Fallout

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 said. “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.

“So that’s the background. Now all of a sudden, out of nowhere, out of all the countries in the world that could come here as foreign students, Pakistan shows up. And it was greased by the Undersecretary of Defense. I don’t know,” he said, sitting on the counter by the coffeepot. “It just makes my hair stand up. But that’s my job.” He smiled.

Stamp didn’t like what he’d heard at all. “Well, shit, Hayes. Now you’re making my hair stand up. We’ll have to keep our eye on these peckers.”

“And what exactly does that mean?” Thud asked. “How do we keep our eye on them any better than we keep it on the other students?”

“That’s what we’re going to have to—” Hayes said, but he stopped in midsentence as he had the inescapable feeling of being watched. He turned his eyes toward the door and saw Khan, who had obviously been standing there listening.

The others turned toward the door, following Hayes’s gaze. “How long have you been standing there?” Hayes asked.

“Long enough,” Khan answered loudly as he stepped slowly into the ready-room door, blocking it.

“Were you listening to our conversation?” Hayes asked.

“I could not help but hear,” Khan answered. The other three Pakistani pilots appeared behind him in the hallway and peered into the door that Khan was blocking. “You were talking about us, although I’m not sure what a ‘pecker’ is or how that might relate.”

Luke started to respond, but Hayes cut him off. “We thought it was kind of extraordinary for foreign students to land, introduce themselves, and demand a change in the curriculum. We were trying to imagine what it was that would cause someone to do that.”

“It is simple.” Khan crossed to the other officers. “We have some concerns with the syllabus.”

Luke tried to stay cordial in spite of the elevating tensions. “Well, that’s why we’re here. So come in, tell us what your concerns are, and we’ll tell you what we think.”

Khan nodded, as if he knew what Luke was going to say before he said it. He then looked each of the four Americans in the eye before he began to speak. “First of all, as you know, our sworn enemy is India—”

“Potential enemy,” Luke corrected.

Khan stared him down. “Our sworn enemy is India.” He paused, then went on. “They fly the MiG-29. It is why we’re here. To see that airplane in action. But better than seeing it is flying it. Since you have a two-seat version, I would like each of my pilots to get enough time in the MiG-29 to know how it flies, how it operates, where the visibility problems are—everything.”

“Major, I understand,” Luke said. “That is something that would make sense. We will try to accommodate that request. I don’t know about hours, but we’ll get each of you into the airplane to see how it flies.”

Khan nodded. “The other thing is that we were told when we first agreed to send officers to the Navy TOPGUN school in Fallon, Nevada, that a good deal of the syllabus was air-to-ground. It is an area that interests us greatly, as we feel our training in Pakistan is weak—”

“Look,” Luke cut in, “I don’t know who told you you were going to get to go to TOPGUN. They don’t let foreign students in there at all. It is strictly for Navy and Marine Corps. I was an instructor there six months ago. We never had foreign—”

“We were promised.”

“You may have been promised, but I’m telling you that whoever told you that doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Khan ignored him. “We were pleased when we learned of this new TOPGUN school with equivalent instructors and even MiG-29s, the premier fighter of our enemy. But then”—he glanced at his other pilots—“we received your syllabus by e-mail and noted that there was very little air-to-ground training in it. We were concerned at the time, but it would not keep us from coming to the school. We are here. I do not now demand a change in the syllabus; I came simply to ask you if you could modify it or supplement it for us,” he said, looking at the faces of the instructors for reactions. “We want to get to your level of skill in air-to-ground. That is all. Nothing that would require you to have a meeting early this morning in anticipation.”

“Nobody said anything accusatory, Major,” Thud responded, annoyed at Khan’s entire delivery.

“Really.” Khan stared at Thud. “So what is the answer?”

Luke shook his head slightly. “We really are not inclined to change the syllabus. We haven’t even gone through the first class yet. We want to keep it all uniform, and we want to do the best job we can. So I think the short answer is no. But I will say this: If we have the time and the jets stay up, then we will give you two or three extra air-to-ground sorties. How does that sound?”

