Fallout

4

Bill Morrissey didn’t like the report at all. As the head of the South Asia section of the CIA, Directorate of Intelligence, he generally hated the volatility that permeated the whole region. The report he held in his hands was another in the disturbing trend that was making it an even more dangerous place.

Morrissey carried the report into the office of Cindy Frohm, one of his senior analysts, and tossed it onto her desk. He trusted her judgment. “Read this,” he said, sitting in the chair across from her.

She glanced at the title of the report. “The Pakistan crossing incident?”

“Twelve hundred mils an hour. When they took the scrap metal off the truck, they found ten boxes just shitting radioactivity. Two of them weren’t sealed well, and two more had been breached by gunfire and the explosion. Ten boxes!”

“Weapons-grade,” she said.

“Plutonium,” he said ominously.

“I’d heard,” she said. “Who was bringing it in?”

“Well, if it was Pakistan, you’d think they wouldn’t do it on a scrap-metal truck, and you’d think they’d tell their own border guards to let it through.”

“Who else could it be?” she asked, confused.

“Maybe Pakistan, but not the government of Pakistan.”

“That’s pretty scary.” She considered some of the possibilities that flooded into her mind. “We should send someone from the NRC or the DOE over there to help.”

“We offered. They were offended.”

“They would be.”

“I want you to figure out where it was going.”

She saved the computer file she was working on and faced Morrissey. “What do you think?”

“Iranian driver, documents showed Pakistan as the destination, but passing through a lot of other countries, too, including Iran.”

“Could be anybody. Iranians sure would love to have nuclear capability.”

“But he was coming into Pakistan. He had passed through Iran. If this was their game, they would have kept it.”

She pondered some of the twisted possibilities. “Maybe Pakistan just wanted to be able to deny it if something went wrong. Plus, we don’t really know what happened at the border. Sounds to me like someone knew it was coming and tried to hijack it. What happened to the driver?”

“Big gunfight, but the radioactivity got him.”

“And the guards?”

“Same. And if this truck was trying to make a run through the mountains with ten boxes, how many other boxes have gotten through?” he asked.

“Any theories on how they got hold of it?”

“Lots.” He sighed heavily from the weight of trying to track the flow of boxes of radioactive material throughout his area. “Most likely, though, is the Mafia.”

“The Mafia? Russian Mafia? We’ve never confirmed they have access to any nuclear material. Plus, it was from Kazakhstan.”

“Nothing to do with nationality.” He shifted in his chair. “The entire Russian nuclear system, like most of their systems, is a wreck. They have guys with Ph.D.s in nuclear physics driving cabs. These Mafia assholes have sniffed out how hungry for nukes some of these desperate regimes are. They’re renting them nuclear engineers.”

“It’s all about money…”

“Exactly. Read that,” he said pointing. “Then come see me.”

Luke Henry brought his beloved silver Corvette convertible to a quick stop in his garage that looked like a barn. It was the older model Corvette. He couldn’t afford a recent model Corvette on a Navy pilot’s salary. He climbed out and slammed the door of the car so hard he was momentarily afraid he would break the window that was rolled down inside the door. He walked across the dirt driveway toward his house. He’d given his entire life to the Navy. He had gone to sea, risked his life every day and every night for years flying off a carrier, and now they’d turned on him. Betrayed him for a stupid incident that was unavoidable.

He noticed Katherine’s car was still there. She always left on the early-morning flight from Reno to San Jose every Monday to go to work. He frowned. “Katherine!” he called as the screen door closed behind him. “Katherine!” There was no response.

He walked through the house and found nothing but empty rooms. He finally made it to the master bedroom; she wasn’t there either. He stopped to listen for sounds. He suddenly heard her in the bathroom making an odd coughing sound. He wasn’t sure whether to stand there and wait or do something else. He decided to go to the kitchen to get something to drink. He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer while he waited.

When he had told her three days before that Gun had decided to board him, she assumed, as had everyone else, that it was just a formality. Nothing would come of it. He breathed deeply. Well, something had come of it. And all they had planned and counted on was out the window.

Things had changed a lot since they met. She had been working for a large law firm in Palo Alto, doing corporate and securities work: high technology, cutting edge, dot-coms, IPOs, M&A, VCs, Paige Mill Road. She knew all the lingo. Very heady stuff. As someone two years out of law school, she made four times what he made flying fighters off carriers in the dark. Something out of balance about that, he had thought, but he tried not to dwell on the pay. After all, she worked killer hours and didn’t get to fly fast jets. So he figured it was a wash.

