“What do you have in mind?” Luke asked cautiously.
“The United States government would like to accept your proposal.”
Luke’s eyes widened. It couldn’t be.
“On two conditions.”
“What?”
“First, that you allow the United States to send through your school certain . . . foreign students who have been clamoring to get into our TOPGUN or Red Flag for a long time. This would be a means for us to encourage and . . . um, reward our allies who do not have the same training opportunities that U.S. pilots have. Sort of a diplomatic plum.”
“What foreign students?” Luke asked, searching for future problems.
“I don’t really have any in mind right now. It could be any number of them with whom we currently have defense treaties or to whom we sell arms; but they would have to be capable of accomplishing the rigorous training conducted at the school.”
“Who would decide who comes?”
The Undersecretary looked into Luke’s eyes. “I would.”
“What about clearances?”
“That would all be in my area of responsibility. They would all be preapproved. You would simply need to give me the quotas I request, and I would then tell you who would be coming. The countries would pay you directly, and you could charge whatever you want. Perhaps an amount substantially over your actual cost, so that you can make a profit. The U.S. students could be charged at cost, which would include your amortized expenses of the airplane leases, the airfield, and the like. In fact, we could even reserve certain quotas for American students that would equal the amount attributable to the lease value of the MiGs and the air base. You could charge the foreign students whatever you want and get whatever you can from them. That’s where you would get your profit.”
Luke was amazed. “You’ve actually thought this through. I’d never even thought of that approach.”
“There are many possible scenarios.”
Luke looked around to see if anyone was nearby. The road was silent, and the sky was growing lighter by the minute. “You said there were two conditions.”
“Yes. The second will be acceptable to you. I promise.”
“What is it?”
Merewether took a long time to remove a cigarette from a pack and light it with a gold lighter that looked very expensive. He inhaled deeply and looked at Luke again as he slipped the lighter into his coat pocket. “As you probably know, when we purchased the MiG-29s from Moldova, we also purchased five hundred Russian air-to-air missiles.”
Luke nodded.
“It has long been our intention to conduct actual air-to-air test firings of those missiles with telemetry, so we can get the most accurate information possible on their performance. It has never been done because we don’t have airplanes capable of firing them. The MiGs are capable. So part of this deal is that you would agree to test the Russian missiles from the MiG-29s within the first twelve months of the school’s being open. That way we can get the telemetry we need.”
“Seriously? You want us to actually fire them?”
The Undersecretary smiled. “I thought you might be agreeable to that condition.”
“We’d get paid for that work?”
“Aha, the businessman wakes. Yes. Of course. You would be paid handsomely through a government contract for your work.”
“Why did you need to come here to tell me that? Why not call?”
“I’m not actually here to see you. I’m on my way to Tonopah to see how much needs to be done to get the air base ready. I flew into Reno, and you were nearby. I thought I’d stop and tell you myself.”
“So what do I do now?” Luke asked.
Merewether grinned in a way that made Luke uneasy. “Someone from my office will be in touch. Your letter of resignation has been accepted, as well as that of your friend, Lieutenant Thurmond. You’ll both be out of the Navy in sixty days.” Merewether extended his hand.
Luke smiled as he shook Merewether’s hand and tried to control his excitement. He couldn’t wait to tell Katherine. “I look forward to it,” he said, as Merewether returned to his car and it began backing out of his long driveway. Watching it go, all he could think of though was what Thud’s father had said in their meeting: “Don’t trust the government, don’t trust the government.” But then Thud’s father was paranoid.
* * *
Bill Morrissey wasn’t accustomed to getting interesting data that didn’t fit with other things he knew. He was used to getting no data, or bad data. But having good, hard intelligence that he couldn’t explain drove him crazy. And now there was more. He looked at Cindy Frohm who had asked to see him right away. She had new information that had just come across her desk. “Talk to me,” he said.
“The armory was attacked in the middle of the night. Pakistan isn’t telling anyone about it. Not even us, officially. We got this through our Air Force attaché in Islamabad. We’ve had it confirmed. Ten or more men attacked the armory, killed the gate guard and three guards at the armory itself. No shots fired by the guards at all. Two of them were found miles away and two at the armory.”
“And this was on a Pakistani Air Force base.”
“Yes.”
“How the hell do you break into an armory on an Air Force base? You just walk in?”
“Hard to say. Pakistan isn’t sharing any of this with us.”
“What was taken?”
“They’re not sure.”
Morrissey rolled his eyes. “How can they not be sure?”
“Whoever took the weapons destroyed the records.”
“Isn’t that where we think they kept some of their nukes?”
“Right, but not the warheads. Just the bombs that were to carry the nuclear warheads.”
“So were those taken?”
“Nope. We’re sure their nuclear program is unaffected. And their nuclear warheads are known to be stored elsewhere.”
Morrissey was puzzled. Especially when he tried to match it to the border incident. Warhead-grade plutonium and nuclear-warhead-carrying bomb casing. That was what was common. Except they didn’t get the plutonium at the border, and they didn’t take the bombs from the armory. “Why destroy the records?” he asked.
“Only reason would be because they didn’t want anyone to know what they took.”
