Fallout

19

Luke was on fumes when he landed at Miramar Marine Corps Air Station in San Diego. He barely had enough fuel to taxi to the operations shed, but he wasn’t about to be towed; he’d rather flame out. His mask hung down in surrender, exposing his sweating face. He glanced at the operations building and was surprised to see the throng of people waiting for him. He shut down the starboard engine to save fuel. He kept his visor lowered. He didn’t want anybody to see his eyes, which were full of frustration and fury. At least the Pakistanis had missed the nuclear plants. Luke was suddenly acutely aware of why Khan had demanded more air-to-ground training.

He taxied slowly, treasuring the quiet, protective shell of the airplane cockpit that kept the world away. Vlad had lost his MiG. Four F-16s had attacked San Onofre and been lost, and his school would be blamed for everything—of that he was sure. He taxied by the windsock. The prevailing wind was from the southeast. It had allowed him to land straight in from the ocean on Runway 6, the opposite direction airplanes usually landed at Miramar. The prevailing wind in Southern California was almost always from the ocean, between 240 and 270. But not today. Today all of Southern California was experiencing a Santa Ana, a wind condition that meant the winds were coming from the east, from the desert. They were hot, dry winds that could easily reach twenty or thirty knots. He was thankful the attack hadn’t resulted in a radioactive cloud. He was sure the steam he’d seen meant they’d hit a power substation or the heating plant for the base.

Luke taxied forward slowly to the point where the lineman was indicating, waited until his wheels had been chocked, and shut down the MiG. He waited until his engine had completely stopped and then opened the canopy. A lineman put a ladder in place for him. He unstrapped methodically as he watched Stamp land and taxi toward him.

Luke climbed out of the MiG and down the ladder with his helmet in hand and began walking slowly to the operations shack. A man in a dark blue suit came jogging toward him with three other men on his heels. The man spoke to him from fifteen feet away as he slowed to a fast walk. “Are you Mr. Luke Henry?” he asked, reaching inside his coat for his identification.

Luke stood there with his hands on his hips, his helmet hanging in his left hand, and nodded. “Yeah. Who are you?”

“FBI,” the man said, holding his ID out in front of him for Luke to read. “You’re under arrest.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke said, suddenly furious.

“Put your hands up, sir.”

Luke stared at the man. “Are you shitting me?” he demanded angrily, not moving.

“Put your hands up, sir!”

Luke raised his hands, holding his helmet over his head. The lead FBI agent walked behind him, pulled down his right hand, and put a handcuff over his right wrist. Then he pulled down Luke’s left hand and the helmet fell out of his hand, hit the pavement, and began rolling unevenly down the flight line.

“Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney—”

“What am I being arrested for?”

“For conspiracy to commit a terrorist act.”

“That’s total bullshit,” Luke replied. “I was trying to stop them,” he protested.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you were.” They escorted him to the operations office, where the press was already congregating. When reporters saw him coming, they began yelling questions at him. The camera motor-drives were audible as they pushed toward him. Television cameras focused on his face.

“Why did you bomb the nuclear plant?” one shouted. “Do you have a grudge against the United States?”

Katherine had gotten dressed as soon as Luke had jumped out of bed. She’d thrown on a loose shirt, gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and sat down at the table with the telephone. She’d called the Air Force, the Navy, the FAA, the FBI, the Department of Defense, and anyone else she could think of. The few times she’d actually spoken to a person resulted in the same response: “Yes, that’s very interesting. I’m sure it’s terribly important, and I’m sure you’re right about what has happened, but I am simply not in a position to do what you have asked…”

Always the same. Very nice, respectful, as if they were talking to someone from an asylum, someone who needed the stiff canvas jacket with the sleeves wrapped around her back, and everything would be just fine.

She had kept the television tuned to CNN, hoping against hope that nothing had happened, that nothing would happen, and that Luke would come back with a great story to tell at the O’ Club.

Eventually she ran out of numbers to call. Besides, she was beginning to feel ridiculous. She put down the phone and drank the last of her tea. She was about to get up and make some more tea when the morning weather on CNN was interrupted. An ominous screen came up: the following is a special report from cnn. “Oh, no,” she said.