He’d been stationed at an F/A-18 squadron that was based at LeMoore Naval Air Station in the central California valley when he wasn’t at sea.

They’d met at a concert in San Francisco —Rage Against the Machine. They’d run into each other. Literally. She had stepped on his foot and turned to apologize. Her gaze had lingered just long enough for him to know it might pay to begin a conversation with her. They’d gone out for coffee after the concert, both deserting the friends they’d come with. She thought it was “incongruous” that a Navy pilot liked a band called Rage Against the Machine. That was the word she had used: “incongruous.” That’s when he knew he wasn’t dealing with just another good-looking woman. He wasn’t even sure what “incongruous” meant, but he was sure she knew, and he was certainly willing to learn. She told him it was odd, since the machine against which they were raging was undoubtedly, at least in part, the government, those who told others what to do, and he was part of that government. He smiled, then laughed. She frowned, then laughed.

The first thing he’d been required to explain was why he was called Stick instead of Luke. He said that it was because he was tall and thin, but she had used that opportunity to tell him she thought the whole “call-sign” thing was silly, like some fraternity initiation rite. She had called him Luke, but smiled when she said it. He knew she thought that was a funny name, too. Once she found out that he’d grown up in Nevada and was actually wearing cowboy boots, the entire thing was even funnier to her. Funny in an inside-joke kind of way, where she was the only one who got to know what was so damned funny, and it was he who was funny, without intending it. His haircut was certainly something she didn’t encounter every day, very short on the sides and combed forward on the top.

That first night as they drank coffee, Luke could see her evaluating everything about him. He realized that someone without a lot of self-confidence had no chance with her. But he didn’t care a bit what she or anyone else thought about his name, or his heritage, or his boots. If she didn’t care for any of those things, fine. Even if she was good-looking. So he just held steady and watched her. He thought her small eyeglasses, obviously chosen for their look, were quirky and impractical, and her short, midriff-exposing, spaghetti-strapped top and sexy capri pants were “incongruous”—he’d used the word once he found out what it meant—with her role as a corporate lawyer. And if anyone was part of the machine against which the band had been raging, it was probably the corporations that used Third World nonreading slaves to build things no one wanted but were persuaded to buy through the companies’ clever marketing campaigns.

She’d loved that and had thrown back her head in beautiful laughter that seemed to bounce off her perfect teeth like musical notes off crystal. He told her that her long, curly blond hair was also not the usual sign of a corporate lawyer, and he insisted on seeing her business card.

They had dated on weekends, when Luke would drive his Corvette to the Bay Area from LeMoore. They would go to Marin County, or Sausalito, or just ride the ferry around the bay. He’d fallen for her more deeply than he’d ever imagined possible. It left him short of breath. The thought of living without her was inconceivable. He knew by the second month of dating her that he wanted to marry her, but it took him another six months to work up to hinting at the possibility to gauge her reaction. She’d laughed again, but it was her encouraging, “what a great idea” laugh, that life is good, and this idea will be part of the wonderful, enchanted life she seemed to be leading. Luke knew he was completely outclassed. She was from a higher plane in almost every way. But she loved him, and he knew it, and he wasn’t the kind to catalog all the ways she was better than him. No point. If it didn’t matter to her, he wasn’t going to let it matter to him.

He had asked her to marry him right as his squadron tour was ending, just as he was rolling to his shore tour. They knew they would have a chance to be together every day. The timing was perfect. Then he got his dream assignment—he was asked if he wanted to be an instructor at TOPGUN. He was thrilled. So was she, until she learned TOPGUN wasn’t in San Diego anymore. Fallon, Nevada, he’d told her, and her enthusiasm had evaporated.

She didn’t want to leave what she was doing, and after days of agonizing over how to solve the problem, they’d arrived at a compromise. She would keep her apartment in Palo Alto and come to Fallon every Friday afternoon through Monday morning. They had agreed that practicing law in Fallon, Nevada, simply wasn’t the same as practicing law in the heart of Silicon Valley, in Palo Alto, California.

