Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Henry said, ‘Oh. Okay, I get it.’

  Another touch of her hand upon him. ‘But...you see, it’s nearly impossible for me to do this. I’ve checked the official records of the incident, and there’s no record of this soldier’s name. So I’m doing the next best thing. When I travel, I go to the local VFW or American Legion Hall, and try to thank all the veterans from the first Gulf War that I can. I figure that this way, I just might thank the right soldier, without even knowing it.’

  Henry seemed confused, which was fine, especially since the waitress had warned her that he wasn’t particularly bright, which would serve her purpose so well. He took a swallow from his beer glass and said, ‘But there’s one other thing I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Karen, the waitress...she said that the girl sitting here wanted to meet a Gulf veteran, but that he had to be single and kinda good-looking. What’s that about?’

  Adrianna picked up her beer bottle, gently suckled the top as she took a swallow, and then reached out for the last time and caressed the man’s wrist, making sure he got a good look at her tight slacks, in addition to the white tank top, her nips so hard now that they almost hurt.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Maybe I want to say thank you in another way. Interested?’

  Henry’s eyes lit up, like little horny diodes back there had just clicked on. ‘God, yes.’

  She leaned forward, close enough so that her hair tickled his face. ‘Good. I have a room at a motel, a couple of miles away. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘You got it, babe.’

  ~ * ~

  The motel was called the Longstreet Arms, and Adrianna had earlier rented an end unit there. She was on Henry the moment the door closed. She dropped her coat on the floor and her purse as well, and the man grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close. His beard scratched her face and she kissed him, kissed him hard, and his mouth was open and slobbering and she started bumping and grinding against a thigh, and that got him going, too. His hands grabbed her ass and she forced herself to giggle as she dropped to her knees, started unzipping his jeans.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus, you are one hot babe...God!’

  Sure she was, Adrianna thought, deftly pulling his hardening member free from his soiled white underwear - ugh. She was hotter than any other small-town babe he had gotten in the past few years, she thought, he’d have been lucky to get some chain-smoking overweight hausfrau with bad teeth and tattoos from high school sloppily inked on her shoulder blades. Adrianna forced herself not to grimace, not to give in to the gag reflex as she took him into her mouth.

  Henry shuddered and leaned back against the door, his hands now in her hair. She continued the repulsive act for a few moments before pulling away and looking up at him, smiling. ‘Time to get comfortable, don’t you think?’

  He was grinning, breathing hard, eyes glassy. ‘Oh, shit, yes, babe. You got it.’

  Adrianna stood up, took him by the hand, led him over to the bed. The room had light green wall-to-wall carpeting, a TV on a stand, and a bathroom that looked like it got cleaned regularly, every spring and fall. Henry worked fast to undress himself, and she helped him along. She didn’t protest when he pulled down her tight white slacks and pulled her tank top over her head. Now that her breasts were exposed, he growled and grabbed them. She couldn’t help herself when she winced as he worked on her nipples. She gently took a hold of his hands and said, ‘Don’t worry, hon, they’ll be there later. Lay back, now, why don’t you?’

  He fell back on the bed and she straddled him, grinding her butt on his erection. His hands went back up to her breasts and then she leaned down to kiss him and whispered in his ear, ‘Want to try something kinky?’

  ‘Shit, yes,’ he said, grinning. ‘Would love to.’

  ‘Then close your eyes.’

  Henry did as he was told, and Adrianna clambered off the bed, thinking joyfully, there he goes, just like the other ones, thinking with the wrong head. She went down to her purse, snapped it open, took out the two metal instruments, and within a very few seconds she had handcuffed his hands to the headboard of the bed.

  ‘Hey!’ he protested. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  She was amused to see how small the other head was, now that it was shrinking away. She straddled him again, kissed him on the lips, and said, ‘Shhhh, dear one, everything will be explained shortly. Just keep quiet.’

  ‘The hell I will!’ he yelled, yanking at his cuffed wrists, the metal restraints rattling against the headboard. ‘You get me out of here, you crazy bitch, I’m not into this kind of kinky stuff, this goddamn bondage, not at all, and if you don’t let me out of here right now, I’ll—’

  As he was raving, Adrianna went back to the floor, retrieved her purse, and came back up onto the bed to straddle him. She opened her purse and took out a Black Attack folding knife, which she snapped open. She poked the very point of the blade into his chin, right through his beard. A bead of blood suddenly appeared in the whiskers. Henry froze, his eyes wide with shock and fear, his arms now trembling.

  ‘Got your attention?’

  No reply. She gently moved the point of the blade again, and Henry moaned.

  ‘Got your attention?’ She asked again.

  ‘Yes,’ Henry said, his voice thin. ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Good.’

  Adrianna took a deep breath, felt the shuddering shame of thrill and excitement flow through her like a heavy slug of maple syrup, just sliding down one’s throat. She leaned over him and said, ‘I want to know more, Henry. Tell me more about your war in Iraq, back in ‘91. Do tell me more.’