A man appeared on the screen and began, “Good morning. I’m Carl Allen, and this special report is just in. There has apparently been an attack on the San Onofre nuclear power plant on the coast of San Diego County, California. Four jet fighters attacked the nuclear plant at about five-thirty Pacific time this morning. San Onofre is comprised of three nuclear reactor plants, Units One, Two, and Three. Unit One was deactivated several years ago. The other two units are large domelike structures designed to withstand the impact of a 737 jet flying directly into them from thirty thousand feet. As it turned out, the bombs released by the airplanes missed the reactor plants and hit a flat building south of the reactors. Initial reports are that six people were killed at San Onofre by the bomb blasts, and three of the four pilots, who were apparently Pakistani, were shot down by the U.S. Air Force. We are just now getting our first pictures from the site. Reporting live from San Onofre is Leslie Monteneri. Leslie, what can you tell us?”

San Onofre? Katherine was horrified. She’d never imagined that Khan would attack a nuclear plant.

The picture cut to a reporter sitting inside a helicopter flying over the ocean. The sky was light, as the sun had just risen above the horizon. She spoke loudly to be heard over the turbine engine and the vibrating blades spinning over her head. “Carl, the situation at San Onofre is bad. Several people have been killed. There is a large fire where the bombs hit, with a sort of vapor or dust cloud from the bomb blast curling up into the sky.”

The camera swung to the outside of the helicopter. The two damaged buildings were clearly visible, and there was steam and dark dust still rising out of the fire on the ground. “You can see where the bombs hit. Fortunately, they did not hit the nuclear plants themselves. We are told that the plants are intact and undamaged. We’re still trying to find out what was in the buildings that were hit, but we’ve been told that there are at least six people dead and several wounded. The death toll could climb as more information becomes available.

“Carl, as remarkable as the damage itself is, even more remarkable is how this is supposed to have happened. There were apparently four F-16 fighter jets owned by the California Air National Guard that were involved in this attack. They were carrying laser-guided bombs and dropped them on San Onofre.

“According to some people on the ground here, there was actually an air battle over the power plant. American fighters tried to stop them, and many missiles were fired right over this spot by eight F-15s and, according to one source, some Russian MiG fighters, although that report seems unlikely. The Air Force is not known to fly Russian fighters. Several jets were shot down, one of which landed just north of the power plant.” The camera zoomed in on burning wreckage that had left a crater in the ground. “We’re not sure of the total number of airplanes involved in the air battle or who was shot down. We don’t know the present location of the airplanes. One source has told us the F-16s were being flown by Pakistani pilots.”

As she spoke, the helicopter’s camera continued to show chilling pictures of the power plants, the steam cloud, the traffic jam on Interstate 5, and the burning wreckage of Vlad’s crashed MiG.

“There are many many questions that remain to be answered, Carl. How did Pakistani pilots come into possession of four California Air National Guard F-16s? And where were they flying them from? How did they get laser-guided bombs that they could load onto their planes? Who got shot down, and by whom, and are any of the Pakistani pilots alive?

“We will continue following this developing story.”

“Thank you, Leslie… can you hear me?”

Leslie held her headphones to her ears. “Yes, I can hear you.”

“It sounds like there is a siren in the background. Can you tell us what that is?”

She nodded. “Carl, I’m told that at San Onofre there is an automatic warning system, like an air-raid siren system, that goes off whenever there’s release of radioactivity. Those who live nearby know what to do, which is essentially evacuate. But some I’ve spoken to suspect that the alarm was triggered by the bombs exploding and is probably unrelated to the release of radioactivity, especially since the reactors were undamaged.”

“So there isn’t thought to be any danger of radiation?”

“We’ve received no response from San Onofre as of yet. There is, of course, an evacuation plan for several miles around San Onofre in the case of an actual radioactive release. As you can see from the freeway, which is completely full of cars heading in both directions, many of the local residents have apparently decided to evacuate based on the sirens. But thus far there’s been no call for evacuation. CNN’s nuclear expert, Dr. Alfred Boyer, has told us that as long as the nuclear core is not breached, there is no danger of radioactive release. We will continue to get assessments from San Onofre and update you as soon as we have any more information.”

“Thank you, Leslie,” Carl said as he pivoted in his chair in CNN headquarters in Atlanta. “With us now is Tim Davidson, in Washington at the Pentagon. Tim, what is the Department of Defense saying about this? Have we been attacked by Pakistan? What have they told you?”

