Fallout

by James W. Huston

  “Got any room for a third?” Thud asked. “I want my own MiG-17. How much does it cost to get one?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Ninety-five thou. But it’s getting the thing completely up and flying and keeping it there that will cost you.”

  “Can you get a MiG-21?”

  “Sure. I know where you can get a couple of those right now.”

  “Truly?” Vlad asked. He looked at Luke. “Maybe you should get some 21s and 17s for your school. It would give your students a different look. They wouldn’t ever know what was coming. And the MiG-17’s slow-flight performance is better even than the MiG-29.”

  Luke thought about it. He’d never even considered it. It was a fabulous idea. “Maybe one day. Right now we’ve got a big enough sandwich to chew. One thing at a time.”

  Luke thought about Vlad’s comment as he watched the pilots walk around the MiG-17. Stamp stood next to him and smiled as he watched the insatiable interest over his airplane. “So, Stamp . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if we had you plan on flying your hot little MiG for a couple of guest appearances as the mystery fighter in our syllabus?”

  Stamp glanced at him. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “You mean,” Stamp said to those around him, “my big issue when I get up every day will be whether to fly my own MiG-17 or your MiG-29 in aerial combat?”

  Luke grinned. “That about sums it up.”

  Stamp laughed. “Hurt me.”

  * * *

  Hayes grabbed Luke as he walked down the passageway on the second deck of the Nevada Fighter Weapons School. “Luke. When do our foreign students arrive?”

  “Canadians arrived yesterday. You met them. The F-18s are right out there,” he said with a mischievous smile.

  Hayes did not return the smile. “You know who I mean.”

  “They’ve checked in with approach and should be entering the break in a few minutes. We’re going to go down and greet them on the flight line when they taxi up. You should come.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You worried about them?”

  “I just wanted to meet them.”

  “You still doing research on this guy?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. I’ve been busy.”

  “I’ll say. You’ve got us sold out through February.”

  “That didn’t take any skill on my part. Once word got out to the fighter squadrons, it was all over. It’ll be a pipeline. If we do a good job with the first classes through, it’ll take care of itself.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “How’s Katherine?”

  “Morning sickness is gone, thankfully. She’s doing great. I think she likes the idea of working for herself. If I could only teach her how to drive the bulldozer, I’d get my airstrip finished faster.”

  “Airstrip?”

  “Sure. That’s why I bought fifty acres. I want my own airstrip where I can fly my own biplane from home and do aero over my house and run out of gas and dead-stick down for dinner.”

  Hayes smiled. He could only imagine the joy of owning his own airstrip, his own airplane, and commuting to work to his own private TOPGUN. “I’ll see you down at the flight line. Thirty minutes?”

  Luke glanced at his watch. “Maybe sooner than that. They’ll probably be coming into the break in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Hayes was not the only one who wanted to see the last four Nevada Fighter Weapons School students of the first-ever class. All the other students were there. All the instructors were there. All the maintenance operators from MAPS and the enlisted sailors and Marines who had come with the fleet airplanes to work on those airplanes during the school month were there.

  The men stood around in small groups waiting. Luke had had speakers rigged all along the front of the hangar so that those on the flight line and inside the hangar could hear the radio communications with the tower at Tonopah. They could monitor the comings and goings of all the airplanes. The loudspeaker crackled to life with a voice that was deep and heavily accented: “Tonopah tower, this is Gulf Echo 334, a flight of four for the break.”

  A calm, highly experienced voice replied, “Roger, 334. You’re cleared for a left-hand break at the numbers.”

  All eyes were over the airfield as the four F-16s came over the runway in tight formation. The beautiful silhouettes with the aggressive air intakes under the noses of the small airplanes were beautiful against the crisp blue sky. They were painted a light gray with large block-lettered cang on the tail, for the California Air National Guard. The lead F-16 rolled into a gentle left-hand turn, followed by his wingman, then number three and number four. They all rolled gently in an arc and followed their lead onto the downwind leg, beautifully spaced. The pilots on the ground watched with a critical eye for any signs of incompetence or impressive precision. So far they were impressed. Most of the students—and, if the truth were known, all the instructors—expected the Pakistanis to be hacks, pilots with few hours in the aircraft and virtually incompetent.

