James Huston - Fallout

Luke and Thud had just gotten back from Germany and had fallen in love with the MiG-29 even more than they’d expected to. It was a rocket. A fast, maneuverable, predictable, and deadly fighter. Vlad had been an amazing instructor, teaching them not only how to fly the Fulcrum but also how to employ its weapons. Luke and Thud were glad to have him.

Luke stepped over a ladder that had been left in the passageway and walked up the stairs to the second deck of the hangar that was going to be the headquarters of the Nevada Fighter Weapons School at Tonopah.

Vlad and the others who’d come over with MAPS had already arrived and spread out in the hangar, taking over spaces Luke hadn’t even thought about yet. The base was vast and full of opportunity but could easily become disorganized.

MAPS had opened the dormitories and set up residence. Vlad was clearly in charge and had organized it in a military fashion, with “officers” in the fancier, slightly plusher facility and “enlisted” in another.

Luke had also decided that they would wear uniforms, specifically flight suits. He wanted to wear military insignia, but not American insignia. That would be improper, and probably illegal. With Vlad’s help he decided that they would wear the insignia of the Russian Air Force, since they would be generally imitating Russian tactics.

Thud walked into Luke’s office carrying rolled-up diagrams the size of blueprints. “You been down to the hangar?”

“Not today,” Luke replied.

“You should see all those Russian mechanics. They look like a MASH unit waiting for patients. They got everything lined up by bureau number.”

“Are those the drawings for the tail design?”

Thud nodded vigorously. “Check it out.” He put the two pieces of paper flat on Luke’s desk next to each other. One was a drawing of a MiG-29 with a desert camouflage paint scheme, the other a close-up of the MiG-29’s tail with the new tail design.

Luke studied the paint scheme first. “Not bad,” he said quickly. “But I’m thinking maybe we go with a little different desert camouflage. I was thinking something a bit more angular. More straight lines. We might even use water-based paint and change it every few days just to keep our students on their toes. Blue-sky camouflage one day, desert camouflage the next, flat gray the next. Always keep ’em thinking.” He pushed the camouflaged MiG-29 aside and studied the other picture. It was a silver circle with a black star in the middle of it. “I love this. It looks sort of sinister.”

Thud laughed. “My thought exactly . Go with it?”

“Do it,” Luke said, handing it back to him. “On all the tails and wings. And get the patches and stickers under way.”

Thud looked at his watch. “The first C-17s are supposed to touch down in five minutes.”

Luke jumped up. “Let’s go watch.”

The mechanics waited anxiously in their spotless dark blue coveralls for their beloved MiG-29s so they could go to work. Each had memorized what needed to be done with his airplane. Vlad had assigned a team of mechanics to each plane, with those highly skilled in a particular area assigned to the aircraft with the greatest needs in that area. There weren’t enough mechanics for each airplane to have its own complete team, but there was one person assigned to be the maintenance chief for each MiG, with others to help. They would share and assist each other as necessary, but Vlad wanted to make it perfectly clear that one person would be responsible for the maintenance condition of each individual MiG.

Luke looked for Vlad and saw him at the far end of the hangar. “Vlad,” Luke called.

“Yes,” he replied, instantly breaking off his other conversation in Russian.

“The transports are on final approach.”

Vlad’s face lit up. “That is very good news. I will tell everyone. We are ready for them, Colonel.”

“It’s ‘Commander.’ ”

“Your insignia is of a Russian Lieutenant Colonel.”

“We’re going to call ourselves by Navy rank.”

“If you insist,” Vlad said, confused. “Even though it’s the end of the day, I’d like the mechanics to begin working on the airplanes tonight. I want them to get in and identify any problems so we can be sure where we stand. If we don’t have big problems that we do not know about now, we will be ready in time.”

“Sure,” Luke said, feeling particularly responsible and in charge. “I want every single jet to be in perfect condition and ready to fly within thirty days. You think we can do that?”

Vlad replied, “Yes. Of course.”

“I want the two-seater ready to fly in a week. What do you think?”

Vlad considered for a moment. “Unless we find something we do not anticipate, we should be able to do that, too.”

Luke smiled. “What would we do without you?”

Vlad laughed. “You would have many broken airplanes!”

The enormous Air Force C-17 cargo plane was on final approach to Tonopah. Luke glanced up at the tower and saw the controllers working efficiently at their jobs. The C-17 was so big it appeared to move at the speed of a walk. Each of the cargo jets carried two MiG-29s inside with the wings and tails removed.

The lead C-17 flared gently, touched down at the end of the runway, and rolled to a stop. It taxied to the flight line directly in front of Luke and Thud. Two men quickly put chocks behind its wheels and told the pilot to shut down his engines. As he did, the second C-17 touched down on the runway with a third on long final. The cargo plane’s large ramp moved down slowly and touched the tarmac. Two Air Force Sergeants wearing ear protectors came down the ramp and looked for someone in authority. Luke raised his hand, and the men crossed over to him.

The older Sergeant looked at Luke’s flight suit and the unfamiliar insignia and hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to conduct himself. Finally he saluted Luke and said loudly, “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Luke replied.

“These your MiGs, sir?”

“They are for now,” Luke said, realizing the implications of what he was saying.

“Where do you want them?”

“What number is this one?”

The Sergeant took a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it. “First out is 109904, then 110433.”

Vlad pointed down the tarmac. “The first is the two-seater. It goes down there. The other is in bay three.”

The Sergeant looked at Vlad, whom he had not asked anything, and quickly correlated the insignia he wore with his heavy accent. He suddenly didn’t like his mission, taking direction and giving a Russian MiG to a Russian pilot on American soil. Something was out of balance, but he couldn’t quite figure out what he was dealing with well enough to form any hard opinions. “Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said brusquely as he turned and began indicating to the other Sergeant to pull the MiG-29 out of the C-17.

The second C-17 taxied toward them as the third touched down. Two more were lined up in the pattern to land at Tonopah and discharge their cargo of Russian MiG fighters.

Vlad had walked down to alert the mechanics that their jets would be first out. One after another, the C-17s taxied loudly to the hangar and the Sergeants in charge of the cargo supervised the rolling-off of the blotchy, dismembered MiGs. Each MiG was rolled to its place in front of the hangar ready to undergo either major surgery or simple reassembly. MAPS had it planned to the last bolt, parts waiting.

Luke looked at Thud standing next to him, a big grin on his face. “I think we ought to let Vlad fly with us.”

Thud tore his eyes away from the last MiG being unloaded. “Just like that?”

Luke nodded. “When I was in Germany, I was impressed. He took me through every maneuver you could imagine. I felt like he made me competent in the airplane in ten hours.” He looked at Thud. “He’s a good instructor.”