“Carl, I must say that the general sense I get here at the Pentagon is one of shock and confusion. When I ask people how F-16s flown by Pakistani pilots came to be operating inside the United States with laser-guided bombs, the answer I get almost universally is variations on ‘I have no idea.’ The entire Pentagon has been caught completely by surprise. We’ve asked for an official statement, but so far one has not been forthcoming. I believe they are trying to assess exactly what has happened and how it happened before making any comments. The problem seems to be that there isn’t anyone at the Pentagon who knows anything more than what’s been on CNN so far this morning. Or if they do, they’re not saying. Carl, one confidential source has told me that this may be related to the mysterious disappearance of Undersecretary of Defense Thomas Merewether. I’m not sure what the connection might be, but that was told to me personally by a high-ranking official within the Department of Defense.”

“Tim, is the Pentagon talking about this as if we have been attacked by Pakistan?”

“That’s a good question. Those I’ve spoken with—and again, we’re still waiting for their official pronouncement—have been talking about the incident as a terrorist attack.”

“Thank you, Tim. Tim will be at the Pentagon, and he’ll inform us as soon as there is any official statement…”

Katherine stopped listening. The images were now back to the orbiting helicopter and the confusion and damage at San Onofre. She tried to remember what had happened to all the airplanes mentioned. There’d been only a vague mention of MiGs, but nothing about what had happened to them. Katherine had a horrible feeling in her stomach.

The phone rang, and she lunged for it. “Hello?’

“Katherine!”

“Luke! Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m in jail. On Miramar. The FBI arrested me for conspiracy to commit a terrorist act,” Luke said, glancing at the guard who was listening carefully.

“In jail? Are you serious? They’re out of their minds! Luke, what happened? How did this happen?”

“Khan smuggled bombs into the country and just forced them onto the base. Killed the security. They loaded them onto their F-16s and flew to the coast—is it on the news yet? What are they saying?”

“It’s the only thing on television. Everyone is going crazy. But there isn’t much that’s helpful. The government has no idea what is happening, so they’re not saying anything. It’s incredible.”

“They did miss the reactors, didn’t they?”

“Yes, didn’t hit either one of them. They hit some low building, thank God. If they’d hit a reactor, they’d have to evacuate all of Southern California. Did they miss because you were there?”

“No. We got there as they were in their bombing runs. At least we don’t have a Chernobyl on our hands. Katherine, Thud didn’t make it…”

“Make what?”

“He was closing on one of the Paks, and the guy pulled back into him and just ran into him. They had a midair. He never had a chance.”

“He’s dead?” Katherine asked, stunned.

“Yeah.” He paused. “I saw the whole thing. He didn’t get out.”

“What about Michelle and their kids?”

“That’s just it. We’ve got to tell them.”

“I can’t just call her…”

“This is my one phone call. You have to.”

“Oh, Luke…” she said, groping for what to say. “She’s going to come completely apart. What about his father?”

“You’d better call him, too.”

She sighed and closed her eyes.

“Vlad got shot down. Khan got him with a Sidewinder. He jumped out. He’s probably wandering around on the beach somewhere north of the power plant. Make sure the government knows to go look for him. Of course, they’ll probably just arrest him, too. Stamp is right down the hall in another cell here in the brig.”

“This is outrageous. How can they be so incompetent?”

“They’ve got to find Khan, Katherine. They’ve got to find him.”

“He escaped? How? Where did he go?”

“He escaped in a submarine.”

“A submarine? That hasn’t been on the news.”

“Khan took his F-16 out over the ocean. I was right behind him. He went to a spot—probably based on a fix from a GPS he must’ve had with him—and just ejected. I was about to shoot him, and he jumped out. Then a sub came up and grabbed him.”

“Wow. Terrorists don’t run around in submarines. Who’s helping him?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“Whose submarine was it?”

“I don’t know. There weren’t any markings on it at all.”

“I’m coming down there, Luke.”

“No, stay there. You’re too pregnant.”

“No I’m not. I’ll be there by this afternoon. I’m going to get you out. Has anyone tried to question you?”

“Just briefly.”

“Don’t say anything. They’ll use it against you.”

“I don’t care. My life is ruined—”

“You’d better start caring. Your life is not ruined. This wasn’t your fault.”

“I’ll tell them whatever they need to know to catch Khan, Katherine. I can’t do it myself, so they’re going to have to do it.”

“I’m on my way,” she said.

“You don’t have to come—”

“I’ve already decided.”

