Fallout

by James W. Huston

  The lead started working his way through the apartment from the living room. He turned off the television to allow them to listen more easily. The silence was eerie. They could hear their hearts pounding. The lead pointed to the kitchen, where one of the other agents looked, then entered. Nothing unusual at all.

  The lead agent headed toward the bedroom. The door was closed. He considered his options. He tried the knob, but the bedroom door was locked. It was a thin door with no internal strength. He stepped back, kicked the door open in one motion, and moved away from the opening in case Merewether was waiting for them with a weapon. There was no sound at all. The lead agent glanced around the door and saw a small white television on a dresser playing to an empty room. He turned it off. There was nothing out of order. They searched the room carefully, checking the closets and the bathroom, but there was no sign of Merewether.

  “There any more rooms?” the lead agent asked, confused.

  “Nope,” his second replied.

  “Where the hell is he?”

  They all looked around the three-room apartment—the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. No Merewether. They quickly checked the bathroom. It was empty. They stared at each other.

  “Maybe he jumped,” one of them said suddenly.

  The lead agent hurried to the balcony off the living room and wrestled with the sliding glass door. He had difficulty pushing the door open. It felt as if the slide rail were made of gravel. He tried to look down to the ground through the white steel railing, but they were too high for him to see the ground immediately.

  He noticed in his peripheral vision that a light coming from his left was blocked, then not blocked. He realized that two legs hung in front of him, dangling, lifeless. “Help me get him down!” he yelled as he grabbed Merewether’s legs and pushed up. One of the other agents tried to get at the balcony of the apartment above to release the belt that was knotted to the railing. The end was slipped through the buckle, allowing it to cinch tight when pressure was brought to bear, which it certainly was when Merewether stepped off the railing of his own balcony.

  The lead yelled, “Get up there and get the belt off!”

  “I can’t reach the other end!” the second agent protested as he considered climbing up on the railing to reach the balcony above.

  “Then get up there and get onto the balcony!”

  The second agent ran out of Merewether’s apartment and up the stairs to the next floor.

  The lead agent and the others tried to keep Merewether from hanging from the belt. They tried not to look at his blue, swollen face.

  “Is he still alive?” one asked.

  “I don’t know. He sure doesn’t seem to be breathing. Get an ambulance here!” the lead replied.

  Finally they heard the other agent above them and two voices they didn’t recognize. “I just need to get onto your balcony,” he was explaining as he pushed by them.

  “Hey! What could you possibly need out there? We haven’t been out there all day!”

  He ignored them and leaned down to examine the knotted belt. “Shit, this is tight! Can you get any more pressure off?”

  “No,” the lead replied.

  “I’m just going to cut it,” the second said, pulling a buck knife out of its belt holder and slicing through the leather.

  Merewether tumbled into the arms of the three agents waiting below.

  They laid him on the concrete slab that constituted the balcony and felt for a pulse. Nothing. “We’re too late.”

  The other agents grimaced. They knew that those who had decided to stake out Merewether’s apartment around the clock were much less interested in securing a conviction against him than in being able to question him about the Pakistanis. Now they wouldn’t get the chance.

  “We did it right, boss. Thirty minutes—”

  “Shut up.” He looked at the body. It was still warm. There was still some color in his hands. They were only a few minutes late. While they were out in the hall, Merewether was ending his life. “We’d better call Li.”

  “I’ll call her,” another agent said.

  “No, I’ll call her.”

  “It wasn’t our fault.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s not political with her; it’s getting to the bottom of things.” He finished dialing and waited for the cell phone to connect.

  * * *

  Luke and Vlad walked through San Francisco International Airport trying not to look conspicuous. Every television continued to broadcast the unending news on CNN and every other news station about the attack at San Onofre. The immediacy of it had subsided slightly, only because the nuclear cloud had not yet decided where to go and was hovering over the Pacific. It was apparently caught in the middle of contradicting weather patterns, which resulted in its staying put, a not altogether unpleasant development, although a marine layer was starting to form and threatened to engulf the California coast in a low-hanging, radioactive fog.

  The televisions showed nonstop video of the crumpled San Onofre building, with accusatory reports about nuclear waste. Interstate 5, the main artery that ran along the coast from San Diego to Los Angeles, was closed for the indefinite future.

  Luke and Vlad stood in line at the gate. The passengers in front of them spoke of little else. The entire world was transfixed by the attack and by following the drifting, dissipating radioactive cloud. Luke tried to count the number of times he heard the words “Chernobyl” or “Three Mile Island” or “malicious,” or some other unflattering adjective applied to the Pakistanis. Luke watched the television out of the corner of his eye, especially when Pakistani officials were answering questions about how their pilots might have pulled this off without governmental assistance. They claimed to be baffled and angry.

