Fallout

by James W. Huston

  “We will pay you twelve thousand dollars for twelve ‘replica’ AK-47s. We were told they would be available here.”

  The man’s eyes got large. “Who the hell told you that?”

  “Someone who knows. Was he wrong?”

  Wideman glanced at the door to see if anyone was coming. “No, he wasn’t wrong. Let’s cut the bullshit,” he said as he walked to the front and pulled down the shade that covered the glass front door. “You want fully automatic AKs?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got them, and I’ll sell them to you. None of this trigger kit shit. These are authentic, Russian made. The real things, still packed in cosmolene. I’ve got a source. Fully auto, and,” he said, glancing around at the four men, who had come closer, “I’ve got the ammo for them. And there aren’t any serial numbers on them, so if you hit something when you’re doing your target practice, they can’t be traced here. And if you ever get caught for hitting something, you’ve never been here and I’ve never seen you. Agreed?”

  The leader nodded.

  “Fully automatic AKs with no numbers are rare. They will run you more than those replica pieces of shit. They’re two thousand apiece. And I’ll throw in five hundred rounds of ammo for each and five banana clips.”

  “Fifteen hundred and a thousand rounds of ammunition for each.”

  “Two thousand.”

  “Eighteen hundred.”

  “Done.” Wideman headed to the back of the shop.

  The four Pakistani men went out the back door and looked around anxiously as they stood by their trucks while Wideman stacked the crates. The second in command looked at the bearded leader of the group. “Who goes first?”

  The leader looked at his digital watch that had the time and date. “You go first. One truck at a time.” The four brand-new commercial Ford trucks were lined up behind the gun shop. “We cannot draw attention to ourselves. We don’t have much time.”

  “Leave from here now?”

  “Yes,” he said, concerned that such a simple plan could be misunderstood. He examined his lieutenant’s eyes for fear or panic. There was none. “We stay in the four hotels separately, as I have told you. We will not see each other again until the night before.” He watched the crates being loaded. “Do you remember where we meet?”

  “The exit on the freeway. Where there is nothing. One hundred miles north.”

  The one with the beard nodded. “Don’t be late.”

  16

  Vlad settled down in front of the television in his BOQ room with a German beer and some sausage on a paper plate. He was fascinated by American television. It was so different from Russian television. Luke had made satellite television available in every BOQ room. Vlad was shocked not only at the number of channels available but at what you could find on the television at any hour of the day. Sports, drama, movies with naked women, Russian-language shows—which he found particularly humorous—anything one wanted was on the television. He especially liked the Wings shows; they detailed the history of the development and operation of famous airplanes. Vlad watched every episode he could find. Tonight was the show about the F-117 Stealth fighter. Vlad was excited about seeing it, not only because he wanted to know everything there was to know about the Stealth fighter but also because they had been based at Tonopah when they were still secret, the very base on which he now sat.

  He watched the Discovery Channel logo fade in as the music started. He smiled in anticipation. The picture went dark, and one could see a vague, strange shape against the moon in the background. The sound of the lethal jet was coming into the picture from the left. Vlad leaned forward, drinking in the shape, the silhouette, plugging it into his fighter pilot data bank of possible future threats.

  He snuck a deep drink from the bottle of beer as he kept one eye fixed on the television screen.

  The phone rang in the kitchenette on the wall behind him. “Arrr,” he said as he stood up. He slammed the empty bottle down on the coffee table and walked to the phone. “Da,” he said.

  The voice he heard chilled him instantly. “Vladimir, it has been too long,” the man said in Russian.

  “Who is this?” he replied in Russian.

  “How quickly you forget your friends.”

  “I don’t forget my friends. You’re not one of them. Who are you?”

  “If not a friend, then at least someone to whom you are greatly indebted, Major Vladimir Petkov.”

  No one had called him “Major” since he left the Russian Air Force. “What do you want?”