Renee climbed into the taxi three blocks from the American embassy in Islamabad. The entire city was in stunned denial and disbelief over what had happened. It had hit them with same effect the Kennedy assassination and Pearl Harbor had had on the United States, but as the ones responsible, not as the victims. All of Pakistan was glued to CNN International, which was running an ongoing report on the four Pakistani pilots who’d been invited to an elite American fighter school and had responded by borrowing airplanes and secreting bombs into the country to drop them on an American nuclear power plant.

Renee knew there was a deep undercurrent of anti-Americanism throughout Pakistan. She’d become most vividly aware of it in 2000, when she began noticing the widespread display of posters in support of Osama bin Laden around the city, and even in private homes, hailing the terrorist as a hero for standing up to the West. Many parents had named children after him. Some of it was the general sense in many Islamic countries of being disregarded and held in low esteem by the West. Some of it was the perception that the United States treated India and Pakistan differently in matters nuclear. In spite of that underlying inclination to hold the United States in contempt, she saw genuine shock and shame on the faces of the Pakistanis out in public. They couldn’t believe that their government had attacked the United States.

The Pakistani government, though, was disclaiming all knowledge of the events and condemning the actions of its pilots as terrorism. As she had expected, the Chief Executive of Pakistan, himself a former General in the Pakistani Army, had gone on the air and condemned the action in the strongest possible terms. He pledged assistance to find and apprehend those responsible. He confirmed there was no Pakistani submarine anywhere near the area at the time and asserted that Pakistan had no idea who was supporting this attack by these renegade former Pakistanis but would leave no stone unturned in the attempt to find out. Renee also knew from her cohorts in D.C. that Pakistan hadn’t given any actual help so far.

Renee watched the street carefully. The cars were driving more slowly than usual, many of the drivers bent slightly forward, listening intently to the news reports on their radios. Those in stores and cafés were listening to strategically placed radios or televisions. She spoke to the driver, and he stopped at the intersection. She slid over and got out of the cab near the curb.

She looked for her contact. She’d been on her way out the door of one of her apartments to meet with him when Kevin had called. He’d told her to use her sources, to try to track down the truth. Good old Kevin. They’d been in the same “welcome aboard” class when they both went to work for the CIA five years before. He seemed to believe that gave him the right to call on her at any time to ask for a favor. Like old pals. But now he was working, at least indirectly, for Morrissey. That made Kevin’s requests legitimate, and by this time simply confirmed what she would be doing anyway. But Kevin still had to think of it as something she was doing for him. She didn’t mind. He’d been the only one in the entire CIA to actually be looking into the men who’d done this before the event occurred. Too late now, but Kevin had been onto something, and she’d barely given him the time of day.

Renee had set up the meeting quickly. She knew in her gut that she’d missed a rare opportunity to forestall the attack. If only she’d paid more attention to it over the last week or two. Intelligence matters often start out as minor “see what you can find” missions that sound, and usually are, horribly boring. If anyone knows why a thing is important, the field officers are rarely told, on the off chance that someone might try to get it out of them at the wrong time.

She crossed the street and headed for the train station. Her contact would be standing by the track waiting for the train that was to leave in thirty minutes. He’d told her which post he would be leaning against. She passed through the station out to the throng waiting for that train and glanced around. She counted posts, the ones holding the covered awning next to the train track to protect people from the weather. She saw the post with the out-of-place black paint at the top and maneuvered her way to stand by it. She breathed hard and put out her hand to hold herself up. Finally she leaned against the post. A man stood behind her reading a newspaper, no more than a foot away. He spoke to her in a low, whispered voice. “I cannot believe this has happened,” he said in Urdu. “Pakistan is shamed in front of the world!”

She nodded carefully without saying anything, then waited as he came around beside her and stood right next to her.

“This will bring down the government. No matter what happens, it is the end of the current government. I am sure.”

Renee thought about that for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to her. His newspaper obscured their faces, and the post blocked anyone on the other side from listening too carefully. “We might have stopped him,” she replied in her unaccented Urdu.

“I told you what I knew.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“I didn’t know what they were planning. It suddenly explains the attack on the weapons depot a few months ago. Now we know what they took—and where it went.”

“You don’t think the government could have been behind that?”

“No.”

She wasn’t so sure. She turned slightly toward him. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will find him.”

“Them.”

“Only one lived.”

“Only one pilot. But how many others had to be involved—the bombs, the men who were with them? It is incredible to me they kept it quiet.”

“He escaped on a submarine.”

He tried not to look at her. “I heard that on CNN. It must be an error. It is not possible.”

“It’s true. It almost certainly means some country was involved.”