  The lead Pakistani F-16 turned onto the base leg of his approach and rolled into the groove precisely. His rate of descent was steady, and there was virtually no correction in the approach. Just before hitting the runway, the F-16 flared and touched down quietly. The pilot reduced throttle, and the F-16 coasted. The radio came alive again: “Gulf Echo 334, turn off at the next taxiway.”

  “Roger, 334 off at the five board.”

  The next Pakistani F-16 executed an equally beautiful approach and landing and turned off on the same taxiway. A small truck with flags and a large white sign on the back that said follow me pulled in front of the lead Pakistani F-16 and began driving down the taxiway, leading him to the NFWS hangar. The four F-16s taxied in line, trying to maintain an interval to look sharp all the way to their designated parking spots. NFWS linemen waited in front of their parking spaces to the left of the hangar. They were the last student spaces available. The planes reached the tarmac as everyone waited. They turned in sequence and put their nosewheels directly on the yellow spots designated for them. The pilots shut down their airplanes and hustled down the ladders that had been provided. Luke walked out of the group toward the Pakistanis.

  The Pakistani Major recognized the Russian Colonel’s insignia on Luke’s shoulder and saluted him. Luke was somewhat embarrassed but returned the salute. “Good morning. You must be Major Khan.”

  “Major Riaz Khan, Pakistani Air Force.” The two men shook hands, and the other Pakistanis joined them, each saluting Luke in turn. They were extremely formal.

  Thud, Stamp, and Hayes joined them in a small circle, and salutes were exchanged all around.

  “Welcome to Tonopah, and to the United States.”

  “Thank you,” Khan said as he removed his Nomex gloves and his helmet.

  Luke noticed that Khan was much shorter than he was, with an amazingly thick neck, dark coarse hair with a matching mustache, and dark, mean eyes. Luke formed an instant dislike for him, about which he immediately felt guilty.

  Khan asked, “Where shall we go?”

  “This way. In the hangar,” Luke said.

  Khan spoke as they walked, “My maintenance men were delayed. I believe they will arrive tomorrow.”

  “Yes. We received word. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Excellent. My pilots are looking forward to this new TOPGUN school,” Khan said.

  “We’ve been looking forward to having you as our first foreign students, you and two Canadian F/A-18s.”

  “All the rest are Americans?” Khan asked.

  “Yes. Marines, Navy, a couple of Air Force planes.”

  They walked into the hangar. Stamp spoke up, asserting himself in his new job as operations officer. “We start first thing in the morning. Will you be rested enough?”

  “We are rested now,” Khan snapped.

  The instructors exchanged glances. “I
’ll show you the paraloft and the locker room,” Thud volunteered, shifting a wad of gum to the back of his cheek as they walked to the far end of the hangar. Khan and the others followed him to both. They reconvened in the ready room.

  “So this is where your officers gather,” Khan commented, surveying the room.

  “We have meetings in here, some instruction, some briefs, and this is also where the duty officer has the radio if you need to talk to us while you’re in the air.”

  “Very well organized. I commend you,” Khan said.

  “It’s pretty much like any other Navy squadron,” Stamp replied. “You speak English very well. You study abroad?”

  “No. Only in Pakistan,” Khan answered. “It is the language of much business and is spoken by government officials often. Most also speak Urdu, of course.” Khan nodded to Hayes, then turned to Luke. “We have much to discuss. I’m disappointed in the syllabus, and I would like to talk about it.”

  “Um, sure,” Luke replied, trying to ignore Khan’s tone. “Anytime. We need to start tomorrow at 0730. You think you can be ready to go by then?”

  “As I said, we’re ready now. We will be here at 0730 tomorrow to start our class. I will be here at 0600 to discuss the syllabus with you.”

