James Huston - Fallout

Luke looked around at the excited faces. “A couple of other things. As the squadron progresses, we expect to be able to do some road shows. If MAPS can support us, we’ll be prepared to take our MiGs overseas. It’s something that very few others have been able to do, but if we can arrange for the appropriate tanking—which will also require us to modify our airplanes—we can work anywhere in the world.”

“We can start our own war!” Sluf said. “Shit hot!”

“Good old Sluf. You know, you should have stayed with the forest service. At least that way all you’re going to kill are a few trees. Always there with a good idea.” Luke continued, “We’ve got a lot to do, a lot to talk about, and we’re going to be doing most of it for the first time. There will be some bumps in the road, I guarantee you. But give me some room to maneuver and we’ll figure out whatever needs to be figured out. Let’s get this school under way.”

The intense bearded man walked quietly off the Qantas flight from Sydney into the terminal at San Francisco International Airport. To someone watching him closely, he looked uncomfortable in his Western clothes. He was careful not to look around for law enforcement people or immigration officials who might examine his passport and other documents too carefully. He had nothing to hide. No contraband, no weapons, nothing that would give him away. Just false documents. Once through immigration, he would have no problems. He knew that the others with him were in the same position. They were all on different flights from different countries with passports from different origins. They would all arrive within four hours of each other.

He gathered his suitcases, full of secondhand clothes he had never seen before yesterday, and put them on the rolling SmarteCarte to stand in line for the customs and immigration stations.

He walked to the “Nothing to Declare” line and was waved through without comment. He maneuvered his SmarteCarte to the INS station and stood behind the yellow line in the “NonU.S. Citizen” line. Finally the person in front of him was done, and the INS agent looked at him as he approached. The agent extended his hand. “Passport,” he demanded.

The bearded man, perhaps thirty years old, handed it to him, trying to look completely unconcerned.

“Final destination?”

“Mountain View,” the man replied.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Family. My sister lives there.”

The INS agent ran the Bangladeshi passport through a scanner and looked carefully at the photograph and the paper. There was something about the man’s eyes that bothered him. “What’s her name?”

He hesitated. He hadn’t expected that question. “We call her Shiri.”

“Is she a permanent resident of the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Is she employed?”

“Yes. She is a computer programmer.”

“What do you do?”

“I am a mathematician.”

“How long do you plan on staying?”

“Four days.”

“Do you have a return ticket?”

“Yes.”

The agent held out his hand for it.

The man pulled the ticket out of his shoulder bag and handed it to the agent.

The agent examined it carefully, looked at the man again, hesitated, and stamped his passport. “Welcome to the United States,” he said, smiling as he handed the man his passport.

The ice blue MiG-17 flew gracefully over the runway at Tonopah and snapped into a left-hand break. Luke and the other pilots standing on the flight line watched carefully, noting whether the MiG pilot was losing altitude, whether he was maintaining a constant angle of bank, and whether he had to correct his turn before rolling level on his downwind leg. He made no corrections. He leveled his wings in a perfect downwind position and lowered his landing gear. The blue jet was being flown with tremendous precision.

It was a beautiful airplane. It most closely resembled the American F-86 Super Sabre from the Korean War. It had made quite a name for itself flying against Americans in Vietnam. It had a T-tail and swept wings with the single jet intake in the mouth of the airplane giving it a sports car look, with a bubble canopy sitting on top of the sleek, clean exterior.

Everyone on the ground immediately wanted to fly it. The MAPS mechanics, half of whom were Russian, looked on with unfettered joy at one of their favorite airplanes.

The MiG-17—the Farmer, as it had been called by NATO for the last forty years—landed perfectly and turned off the runway. It taxied quickly to the flight line.

Paul Stamper had checked in to the school a week before and had finally brought his own MiG. Stamp opened the canopy and scrambled down the ladder that one of the MAPS mechanics put next to his jet. He was wearing a custom-made blue flight suit and a metallic blue helmet. It was his MiG, his own fighter, and he was prouder of it than of anything he’d ever owned. The pilots walked over, gathered around the jet, and studied it as he walked toward them. Stamp called out, “Greetings, earthlings. I have come in peace.”

“Blow me,” Thud said, eyeing the MiG enviously. “Stamp, how the hell’d you get this ride?”

“Bought it.”

Vlad stared at the MiG with the look of someone who knew more about it than every other pilot there, including Stamp. He was almost speechless. He spoke with astonishment, “You can own MiG planes in U.S.? Anybody?”

Stamp nodded. “If it’s defanged. Can’t have guns and shit.”

“But we could put those back on with ease,” Vlad said, smiling, looking around at the Russian mechanics who were studying the plane with a glazed look.

“Yeah.” Stamp laughed. “Second Amendment! The right to bear arms! I need my damned airborne thirty-millimeter gun in my MiG for home defense! Shit, Vlad! Why didn’t I think of that?” He laughed again. “Actually, Vlad,” Stamp said, “I was thinking of asking you guys if you could take over the maintenance. The guys I have doing it in San Jose are good, but if you can do it cheaper or better…”

“Could I fly it?” Vlad asked, his voice full of hope.

“Got any hours?”

“Five hundred. All my early time was in MiG-17s, as you call them.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Vlad was amazed at the life this pilot had carved out for himself. “We can make deal. I will put together proposal. MAPS can get all the parts for MiG-17. We can keep it in top condition. And I will take part payment in flight hours for me. I would like that. Maybe I can show you some things.”

“So, Stamp, what do you do with this thing?” Sluf asked.

“Flight of two MiGs, formation go, high-speed passes, Cuban eights—all kinds of cool stuff the crowds like, but mostly it’s just the uniqueness of seeing two MiGs streaking through the sky, burners going. There’s something forbidden about it.” Stamp took off his gloves and put them inside his helmet.

“What’s up with the vodka?” Thud asked, pointing to smirnoff written in large script on the side of the airplane.

“They’re the ones who make all this possible. They pay for the whole show, plus whatever fees we get out of it. But with my new job, here at the greatest place to fly in the entire free world, I can use the profits of the air show gig to commute in my MiG and live off my new salary. And Captain Luke here,” he said, pointing to Luke, “says I’m okay to do the air show thing on the weekends.”

“Got any room for a third?” Thud asked. “I want my own MiG-17. How much does it cost to get one?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Ninety-five thou. But it’s getting the thing completely up and flying and keeping it there that will cost you.”