“What kind of submarine?”

“Diesel.”

“Many countries have diesel submarines. Russia, China, Iran, India…”

“Pakistan.”

He looked at her sharply. “You don’t really think Pakistan was involved in the attack, do you?”

“Pakistan was involved. They were Pakistani pilots. The only question is whether your government was—”

“They were acting on their own! I assure you.”

“We’ll see about that, I suppose.”

“You think Pakistan would accept your country’s invitation and then send its Air Force pilots there to blow up your nuclear power plant? You think we’re crazy?”

“It was set up by your embassy. They leaned on the Undersecretary of Defense.”

“Yes. Yushaf.”

“You know him?” she exclaimed.

“Knew of him. He was employed by Pakistan. As we now see, he was working for someone else.”

“Who?”

“No one knows. Do you know where he is? We do not.”

“No. He fled before the attack.”

“He has not returned.”

“I find that hard to believe. How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“You don’t. But I assure you in the strongest possible terms. We had nothing to do with the attack.”

“You may not even know.”

“I do. You don’t know me as well as you think.”

She glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“I am a member of ISI.”

“What?” she said, suddenly aware she was talking to the very people she suspected of conducting the attack.

“I have my fingers in many pies.”

“Then why talk to me?”

“Because your country suspects ISI of association with and encouragement of the Taliban of Afghanistan and bin Laden—all kinds of terrorists around the world. You don’t know what we do, so you suspect.”

“Maybe you should tell me all about it.”

“No. I am here to answer your questions.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The pilot.”

“Sounds like you should follow the submarine. It must go to some port.”

“He could have transferred to a ship, then a helicopter, then another ship, then another helicopter, then a flying boat, then an airliner. He could be anywhere in the world by now.”

“So how would I know where he is?”

“Because you would know.”

He turned the page of his newspaper.

She waited. She sensed he was considering telling her what he knew. She needed a breakthrough. The attack had sent a shudder through the entire intelligence community, like the feeling under your feet when standing on the deck of a large ship as it runs aground. Once again the CIA had been caught with its pants down in South Asia, just as it had when India had conducted its nuclear testing in 1998 and the CIA learned about it through CNN. The President had been angry then. Now, even though there was a different President, he knew the history and was livid. He’d called in the Director of Central Intelligence and screamed at him. Unless he delivered the Pakistani pilot’s head on a platter and found out who was behind this, he was fired. Renee assumed he’d be fired anyway, depending on what certain investigations found out about how four foreign pilots were allowed to operate supersonic fighters inside the United States.

“There have been rumors,” the man said quietly now, rustling his paper, making his voice barely audible to her even though she was leaning in his direction. “Those records we discussed. Back five years. Very odd. Why not fifteen years of records? Why not flight-training records? They seemed incomplete. I followed up.”

“Yes?” she asked, growing impatient.

“There aren’t any records that go back any further.”

“What does that mean?”

“There is an entry that says earlier records were lost and cannot be reconstructed.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“So my friends in records say that while it is possible, they have never seen it before. Ever.”

“Ever?”

“Not ever. It would be a strange coincidence that no one has ever seen such a thing and then the pilot with those very lost records is involved in a criminal attack and disappears.”

“What do you make of it?”

“We can’t get back into the records now. The entire division is under a total panic, searching all the records of all four pilots. They can’t even talk about it. In the records we did get last week, no photo and no identification, no fingerprints, dental records—nothing.”

“Do you have anything or not?”

“I think maybe Riaz Khan didn’t exist.”

“Of course—”

“I mean, there was no Air Force pilot by that name.”

“How can that be?”

“With lots of help.”

“So who was he?”

“The Air Force is not that big. Pilots are known. Sometimes one group—say, the ones who fly fighters—don’t know the ones who fly tankers. So maybe he comes in as being transferred from some other type of airplane, fresh from training in a distant base, and no one knows him. It is possible. And if they didn’t know him, and they suspected him, they would just assume he is from the ISI and stay away from him.”

“Do you know who he is, or do you not?”

He closed the paper and folded it under his arm. “I don’t know. But I am told there was a pilot in F-16s from an Air Force base near Karachi who has been on extended leave to deal with family problems for some time now. The only one it is true about.”

“You think it is him?”

He covered his mouth and coughed painfully as he walked suddenly away from her. He was afraid they’d been made. She knew better than to look around. She waited for the train that was approaching and, with the rest of the crowd, boarded it.