Stamp looked at Luke. He didn’t know how Luke was going to fit that into the syllabus. Every day was accounted for. They might be able to do some flights on a weekend, but it would put a strain on the pilots and the maintenance personnel. “Luke, I’m not sure—”

Luke interrupted, “Like I said, assuming availability of pilots and airplanes—and availability means proper crew rest and everything else—assuming all that, we’ll see what we can do.”

Khan nodded, understanding Luke’s position. He slowly scratched his closely shaven face. “I understand. But that is not good enough.” His eyes bored into Luke’s. “We’re paying you an amazing amount of money. Probably too much. We made arrangements on our own for airplanes, our own maintenance personnel, our own transportation, our own logistics. All you are providing us is the instruction. I had hoped that you would be more responsive.” He paused, clearly for effect. “I do not accept your answer. It was apparently arrived at in some haste based on a meeting this morning that was, from what I could tell, unfinished. Why don’t you meet again with your fellow officers in charge of this new school and reconsider that idea? Perhaps we can talk about it again on Friday, at the end of this week.”

Luke was growing angry. He replied, “We don’t need to reconsider. We have considered. Talking again on Friday would be fine, but right now we have to get this school going.” He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead in the back of the ready room. “The welcome-aboard meeting is in this room. I need to do some final preparation. If there are any other things you need to do before then, I suggest you do them now. Otherwise, we’ll see you at the meeting. Good morning,” Luke said as he walked briskly out of the ready room.

The other instructors knew that Luke had made an exit to leave an impression, but it left them without an excuse to make their own equally dramatic exits. “I have some other work to do. I’ll see you back here,” Hayes said as he walked out quickly.

The Pakistanis watched him curiously as he dragged his right foot slightly.

“Me, too,” Thud said.

Stamp stayed and waited until the others were gone. He faced Khan and spoke in a direct, subdued voice. “I wouldn’t cross Commander Henry,” Stamp advised. “Not only is he one of the best pilots in the country and one of the best TOPGUN instructors ever to hold the position, but he owns this company, this school. He owns it. He can ask you to leave anytime. He doesn’t have to answer to any government. Nobody can tell him what to do. I think you should bear that in mind.”

Khan was completely unaffected. “I know exactly who Lieutenant Henry is, Mr. Stamp. I know it is the highest military rank he ever actually achieved, and I know that he owns this company because Lieutenant Thurmond’s father is a rich man who wants to relive his failed Vietnam fantasies. I know he left the Navy in disgrace after being involved in a midair collision and receiving a reprimand. Your Mr. Henry has taken to calling himself ‘Commander’ and wearing the insignia of a Russian Colonel. I know what his position is, and I know that he can ask us to leave. But I also know that the amount being paid by my government is more than that paid by all the other students together. Without us, this school will fail. So please don’t patronize me with talk about how powerful Lieutenant Luke Henry is. We have power of our own. As to whether he answers to someone else, I assure you that he does. Who owns the MiGs and this airfield? Not Lieutenant Henry. Please don’t insult me again with your very poor advice and your very veiled threats of what will happen to me if I should ‘cross’ Lieutenant Henry. I will cross him when I need to and when I choose to.”

Stamp glowered at Khan. “Just watch yourself, that’s all I’m saying. Show Mr. Henry some respect. But what you do isn’t up to me.”

“I never thought it was, Mr. Stamp.”

Colonel Stoyanovich never went to see anyone. It was beneath him. He hadn’t spent his entire life climbing the ladder in the Soviet—now Russian, he lamented—Air Force so he would have to go seek the approval, or the ear, of a subordinate. But Popovich was a different question. Since winning his position as the commander of the fighter wing and being assigned to this base—a base where he had never before been stationed—he’d heard Popovich spoken of in whispers and with deference.

Personally, he hated Popovich. He was a pompous nobody who’d never held a real military job as far as Stoyanovich could tell. He always had a smirk on his face, as if he were privileged to have all the secrets and wasn’t about to share them with anyone except his closest friends—and then only if they paid him handsomely.

Stoyanovich had learned that when the issue went through Popovich, you went to see him. It didn’t matter who you were. Even the base commander went to see Popovich, the head of security, because Popovich was connected. Connected to those who drove black Mercedes-Benz automobiles and wore tailored Italian clothes. Whatever Popovich wanted to happen seemed to happen.

