James Huston - Fallout

“So what happened?”

“So I left Air Force and went to work with MAPS. Much easier. Plus we get paid.”

“You live in Germany?” Thud asked.

“Yes, but…” he said loudly and then paused. “When you—Turn here—” he yelled at Luke, who had almost missed the turn. “When you two start your own TOPGUN school in Nevada, I hope to be there to help you with MiGs. As chief maintenance officer.”

“That would be great,” Luke responded with a tone of caution.

“And then maybe you will help me get to be American citizen.”

Luke glanced at Thud, then at his watch. “We’re supposed to meet a PAO at the operations building at 1400,” he said.

“Yes, it is right over there,” Vlad said, pointing from the backseat.

Luke drove right to it. They climbed out and walked stiffly into the lobby. Luke saw a female officer standing there, obviously waiting. She looked at his flight suit and quickly examined his patches—his NSAWC patch, the round TOPGUN patch on his right shoulder—and the brown leather nametag that had Navy gold wings, topgun, and stick on it. “Good afternoon, sirs,” she said. “Welcome to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. I’m Captain Lisa Gannon.” She wasn’t sure exactly whom to talk to, who was in charge. “It’s my understanding you wanted to see the MiG-29s,” she said.

“We’re here from TOPGUN,” Luke said. “We’re preparing a presentation to the DOD, a part of which will be about these MiGs,” he said seriously, implying much more than was there.

“Yes, sir, which is what confused me a little. That sounds like something that is official and should have come through Colonel Robinson, as the MiGs really come under his—”

“It really isn’t official.” Luke looked at her sympathetically. “We just need to see them, and whatever help you can give us would be appreciated.”

“Yes, sir, I just thought you might get more information from Colonel—”

“Thanks, we just want to see the planes. I’m sure this will be fine,” Luke said. “Can we walk there?”

“No, sir, they’re over at the other side of the base. There really isn’t anyone over there except security.”

“Excellent. We’ll follow you.”

Captain Gannon hesitated. This wasn’t the way the Air Force operated. They didn’t do unofficial visits. “Very well,” she said finally. She walked out of the hangar, climbed into a dark blue Air Force van, and drove out of the parking lot. Luke got behind the wheel of the dented Taurus, and they followed her all the way around the base to the remote, lonely spot where the MiGs were parked, next to a small white building that seemed to be there only to support the MiGs.

Luke, Thud, and Vlad got out of the car and walked around the building. Soon they stopped dead in their tracks. There were twenty-one MiG-29s, lined up in two rows just like an operating squadron, waiting for the pilots to walk out and start them up. Luke felt his heart beating faster. He had never seen a MiG-29 in his life. He’d seen photos, videotapes, and three-dimensional simulations. But he’d never seen one of the planes that he had spent the last few years studying and thinking about and fighting every day in his mind.

His enthusiasm was dampened, though, by the appearance of the MiGs. They looked beat up. Their paint was blotchy, some of the fasteners appeared to be coming loose, and they looked sad from the reflective covering that had been placed over the canopies, as if they’d been blindfolded. “What do you think, Thud?” Luke asked.

“Let’s take a look.”

Their eyes pored over the MiGs; Vlad was particularly attentive. Each airplane had its own story and its own foibles. They knew there would be one or two that would be hard to fly in trim, that would want to fly slightly sideways all the time. They knew that one would have electronic gremlins and that systems would fail for no apparent reason, and that others would be the iron horses that never broke down. It was like having a family.

There were two security officers watching them approach the planes. Captain Gannon nodded at them.

They went over to the first airplane and stood near its nose. The white circle with multipointed red-and-gold star on the tail was a tail marking Luke had to admit never having seen before. In fact, before he read the interview in the newspaper with the Secretary of Defense explaining why the United States had acquired twenty-one MiG-29s from Moldova, Luke wasn’t even sure where Moldova was.

Vlad spread his arms in joy as he walked toward the MiG. “The most beautiful airplane in the entire world!”

“What’s up with the puke-green paint job?” Thud asked, distressed.

Vlad answered, “Just the Moldovan camouflage. Not a very good job, true, but look,” he said, hurrying forward to the nearest MiG. “This is C model. Look at dorsal spine,” he said, pointing to the area behind the canopy. “Larger than the A model.” He smiled. “It,” he said, pronouncing the word as “eat,” “has active radar jammer there. Here is radar warning receiver. Very good one.” He gazed at the intake, which was closed by the movable doors. “Big engines.” He smiled again, looking over his shoulder at Luke and Thud, who were watching him with amusement. “Eight thousand three hundred kilograms of thrust.”

“Eighteen thousand three hundred pounds each,” Luke replied.

“You know this?”

“Sure.” Luke grinned. “This is my number one most likely enemy. My biggest threat.”

“That is more thrust than your F-18, yes?”

“Yep. But the F/A-18 is lighter.”

Vlad stood up straight and turned around. “No, my friend. Maximum takeoff weight for the F-18 is twenty-three thousand kilograms. Yes?”

Luke quickly multiplied the number by 2.23 in his head. “About.”

“Maximum takeoff weight for the MiG-29 is eighteen thousand five hundred kilograms.”

“That just means the F-18 can carry more.”

“Ha!” Vlad exclaimed. “Ha!” He walked around to the front of the airplane with Luke and Thud in tow. “These airplanes have 1:1 thrust-to-weight ratio at maximum takeoff weight! F-18 is not close to that.”

“What kind of shape do you think they’re in?” Luke asked, trying to change the subject.

“Fine shape,” Vlad said. “Look here,” he said, crouching at the side of the nosewheel. “See this?” He pointed to a small fender on the wheel. Not waiting for them to answer, his accent becoming stronger with his excitement as he tried to talk faster, he continued, “This is to clean mud and dirt off wheel before it is pulled up into plane on takeoff. You know why?”

“Unimproved runways.”

“Ha! Not just unimproved, but dirt! Or grass! What other jet fighter in world can take off from dirt strip? Wheel stays clean, and engine intakes stay closed until takeoff. Did you know that?”

Luke and Thud nodded.

“You know about louvers on top of wings for air during start and takeoff ?”

Again they nodded.

The Air Force Captain was watching them with growing skepticism. The loud, smelly Russian made her uneasy. She understood that the Russians were now our friends, but she also understood that Americans still got arrested now and then for “spying” in Russia. But these were Russian airplanes. There wasn’t anything particularly secret about them. Their purchase from Moldova had been announced at a press conference by the Secretary of Defense. And if there was anything secret about the planes, they were Russian secrets, not American. She just stood with her arms folded and watched them.

“Let’s look inside,” Vlad said. He looked around for the standard yellow ladder and found one lying beside the MiG two places down. He jogged to it and lifted the ladder upright, expertly placing it against the side of the jet.