“But why? What’s so unique or valuable that they wouldn’t want anyone to know?”
“Only the nuclear-capable bombs, but those are all accounted for.”
Morrissey closed his eyes and rested his chin on his hand. “I don’t get it. You?”
Frohm was equally confused. “No, sir. I don’t.”
“See anything about this that makes it look like it has anything to do with the U.S.?”
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“Me neither. But I sure don’t like what’s going on over there. Keep working it,” he said as he walked out of her office.
* * *
After the Undersecretary’s strange early-morning visit to Luke, it was as if someone had said “Open sesame.” All resistance seemed to fall away. Tonopah Air Base was his, subject only to getting those who had been working there on active duty off the base. The contracts that would be required appeared in a few short days, and even Katherine’s skeptical eye as the new general counsel of the Nevada Fighter Weapons School, Inc., couldn’t find anything to complain about.
The former TOPGUN instructors whom Luke and Thud called to ask to join them were falling all over themselves to make sure they got picked to work for this new school. It didn’t seem to matter what they were doing; they all offered to quit the next day if Luke wanted them to.
Once Thud had gotten up the nerve to actually submit his letter of resignation to Gun, he’d jumped in with both feet. And Thud’s father had transferred the initial money to the corporation. Thud had seen it as his opportunity to mend fences with his father. Not only would he be doing what he wanted—flying fighters—but he’d be doing what his father had wanted him to do—r
un a business. Thud’s father had finally dropped the other shoe, though. He told them that his financial support was contingent on his getting to fly the MiG-29. Luke had initially balked, but when he remembered that Dr. Thurmond had a couple thousand hours in the F-105 in Vietnam, Luke figured he might actually be able to fly the MiG. They’d start him in the two-seater and see how he did.
Luke and Thud had just gotten back from Germany and had fallen in love with the MiG-29 even more than they’d expected to. It was a rocket. A fast, maneuverable, predictable, and deadly fighter. Vlad had been an amazing instructor, teaching them not only how to fly the Fulcrum but also how to employ its weapons. Luke and Thud were glad to have him.
Luke stepped over a ladder that had been left in the passageway and walked up the stairs to the second deck of the hangar that was going to be the headquarters of the Nevada Fighter Weapons School at Tonopah.
Vlad and the others who’d come over with MAPS had already arrived and spread out in the hangar, taking over spaces Luke hadn’t even thought about yet. The base was vast and full of opportunity but could easily become disorganized.
MAPS had opened the dormitories and set up residence. Vlad was clearly in charge and had organized it in a military fashion, with “officers” in the fancier, slightly plusher facility and “enlisted” in another.
Luke had also decided that they would wear uniforms, specifically flight suits. He wanted to wear military insignia, but not American insignia. That would be improper, and probably illegal. With Vlad’s help he decided that they would wear the insignia of the Russian Air Force, since they would be generally imitating Russian tactics.
Thud walked into Luke’s office carrying rolled-up diagrams the size of blueprints. “You been down to the hangar?”
“Not today,” Luke replied.
“You should see all those Russian mechanics. They look like a MASH unit waiting for patients. They got everything lined up by bureau number.”
“Are those the drawings for the tail design?”
Thud nodded vigorously. “Check it out.” He put the two pieces of paper flat on Luke’s desk next to each other. One was a drawing of a MiG-29 with a desert camouflage paint scheme, the other a close-up of the MiG-29’s tail with the new tail design.
Luke studied the paint scheme first. “Not bad,” he said quickly. “But I’m thinking maybe we go with a little different desert camouflage. I was thinking something a bit more angular. More straight lines. We might even use water-based paint and change it every few days just to keep our students on their toes. Blue-sky camouflage one day, desert camouflage the next, flat gray the next. Always keep ’em thinking.” He pushed the camouflaged MiG-29 aside and studied the other picture. It was a silver circle with a black star in the middle of it. “I love this. It looks sort of sinister.”
Thud laughed. “My thought exactly. Go with it?”
“Do it,” Luke said, handing it back to him. “On all the tails and wings. And get the patches and stickers under way.”
Thud looked at his watch. “The first C-17s are supposed to touch down in five minutes.”
Luke jumped up. “Let’s go watch.”
The mechanics waited anxiously in their spotless dark blue coveralls for their beloved MiG-29s so they could go to work. Each had memorized what needed to be done with his airplane. Vlad had assigned a team of mechanics to each plane, with those highly skilled in a particular area assigned to the aircraft with the greatest needs in that area. There weren’t enough mechanics for each airplane to have its own complete team, but there was one person assigned to be the maintenance chief for each MiG, with others to help. They would share and assist each other as necessary, but Vlad wanted to make it perfectly clear that one person would be responsible for the maintenance condition of each individual MiG.
Luke looked for Vlad and saw him at the far end of the hangar. “Vlad,” Luke called.
“Yes,” he replied, instantly breaking off his other conversation in Russian.
“The transports are on final approach.”
Vlad’s face lit up. “That is very good news. I will tell everyone. We are ready for them, Colonel.”
