Fallout

by James W. Huston

  Luke pulled his throttles around the stop to the off position and had a quick idea. As his engines wound down, he glanced at Thud, who was watching him, knowing he was going to think of it. Luke brought his head back slowly, then quickly forward. When he did, both he and Thud pulled the canopy lever back, and their two canopies opened as if linked together, a perfect precision canopy-opening exercise. It was what all Navy squadrons did after a fly-off, when they’d been on a cruise for six months, and they had flown back off the carrier to their home base as a squadron. Their families waited expectantly, and the pilots, with their stomachs fluttering and yearning to hold their spouses again, would all leave their radios on, and the skipper would signal for everyone to shut down their engines and open their canopies at the exact same time.

  They climbed down from their planes and walked to the line shack together.

  “My butt is killing me,” Thud commented.

  “Long flight.”

  They paused at the maintenance counter and put their helmets on it. A senior Air Force enlisted woman approached them. “Do you have your gas card, sir?” she asked.

  Luke removed a credit card from the small pocket on the left shoulder of his flight suit.

  “Your jets okay, sir? Need any maintenance?”

  “No, they’re fine, thanks.”

  “When do you expect to depart, sir?” she asked, writing.

  “Tomorrow at 0600.”

  “Yes, sir, the tower should be open. You might give them a few minutes to have their coffee so they don’t taxi you into a C-17.”

  “Good point. Make it 0630.”

  “Will do, sir,” she said, smiling as she glanced over his shoulder, apparently at someone approaching them from behind. Her face expressed sufficient concern for Luke to turn around and see a man walking toward them from two cheap black couches that formed the transient pilot waiting area. He was wearing polyester pants that might have fit once but certainly didn’t now and a short-sleeved plaid shirt that might sell for ten dollars at Kmart. The man was staring at Luke as he walked directly at him. He was unshaven. His hair was black and unkempt. He had clearly slept on his hair and hadn’t seen a mirror since.

  Luke’s concern grew as the man approached him.

  The man spoke with an accent. “Navy Lieutenant?”

  “Who are you?” Luke asked, not really wanting to know.

  “Are you Navy Lieutenant? From TOPGUN?” he asked, putting the emphasis on “gun.” He looked out the window at the two desert-camouflage F/A-18s with the distinctive circular TOPGUN logo and the lightning bolt.

  Oh, great, Luke thought. A wannabe who’s been obsessing his whole life in a basement somewhere about flying at TOPGUN. They were everywhere. Every air show, every port of call, every tour of a carrier, everywhere. Guys—almost always men—who knew more about the airplanes than the pilots who flew them did. They knew the manufacturing specs for the canopy and the number of landings the tires could take before they had to be changed. They were information sponges and generally not very much fun to be with. They almost certainly had never actually flown an airplane—or had a normal human relationship. “Yeah, that’s us,” Luke admitted reluctantly as he turned back to the female Sergeant.

  “We must talk,” the man insisted.

  Luke listened carefully to his accent. He’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. “What?” he said over his shoulder as he and Thud examined the paperwork that had been handed to them.

  “We must talk,” the man said again, touching Luke on his elbow.

  That was too much. Luke put down the papers and turned to the man, looking at him more carefully, to see if he was a threat. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the Sergeant apologized, growing concerned. “He said he was a friend of yours. He was supposed to meet you here.”

  Luke looked at the man again, waiting for an explanation.

  “I am Vlad, from MAPS,” the man said quietly, with authority.

  Luke hesitated. “Vlad? Have we spoken?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure you have forgotten. I am very new at MAPS, and they have just assigned me to the idea you have sent them about this new TOPGUN School.”

  Luke quickly looked at the Sergeant to see if she was listening. She wasn’t. Luke headed away from the counter. “What are you doing here?”

  Vlad smiled and shook Luke’s hand with enthusiasm. “I didn’t warn you that I was coming. I for this apologize,” he said in his heavy Russian accent. “It was on the moment of a spur. They said you had told them you planned to inspect the MiGs this weekend and would try to get them the serial numbers. I offered to come help, and they told me to come.”

  “This is Thud,” Luke said, indicating Quentin.

  Vlad shook Thud’s hand with equal vigor. “I have heard of you. You are part of this, too. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Thud said, smiling as he evaluated the man on whom so much might depend.

  Luke said, “But I’m not sure they’ll let you come with us.”

  “They must,” Vlad said with confidence. “First you check into VOQ,” he said, putting the emphasis on the O of the acronym for the Visiting Officer’s Quarters. “I will drive you there. Then we go to find MiGs.”

  Luke looked at Thud, who said, “Forget the VOQ. Let’s see the MiGs. It’s already almost 1400.”

  Luke and Thud followed Vlad out of the small building to the parking lot by the operations building. “What is your last name?” Luke asked.

  Vlad fished in the pocket of his tight polyester pants for the rental-car keys. “Petkov,” he replied in such a way that the name sounded like an explosion.

  “Nice to meet you,” Luke said. “Where’d you get this . . . car?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Cheapest rental car place I could find. Nineteen and ninety-five per every day.”

  “I’ll drive. I’ve been on this base before—” Luke said.

  “I know base. I got here before you. I was driving around, until I saw Navy pilots do snappy break in F-18s, not pull up rolling break like Air Force. Then I just watched where you go.”

