James Huston - Fallout

“Yes, of course. And who would go?”

“Me. Me and Luke Henry.”

“Consider it done, but isn’t that what Gorgov wants you to do?”

“It is exactly what he wants me to do.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“I don’t have any choice!”

“You want me to do his work? You want me to help him accomplish his goal? I would rather die!” Stoyanovich protested.

“Please…”

“I will do that. Because you asked. But I will also do something else, unless you ask me not to. And if I succeed, maybe you won’t have to do anything for him. I am tired of the damage this man and his kind are causing to Russia. I have had enough. I have seen enough. I am going to pay him a little visit. I know where his dacha is. Perhaps when he isn’t expecting it, I will visit him and show him very clearly what I think of him.”

“No, Colonel Stoyanovich. Do not underestimate him. He is a snake, and he is surrounded by other snakes.”

“Not always.” Stoyanovich smiled. “I will take care of both things. I will call you. It is time that we Russians stood up to the murderers who are ruining our country.”

“Please be careful.”

“Of course. You should get ready to go to India. It is the right thing for you to stop this Khan. I will take care of everything else.”

Luke was trying to pretend that things were normal. He was trying to reestablish a routine, even though he wouldn’t allow himself to be away from the news for more than fifteen minutes to get an update on the growing crisis in Southern California and the drifting radioactive cloud. There was now a confirmed death toll of fifteen, with several hundred suffering from radiation sickness and a total of two thousand affected. San Onofre was operating cleansing stations twenty-four hours a day and running people through endlessly. They had started holding press conferences every hour, but it all served simply to confirm how horrible things were. Most of the population of Southern California within fifty miles of San Onofre was still trying to get out of the area. The cloud itself was drifting lazily westward, but without much momentum. It was dissipating, but not quickly. Experts were apoplectic. The antinuclear activists were crowing “I told you so! I told you so!” to anyone who would listen, even to those who wouldn’t listen, and Luke felt personally responsible for all of it.

He sat in the Area 51 Café and put his bagel with scrambled egg on the table in front of him. Raymond set Luke’s coffee next to his plate. “There you go, boss.”

“Thanks,” Luke said absentmindedly. He looked around the café. He was the only one there other than Raymond and Glenda. “No one else here?”

“No, sir,” Raymond said. “Seems most of the instructors are just staying in their rooms watching their televisions for the cloud and all. No one knows what to make of it. Kind of in shock, I think.”

“Thanks for what you did.”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

Luke nodded and began to eat. The door in the back of the café opened, and Vlad came in. “Hey, Vlad. Join me.”

Vlad nodded and sat heavily in the chair across from Luke. He looked at Glenda. “Bread, if you please.”

Glenda nodded and reached for the black bread.

Luke stared at Vlad. “You look like I feel.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like this is all your fault. Like you really screwed up.”

“I did, I think.”

“How?”

“I should have known Khan was up to something. I should have figured it out.”

“We all should have.”

“Perhaps,” Vlad said as Glenda put his warmed bread in front of him, along with a cup of coffee.

“Did you call anyone?”

“What?”

“You told Helen you were going to call somebody about Khan. Any luck?”

“Yes. I was able to call some people who will convey our concerns to their friends in India. We will see.”

Luke saw something in Vlad that he couldn’t explain. “What else? Something else is going on with you. What’s up?”

Vlad shook his head. “Nothing, really. I am still hurting from my back, but it will be okay.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I am sure. I…”

“What?”

“Nothing. I have other things I have to deal with in Russia. Family things, nothing for you to worry about.”

“You need any help? Money or anything?”

“No. I will take care of it myself.”

“You know what, Vlad?” Luke said, leaning back.

“What?”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead,” Vlad said.

“What happened in Russia?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you leave the Russian Air Force?”

“I retired.”

“You didn’t have enough years in to retire,” Luke said.

Vlad frowned. “Yes I did. I gave you my records.”

“You gave me the untranslated copies, too. I had them retranslated. The dates were changed.”

Vlad slowed his eating but didn’t look at Luke. “Must be big mistake.”

“Did you change your records?”

“I retired.”

“Okay,” Luke said. “Nothing else you want to tell me about?”

“No,” Vlad said harshly.

Luke watched him eat. They sat there in silence, each keeping to his own thoughts. Luke finally asked, “You ever have an alcohol problem?”

“What?” Vlad exclaimed. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because when Dr. Thurmond flew with you, he told me he smelled alcohol on your breath.”

“I must have had drink with lunch, that one day.”

“We have a rule, Vlad. I told you what it was. Twelve hours from bottle to brief. Not lunch to brief.”

“Sorry. I forget.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Luke waited, but Vlad wasn’t saying anything else. “You did a good job against the Pakistanis.”

“I did shit job. I got shot down and didn’t get any of them.”

“You showed a lot of courage. It wasn’t even your fight.”

“It is my fight. This is my school, too. I have bet everything to be here. This is big chance to make different life. He tried to hurt your country—and me.”

“Well, I appreciate what you did.”

“Yes. You are welcome.” Vlad looked at his watch. “I have to go.”

Luke nodded as Vlad hurried away. He’d left two-thirds of his cherished black bread untouched.

The Colonel sat in his Russian government sedan. The heater didn’t work, and his dirty officer’s overcoat was not keeping out the cold as it once did. But the wait was worth it. As he crushed the last cigarette from the second pack he’d smoked while waiting, he thought of his last fifteen years in the Russian Air Force. It had gone from being the greatest Air Force in the world—possibly the second best, if one believed the American propaganda—to a force that saw its very existence dependent on a corrupt system that sold airplanes and weapons for food. Now the best fighters in the world sat mostly idle, and the pilots struggled to get enough flight hours just to stay competent, let alone capable of defeating skilled Western pilots who would have twenty times the flight hours and bellies full of whatever food they wanted.

The old system was better, Colonel Stoyanovich told himself again, as he did nearly every day. There was respect for authority, there was respect for the Soviet Union around the world, there was food on the tables, and there wasn’t the pervasive despair now so common. Well… he had to admit to himself, there had been despair even then. Antigovernment despair, despair from never being free to do what you wanted. But the military had been strong, not an assembly of beggars, of second-, third-, or fourth-class citizens.