But she knew that he was going to stay in the Navy. He was determined to be a commanding officer of a Navy squadron and ultimately of a nuclear aircraft carrier. He loved flying in the Navy and wanted to make it a career. She’d breathed in deeply and said she didn’t know how, but she would make it work. They would make it work.

Now he had to tell her that all their plans were being turned upside down.

“You’re home,” Katherine said from behind him, surprising him.

“Hey,” he said. He turned to see her. She looked terrible. Her face was drawn and pale, and her long blond hair was more disheveled than usual. She was dressed in a business suit, but she looked as if she’d been camping. “How you doing?”

She stood next to him and put her head down on her arm on the counter. “Sick.”

“Flu?”

“No,” she said.

He frowned.

“You sitting down?” she replied.

He looked at the stool on which he was obviously sitting. “Looks like it.”

“Morning sickness.”

He stood and stared at her, openmouthed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said, trying to smile. “I did the test after you left this morning. I got dressed and tried to get to the airport and just lay on the bed. I couldn’t make it.”

Luke put his arm around her. “That’s unbelievable!” he said, groping for exactly the right words but coming up short. He hugged her.

“Nothing will be the same now,” she replied. She looked at his face closely for the first time and saw something there. “What’s wrong?”

“I got the board results today.” He sat again.

“What did they say?” she said, sitting on the stool next to his.

“Gun’s going to put a letter in my jacket.”

She knew exactly what that meant. His commanding officer would put a letter, in his personnel file, that would say he’d been found wanting in the evaluation conducted of him relating to an accident. She also knew that no one had a great career in naval aviation after such a letter. It was as effective as a court-martial.

“Why?”

“I didn’t exercise enough ‘judgment’ or ‘leadership.’ The accident wasn’t my fault, but if I had exercised sufficient leadership, I could have avoided it. Believe that?”

“But what could you have done?”

“They say by trying to bank to the right instead of pushing the nose over I caused my left wing to go up and hit Mink’s. I should have just pushed over and headed down. I could have avoided the whole thing. But more important, we shouldn’t have been doing a photo op on the way back from the graduation hop.”

She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Luke. That’s just wrong.”

“I’ve got to get out.”

“That’s completely unfair. Can’t you appeal it?”

“Probably some way, but nobody’s going to overturn a CO. It’s just his thing.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She pushed her hair away from her pale face. “So now what? Airlines?”

Luke rolled his eyes and shook his head as he stood and put his empty beer bottle on the counter next to the sink. “I’d rather cut myself with glass than fly around in a cylinder the size of a submarine. That’s not even flying.” He thought about it again, as he had several times during the day since hearing the result of the board, knowing it was what he would end up doing. “If I get out now, I’ll never fly fast jets again.”

“You could fly in the reserves.”

“Not with a letter in my jacket. They’d treat me like a leper—if they let me in at all.”

“We could move to the Bay Area and live off my income. You could be a kept man,” she said, trying to smile.

“Very funny.”

“I’m sure you could find a job in Silicon Valley. You’re an EE. If you could stagger in the door of a few high-tech firms, you’d have fifty job offers in a day for three times what you’re making right now. Just post your résumé on the Internet at a couple of the bulletin boards and sit back and decide which job you want.”

“You think I’d get my own cubicle?”

“If you’re really lucky.” She got a glass of water out of the dispenser in the refrigerator door. “So what do you want to do? We always thought you’d stay in until you were old and gray. It was the only way I’d get you out of my hair occasionally. Now you’ll be home all the time. What will I do with you?”

“I want to fly fast jets. Fighters. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“You just said there’s no way.”

“Exactly.”

She looked at him, not sure how to encourage him. She shrugged as she drank her water. “So that’s it? Your life’s over? You’ll be like Joe DiMaggio telling everybody about how great you used to be for the rest of your life? Maybe you could get a job with Mr. Coffee.”

“Thanks for your support.”

“Oh, I’m just kidding. Trying to lighten you up a little. Don’t worry, you’ll find something.”

“There isn’t anything, Katherine. That’s the problem. I know all the jobs that are out there.”

She looked at the sadness in his eyes. She’d never seen that before. “Do what they do in Silicon Valley.”

“What’s that?”

“Just make it up. Figure out how you’d like it to be, then go out and make it so.”

“Thud, it’s Stick,” Luke said excitedly into the phone.