  His and Vlad’s innocuous bags had been checked, even though they contained flight gear, flare guns, and other things that were never supposed to be checked. They’d been assured that their bags would not be inspected or confiscated. All they carried with them were two small Air India flight bags that contained shaving kits and paperback books that looked to them to be particularly boring and ridiculous.

  They stopped at the desk to check in with the airline attendant. Luke started to sweat as he stepped to the counter and handed her his false passport.

  Vlad was completely unperturbed behind him, in spite of the fact that his passport read “Billy Walters” and listed an address in El Paso, Texas. Luke glanced at Vlad and whispered, “Do you even know where El Paso, Texas, is?”

  “Sure,” Vlad answered.

  Luke tried to look bored and preoccupied. Nearly everyone getting onto the airplane appeared to be of Indian descent. There were very few American passports in the group. “Good morning, sir,” the attendant said, taking his passport. She checked it against his appearance, then against the ticket. “We have you assigned to seat 27A,” she said in her Indian accent.

  “Fine,” Luke said, avoiding her gaze.

  She handed him his passport and ticket and took Vlad’s papers. “Good morning,” she said.

  “Morning,” he replied, trying his hardest to hide his thick Russian accent. He nodded and smiled as she clicked the computer keys.

  “There you go, Mr. Walters,” she said, giving him his documents. “You’re in 27B.”

  They walked down the ramp into the Indian 747.

  They took their seats and put their heads back, gladly accepting a little rest before they would once again be required to fight for their lives.

  * * *

  Cindy Frohm spoke into her phone as she waited for Morrissey’s encrypted digital cell phone to connect, “Come on, pick up, pick up!”

  “Morrissey.”

  “Bill!”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Cindy.”

  “I can’t really talk. What do you need?”

  “We just got something I think you should see.”

  “From whom?”

  “Go secure.”

  “Okay. S
tand by.” He came back on line. “Okay.”

  “It’s from the NSA.”

  “What is it?”

  “Transcript of a telephone conversation in Russian.”

  “Whose?’

  “Between Russia and Tonopah, Nevada. It was the Russian guy at the school out there. The guy who just set up this whole India thing.”

  “And?”

  “And somebody in Russia is involved. He was accusing this Vladimir guy of trying to murder him and of sending a Colonel to try to take him out. They’re checking this guy’s voice. They think they can ID him. He’s with the Russian Mafia.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “It sounds very tense, I’m told. All we have is the transcript. They’re checking all the tapes for phone calls between Russia and Nevada over the last few weeks. It will take some time.”

  “They’ve already left for India! What are we supposed to do with this?”

  “The NSA seems to think Vladimir is working with the other side. It may be under duress, but he may be against us.”

  “So the whole thing is a trap? Shit!” Morrissey said, trying to think of what to do next. “Get whoever knows about these calls to pull it all together and meet me in my office. I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Luke’s face had now been on CNN hundreds of times as the one who was in charge of the now famous school where the attack had been launched on the San Onofre nuclear power plant. Everyone in the world was aware of what had happened, and where it had happened from, and who owned and ran the school from which the catastrophe had begun. Yet no one seemed to glance their way as they walked off the 747 into the terminal in New Delhi. They didn’t know who was to meet them or what they were to do next. They’d simply been told someone would be waiting.

  Luke and Vlad followed the signs to baggage claim. As they were walking down the long hallway, two men began walking next to them. “Follow us, please.”

  “What about the bags we checked?”

  “We’ve already retrieved them.”

  “Where are we going?” Luke asked as they walked down a flight of stairs and out of the terminal into the muggy morning air.

  The first man pointed to a waiting Falcon Jet, a two-engine business jet. The engines on the Falcon were screaming with anticipation as Luke and Vlad were ushered inside and the door closed behind them.

  “Are you both from the squadron?” Luke asked.

  “We’re on the General’s staff.”

  “Thanks for meeting us. Where are we going now?”

  “To the air base.”

  “Straight there?”

  “Yes, sir, nonstop.”

  Luke was impressed. “Any developments?”

  The first Indian officer, who was doing all the talking, sat down across from Luke. A small table was between them. The man said loudly, “Several of their F-16s have been towed inside the hangar. We think they are being loaded.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “We don’t know. Do you think they’ll go during the night or day?”

  “You think they’ll really do this?”

  “We have seen what they did to you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We’re trying to move some air defenses to the area without anyone noticing, but it is extremely difficult. We don’t have that many mobile systems, and we don’t want them to be obvious in their movement. Have you thought about how to defend the nuclear plant?”

  Luke nodded. “We need a lot more information than we have right now. And we’ll need to know who’s available to go with us, who has experience.”

  “There is a meeting set up with the commanding officer of the Archers. He’s prepared to give you whatever you need.”

  “If they’re loading them now, they could be launching within an hour.”

  “That’s why I asked you whether you thought they would go at night.”

  “I don’t really know whether they have much of a night capability. I sure as hell hope not.”

  “What if it were you?”

