked at the fuel gauges. Less than an hour to go. Some decisions could be put off, some decisions could be put off forever. But the gauges didn’t lie. They were now outbound to the Poconos, and there was a sort of grim sense of humor there, about her and Sean ending up in that honeymoon paradise, no doubt to be spread over a few mountain peaks in a tumble of wreckage and scorched protein.