James Huston - Fallout

Thud watched Vlad scramble around the two-seat MiG with unfettered enthusiasm and energy. He looked back at Luke and shrugged, then nodded. “You’re the boss.”

Karachi was famous throughout the world as a place where you could buy or sell anything. The port served not only Pakistan, but all of the upper region of Central Asia: Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan—anywhere roads or railroads could reach. While not the capital of Pakistan, it was the largest city in the region. It was also famous for its corruption and crime.

Ships were loaded and offloaded continuously. Some arrived at night just so their unloading or loading could be done before fewer eyes.

Riaz Khan stood back from the window to avoid being seen. He watched the ordinary-looking cargo ship of Liberian registry. It carried bulk cargo and containers, but preferred bulk. The ship had its name painted in rusty white letters on the stern: eight seas. It had large cranes for loading the few shipping containers it carried on deck and open hatches for the bulk cargo. The cranes lifted large pallets of wool and lowered them into the hold. The men supervising the loading looked bored. They also cursed the crane operators or anyone else nearby for their having to load the ship at two o’clock in the morning. The Filipino ship’s crew supervised the loading of the hold and told the dockworkers when it was full. The last pallet was placed on deck, and a tarp was placed over the wool. The cranes swung over for the two containers to be loaded aboard and lifted them effortlessly. The containers swung to the deck of the ship and were carefully lowered to their spots on the deck.

When the containers were secure, the loading lights cast large shadows behind them. The Pakistani dockworkers were done. The loading had gone flawlessly, in spite of the tension they’d felt. They knew that their load was important to someone but weren’t sure who or why. They didn’t really care. As long as they got paid and the ship sailed on time, they were content. They walked away to the next ship in an endless stream of ships, their bodies showing their fatigue even in the low light.

The ship’s crew prepared to get under way immediately. They all knew that their orders were to sail the instant the containers were secured to the deck. They scurried to their places. The captain yelled to the men on the pier to release the lines for the Eight Seas . As soon as the massive, frayed lines were free, the two tugs on the port side pulled slowly, and the rusty ship inched away from the pier. The Eight Seas sat low in the inky water and pointed out to the Indian Ocean.

Riaz turned from the window as the ship got under way. He didn’t trust anyone to do anything right. Not anymore. He would personally supervise everything himself if that was what it took. A dark, unremarkable car was waiting for Riaz when he came out of the building onto the street. The back door opened as he approached. He looked straight ahead and made sure his face stayed in the shadows. He slipped quickly into the backseat, and the car pulled away. They drove down the waterfront, past rows of cranes, ships, and men, to another pier where another ship was just loading its containers.

Riaz touched the shoulder of the driver, who slowed the car as they all watched a Pakistani customs official approach the ship and call for the loading supervisor. Riaz didn’t like what he was seeing at all. The official pointed up into the spotlights to the container that was being swung onto the ship. The loading supervisor looked angry as he replied. Riaz stared through the tinted window.

The customs officer gestured quickly, with authority. The supervisor shook his head in frustration. The crane stopped, and the container, the size of a semi, hovered thirty feet off the pier and began to turn slowly.

“Call,” Riaz said quickly.

The man next to him in the back put the handheld radio to his mouth and quickly transmitted in Urdu. He received a click as an acknowledgment. The men in the car waited as the customs officer continued to argue with the loading supervisor. The customs man was suddenly interrupted and reached for the radio on his belt. He pulled it out and began talking into it. He looked at the container and went on talking back to the radio while waving his arm. He was confused and put out. He argued into his radio, then finally capitulated. He spoke to the supervisor, who nodded his approval.

The container began its slow trip to the ship again and was finally lowered to the deck.

Riaz nodded, and the car pulled out of the shadow of a building and onto the Karachi street.

“Crumb!” Luke bounded across the room and extended his hand to Delbert Crummey, one of his favorite Navy pilots and the one with the funniest name, a name that gave rise to absolutely endless jokes. His enthusiasm was legendary. “How you been?”

“Stick!” Crumb said. He’d left quite a mark as an instructor at TOPGUN, until he, like so many others, decided not to go back to sea. He got out of the Navy and took a job flying Falcon jets for a large company. As far as civilian flying went, it wasn’t bad. There wasn’t any high-G inverted flying, but Falcons were good performing jets, and once he got over having passengers, he’d grown not to hate it. But as soon as Luke had called, he offered to quit his job that day. He’d said he missed the flying, but he missed the camaraderie even more. “Where’s Thud?”

“Next door. Let’s go see him.” They walked from Luke’s office to Thud’s. “Thud! Crumb’s here!”

Thud shook his hand vigorously. “Welcome aboard! It’s great to have you.”

“You’re the XO ?” Crumb asked, surprised.

“Yeah. Benefits of partial ownership. We get to appoint ourselves as the bosses.”

“Who writes your fitness report?”

“Nobody, except maybe Luke.”

“And who writes your fitness report?” Crumb asked Luke.

“Nobody. That’s the beauty of it. How do you like the setup?”

“This is unbelievable,” Crumb said, looking around. “This is like the greatest job in the history of the world. Thanks a lot for calling.”

“Did you see the MiGs?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t ever seen one in person.” He glowed. “That’s a beautiful airplane—or at least somewhere there are beautiful MiG-29s, but yours look like shit right now. They need a lot of work. The one I saw looks like a jalopy you’d find in a barn that you try to turn into a hot rod.”

“Don’t let the paint fool you. They’re in good shape. Did you see the two-seater?”

“Yeah. That’s a good thing, so we don’t prang ourselves on our first flight.”

“It’s supposed to be ready to go Monday.”

“When is everyone else due to get here?”

“Monday except for Lips, who won’t be here until next month, and Stamp, who has a bunch of air shows to fly.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Vlad has set up a ground school and a flight instruction plan. Believe it or not, this guy who’s the head of the MAPS group for maintenance is a former Russian instructor pilot in the MiG-29. He’s going to do a lot of the instruction for us and run the ground school.”

“A Russian?” Crumb’s eyes narrowed, and he grew serious. “You’re going to let a Russian fly as an instructor?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“How do you know he’s not a Russian spy?”

“What the hell would Russia get out of spying on us ? Maybe learn all about the MiG-29?”

“No, the syllabus. The whole way of running a TOPGUN school. I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you? We’ve all flown as instructors. We’re probably going to do it exactly the same way. Russia could never get inside the real TOPGUN. So maybe they sent him here to get it from us.”