“It’s ‘Commander.’ ”
“Your insignia is of a Russian Lieutenant Colonel.”
“We’re going to call ourselves by Navy rank.”
“If you insist,” Vlad said, confused. “Even though it’s the end of the day, I’d like the mechanics to begin working on the airplanes tonight. I want them to get in and identify any problems so we can be sure where we stand. If we don’t have big problems that we do not know about now, we will be ready in time.”
“Sure,” Luke said, feeling particularly responsible and in charge. “I want every single jet to be in perfect condition and ready to fly within thirty days. You think we can do that?”
Vlad replied, “Yes. Of course.”
“I want the two-seater ready to fly in a week. What do you think?”
Vlad considered for a moment. “Unless we find something we do not anticipate, we should be able to do that, too.”
Luke smiled. “What would we do without you?”
Vlad laughed. “You would have many broken airplanes!”
The enormous Air Force C-17 cargo plane was on final approach to Tonopah. Luke glanced up at the tower and saw the controllers working efficiently at their jobs. The C-17 was so big it appeared to move at the speed of a walk. Each of the cargo jets carried two MiG-29s inside with the wings and tails removed.
The lead C-17 flared gently, touched down at the end of the runway, and rolled to a stop. It taxied to the flight line directly in front of Luke and Thud. Two men quickly put chocks behind its wheels and told the pilot to shut down his engines. As he did, the second C-17 touched down on the runway with a third on long final. The cargo plane’s large ramp moved down slowly and touched the tarmac. Two Air Force Sergeants wearing ear protectors came down the ramp and looked for someone in authority. Luke raised his hand, and the men crossed over to him.
The older Sergeant looked at Luke’s flight suit and the unfamiliar insignia and hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to conduct himself. Finally he saluted Luke and said loudly, “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Luke replied.
“These your MiGs, sir?”
“They are for now,” Luke said, realizing the implications of what he was saying.
“Where do you want them?”
“What number is this one?”
The Sergeant took a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it. “First out is 109904, then 110433.”
Vlad pointed down the tarmac. “The first is the two-seater. It goes down there. The other is in bay three.”
The Sergeant looked at Vlad, whom he had not asked anything, and quickly correlated the insignia he wore with his heavy accent. He suddenly didn’t like his mission, taking direction and giving a Russian MiG to a Russian pilot on American soil. Something was out of balance, but he couldn’t quite figure out what he was dealing with well enough to form any hard opinions. “Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said brusquely as he turned and began indicating to the other Sergeant to pull the MiG-29 out of the C-17.
The second C-17 taxied toward them as the third touched down. Two more were lined up in the pattern to land at Tonopah and discharge their cargo of Russian MiG fighters.
Vlad had walked down to alert the mechanics that their jets would be first out. One after another, the C-17s taxied loudly to the hangar and the Sergeants in charge of the cargo supervised the rolling-off of the blotchy, dismembered MiGs. Each MiG was rolled to its place in front of the hangar ready to undergo either major surgery or simple reassembly. MAPS had it planned to the last bolt, parts waiting.
Luke looked at Thud standing next to him, a big grin on his face. “I think we ought to let Vlad fly with us.”
Thud tore his eyes away from the last MiG being unloaded. “Just like that?”
Luke nodded. “When I was in Germany, I was impres
sed. He took me through every maneuver you could imagine. I felt like he made me competent in the airplane in ten hours.” He looked at Thud. “He’s a good instructor.”
Thud watched Vlad scramble around the two-seat MiG with unfettered enthusiasm and energy. He looked back at Luke and shrugged, then nodded. “You’re the boss.”
* * *
Karachi was famous throughout the world as a place where you could buy or sell anything. The port served not only Pakistan, but all of the upper region of Central Asia: Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan—anywhere roads or railroads could reach. While not the capital of Pakistan, it was the largest city in the region. It was also famous for its corruption and crime.
Ships were loaded and offloaded continuously. Some arrived at night just so their unloading or loading could be done before fewer eyes.
Riaz Khan stood back from the window to avoid being seen. He watched the ordinary-looking cargo ship of Liberian registry. It carried bulk cargo and containers, but preferred bulk. The ship had its name painted in rusty white letters on the stern: eight seas. It had large cranes for loading the few shipping containers it carried on deck and open hatches for the bulk cargo. The cranes lifted large pallets of wool and lowered them into the hold. The men supervising the loading looked bored. They also cursed the crane operators or anyone else nearby for their having to load the ship at two o’clock in the morning. The Filipino ship’s crew supervised the loading of the hold and told the dockworkers when it was full. The last pallet was placed on deck, and a tarp was placed over the wool. The cranes swung over for the two containers to be loaded aboard and lifted them effortlessly. The containers swung to the deck of the ship and were carefully lowered to their spots on the deck.
When the containers were secure, the loading lights cast large shadows behind them. The Pakistani dockworkers were done. The loading had gone flawlessly, in spite of the tension they’d felt. They knew that their load was important to someone but weren’t sure who or why. They didn’t really care. As long as they got paid and the ship sailed on time, they were content. They walked away to the next ship in an endless stream of ships, their bodies showing their fatigue even in the low light.
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