  “I’d go at night. Without a doubt. Especially against your fighters. Sorry . . .”

  “That’s why you’re here. Someone else must agree with you. You think they’ll come in low?”

  “I had assumed so.”

  “There are many airline routes that fly over Pakistan and India. They might disguise themselves as an airliner, then drop down. It would allow them much greater range and less likelihood of detection.”

  “That’s possible, but I doubt it. My guess is he will come right at us.”

  The man looked troubled.

  Luke looked out the window as the Falcon lifted off quickly from the New Delhi airport, then back at his host. “If we’re in time.”

  * * *

  The business jet shut down its engines just outside the hangar and was towed in. Luke and Vlad started to get up but were told to wait until the jet was completely inside the hangar and the doors were closed behind. Someone was being very cautious.

  Luke hurried down the ladder behind the two Indian officers. There were ten people waiting for them. One was clearly the leader of the group. The commanding officer of the MiG-29 squadron, no doubt, Luke thought, spotting the yellow Archers patch on his flight suit. He walked directly toward the distinguished-looking man. He was perhaps forty years old, with dark skin and thinning, carefully combed hair.

  They shook hands. “Welcome. My name is Prekash. We have been expecting you.”

  “Luke Henry. This is Vladimir Petkov.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Colonel said as he smiled at Vlad. “How have you been, Vladimir?”

  “Well, Colonel. You?”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  “How are the MiGs holding up?”

  The Colonel showed some ambivalence. “Not too bad. We have some maintenance problems, but nothing too horrible. Come this way,” Prekash said, pointing toward the back of the hangar.

  “Why the closed hangar doors?” Luke asked.

  The Colonel glanced at him. “This man who is intent on attacking us, we are told he is very resourceful. He has many friends, even where one wouldn’t expect. We are taking all precautions to ensure he doesn’t know you are coming or that we are expecting him. We want to show nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Towing a Falcon into the hangar and closing the doors isn’t out of the ordinary?”

  “Fair enough,” he replied. “But given the circumstances, we didn’t want two foreigners walking off the plane. Better to wonder what’s wrong with our jet.”

  “Have you done any planning? Do you have any charts? Any signs they’re getting ready to launch?”

  The Colonel indicated a room in the corner of the cavernous hangar. They entered it and closed the door. The room was full of pilots in their flight suits who were obviously waiting for Luke and Vlad. It was a mission-planning room, with charts and flight information on the walls and planning materials on a large table in the middle of the room. “We have everything you need,” the Colonel said. “You have your flight gear?” he asked.

  “In the bags.”

  “Excellent.” He looked at one of the pilots, who immediately left the room to take care of the flight gear.

  Luke and Vlad wanted to examine the charts, to study the defensive situation, and to try to determine how much time they had. The commanding officer of the Indian MiG-29 squadron wanted everyone in the squadron to meet the two pilots. They came forward in what soon became a receiving line to introduce themselves to Luke and Vlad. They all had bright eyes, but Luke detected some resentment. He knew he would be resentful if some foreign pilots were brought in to do his job and defend the United States from attack, implying that those who were supposed to do it were somehow incompetent or, at least, less capable.

  Prekash brought the pilots together. “Those who have been asked to be part of the final planning stage are welcome to stay. For the rest of you, please return to your duties.”


  Those who were being asked to leave headed for the door, while three other officers stayed behind and made their way to the planning table.

  Luke glanced around. “We’re right here,” Prekash said, pointing to the airfield on the chart. “It is my understanding that you believe he’ll be attacking here, the nuclear power plant.”

  “We’re just guessing,” Luke said, looking at Vlad. “But it’s what he did to us, with no warning whatsoever. It’s kind of the poor man’s nuclear war—if you can’t use nuclear warheads to spread radiation, if you don’t have your own radiation to drop on someone, use theirs. Hit the nuclear power plants or, as he did to us, their high-level nuclear waste. And if he is truly intent on starting a war between India and Pakistan, wouldn’t that be the sure way of doing it?”

  “The most sure way I can imagine,” Prekash said with an undertone of fury.

  Vlad was staring at the chart. “But we should consider other targets. If we were so smart, we would have stopped him before he attacked us,” he admitted.

  Prekash ran his hand across the chart to flatten it, then looked up at Luke. “You trained this Khan?”

  “Mostly in air-to-air,” Luke replied defensively. “We did some air-to-ground, but not much. We helped him plan a mission to attack a target from low level about three hundred miles away.”

  “And here we are,” Prekash said. “How do you think he’ll come?”

  “As low as he can get.”

  “It does not give us much time to react. If we detect him coming at all.”

  “Show me where we are in relationship to the target,” Vlad said.

  One of the other officers pointed to the nuclear power plant. “It is right here. The Air Force base is”—he looked—“here.” He took a ruler and showed them the most direct line of flight. “It is a pretty straight shot.”