  “No need to be here that early.”

  “You said anytime.” Khan’s eyes were dark and menacing. “So 0600. We won’t be disturbed.”

  Luke stared back at Khan. “Sure. See you then.”

  Khan nodded and headed out of the room. Luke watched him go, and without taking his eyes off Khan said to the other instructors in the squadron, “I want you all here way before 0600.”

  They exchanged knowing looks of dread.

  “What an asshole,” Crumb muttered. “He’s going to be trouble. You heard it here first. He’s trouble.”

  * * *

  The salesman was wearing a tie. He was the only salesman who did, and he was sure it gave him an advantage. Customers liked dealing with someone who appeared organized and together. Someone who took care of himself. That was one of the reasons he’d received salesman of the month once last year.

  He eagerly approached the dark, bearded man looking at commercial trucks. “Good morning!” he said. “Can I help you?”

  The bearded man didn’t even look at him. “How much will this truck hold?”

  “Well, now that there is the 650 commercial truck. It holds a hell of a lot. But what were you planning on carrying?” he asked, wondering whether this foreigner was a serious buyer. It was common to get walk-up traffic for the light trucks, the F-150s or F-250s, but not for commercial trucks. Foreigners thought differently, though, and he was accustomed to dealing with foreigners. The entire Bay Area was like the UN, and the South Bay was crowded with companies where there wasn’t one native English-speaking person. “Where are you from?” he asked, curious.

  “Here. I live in Sunnyvale. I am a programmer,” he replied.

  “No, I meant originally. Sounds like you’re kind of new here. Where’d you come here from?”

  “Khartoum,” the foreigner lied, knowing there was no chance the salesman knew where that was.

  “Wow,” the salesman said, having no idea where that was. “Sounds far.”

  The foreigner was inspecting the back of the truck. “How much is the truck?”

  The salesman looked at him, wondering if he was actually considering a purchase. “Well, this here is the XLT, one-hundred-ninety-four-inch wheel base. We can talk about it, but the sticker is forty-three thousand dollars and change.”

  “How much can it carry?”

  “About nineteen thousand pounds. What you planning on hauling?”

  “I will give you forty thousand dollars, cash.”

  The salesman had seen a cash purchase before. In fact, several times. But never for a commercial truck. “Um, let me check with my manager on the price. Cash, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have to fill out a form for a cash transaction over ten thousand dollars, you know.”

  The man was unmoved. He said nothing.

  “Okay. I’ll be right back. Um, can I see your driver’s license?”

  The man showed him a current California driver’s license.

  “You do software, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I’ll be right back.”

  11

  Luke was tired from so many early mornings in a row, but because it was the first day he bounded up the ladder to the second deck of the hangar to meet with the others. It was 0530. Hayes and Stamp were in the back of the ready room trying to coax cups of coffee out of the coffeepot while it dripped. Thud sat in one of the ready-room chairs rubbing his eyes. “Morning,” Luke said as he walked in. “How is everybody on this fine morning of the first-ever class at the Nevada Fighter Weapons School?”

  “Fine,” Stamp said dourly.

  “So why isn’t everyone happy?” Luke asked, truly perplexed by their expressions.

  “Two reasons,” Thud replied. “We don’t want to be here at five-thirty in the morning, and this Pakistani guy is already a pain in the ass.”

  “Cultural differences,” Luke said, not believing it for a second.

  Thud and Hayes exchanged a glance. “Maybe,” Hayes said.

  “He said he had a concern about the syllabus. I have no idea what his problem with it is, though, but my real question, and the reason I wanted to talk to you guys, is to see whether we should discuss it with him at all.”

  Stamp took a sip from his coffee. “If we start opening up the syllabus, then every student or squadron that comes through will want to customize it. I’m not sure we want to get into that.”

  Luke said, “It might make sense. It would be a good marketing tool. There are a lot of things we could spend more time on.”

  Thud frowned.

