James Huston - Fallout

Luke was growing angry. He replied, “We don’t need to reconsider. We have considered. Talking again on Friday would be fine, but right now we have to get this school going.” He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead in the back of the ready room. “The welcome-aboard meeting is in this room. I need to do some final preparation. If there are any other things you need to do before then, I suggest you do them now. Otherwise, we’ll see you at the meeting. Good morning,” Luke said as he walked briskly out of the ready room.

The other instructors knew that Luke had made an exit to leave an impression, but it left them without an excuse to make their own equally dramatic exits. “I have some other work to do. I’ll see you back here,” Hayes said as he walked out quickly.

The Pakistanis watched him curiously as he dragged his right foot slightly.

“Me, too,” Thud said.

Stamp stayed and waited until the others were gone. He faced Khan and spoke in a direct, subdued voice. “I wouldn’t cross Commander Henry,” Stamp advised. “Not only is he one of the best pilots in the country and one of the best TOPGUN instructors ever to hold the position, but he owns this company, this school. He owns it. He can ask you to leave anytime. He doesn’t have to answer to any government. Nobody can tell him what to do. I think you should bear that in mind.”

Khan was completely unaffected. “I know exactly who Lieutenant Henry is, Mr. Stamp. I know it is the highest military rank he ever actually achieved, and I know that he owns this company because Lieutenant Thurmond’s father is a rich man who wants to relive his failed Vietnam fantasies. I know he left the Navy in disgrace after being involved in a midair collision and receiving a reprimand. Your Mr. Henry has taken to calling himself ‘Commander’ and wearing the insignia of a Russian Colonel. I know what his position is, and I know that he can ask us to leave. But I also know that the amount being paid by my government is more than that paid by all the other students together . Without us, this school will fail . So please don’t patronize me with talk about how powerful Lieutenant Luke Henry is. We have power of our own. As to whether he answers to someone else, I assure you that he does. Who owns the MiGs and this airfield? Not Lieutenant Henry. Please don’t insult me again with your very poor advice and your very veiled threats of what will happen to me if I should ‘cross’ Lieutenant Henry. I will cross him when I need to and when I choose to.”

Stamp glowered at Khan. “Just watch yourself, that’s all I’m saying. Show Mr. Henry some respect. But what you do isn’t up to me.”

“I never thought it was, Mr. Stamp.”

Colonel Stoyanovich never went to see anyone. It was beneath him. He hadn’t spent his entire life climbing the ladder in the Soviet—now Russian, he lamented—Air Force so he would have to go seek the approval, or the ear, of a subordinate. But Popovich was a different question. Since winning his position as the commander of the fighter wing and being assigned to this base—a base where he had never before been stationed—he’d heard Popovich spoken of in whispers and with deference.

Personally, he hated Popovich. He was a pompous nobody who’d never held a real military job as far as Stoyanovich could tell. He always had a smirk on his face, as if he were privileged to have all the secrets and wasn’t about to share them with anyone except his closest friends—and then only if they paid him handsomely.

Stoyanovich had learned that when the issue went through Popovich, you went to see him . It didn’t matter who you were. Even the base commander went to see Popovich, the head of security, because Popovich was connected. Connected to those who drove black Mercedes-Benz automobiles and wore tailored Italian clothes. Whatever Popovich wanted to happen seemed to happen.

Stoyanovich walked into the office and took off his officer’s hat. He placed it under his arm, keeping his long coat on, in spite of the overheated room, with steam hissing out of a radiator behind him. “Colonel Stoyanovich to see Lieutenant Colonel Popovich,” he said to the young airman at the desk.

The airman stood up quickly, assumed a pose of forced attention, and nodded. “Yes, Colonel. I will tell him that you are here. Is he expecting you?”

“I don’t believe so. I simply need to discuss one thing with him.”

The young man disappeared, and Stoyanovich unbuttoned his coat.

“He will see you, sir,” the young man said, returning to the outer room.

Stoyanovich nodded. He had better see me, he thought. He walked quickly into Popovich’s office. “Good afternoon,” he said.

Popovich stood up and gave a slight bow. “It is an honor to see you, Colonel Stoyanovich. An honor.” He said it with just enough respect to be too much, just enough for Stoyanovich to know he didn’t mean it at all. “What can I do for you?”

Stoyanovich towered over Popovich but could see he wasn’t intimidated at all. “Major Vladimir Petkov,” he said.

“What of him?” Popovich asked.

Stoyanovich stared at him. “What of him?” Stoyanovich asked incredulously. “Where is he?”

“He has resigned,” Popovich said. He fought back a smile as he lit a Camel cigarette and slipped the lighter back into the pocket of his uniform.

“Resigned? That is impossible,” Stoyanovich sputtered, knowing it was exactly as Popovich had said. “He could not possibly have resigned. That would have to be approved by me. You must be mistaken.”

“No. I am sure.”

“I sent him to you for temporary security duty, not retirement! How can this be? I am his Wing Commander!”

“You were his Wing Commander. No longer. He is no longer in the Russian Air Force, defending our crumbling country from all its enemies.”

“But the paperwork must come through me for any resignations! This is impossible.”

“You are ignorant,” Popovich said, as if slapping Stoyanovich in the face. “If certain people want an officer out of the Air Force, it simply happens. No Colonel is going to stop that. There is no need for your signature on a silly piece of paper if the right people don’t feel it is necessary.”

“What ‘right people’?”

“That is none of your concern. It has been taken care of.”

“But why? He was going to be returned to flying.”

“You told him he was grounded for the rest of his career.”

“Only so he would take his problem seriously. You knew that. I was going to transfer him back in six months.”

“No longer.”

Stoyanovich heard the contempt in Popovich’s voice. “Where is he?”

“He has moved.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Popovich sat down. “Of course.”

“Where?”

“He is no longer any of your concern.”

“But he is still your concern? You, who run security on this godforsaken base, still need to know where a retired pilot is who has moved away?” Stoyanovich asked, his voice growing louder.

“Yes. He is still my concern.”

“Why?”

Popovich leaned forward and said with a leering, biting tone, “You still don’t understand, do you? You still believe one day you’ll open your eyes and everything will be like it was, a red flag with hammer and sickle and the world respecting us again. Well, that isn’t going to happen. You should let go of your fantasy world and retire yourself. You are just in the way.”

Stoyanovich yearned to respond in kind, to show Popovich where the real power lay in Russia. But he was determined to find out what he’d come to learn. His deep voice boomed around the room as he yelled at Popovich, “Where is he?”