  ‘Wh-why?’

  ‘Hmm, a good question,’ she said. ‘Hold on. Don’t move, and maybe I won’t hurt you.’

  Back to the floor and to her purse, from which she took out a thin leather wallet. She returned to her handcuffed man on the bed — noticing right away the stench now rising up from him, wondering how automatic that was, the body reacting to being put in unavoidable danger - and straddled him again. She was conscious that she was naked, save for the pink-thong panties, but she didn’t really care.

  Adrianna held up the leather wallet, flipped it open. ‘See the photo? Not a bad likeness, is it?’

  ‘Noo…nooo, it’s not.’

  ‘See what it says?’

  ‘It says ... Adrianna Scott - and, Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking CIA agent! What the hell is this?’

  The knife point went back to his chin. He winced and she said coldly, ‘For someone who can walk and breathe at the same time you’re pretty stupid, Henry. We’re not CIA agents. We’re CIA officers. Got it?’

  He moaned again. ‘Please...what the fuck do you want? Huh? What the fuck do you want?’

  Adrianna leaned into him again. ‘I want you to tell me a story. A story about killing Iraqis. Tell me a story. That’s all. Is that so hard?’

  Henry closed his eyes. Another bead of blood appeared in the bristles of his beard. His chest moved rapidly, up and down, underneath her splayed legs. He said, ‘A story...that’s all? A story?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘And to be fair, I’ll tell you a story in return, all right?’

  Eyes clenched shut, Henry said, ‘Our tank was called Killer Kobra. Part of K Company. All tanks had names beginning with the letter of their company. We...we...set off at 0300 hours, H-Day, the day we made our swing out east, heading up into Iraq. The classic left-hand hook. It was flat, rocky land. Great terrain for tanks. Lots of room to maneuver...we’ll probably never have an advantage like that, ever again. We were about twenty klicks north of the border, when we had our first contact...three Soviet-era BMPs, personnel carriers—’

  Another jab of the knife. ‘I know what BMPs are, you fool. Go on.’

  ‘Then...then we saw a T-72, coming up over a sand dune. The poor son of a bitch probably didn’t even know we were there...Bruce, our tank commander, called for a Sabot round ... I pulled it up, chamb
ered it...boom!...goddamn thing, we could see the turret spin up...those T-72s were goddamned deathtraps, they were ... we motored up and a few minutes later, we slowed down as we went past it... no reason ‘cept none of us had ever seen anything like that, in a real war...’

  Adrianna said, ‘What did it look like?’

  Henry’s eyes flashed defiance. ‘What the hell do you think? The tank was still burning when we got there...and there were a couple of crispy critters, hanging over the side -didn’t even fucking look like humans...but you know what? They were the enemy - that’s what - we had to do what we had to do ... so...anything else?’

  She shook her head, feeling her breathing quicken. ‘No ... no, I don’t think so, Henry. I think it’s my turn, I do ...’

  She shifted her weight, felt sweat trickle down her naked back. ‘Before I start, I need to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of Amiriyah?’

  ‘Amir what?’

  ‘Amiriyah. It was a bomb shelter for civilians, in a nice neighborhood in western Baghdad. You never heard of it?’

  A shake of the head, a clatter of the handcuffs.

  Adrianna took the knife, gently moved it across Henry’s right cheek. ‘I don’t doubt it. Why bother? It was just an unfortunate part of the first Gulf War. Everybody remembers Kuwait and the Highway of Death and Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf and the yellow ribbons and the victory parades after the war. Right? Pretty parades in pretty towns, flags and cheering. I bet you went to a parade like that, Henry, right? A nice parade, nothing like those poor Iraqi boys got when their war was over. Most of the Iraqis killed were just poor ignorant farm-boys, many with their first pairs of shoes, and they ended up burned or blown to pieces or turned into dust by you and your weapons.’

  Her breathing was really quick now, and she went on, the words tumbling past each other.

  ‘But let’s get back to Amiriyah, shall we? It was a bomb shelter that was used by hundreds of civilians every night, when the air-raid sirens howled in the air. Ever hear an air-raid siren, Henry? It makes a wailing noise that cuts right through you, turns your guts into water, as you wait for the bombs or missiles to strike. But the civilians who got into Amiriyah, they thought they were safe. It was a bomb shelter. Everyone knew the Americans had smart weapons. Everyone knew they would be safe if they got inside Amiriyah.’

  Adrianna had to stop, her breathing was so hard. To her own ears, her voice was changing, the way the syllables were coming out, it was all different. She said, ‘But the Americans weren’t as smart as we thought they were, and they weren’t as smart as they thought they were. For early on the morning of February 13, 1991, the shelter was bombed by the Americans. More than three hundred civilians - mostly women and children - were incinerated. Instantly. Including my papa and mama. Do you understand? My mama and papa, two of the sweetest, kindest and most intelligent people in the world, struck dead by your bombs.’

