Fallout

10

The intense bearded man walked quietly off the Qantas flight from Sydney into the terminal at San Francisco International Airport. To someone watching him closely, he looked uncomfortable in his Western clothes. He was careful not to look around for law enforcement people or immigration officials who might examine his passport and other documents too carefully. He had nothing to hide. No contraband, no weapons, nothing that would give him away. Just false documents. Once through immigration, he would have no problems. He knew that the others with him were in the same position. They were all on different flights from different countries with passports from different origins. They would all arrive within four hours of each other.

He gathered his suitcases, full of secondhand clothes he had never seen before yesterday, and put them on the rolling SmarteCarte to stand in line for the customs and immigration stations.

He walked to the “Nothing to Declare” line and was waved through without comment. He maneuvered his SmarteCarte to the INS station and stood behind the yellow line in the “NonU.S. Citizen” line. Finally the person in front of him was done, and the INS agent looked at him as he approached. The agent extended his hand. “Passport,” he demanded.

The bearded man, perhaps thirty years old, handed it to him, trying to look completely unconcerned.

“Final destination?”

“Mountain View,” the man replied.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Family. My sister lives there.”

The INS agent ran the Bangladeshi passport through a scanner and looked carefully at the photograph and the paper. There was something about the man’s eyes that bothered him. “What’s her name?”

He hesitated. He hadn’t expected that question. “We call her Shiri.”

“Is she a permanent resident of the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Is she employed?”

“Yes. She is a computer programmer.”

“What do you do?”

“I am a mathematician.”

“How long do you plan on staying?”

“Four days.”

“Do you have a return ticket?”

“Yes.”

The agent held out his hand for it.

The man pulled the ticket out of his shoulder bag and handed it to the agent.

The agent examined it carefully, looked at the man again, hesitated, and stamped his passport. “Welcome to the United States,” he said, smiling as he handed the man his passport.

The ice blue MiG-17 flew gracefully over the runway at Tonopah and snapped into a left-hand break. Luke and the other pilots standing on the flight line watched carefully, noting whether the MiG pilot was losing altitude, whether he was maintaining a constant angle of bank, and whether he had to correct his turn before rolling level on his downwind leg. He made no corrections. He leveled his wings in a perfect downwind position and lowered his landing gear. The blue jet was being flown with tremendous precision.

It was a beautiful airplane. It most closely resembled the American F-86 Super Sabre from the Korean War. It had made quite a name for itself flying against Americans in Vietnam. It had a T-tail and swept wings with the single jet intake in the mouth of the airplane giving it a sports car look, with a bubble canopy sitting on top of the sleek, clean exterior.

Everyone on the ground immediately wanted to fly it. The MAPS mechanics, half of whom were Russian, looked on with unfettered joy at one of their favorite airplanes.

The MiG-17—the Farmer, as it had been called by NATO for the last forty years—landed perfectly and turned off the runway. It taxied quickly to the flight line.

Paul Stamper had checked in to the school a week before and had finally brought his own MiG. Stamp opened the canopy and scrambled down the ladder that one of the MAPS mechanics put next to his jet. He was wearing a custom-made blue flight suit and a metallic blue helmet. It was his MiG, his own fighter, and he was prouder of it than of anything he’d ever owned. The pilots walked over, gathered around the jet, and studied it as he walked toward them. Stamp called out, “Greetings, earthlings. I have come in peace.”

“Blow me,” Thud said, eyeing the MiG enviously. “Stamp, how the hell’d you get this ride?”

“Bought it.”

Vlad stared at the MiG with the look of someone who knew more about it than every other pilot there, including Stamp. He was almost speechless. He spoke with astonishment, “You can own MiG planes in U.S.? Anybody?”

Stamp nodded. “If it’s defanged. Can’t have guns and shit.”

“But we could put those back on with ease,” Vlad said, smiling, looking around at the Russian mechanics who were studying the plane with a glazed look.

“Yeah.” Stamp laughed. “Second Amendment! The right to bear arms! I need my damned airborne thirty-millimeter gun in my MiG for home defense! Shit, Vlad! Why didn’t I think of that?” He laughed again. “Actually, Vlad,” Stamp said, “I was thinking of asking you guys if you could take over the maintenance. The guys I have doing it in San Jose are good, but if you can do it cheaper or better…”

“Could I fly it?” Vlad asked, his voice full of hope.

“Got any hours?”

“Five hundred. All my early time was in MiG-17s, as you call them.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Vlad was amazed at the life this pilot had carved out for himself. “We can make deal. I will put together proposal. MAPS can get all the parts for MiG-17. We can keep it in top condition. And I will take part payment in flight hours for me. I would like that. Maybe I can show you some things.”

“So, Stamp, what do you do with this thing?” Sluf asked.

“Flight of two MiGs, formation go, high-speed passes, Cuban eights—all kinds of cool stuff the crowds like, but mostly it’s just the uniqueness of seeing two MiGs streaking through the sky, burners going. There’s something forbidden about it.” Stamp took off his gloves and put them inside his helmet.

“What’s up with the vodka?” Thud asked, pointing to smirnoff written in large script on the side of the airplane.

“They’re the ones who make all this possible. They pay for the whole show, plus whatever fees we get out of it. But with my new job, here at the greatest place to fly in the entire free world, I can use the profits of the air show gig to commute in my MiG and live off my new salary. And Captain Luke here,” he said, pointing to Luke, “says I’m okay to do the air show thing on the weekends.”

“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.”