  Hayes stood up and moved toward the coffeepot, waiting for the last bit to drip. He pulled it out, filled his cup, and spoke to Luke. “I’m not too worried about his syllabus problems. I’m more worried about him.”

  Luke was surprised by Hayes’s position. “You don’t even know him.” Then he remembered that Hayes had recognized the name as the same as some Pakistani intelligence official’s. “Did you tie him to that intelligence group?”

  Hayes shook his head. “No. I’m worried about the way this whole thing has come together. We don’t know this guy from Adam. We have no idea who these pilots are, other than that they’re Pakistani,” Hayes said. “I pulled their clearance documents this morning and looked at them again. They have everything they should have, and they’ve been reviewed and approved by the Undersecretary himself.” He looked at the other three officers waiting for a response. There wasn’t any. “Don’t you guys think it’s a little unusual that the Undersecretary of Defense signs off on a foreign pilot’s clearance? You think he actually checked out these guys himself? I’m sure he took whatever Pakistan gave him as the final word.”

  “He’s not going to just let anybody come here. Look, Brian, I appreciate your thoughts, but we’re not really here to start second-guessing the Undersecretary. He has that on his shoulders.”

  “But it’s our skins that are at risk.”

  Stamp didn’t get it. “How? Did you call your brother yet? He tell you something we should know?”

  “No. I didn’t want to sound stupid. But that’s what haunts me. I can’t imagine what these guys are up to—if they’re up to something.”

  Luke shook his head. “Up to something? Like what? Overpaying us? I just know we have to get this class under way.”

  Hayes sensed the coolness of the others. “Have you guys just completely forgotten our history with Pakistan?”

  “What history?” Stamp demanded, wishing Hayes would just drop it.

  “We gave hundreds of millions of dollars to Pakistan when they were helping us support the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan against the Soviet Union,” Hayes said. “Pakistan was our best friend,” Hayes sa
id. “They kept the pipeline open and got the money and weapons to the right places. Worked like a champ. We increased our support of the Pakistani military, too, selling them first-rate weapons systems and making them into our big-time South Asia ally. Then, when the Soviet Union pulled out of Afghanistan, we stopped supporting Pakistan, and the money and weapons dried up. But you see, their threat wasn’t the Soviets. Never was. Their threat has always been India. And that threat wasn’t going away. So we get them hooked on American aid and weapons, then cut them off.

  “Then in ’96 this Pakistani guy walks into an intersection just outside of CIA headquarters at Langley. Whole bunch of CIA commuters. Pulls out an AK-47 and starts shooting people. He killed three or four CIA people. It was an incredible move. And he actually escaped! But the CIA wasn’t just going to let that happen. They tracked him down in Pakistan two years later and pulled him out of his bed in some fleabag motel. They brought him back to the United States, where he was convicted of murder.”

  “I remember that,” Thud said, nodding.

  Hayes went on, “So right after he’s convicted, some unidentified men attacked a bunch of American businessmen in Karachi. Murdered them in their car on the way to work in broad daylight, right in the middle of a busy street. Just machine-gunned them to death. Oil workers from Texas. The Pakistani government said they were really sorry, but of course they had nothing to do with it. They promised to work real hard to find out who did. And nothing ever came of it. The people were never captured, and no one was ever put on trial, and the Americans are still dead.

  “Then India tested a bunch of nuclear bombs in 1998. Something like three or four underground explosions. Pakistan said, ‘Oh, yeah? Watch this,’ and tested something like eight of them underground. So the United States jumps up and starts condemning people left and right. Remember?”

  Luke half shrugged, indicating he didn’t have much other than some vague memory.

  “The United States condemned Pakistan. Said they were renegades and were in violation of the nonproliferation agreement. We sanctioned them both. We turned on them at the most critical time of their military development. And Pakistan has supported the Taliban militia in Afghanistan—which we condemn for hiding Osama bin Laden. Lots of people in Pakistan probably think we’re dogshit.