James Huston - Fallout

“Thanks for your support.”

“Oh, I’m just kidding. Trying to lighten you up a little. Don’t worry, you’ll find something.”

“There isn’t anything, Katherine. That’s the problem. I know all the jobs that are out there.”

She looked at the sadness in his eyes. She’d never seen that before. “Do what they do in Silicon Valley.”

“What’s that?”

“Just make it up. Figure out how you’d like it to be, then go out and make it so.”

“Thud, it’s Stick,” Luke said excitedly into the phone.

“Hey,” Thud replied. “What’s up?”

“Doing anything?”

“The usual.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“What for?”

“I’ve got an idea I’ve got to run by you.”

Thud hesitated for only a moment. He would do anything Luke asked. He knew it was reciprocal. He and Luke had formed a fast friendship when they’d met in the training command learning to fly jets. “Want me to come out to Rancho del Luko?”

Luke and Katherine lived in a house that he called a ranch five miles south of the air station. He could have lived in Navy officer housing just off the base, as Thud and most of the other TOPGUN instructors did, but he wanted more room. Ten acres, minimum, as he’d told the real estate agent when they started looking. Katherine had been too speechless to say anything. Compared to living in Palo Alto, it was like living on the moon, only affordable. Luke wanted space, and horses.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. And bring Michelle. I don’t want to leave Katherine by herself right now.”

“Why?”

“Morning sickness.”

“No shit! Is that what you want to talk about?”

“No, it’s something else.”

“This must be really good. I’ll be right there.”

The maître d’ handed the two men the large, stiff menus, which they took with the entitlement and ease that came from innumerable political dinners in Washington. One of them was constantly buying lunches or dinners, the other happily receiving them. Receiving them was a violation of the federal rules against accepting gratuities, but Thomas Merewether didn’t care anymore. He used to be scrupulous about it, but he was tired of eating at the Department of Defense cafeteria and McDonald’s. He loved good food but couldn’t afford much of it on his salary. He saw no harm in accepting a lunch now and then.

The other man was equally in love with the political lunch. The idea that he could have the attention of an Undersecretary of Defense for the cost of one lousy lunch was astonishing to him. In other countries where he had served, it would cost thousands of dollars in bribes and trips and mistresses just to get access to a highly placed government official, not to mention actual results. But in America, where there were so many rules against everything, getting an official across the line even slightly gave him tremendous power. Everyone knew when they’d crossed the line, and just by crossing the line it was as if they’d already sold you their souls.

Yushaf had known the Undersecretary for several months, since assuming his current position as chargé d’affaires at the Pakistani embassy. He had replaced a man who’d been too timid to make the necessary approaches to U.S. government officials. His predecessor had seen the rules as a hindrance. Yushaf saw them as levers he could use to manipulate people. But time was growing short. Certain forces in Pakistan were now demanding instant results. And demanding them in a way that made it clear that a failure to produce would be catastrophic. Exactly how was left unclear.

“Thank you for your willingness to spend some short amount of time with me, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“My pleasure,” Merewether replied. “Our countries have much in common.”

“Indeed. The United States has been so gracious in providing the weapons and defense systems necessary to protect Pakistan. There was a time, though—too long—when our countries distrusted each other. But when President Clinton honored us with a state visit and insisted on renewed ties, especially between our military—”

The waiter interrupted them. He wasn’t about to let them spend ten minutes on pleasantries.

Yushaf ordered a Perrier, and Merewether ordered a vodka on the rocks. They sat back with their menus, and Yushaf spoke. “But I got ahead of myself. How have you been, Thomas?”

Merewether planned to say the usual political thing, to say everything was fine, but recent developments had caused him not to care much anymore. He now derived a good deal of the pleasure he experienced in life by being completely direct and completely truthful, at least when that served his purposes. “Difficult. My wife—my ex -wife—has been pounding on me for more support.” He reached for the pack of cigarettes he always kept in his shirt pocket, forgetting that he’d decided again to quit that morning. “I’ve already given her everything I own. She has the house, I have the mortgage. I’m living in a shitty little apartment in Arlington.” His eyes crinkled into an ironic smile. “We used to be a two-income family with one house. Now we’re a one-income family with two houses. Well, one apartment, actually, like I said…” He shook his head. “Who cares…”

The waiter placed their drinks in front of them. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the roast beef,” Merewether said, handing his menu to the waiter.

“I’ll have the tomato salad and the swordfish,” Yushaf said. He returned his attention to Merewether. “It is your life , and I’m interested in your difficulties.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and handed it to Merewether with a gold lighter.

“So how’s it going with you? How’s your job?” Merewether asked.

Yushaf smiled falsely. “Actually, I am a little disappointed.”

Merewether looked up at him. “Why?”

“I thought we had an understanding.”

“About what?”

“We’re trying to make our military as good as it can be. As skilled as yours. I do not believe that the United States appreciates the threat that India poses to my country. We must have the best equipment, the best training, and be prepared to defend ourselves to have any hope of overcoming the Indian attack which could come any day. They have seven times our population and twenty times our land.”

“Shit, Yushaf, India isn’t going to do anything.”

Yushaf’s face clouded. “What about their ceaseless pursuit of nuclear weapons? Don’t get into an arms race, we were told. But you know what is worse than an arms race between two enemies? An arms race when only one country is building. India was building and building. And we could do nothing. Then, when they went public and tested, we had to do the same. And the U.S. came down on us and blamed us for being aggressive.” Yushaf smiled. “The Manhattan Project is fine for you when you suspect Germany may be trying to build nuclear weapons. But it is different in your eyes when India, a country ten times the size of Germany, threatens us with known nuclear weapons. We are somehow supposed to sit there and take it. But I’m sorry…”

“No, that’s okay. We deserve it. We’re pretty two-faced when it comes to nuclear policy.”

“But what I was saying is that I thought we had an understanding, you and I.” He paused and waited for Merewether to look at him. “You said you would help me get some of our pilots through your training. Your TOPGUN.”

Merewether tried not to roll his eyes. He’d heard this pitch before. He’d thrown Yushaf a bone and said he would try to get some Pakistani pilots into the next class that took foreigners. And he had asked. He’d been told it was impossible. “It is very difficult—”