James Huston - Fallout

“That would not be good,” Stamp replied.

“Thud, contact Miramar ops. See if the Marines have any alert F/A-18s they can get up between us and San Diego. Stamp, the carriers have any of their own aircraft aboard?”

“Negative,” Stamp replied.

Suddenly an unidentified voice challenged them. “Nevada Fighter 101, this is Los Angeles center. How do you read?”

Luke jerked to respond. Finally. “Loud and clear, how me?”

“Loud and clear. Say your intentions.”

“Did you copy the guard transmission?”

“Affirmative.”

“We are a flight of four MiG-29s. We have Russian air-to-air missiles with us and are in hot pursuit of four California Air National Guard F-16s that are being piloted by Pakistani pilots training at our base at Tonopah, in Nevada. They killed our guards and have taken off with laser-guided bombs and Sidewinder missiles. We have no idea where they’re going. Do you have them on radar?”

“We have a flight of four ahead of you fifty miles, heading south-southwest at thirty thousand feet.”

Luke pulled up to climb to thirty thousand feet. “Request thirty thousand feet. Request you clear the corridor south of them and between us of all traffic. These aircraft are extremely dangerous, and we do not know their intentions. They may try to shoot down an airliner. They have Sidewinder missiles. We don’t know what they have in mind.”

“Roger. Are you declaring an emergency?”

“Definitely. I’m declaring whatever is the worst possible thing you can declare.”

“Roger, squawk 7733, climb and maintain thirty thousand feet. Switch to 227.6 now.”

They did.

“Nevada fighter flight up.”

“Roger, read you loud and clear. Sir, how do we know you are who you say you are?”

“You’re just going to have to take my word for it. My name is Luke Henry. Call TOPGUN at Fallon, Nevada. They can vouch for me. We need to get any alert fighters airborne. Whoever would launch in case of a violation of the ADIZ needs to get airborne now, and these F-16s should be treated as a flight that is penetrating the ADIZ without authorization, and they are armed. And be sure to tell them the F-16s are the bad guys and the MiG-29s are the good guys.”

“I’ll contact the Air Force. I must put you on notice here that you’re in violation of Federal Aviation Regulations in that you did not file an IFR flight plan”—Instrument Flight Rules—“in that you’re flying above fly level 180 through the jet routes without clearance, in that—”

“I don’t care if I’m violating every FAR in existence! I’m telling you, these men are about to attack the United States somewhere. I don’t know where. Give me their heading! Help me get them. Give me a vector—”

“I don’t appreciate—”

“Then get somebody on who’s willing to help. I don’t need anybody else making it harder.”

“Their heading appears to be 190, but that is off raw radar return. Their IFFs are off.” The Identification Friend or Foe highlighted each plane’s position on the controller’s radar.

“Say their speed, and thanks.”

He hesitated, then, “Speed is estimated at 650 knots.”

“Request permission for supersonic—”

“I do not have the authority—”

“What’s your name?” Luke demanded.

“I am a retired air controller. My call sign was Catfish.”

“Navy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was with VFA-136, then TOPGUN. We’re on the verge of disaster here, Catfish. You’ve got to help me.”

“Stand by.”

Luke went to afterburner, and the other three airplanes joined him in the dark, leaving long trails of yellow flame behind them. He checked his airspeed. He was passing through 650 knots to 700. They were supersonic, screaming across southern Nevada, crossing into California. Luke did a quick calculation. If Khan and his men were headed for the California coast, they had about twelve minutes to stop them.

Catfish came back on the radio. “Sir, I raised the Air Force. They’re scrambling a flight of four F-15s. The Air Force controller will be vectoring them toward the F-16s. They are concerned about the rules of engagement and do not believe they will be given clearance to fire, as there has been no hostile intent. They cannot verify your claims nor can they verify that the F-16s are armed. Their instructions are ID and escort—”

Luke broke in. “Shooting guards isn’t hostile intent? I have an eyewitness that says they loaded bombs and missiles! Just get them up there. Intercept them. Then, if they roll in on anything, that’d be hostile intent.”

“I’ll pass it on. Stand by. Sir, I have completed the flight path analysis. They do not appear to be headed toward San Diego. Their current flight path will take them to the ocean well north of San Diego.”

Luke was puzzled. He glanced at the other three MiGs and thought for a moment. “What will they fly over?”

“Mostly mountains, then Orange County, then to the ocean just north of Camp Pendleton.”

“Maybe they’re heading for Camp Pendleton. Maybe they’re going to attack the barracks or the officers’ quarters.”

“We will alert Camp Pendleton.”

Luke envisioned the area in his mind. He’d been there innumerable times, up and down the California coast—San Diego, Orange County, the beaches, San Clemente… “San Onofre! They’re headed to San Onofre!”

“The nuclear plant?”

“Get on the telephone! Warn them! Tell them to evacuate the place! Shut it down!”

Luke glanced at his gas gauge. His fuel was disappearing at a shocking rate. He looked at his radar for any sign of the F-16s. He had two contacts close together thirty miles ahead. “I think I’ve got them, Catfish.” He compared his radar picture to their location and their closing rate. They had 150 knots’ speed advantage on the bomb-laden F-16s. It would take them seven minutes to get within a good missile-firing solution. By then Khan would have gone another eighty-four miles—just enough to put them at the coast. “Shit!” Luke yelled into his oxygen mask. “I don’t think we’ll reach them in time!” he transmitted.

“Yes, sir. The F-15s are airborne, but they’re as far away as you are.”

“Roger,” Luke said, checking his airspeed, wishing for more speed, anything to catch Khan. He stole a look at the chart again. “Do the F-15s have them yet?”

“Don’t know, sir. Separate control.”

“Damn it, Catfish! Fix it. Get everybody on the same frequency.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll work on that. Stay with me for now.”

“Do you still have them heading for the coast?”

“Yes, sir…” Catfish said, obviously studying the radar information, as minimal as it was. “Looks like they’re starting a descent.”

“Take combat spread,” Luke transmitted to his wingmen. “Acquire any of them you can, and be ready for missile launch, even if outside the envelope. We’ve got to distract them.”

“Two,” Vlad replied.

“Three,” said Thud.

“Four,” Stamp said.

Luke looked at his three wingmen, who were ripping through the sky with him, anxious to close on the Pakistanis, for the chance to get them before they did whatever they were planning on doing. Vlad backed off Luke and pulled out to his right.

Luke transmitted, “Vlad, I’ve got them dead ahead, at thirteen miles. Thud, you and Stamp take a position to the south and west. I want everybody launching on these guys as soon as possible.”

“Don’t we need clearance?” Thud asked.

“We can try. Break, Catfish, we need clearance to fire. Get whatever General is in charge on this frequency. We’ve only got about thirty seconds.”

“Sir, there’s no authority to do anything yet. They’re waking up everybody in the country right now, trying to figure out what’s going on. We don’t have anybody on the line yet except the Air Force duty officer, and he hasn’t given anybody clearance to do anything except take off and investigate. I seriously doubt he’ll be saying anything to you, sir. You’re a civilian.”