  “Did you think your perfect job with MAPS would be without cost to you? Did you think you got to the United States because of your skills and reputation?”

  Vlad’s heart started beating rapidly, as if someone had placed a noose around his neck some time ago and was only now alerting him to it. “What do you want?”

  “It is time to pay the debt to those to whom you owe your entire life, Vladimir.”

  “Gorgov!” Vlad suddenly realized.

  “Ah, you do remember me.” Gorgov laughed. “I thought you might. I told you I would get you out of that shithole, didn’t I?”

  “I would have gotten out—”

  “No,” Gorgov said tersely. “You wouldn’t have. Not ever. I am the only reason you got out, the only reason you are where you are.”

  Vlad didn’t reply. He suddenly wished he hadn’t just had a beer.

  “So. You wonder why I call, no doubt,” Gorgov said.

  “It is not safe to talk,” Vlad said, stalling.

  “Of course it is! America is a country of laws! They can’t listen to your phone calls without a warrant, and they must suspect you of something first! It is a marvelous country! How do you think we operate so effectively there?”

  “You . . . are here?” Vlad gasped. He had felt safer in the United States, away from Gorgov and his type. He assumed they’d forgotten about him.

  “My friends are there. How do you think we can be effective businessmen in the United States without being there?”

  “Like the Russian hockey players you extort money from.”

  “You have been reading the American papers again. They accuse Russians of so much.” Gorgov laughed, knowing it was completely true. “I am just a businessman.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “Yes, it does come to that, doesn’t it? I will not deny it. I do want something of you. Something in payment of what you owe me for getting you the job you have.”

  “What?” Vlad grimaced, waiting for whatever it was, which he knew would be unpleasant.

  “I cannot tell you exactly. Both because there may be someone listening, which I doubt, and also because your ability to help will be fluid, changing, responding to the moment—”

  “Get to the point!” Vlad raged.

  “Don’t ever yell at me,” Gorgov growled, then waited to see if Vlad was going to respond. He continued, “Something is going to happen soon. When it does, you will know what you are to do. It will be bad for the United States. Your job is to make sure it happens without interference.”

  “What bad thing? What are you talking about?”

  “You will see.”

  “Why me? Is it going to happen near here?”

  “It is going to happen right there. Right where you are.”

  Vlad shifted the phone to his other ear and peeked outside in the darkness at the base. Everything was quiet. He had no idea what Gorgov was talking about. “What exactly? Tell me!”

  “No. But you will see, and soon. And it will be clear to you what you must do. Then . . . you simply do it. That is all. And if you don’t . . . well, then very bad things will happen. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “I cannot help you if I don’t know what you want!” Vlad exclaimed.

  “Yes you can, and you will. You will see. Do svidaniya,” Gorgov said, and the line went dead.

  * * *

  Brian struggled against his MS as he fought his way up the unend
ing hill of the StairMaster in the immaculate gym at the south end of the second deck of the hangar. All the pilots were required to keep track of their workouts lifting weights. It had long been recognized that muscle mass helped resist the G forces encountered in flying jets. Although the Navy didn’t require a particular workout regimen, Luke did. And he checked the records every week. Brian always had the fullest sheet, the one who’d spent the most time in the gym, fighting the demons that were wrecking his body.

  Luke walked in, ready to start his early-morning workout. They were the only two in the gym.

  Brian immediately slowed his climbing. He motioned to Luke. “You got a second?”

  “Morning, Brian. Fine, thanks. How about you?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about some things when you walked in.”

  “What’s up?” Luke replied.

  “I’ve been thinking about Vlad.”

  Luke looked at Brian. “What about him?”

  “We don’t really know all that much about him.”

  “You’re just a suspicious guy. First it’s the Paks, now it’s Vlad.”