Stoyanovich walked into the office and took off his officer’s hat. He placed it under his arm, keeping his long coat on, in spite of the overheated room, with steam hissing out of a radiator behind him. “Colonel Stoyanovich to see Lieutenant Colonel Popovich,” he said to the young airman at the desk.

The airman stood up quickly, assumed a pose of forced attention, and nodded. “Yes, Colonel. I will tell him that you are here. Is he expecting you?”

“I don’t believe so. I simply need to discuss one thing with him.”

The young man disappeared, and Stoyanovich unbuttoned his coat.

“He will see you, sir,” the young man said, returning to the outer room.

Stoyanovich nodded. He had better see me, he thought. He walked quickly into Popovich’s office. “Good afternoon,” he said.

Popovich stood up and gave a slight bow. “It is an honor to see you, Colonel Stoyanovich. An honor.” He said it with just enough respect to be too much, just enough for Stoyanovich to know he didn’t mean it at all. “What can I do for you?”

Stoyanovich towered over Popovich but could see he wasn’t intimidated at all. “Major Vladimir Petkov,” he said.

“What of him?” Popovich asked.

Stoyanovich stared at him. “What of him?” Stoyanovich asked incredulously. “Where is he?”

“He has resigned,” Popovich said. He fought back a smile as he lit a Camel cigarette and slipped the lighter back into the pocket of his uniform.

“Resigned? That is impossible,” Stoyanovich sputtered, knowing it was exactly as Popovich had said. “He could not possibly have resigned. That would have to be approved by me. You must be mistaken.”

“No. I am sure.”

“I sent him to you for temporary security duty, not retirement! How can this be? I am his Wing Commander!”

“You were his Wing Commander. No longer. He is no longer in the Russian Air Force, defending our crumbling country from all its enemies.”

“But the paperwork must come through me for any resignations! This is impossible.”

“You are ignorant,” Popovich said, as if slapping Stoyanovich in the face. “If certain people want an officer out of the Air Force, it simply happens. No Colonel is going to stop that. There is no need for your signature on a silly piece of paper if the right people don’t feel it is necessary.”

“What ‘right people’?”

“That is none of your concern. It has been taken care of.”

“But why? He was going to be returned to flying.”

“You told him he was grounded for the rest of his career.”

“Only so he would take his problem seriously. You knew that. I was going to transfer him back in six months.”

“No longer.”

Stoyanovich heard the contempt in Popovich’s voice. “Where is he?”

“He has moved.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Popovich sat down. “Of course.”

“Where?”

“He is no longer any of your concern.”

“But he is still your concern? You, who run security on this godforsaken base, still need to know where a retired pilot is who has moved away?” Stoyanovich asked, his voice growing louder.

“Yes. He is still my concern.”

“Why?”

Popovich leaned forward and said with a leering, biting tone, “You still don’t understand, do you? You still believe one day you’ll open your eyes and everything will be like it was, a red flag with hammer and sickle and the world respecting us again. Well, that isn’t going to happen. You should let go of your fantasy world and retire yourself. You are just in the way.”

Stoyanovich yearned to respond in kind, to show Popovich where the real power lay in Russia. But he was determined to find out what he’d come to learn. His deep voice boomed around the room as he yelled at Popovich, “Where is he?”

Popovich thought of how troublesome this fat Colonel could be. Although Stoyanovich didn’t have the power he thought he had, he was not without resources. Popovich answered reluctantly, his confidence receding slightly, “He has taken a job with a civilian company.”

“What company?”

“MAPS.”

“How? Those jobs are impossible to get. With his record, he would not be able to do it, not without my help. He should have come to me…”

“He didn’t need your help. He had friends that got him the job.”

Stoyanovich paused. “What friends?”

“New friends.”

“The same criminals you call friends? Those friends?”

“Such words. You do not need to speak like that.”

Stoyanovich took his hat out from under his arm. “Gorgov?” he asked.

“What better friend could one have?”

Stoyanovich stormed out of Popovich’s office. The decay was all around him, closer than it had ever been.