“Hey,” Thud replied. “What’s up?”

“Doing anything?”

“The usual.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“What for?”

“I’ve got an idea I’ve got to run by you.”

Thud hesitated for only a moment. He would do anything Luke asked. He knew it was reciprocal. He and Luke had formed a fast friendship when they’d met in the training command learning to fly jets. “Want me to come out to Rancho del Luko?”

Luke and Katherine lived in a house that he called a ranch five miles south of the air station. He could have lived in Navy officer housing just off the base, as Thud and most of the other TOPGUN instructors did, but he wanted more room. Ten acres, minimum, as he’d told the real estate agent when they started looking. Katherine had been too speechless to say anything. Compared to living in Palo Alto, it was like living on the moon, only affordable. Luke wanted space, and horses.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. And bring Michelle. I don’t want to leave Katherine by herself right now.”

“Why?”

“Morning sickness.”

“No shit! Is that what you want to talk about?”

“No, it’s something else.”

“This must be really good. I’ll be right there.”

The maître d’ handed the two men the large, stiff menus, which they took with the entitlement and ease that came from innumerable political dinners in Washington. One of them was constantly buying lunches or dinners, the other happily receiving them. Receiving them was a violation of the federal rules against accepting gratuities, but Thomas Merewether didn’t care anymore. He used to be scrupulous about it, but he was tired of eating at the Department of Defense cafeteria and McDonald’s. He loved good food but couldn’t afford much of it on his salary. He saw no harm in accepting a lunch now and then.

The other man was equally in love with the political lunch. The idea that he could have the attention of an Undersecretary of Defense for the cost of one lousy lunch was astonishing to him. In other countries where he had served, it would cost thousands of dollars in bribes and trips and mistresses just to get access to a highly placed government official, not to mention actual results. But in America, where there were so many rules against everything, getting an official across the line even slightly gave him tremendous power. Everyone knew when they’d crossed the line, and just by crossing the line it was as if they’d already sold you their souls.

Yushaf had known the Undersecretary for several months, since assuming his current position as chargé d’affaires at the Pakistani embassy. He had replaced a man who’d been too timid to make the necessary approaches to U.S. government officials. His predecessor had seen the rules as a hindrance. Yushaf saw them as levers he could use to manipulate people. But time was growing short. Certain forces in Pakistan were now demanding instant results. And demanding them in a way that made it clear that a failure to produce would be catastrophic. Exactly how was left unclear.

“Thank you for your willingness to spend some short amount of time with me, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“My pleasure,” Merewether replied. “Our countries have much in common.”

“Indeed. The United States has been so gracious in providing the weapons and defense systems necessary to protect Pakistan. There was a time, though—too long—when our countries distrusted each other. But when President Clinton honored us with a state visit and insisted on renewed ties, especially between our military—”

The waiter interrupted them. He wasn’t about to let them spend ten minutes on pleasantries.

Yushaf ordered a Perrier, and Merewether ordered a vodka on the rocks. They sat back with their menus, and Yushaf spoke. “But I got ahead of myself. How have you been, Thomas?”

Merewether planned to say the usual political thing, to say everything was fine, but recent developments had caused him not to care much anymore. He now derived a good deal of the pleasure he experienced in life by being completely direct and completely truthful, at least when that served his purposes. “Difficult. My wife—my ex-wife—has been pounding on me for more support.” He reached for the pack of cigarettes he always kept in his shirt pocket, forgetting that he’d decided again to quit that morning. “I’ve already given her everything I own. She has the house, I have the mortgage. I’m living in a shitty little apartment in Arlington.” His eyes crinkled into an ironic smile. “We used to be a two-income family with one house. Now we’re a one-income family with two houses. Well, one apartment, actually, like I said…” He shook his head. “Who cares…”

The waiter placed their drinks in front of them. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the roast beef,” Merewether said, handing his menu to the waiter.

“I’ll have the tomato salad and the swordfish,” Yushaf said. He returned his attention to Merewether. “It is your life, and I’m interested in your difficulties.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and handed it to Merewether with a gold lighter.

“So how’s it going with you? How’s your job?” Merewether asked.

Yushaf smiled falsely. “Actually, I am a little disappointed.”

Merewether looked up at him. “Why?”

“I thought we had an understanding.”

“About what?”