  “Seriously.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think we got the straight story on why he left the Russian Air Force.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I finally dug into his records. They’re silent on why he left. They just stop.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I had the records he left with us retranslated. I didn’t want to just accept the version he gave us. The translator I found in Vegas used to be in the Russian Army. He said they would never just end like that. They always put the reason. Either discharge or retirement—whatever. Vlad has kept some pages from us. We don’t have the whole thing.”

  Luke frowned. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Brian stepped off the StairMaster onto the deck and stood motionless while his legs regained their stability.

  “Did I tell you that Dr. Thurmond said he smelled alcohol on Vlad’s breath when he flew with him?”

  “Seriously?” Brian asked. Luke nodded. “What if he was grounded? What if he was dangerous? What if he’s got an alcohol problem? And he’s flying as an instructor?”

  “The guy’s a good pilot. I’ve flown with him, Brian. He really knows what he’s doing. He’s a tremendous asset to us here.”

  “He’s sure in tight with the Paks.”

  “Tight?”

  “Yeah. He’s given every one of them a flight in the two-seater. I’ve seen him out there showing them the MiGs. It just seems over the top.”

  “He was supposed to. We agreed to that.”

  “I know. But I was thinking about the missile shoot when you came in.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s tomorrow morning. Vlad is getting MAPS to load them up this afternoon. Doesn’t it trouble you just a little that we have a Russian MiG pilot here, and Russian MiGs, and a bunch of foreigners who’ve just learned to fly them, and we’ll have four of them loaded up with live missiles? What if they decided to grab the MiGs and go shoot down an airliner?”

  Luke froze. “Shit, Brian. Where’d you get that? You been staying up too late watching horror movies?”

  Brian wiped the sweat dripping off his chin. “Probably. I’m just saying, if it were me? I’d move the MiGs with missiles off the regular flight line to the back hangars with security around them. Better to be safe.”

  Luke tossed his towel on the seat of the biceps machine. “I don’t know, Brian. Sometimes I think you’re paranoid.” He thought as he prepared to begin his workout. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “It would give me a little more peace of mind.”

  “Fair enough.”

  * * *

  The young guard sitting in the large guardhouse behind the high chain-link fence had been there almost every night since the base opened. It had sounded like an easy, exciting job. A guard in the middle of the beautiful Nevada desert at a new fighter base with privately owned jets. It had in fact turned out to be quite boring. As he was the most junior guard, he’d drawn the worst duty. Since he’d started his job as the night watchman at the main gate three weeks before, not one car had come through the gate. Not one person, not one pickup truck, not even a coyote. He’d seen some deer cross the road in front of the gate on the second night, but nothing even as exciting as that since then.

  He wasn’t allowed to watch television, so he spent most nights listening to the radio, to a show broadcast from a man’s house in the middle of the night, and transmitted to the world. His name was Orel Spellman, and he dwelled in the belly of the night talking in hushed tones of conspiracy to those who were still up, alerting them to the growing evidence of UFOs and the government conspiracies to hide them. Orel was really on a roll tonight. The guard was listening so intently to the radio that he was actually staring at it.

  Four white trucks drove down the dark, deserted moonlit road just north of the guard. They hadn’t seen another car or truck for twenty minutes. It was the darkest, loneliest part of the night in the darkest, loneliest corner of the United States. The nearest Nevada Highway Patrol officer was 130 miles away at a rest stop investigating a pungent smell coming from one of the trash containers.

  The lead truck stopped in the dirt on the side of the road until the other three trucks caught up, stopped behind it, and extinguished their lights. They knew exactly what to do. They’d practiced it so many times the plan had grown stale, but now that it was under way their enthusiasm returned. The driver of the lead truck, the one with the beard, watched the digital clock on the dash. They were five minutes early. The other drivers sat motionless with their hands on the steering wheels. Two more men sat to the right of each driver.

  Several of the men put on night-vision goggles and adjusted the focus. They wore dark clothing and latex gloves. Each had an AK-47 in his hands.

