James Huston - Fallout

The worn-out leather backpack had a drawstring at the top and shiny edges on the side. His headphones were attached to a device on his belt that had input wires from the long-handled metal detector that searched endlessly for coins and other valuables that had made their way into the sand on the coast of California.

The old man pulled the tired Dodgers cap down over his eyes to protect him from the coming sun. It settled into the comfortable position of a hat that had been worn for years in exactly the same place.

He headed south down the beach, sweeping his detector from one side to the other, occasionally sifting some sand through a can when he came across something. After a mile he turned around slowly, shuffling his bare, flat feet in the fluffy sand away from the hard-packed sand, and pulled his face up as if listening for something. He held the headphones to his ear with his hand as he looked north. He turned south again. Ahead of him, on the water line, he could just make out the two huge rounded shapes outlined against the dark blue sky.

He continued his long, slow walk toward them as he searched for something of value on the way.

The canopies came down, and the radios went on. “Everybody up?”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four,” they said, instantly adopting the positions they’d been scheduled to fly on the missile shoot later that morning. Luke advanced his throttles, released the parking brake, and began taxiing toward the runway. “I have no idea what they’re up to. Get airborne in two sections. Use burner. Fuel is no concern until we catch them. Any questions?”

“Did you notify anybody?”

“I tried,” he transmitted. “I’m going to keep trying. Stamp, I want you on the radio talking to the FAA about this until you get somebody. Thud, when we get airborne, I want you on every Air Force frequency you can find, particularly Nellis. Talk to anybody who’s awake, and tell them what’s going on.”

“Roger,” they both said.

Luke was taxiing much faster than was safe, particularly in the dark. The taxiway lights were not lit, and he could barely distinguish the black taxiway from the sand right next to it. He was following the faint yellow line in the middle of the taxiway, illuminated by a remnant of moon. He didn’t turn on his airplane’s taxi lights. He didn’t want to draw attention to his position. He had no idea where the rest of the Pakistanis were.

On the other side of the airfield, all the remaining Pakistanis, including the mechanics, piled into the back of the now empty trucks. The drivers and riders climbed into the front and slammed the doors as they quickly started their engines and raced off the tarmac, past the hangar for the gate with their lights off, hoping to escape undiscovered.

Vlad was right behind Luke as they taxied onto the runway in position for a section takeoff in the dark. Luke leaned forward and strained to see the centerline. He looked at his compass and saw that he was heading exactly 260, the precise heading of the runway. He released his brakes and went to full military power. No afterburner—less illumination.

They weaved down the runway, unable to see the centerline, and reached rotation speed. They lifted off the ground and raised their landing gear. Behind them, Stamp and Thud taxied onto the runway and rolled rapidly into a ragged but successful section takeoff.

Luke continued to climb. He quickly took off his oxygen mask and ripped off his helmet. He picked up the cell phone that he’d stuck in his flight suit pocket and dialed the number Raymond had given him. Luke pressed the telephone to his ear, hopeful he could hear the conversation over the jet noise in the cockpit. “Raymond?” he yelled.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Stick. We just took off from Tonopah. Flight of four. You see us? You still on your hill?”

“Yes, sir. I saw everything. Four F-16s took off, and I saw you after them. I’d say they got about a five-or ten-minute jump on you.”

“Which way did they go?” Luke demanded.

“South,” Raymond said confidently.

“You sure? Can you give me a compass heading?”

“Positive. I followed them with my binoculars. I watched them as far as I could. I could see right into their tailpipes. They went south, sir. I’m sure.”

“You just earned your salary, Raymond. Call everybody you can think of in the world and tell them that the Pakistanis have taken off with F-16s and bombs, headed south from Tonopah. Just tell whoever you can raise—the FAA, the Air Force, anybody,” he yelled.

“Will do, sir. Good hunting.”

Luke hit the end button on his phone, put it beside him in the map case, and latched the door over it. He had no flight plan and no idea where Major Khan was taking his men and their bombs. He pulled on his helmet and reattached his oxygen mask. “Back up,” he transmitted to the other three. He could hear Stamp on guard, 243.0 MHZ, the emergency UHF frequency every aircraft was required to monitor. The FAA and all military establishments monitored guard twenty-four hours a day.

“Mayday, Mayday. This is Nevada Fighter 103. A flight of four F-16s is airborne in southern Nevada with laser-guided bombs. We’re unsure of their heading or intended target. Requesting fighter assistance. Mayday, Mayday…” Stamp repeated the warning.

Luke cringed. He hadn’t told Stamp to use guard. He wouldn’t have. It was monitored by everybody, almost certainly including Khan. Now Khan knew that they were onto him, airborne, and coming after him.

Luke pushed the MiGs through five hundred knots toward six hundred. He struggled to figure out what Khan’s target was. He thought of all the cities and Air Force bases and Navy bases where Khan might inflict the most damage.

Luke concentrated on his radar. If Raymond was right, Khan should be about fifty miles ahead of them. Luke reached into the map case and moved the phone aside. He pulled out the Las Vegas sectional chart and examined it under the red light on the clip on the instrument panel. He listened as Stamp tried to contact the FAA on guard and Las Vegas approach. He knew they were violating all kinds of FAA airspace and regulations, and he couldn’t care less. He thought it would be just fine if he had a midair with another airplane about now, because he didn’t know how he was going to face his wife, his friends, his squadron, or his fellow TOPGUN instructors at Fallon or the rest of the world.

He searched the chart. The Las Vegas sectional didn’t go all the way to Southern California. He tried to think of the juiciest targets. Los Angeles? But where? Laser-guided implied precision strike. A particular target, not just to drop on a house or a hotel and kill a few dozen people. And there wouldn’t be anywhere that more than a couple of hundred people would be at 5:00 a.m. March Air Force Base? Possibly. Air Force One was there a lot… . He jerked his head up as his heart responded to the instantaneous stimulation of adrenaline. He transmitted, “Anyone know where the President is right now?”

“Camp David,” Thud replied.

Luke was relieved. “Anybody got them on the radar yet?”

“I’m getting something,” Vlad replied.

Maybe the Navy base in San Diego—32nd Street, or North Island, where the carriers were based. Oh, no, he thought. These guys are going to attack an aircraft carrier, a nuclear aircraft carrier. His heart pounded even harder as his mind raced from one potential disaster to another. The MiGs sped on, accelerating through supersonic, violating yet another flight regulation. “Anybody know if the carriers are in port at North Island in San Diego Bay?”

“They sure are,” Stamp replied. “Stennis and Nimitz.”

Both nuclear carriers. “They could be heading there!” Luke exclaimed.