  Henry’s mouth was moving, like he was trying to say something, and she grabbed the identification wallet she had shown him earlier and flung it across the room, spitting out the words. ‘My name is not Adrianna Scott. It is Aliyah Fulenz. I am an Iraqi Christian woman, and I am here to seek justice.’

  ‘But...but...the CIA...how in God’s name did they ... I don’t believe you...’

  She felt herself smile. ‘For even as a young girl, I was quite smart, Henry. After my parents were murdered by you, I came to the United States. I lived with an aunt, and soon after I came here I started with my work. My story. My setting up of false identification papers was so easy, even at a young age. And the CIA? Once they started going through my background, they went as far as my high school years. Which was typically American, save that I was an orphan child, adopted by an elderly aunt, who had passed away. So there was no one left alive to contradict my story. No one. No one at all. It was so easy...’

  Adrianna brought the knife up to Henry’s chin again. ‘So that was my story. And here’s another one.’ She pushed the knife in again while Henry groaned. ‘I have schemed and worked and planned and now find myself, with God’s help, I have no doubt, in a position of power. Of authority. Of trust and responsibility. And the people who have put their trust in me, they have no idea, not even a concept of what I am about to rain down upon them. For you see, in a few weeks’ time, aircraft will be flying out at night, to all places in the United States. Secreted aboard them will be canisters. Those installing the canisters will believe that they contain something benign. But they won’t. They will be carrying weaponized anthrax, Henry, weaponized anthrax that will be spread across your largest cities. And panicked people, already infected, will stream out into the countryside.’

  Henry was whimpering as she twisted the knife against him. ‘Everyone you know and love and cherish will be dead in less than two months, Henry, including your bastard whore empire that runs across the world like some elephant run amok, crushing everything in its path. Do you hear me, Henry?’

  ‘Please...please, no, don’t tell me any more...why are you telling me this...?’

  Another twist of the knife, another moan. ‘Because I’m human, Henry. I couldn’t have gone all these years without telling someone, so every now and then, when the pressure becomes too much, when I feel I’m losing my focus, my anger, I seek one of you out. One who has killed my countrymen, who helped kill my parents, and then I unburden myself...and I feel so much better when I’m finished.’

  Henry was crying now. ‘Please...please don’t tell me any more...please don’t say anything more about you or anthrax or anything else . . .’

  ‘Why, Henry?’

  Snot was oozing out of his nose. ‘Because...because I’m afraid you’re going to kill me, that’s why . . .’

  She nodded.

  ‘Henry, you’re absolutely right.’

  And with that, Aliyah Fulenz took her knife and slit the man’s throat.

  ~ * ~

  PART TWO

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ten miles out of Memphis International Airport, Carrie Floyd stretched her fingers for a moment, above the control yoke of the AirBox McDonnell Douglas MD-11 that she and her co-pilot, Sean Callaghan, were piloting in the last few minutes of AirBox Flight Twelve, San Jose to Memphis. She was thirty-five years old and a veteran of the US Navy, and while she loved flying for AirBox - truth be told, she was lucky to be flying for any commercial outfit with the current airline industry slump - she hated the hours. AirBox was one of the handful of companies that guaranteed overnight delivery in the continental United States, which meant a hell of a lot of flight crews and package handlers worked vampire hours. Not fun for a single mom, and she thought briefly about seven-year-old Susan, down there dreaming, safe and snug in her own home and bed.

  ‘AirBox Twelve, switch to the tower now on one one nine point seven,’ came the quick, professional male voice of Memphis Approach Control through her earphones.

  ‘Roger, AirBox Twelve, switching,’ Sean said, toggling the radio-microphone switch on the control yoke.

  Before them were the bright lights of Memphis, home to a hell of a lot of history and to Graceland — which Carrie had yet to visit, and doubted she ever would - and the international airport. Stuck in Tennessee but home to lots of cargo carriers like FedEx and Airborne and AirBox, and the number one airport in the world for moving packages. A hell of a thing. She focused on her flying, let her co-pilot handle the communications.

  ‘Memphis Tower, AirBox Twelve, checking in on the visual to three six right,’ Sean said, noting the number of the runway ahead of them, 36R.

  ‘AirBox Twelve, cleared to land, three six right, winds at five zero four zero.’

  Sean replied crisply, ‘Roger, AirBox Twelve, cleared to land, three six right.’

  In front of Carrie now were the lights of the airport, and the white marker lights that outlined all nine thousand feet of their runway. Compared with what she’d had to deal with during her Navy career, flying S-3 Vikings off and o
n aircraft carriers, the airport runway looked huge, as big as the county. There was plenty of room to land, and with light winds and a clear night it should be routine. Now, try landing on a couple of acres of steel, rolling and heaving and pitching, with no room for error, no room for anything going wrong - though, of course, things do go wrong and maybe that was the real reason she was shuttling packages at midnight across CONUS and not ferrying passengers to London during the daylight and working for a real airline—