  As the digital clock changed to exactly 4:00 a.m., the lead truck pulled back onto the road. The other three followed carefully, swaying back and forth from their heavy loads. They turned south off Highway 6 at the missile with the sign underneath that announced the Tonopah Test Range Road.

  They drove the twenty miles together with their lights off. The lead truck turned on its lights as it rounded the one curve in the long road, two miles before the gate, careful to control his speed. The other three trucks waited at the curve, trying to stay out of sight. The man to the right of the driver removed his night-vision goggles and scanned the base through a high-powered night-vision rifle scope, looking for any additional security. The security at the gate was obvious, but he could see no other movement on the base at all. He looked for the roving jeep security patrol he knew was there but couldn’t see.

  In the guardhouse, as Orel warned of a growing conspiracy to combine UFO black programs with NASA, the guard was surprised and annoyed to see headlights approach the gate. Somebody was lost. Way lost. No one could possibly be on the road and on his way to the base at this hour. He had a sudden startling thought, that it could be the government working on one of the black programs he’d just been hearing about. This was, after all, where all these things were supposed to happen. He experienced a sudden surge of excitement as he felt himself being drawn into a mysterious event that would take away the boredom of the night.

  He turned Orel down slightly and made sure his shirt was tucked in well. He stood up as the truck entered the spotlight beam that shone down from the top of the guard shack. It was a commercial truck, and he could see that the driver was alone. Both his hands were on the top of the steering wheel. The guard relaxed a little and waited for the truck to stop at the gate entrance.

  The truck rolled slowly forward. The driver looked confused. He put his hand up to shade his eyes from the spotlight.

  The guard stepped out of the guardhouse to speak with the driver. He stood with his hands on his hips, near the handgun in his holster, and looked at the driver through the ten-foot-
high chain-link fence.

  The bearded driver opened his door slowly, as if ashamed of having gotten lost. He left the door open and approached the fence, holding his hands out as if pleading, as if sorry for having bothered the guard.

  Too late the guard noticed rapid movement on the other side of the truck. The passenger door had opened, but at first he couldn’t see anything. Suddenly he saw a man running in a crouch around the front of the truck, carrying an automatic weapon of some kind. The young guard unsnapped his sidearm and began to pull out his nine-millimeter automatic. The man with the AK was faster. He began shooting at the guard’s legs and feet, assuming he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

  The first two shots sparked against the concrete, and the third and fourth hit the guard in the foot. He pulled his leg up in an automatic response to the searing pain and reached for the bleeding foot as he fell to the ground.

  It was exactly what the attacker had wanted. He rushed the fence and shot through it at the guard from ten feet away in full automatic. Bullets riddled the guard’s legs and thighs, and he screamed out in horror and pain. Finally a bullet hit him in the head, and he jerked back and lay still.

  The shooter rushed back to the truck as the driver quickly flashed his lights on and off twice and slid back into the driver’s seat.

  The other three trucks turned on their lights and drove the two miles to the gate. They pulled up behind the lead, who had backed up to fifty feet from the gate. The driver floored the truck and smashed through the chain-link fence. It bent and then gave, finally springing away from the post as the heavy truck smashed through. The other three followed.

  They had memorized the layout of the base from the diagram they’d been sent, right out of the welcome-aboard package by their fellow Pakistanis. They drove straight to the flight line. The other Pakistanis were waiting for them. The four Pakistani pilots stood by their airplanes in full flight gear.

  The night was deathly still as each truck stopped in front of a single F-16. The driver and passengers in the cab of each truck jumped out. One passenger held an AK-47 and wore night-vision goggles. The driver climbed up on top of the back of the truck and unhooked the top while the movable crane was positioned by the first truck. The lid flew open as one of the ordnancemen scrambled down into the truck to hook the lift’s cables to the long bomb. The cables strained under the weight, but slowly, surely, the bomb was lifted out of the truck and lowered inch by inch to the waiting dolly.