“We’re trying to make our military as good as it can be. As skilled as yours. I do not believe that the United States appreciates the threat that India poses to my country. We must have the best equipment, the best training, and be prepared to defend ourselves to have any hope of overcoming the Indian attack which could come any day. They have seven times our population and twenty times our land.”

“Shit, Yushaf, India isn’t going to do anything.”

Yushaf’s face clouded. “What about their ceaseless pursuit of nuclear weapons? Don’t get into an arms race, we were told. But you know what is worse than an arms race between two enemies? An arms race when only one country is building. India was building and building. And we could do nothing. Then, when they went public and tested, we had to do the same. And the U.S. came down on us and blamed us for being aggressive.” Yushaf smiled. “The Manhattan Project is fine for you when you suspect Germany may be trying to build nuclear weapons. But it is different in your eyes when India, a country ten times the size of Germany, threatens us with known nuclear weapons. We are somehow supposed to sit there and take it. But I’m sorry…”

“No, that’s okay. We deserve it. We’re pretty two-faced when it comes to nuclear policy.”

“But what I was saying is that I thought we had an understanding, you and I.” He paused and waited for Merewether to look at him. “You said you would help me get some of our pilots through your training. Your TOPGUN.”

Merewether tried not to roll his eyes. He’d heard this pitch before. He’d thrown Yushaf a bone and said he would try to get some Pakistani pilots into the next class that took foreigners. And he had asked. He’d been told it was impossible. “It is very difficult—”

“Of course it is difficult. That is why I asked you. You are in the right place to make it happen.”

“I’m not the Secretary of Defense—”

“Yes, but you are the Undersecretary of Defense. It is up to you if you wish to make it happen.”

Merewether stubbed out his cigarette on the bread plate. “It is not up to me—”

The waiter placed large white plates in front of them on the crisp linen tablecloth. They were silent until the waiter left the table. Merewether picked up one of the heavy silver forks and played with the spinach salad. He hated spinach.

Yushaf ate his tomatoes in the beautifully presented tomato salad with vinaigrette dressing. He was making great progress with Merewether. He could feel it. He cut one of the tomatoes and began speaking. “Another TOPGUN class has commenced since we last spoke.”

“How do you know that?” Merewether asked, annoyed.

“You serve a meal, but you don’t invite my country to the table.”

“Your country makes things difficult sometimes. You’re not always trusted.”

“We have had training from your military on many occasions. We have American-made weapons and airplanes, at least as many as you will allow us. We wish to follow in your footsteps in training and maintaining our forces. Yet we do not get the support of your military that other countries with the same commitment have. You do not allow us to defend ourselves.”

“Don’t get dramatic on me.”

“Why were our pilots not invited to this class?”

“There are too many American pilots waiting to get through. They don’t take foreign students at all.”

“Because we are a Muslim country, no doubt.”

“Oh, please. Don’t play that Islam crap with me—”

“Perhaps if we were a small Jewish state you would let us attend.”

“Where do you get that bullshit?”

“Israelis have graduated from TOPGUN. Do you deny it?”

“A long time ago.”

“No, it wasn’t. Are you saying it is impossible? It can never happen?”

“Never say never.”

Yushaf pressed. “When do you think I should start planning to have our pilots come to America?”

“Don’t push it,” Merewether said angrily.

“I am sorry,” Yushaf said, leaning back and putting down his fork. “I don’t mean to push.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

Yushaf backed off. “It’s just that I had heard about the class starting…”

“I’ll see what I can do. It won’t be easy.”

“If you are able to help my country, I would certainly do my best to help you as well.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

Yushaf looked innocent. “Meaning nothing. Meaning perhaps whenever you Americans want us to return the favor and train your pilots in Pakistan, we would be happy to accommodate that.”

Merewether smiled sarcastically. “I’m sure that would be just what they need.”

Yushaf glanced around. “I must get back to the office.” He stood and turned his back to the door so he was squarely facing Merewether and no one else could see his face. “Thank you for taking the time to share a meal with me. Please don’t forget my request. It can benefit both of us.”

“Right, whatever. See ya.” Merewether picked up the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. He lit another cigarette and placed the lighter down on the table. It was heavy. He picked it up and examined it. He looked at its bottom. It had an imprint: 18k. Merewether forced himself not to look around the restaurant as he slipped the lighter into his suit coat pocket.