James Huston - Fallout

“Yes, sir. Extraterrestrial Highway is driving distance from here, but I won’t have to go there all that much. I think you can see more from here, frankly,” he said in a tone of secrecy. “I think more happens up here than over at that Groom Lake. That’s been picked clean. They know people are expecting things over there. I think I’ll be more likely to see something—”

“Thanks for coming,” Thud said, standing up. He shook Raymond’s hand.

Luke also stood and shook Raymond’s hand. “We’ll give you a call as soon as we decide,” Luke said.

“Look forward to it.” Raymond’s mind had started to work. “How big a deli you anticipate?”

“We hadn’t really thought about it,” Luke answered. “But the more I do, I think something with tables and chairs, maybe even an outdoor patio.”

“Maybe even a jukebox,” Thud said.

“That would be great.” Raymond nodded. “I can build anything, you know. I’d like to get right on it if you guys are ready. Just give me a call.” Raymond waited for one of them to say something, then realized they weren’t going to. He turned and walked out of the room.

When his footsteps died away, Thud turned to Luke. “Sorry. I had no idea he was off.”

Luke smiled. “He’ll be fun to have around. The students will love the whole UFO thing. We’ll have to make sure he keeps copies of UFO Today around the deli. Think he can handle it?”

Thud nodded. “My dad said he was a steady employee. He just has some weird ideas.”

“Put him to work. Sure hope Glenda can cook—”

Just then Hayes came into the office, breathless. “I’m going to forward a call. It’s important,” he said.

The phone rang, and Luke glanced at his untouched sandwich and picked up the phone. He was annoyed that he hadn’t had more warning of whatever it was that was so important. “Yes, sir,” he replied as Hayes and Thud looked on. He nodded, listening. “Where? Why there? Yes, sir. No, not a problem. Yes, I am, sir. Very much, sir. Thank you. Yes. Good-bye.”

Luke put down the phone and smiled. “We’ve got our first students,” he said. “That was the Undersecretary’s office. We have four students for the first class, four foreign students.”

“Where from?” Thud asked.

“Pakistan.”

Hayes frowned. “Pakistan? Why?”

“What’s the matter with that? They fly American airplanes. They face India on the other side of the border. They’ve had two wars with India, and they still kill each other over Kashmir about every day. And the kicker, probably the reason that we got the deal, is… what’s the front-line fighter for India?”

Hayes nodded. “MiG-29.”

“Exactly. So if you were Pakistan, where would you go for training?” Luke stood. “Now we just have to get the other twelve students lined up.”

Hayes wanted more information. “What were you writing? You wrote something down when you were talking on the phone.”

Luke turned around quickly, recalling just that. “Oh, yeah. He gave me the name of their OIC. Head pilot. A Major”—he looked at the piece of paper and tried to read his own writing—“Riaz Khan, of the Pakistani Air Force.”

“Khan?” Hayes said, frowning. “I hope he isn’t any relationship to the Khan who’s the head of the ISI.”

“What’s that?” Luke asked.

“Internal security division for Pakistan. Sort of their FBI and CIA rolled into one. They’re mean and nasty. And they’re deeply involved with the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

Thud was lost. “Who?”

“The Islamic ruling party of Afghanistan. They’re very dangerous. Plus, I don’t need to remind you, it’s the Taliban that hid and defended Osama bin Laden for so long.”

The humor had drained out of Luke’s face. “You think we ought to be worried about this?”

Hayes considered. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize the first class. “The Undersecretary is responsible for their security clearances. It’s not really our problem. But I sure as hell would have picked some other students if it had been up to me.”

“Does this go on your to-do list?” Luke asked.

Hayes nodded. “I got a real uneasy feeling when I heard Pakistan. Khan’s a common name in Pakistan. Chances of him being related to the head of the ISI are pretty low. But still, I don’t know. I’ll give it some thought. Next time I talk to the Undersecretary’s office, I’ll remind him that we’ll need copies— written copies—of the clearances for all the students, including the Pakistanis.”

“Fair enough,” Luke said. “Guess what they’re going to do for jets?”

“Fly their F-16s from Pakistan?”

“Nope. They’re going to lease four F-16s from the California Air National Guard. How clever is that? Let’s put that on the agenda for the next department heads meeting. Maybe we can set up some kind of a pipeline so other foreign students can do that. Why don’t you get on the horn with the air national guard units west of the Mississippi to see if they’d be up for that. We can have a list.”

“You got it,” Hayes said. He was about to leave, then turned toward Luke. “You wouldn’t mind if I just did a little checking into this guy, would you?”

“How?”

“My brother.”

Luke nodded. “Good idea. Can’t have too much knowledge.”

Luke stood in front of the energy-charged room in his khaki flight suit. Russian pilot wings were embroidered on his nametag, with nfws and stick embroidered underneath the wings. He wore the newly designed NFWS patch on his right shoulder, with a black background and a gray F/A-18 in the foreground. Superimposed over the F/A-18 was a MiG gunsight. It was an F/A-18 caught in a MiG gunsight, a reversal of the TOPGUN patch, which has a MiG-21 caught in an American gunsight. Luke’s round patch read around the outside, nevada fighter weapons school. It was the same patch that would be handed out to graduates of his school. One patch for each graduate. It was Luke’s hope that this patch would be worn as proudly as the TOPGUN patch was worn by the few who earned it.

The newly completed ready room was on the second deck of the hangar. It still smelled of fresh paint. All except one of the newly hired instructors were there. They were all wearing their NFWS flight suits with Russian insignia. Each had completed the ground school and at least his introductory flight in the MiG-29. Several had completed the syllabus. For the first time the squadron was intact. All but one of the pilots were aboard, and all the administrative and maintenance people were in place.

The ready room itself was a study in aviation decor. On one wall it had silhouettes of every major fighter airplane in the world, in the same scale. Hanging underneath the silhouettes at the end of twelve-inch dowel rods were models of each fighter, built to perfection, all in the same scale.

Luke stood at the lectern, his hands on its sides, and got everyone’s attention. “Good morning,” he said.

They all smiled. “Good morning, Skipper,” one said loudly.

“Do we have to call you ‘Skipper’?” another asked.

“Absolutely. As each of you knows, this company will be run exactly as a Navy fighter squadron is run. We will have pilot duties, instructor duties, collateral duties, a chain of command, and thirty days of vacation a year. One big difference, though, is we will pay you exactly twice what your counterparts in the Navy are paid. Your pay is based on twice the published Navy pilot’s scale for the same rank. That makes it very easy to track. It should also make you want to write your congressmen to convince them that Navy pilots are underpaid. Feel free.” He smiled.

“Are we all here?”