James Huston - Fallout

Two men opened a hatch in the sail of the submarine and came out onto the bridge. They saw Khan and clambered down a ladder to the flat deck behind the sail. They wore life jackets and dark clothes. Luke lowered the nose of the Fulcrum. “You seeing this?” Luke asked.

“I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it,” Stamp replied.

This cannot be happening, Luke thought. “Catfish, we’ve got a submarine surfaced on the water. They’re pulling Khan out of the water. Call the Navy! Get some antisubmarine assets here now!”

“A submarine, sir?”

“Yes, a submarine?”

“Whose, sir?”

Luke lowered his nose and slowed down to take a hard look at the sub. It was black, in good shape, and almost clearly a diesel. He asked in desperation, “Anybody got a camera?”

“No,” Stamp said with regret.

“Negative,” the F-15 leader replied.

Luke pulled up hard and tried to get out of the way as Stamp followed him down and attempted to get a radar lock on the submarine with his MiG radar to shoot his last missile. The radar refused to lock on to the submarine. It couldn’t separate the sub from the rest of the ocean. Stamp fired anyway, hoping against hope that the missile would guide, but he was disappointed. The long Alamo went ballistic as soon as it was launched. It headed straight down into the ocean like an arrow hundreds of yards from the sub.

Luke watched helplessly as the submarine started to dive. “Emergency fuel! Emergency fuel!” Glenda warned. He ignored her. Khan stood on the bridge of the submarine, removed his helmet, and waved at Luke flying two thousand feet above. Suddenly Khan turned and dropped through the open hatch, which closed quickly behind him. The blue ocean closed over the submarine, and the deck was soon awash in white foam and surging water. The sail grew smaller, and the submarine disappeared into the ocean.

Luke reduced his throttles and pulled back on the stick as the MiG climbed away from disaster. Glenda continued to remind him of his fuel state. “Catfish, I’m emergency fuel. Request bingo profile vector for straight-in approach to Miramar.”

“Roger, Nevada Fighter 101. Fuel emergency. Take heading of 113, climb and maintain maximum-range altitude, and report level.”

“Catfish, Eagle flight RTB.”

“Roger. Take heading 060, climb and maintain fifteen thousand feet. Break, Nevada Fighter, I’ve been informed, sir, that the Navy is on their way to get to the submarine,” Catfish reported.

As Luke climbed away from the ocean, he glanced back at the vague disruption on the surface of the Pacific where the submarine had been. “Tell them they’re too late.”

Luke was on fumes when he landed at Miramar Marine Corps Air Station in San Diego. He barely had enough fuel to taxi to the operations shed, but he wasn’t about to be towed; he’d rather flame out. His mask hung down in surrender, exposing his sweating face. He glanced at the operations building and was surprised to see the throng of people waiting for him. He shut down the starboard engine to save fuel. He kept his visor lowered. He didn’t want anybody to see his eyes, which were full of frustration and fury. At least the Pakistanis had missed the nuclear plants. Luke was suddenly acutely aware of why Khan had demanded more air-to-ground training.

He taxied slowly, treasuring the quiet, protective shell of the airplane cockpit that kept the world away. Vlad had lost his MiG. Four F-16s had attacked San Onofre and been lost, and his school would be blamed for everything—of that he was sure. He taxied by the windsock. The prevailing wind was from the southeast. It had allowed him to land straight in from the ocean on Runway 6, the opposite direction airplanes usually landed at Miramar. The prevailing wind in Southern California was almost always from the ocean, between 240 and 270. But not today. Today all of Southern California was experiencing a Santa Ana, a wind condition that meant the winds were coming from the east, from the desert. They were hot, dry winds that could easily reach twenty or thirty knots. He was thankful the attack hadn’t resulted in a radioactive cloud. He was sure the steam he’d seen meant they’d hit a power substation or the heating plant for the base.

Luke taxied forward slowly to the point where the lineman was indicating, waited until his wheels had been chocked, and shut down the MiG. He waited until his engine had completely stopped and then opened the canopy. A lineman put a ladder in place for him. He unstrapped methodically as he watched Stamp land and taxi toward him.

Luke climbed out of the MiG and down the ladder with his helmet in hand and began walking slowly to the operations shack. A man in a dark blue suit came jogging toward him with three other men on his heels. The man spoke to him from fifteen feet away as he slowed to a fast walk. “Are you Mr. Luke Henry?” he asked, reaching inside his coat for his identification.

Luke stood there with his hands on his hips, his helmet hanging in his left hand, and nodded. “Yeah. Who are you?”

“FBI,” the man said, holding his ID out in front of him for Luke to read. “You’re under arrest.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke said, suddenly furious.

“Put your hands up, sir.”

Luke stared at the man. “Are you shitting me?” he demanded angrily, not moving.

“Put your hands up, sir!”

Luke raised his hands, holding his helmet over his head. The lead FBI agent walked behind him, pulled down his right hand, and put a handcuff over his right wrist. Then he pulled down Luke’s left hand and the helmet fell out of his hand, hit the pavement, and began rolling unevenly down the flight line.

“Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney—”

“What am I being arrested for?”

“For conspiracy to commit a terrorist act.”

“That’s total bullshit,” Luke replied. “I was trying to stop them,” he protested.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you were.” They escorted him to the operations office, where the press was already congregating. When reporters saw him coming, they began yelling questions at him. The camera motor-drives were audible as they pushed toward him. Television cameras focused on his face.

“Why did you bomb the nuclear plant?” one shouted. “Do you have a grudge against the United States?”

Katherine had gotten dressed as soon as Luke had jumped out of bed. She’d thrown on a loose shirt, gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and sat down at the table with the telephone. She’d called the Air Force, the Navy, the FAA, the FBI, the Department of Defense, and anyone else she could think of. The few times she’d actually spoken to a person resulted in the same response: “Yes, that’s very interesting. I’m sure it’s terribly important, and I’m sure you’re right about what has happened, but I am simply not in a position to do what you have asked…”

Always the same. Very nice, respectful, as if they were talking to someone from an asylum, someone who needed the stiff canvas jacket with the sleeves wrapped around her back, and everything would be just fine.

She had kept the television tuned to CNN, hoping against hope that nothing had happened, that nothing would happen, and that Luke would come back with a great story to tell at the O’ Club.

Eventually she ran out of numbers to call. Besides, she was beginning to feel ridiculous. She put down the phone and drank the last of her tea. She was about to get up and make some more tea when the morning weather on CNN was interrupted. An ominous screen came up: the following is a special report from cnn. “Oh, no,” she said.