  “You’re very clever.”

  “Yes, very clever. I can do anything,” he said, stating a simple fact as he saw it.

  “Keys,” Luke said, holding out his hand.

  Vlad looked at Luke and immediately saw that this was nonnegotiable.

  Luke opened the driver’s door, unlocked the other doors, and pushed the button that released the trunk. They tossed their bags into the back and climbed in, with Vlad in the backseat. Luke and Thud glanced at each other as the body odor that was following Vlad around settled inside the car. They made quick faces of horror at each other but said nothing.

  “You could trust my driving. I was MiG pilot before maintenance,” Vlad said.

  Luke was surprised. “What kind?”

  “MiG-29. NATO calls Fulcrum. The ones we are now going to see.”

  “Then you stopped being a pilot?”

  “Yes,” he said bitterly.

  “Why?” Luke asked, watching him through the rearview mirror.

  Vlad turned his head to look out the window at the passing buildings. He was surprised at the beauty of the base, the officers’ brick homes, the lush trees, the groomed golf course, and the pond. It was somehow comforting. “Disagreement with my commanding officer. It was unwise on my part.”

  “So what happened?”

  “So I left Air Force and went to work with MAPS. Much easier. Plus we get paid.”

  “You live in Germany?” Thud asked.

  “Yes, but . . .” he said loudly and then paused. “When you—Turn here—” he yelled at Luke, who had almost missed the turn. “When you two start your own TOPGUN school in Nevada, I hope to be there to help you with MiGs. As chief maintenance officer.”

  “That would be great,” Luke responded with a tone of caution.

  “And then maybe you will help me get to be American citizen.”

  Luke glance
d at Thud, then at his watch. “We’re supposed to meet a PAO at the operations building at 1400,” he said.

  “Yes, it is right over there,” Vlad said, pointing from the backseat.

  Luke drove right to it. They climbed out and walked stiffly into the lobby. Luke saw a female officer standing there, obviously waiting. She looked at his flight suit and quickly examined his patches—his NSAWC patch, the round TOPGUN patch on his right shoulder—and the brown leather nametag that had Navy gold wings, topgun, and stick on it. “Good afternoon, sirs,” she said. “Welcome to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. I’m Captain Lisa Gannon.” She wasn’t sure exactly whom to talk to, who was in charge. “It’s my understanding you wanted to see the MiG-29s,” she said.

  “We’re here from TOPGUN,” Luke said. “We’re preparing a presentation to the DOD, a part of which will be about these MiGs,” he said seriously, implying much more than was there.

  “Yes, sir, which is what confused me a little. That sounds like something that is official and should have come through Colonel Robinson, as the MiGs really come under his—”

  “It really isn’t official.” Luke looked at her sympathetically. “We just need to see them, and whatever help you can give us would be appreciated.”

  “Yes, sir, I just thought you might get more information from Colonel—”

  “Thanks, we just want to see the planes. I’m sure this will be fine,” Luke said. “Can we walk there?”

  “No, sir, they’re over at the other side of the base. There really isn’t anyone over there except security.”

  “Excellent. We’ll follow you.”

  Captain Gannon hesitated. This wasn’t the way the Air Force operated. They didn’t do unofficial visits. “Very well,” she said finally. She walked out of the hangar, climbed into a dark blue Air Force van, and drove out of the parking lot. Luke got behind the wheel of the dented Taurus, and they followed her all the way around the base to the remote, lonely spot where the MiGs were parked, next to a small white building that seemed to be there only to support the MiGs.

  Luke, Thud, and Vlad got out of the car and walked around the building. Soon they stopped dead in their tracks. There were twenty-one MiG-29s, lined up in two rows just like an operating squadron, waiting for the pilots to walk out and start them up. Luke felt his heart beating faster. He had never seen a MiG-29 in his life. He’d seen photos, videotapes, and three-dimensional simulations. But he’d never seen one of the planes that he had spent the last few years studying and thinking about and fighting every day in his mind.

  His enthusiasm was dampened, though, by the appearance of the MiGs. They looked beat up. Their paint was blotchy, some of the fasteners appeared to be coming loose, and they looked sad from the reflective covering that had been placed over the canopies, as if they’d been blindfolded. “What do you think, Thud?” Luke asked.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Their eyes pored over the MiGs; Vlad was particularly attentive. Each airplane had its own story and its own foibles. They knew there would be one or two that would be hard to fly in trim, that would want to fly slightly sideways all the time. They knew that one would have electronic gremlins and that systems would fail for no apparent reason, and that others would be the iron horses that never broke down. It was like having a family.

  There were two security officers watching them approach the planes. Captain Gannon nodded at them.

  They went over to the first airplane and stood near its nose. The white circle with multipointed red-and-gold star on the tail was a tail marking Luke had to admit never having seen before. In fact, before he read the interview in the newspaper with the Secretary of Defense explaining why the United States had acquired twenty-one MiG-29s from Moldova, Luke wasn’t even sure where Moldova was.

  Vlad spread his arms in joy as he walked toward the MiG. “The most beautiful airplane in the entire world!”

  “What’s up with the puke-green paint job?” Thud asked, distressed.

  Vlad answered, “Just the Moldovan camouflage. Not a very good job, true, but look,” he said, hurrying forward to the nearest MiG. “This is C model. Look at dorsal spine,” he said, pointing to the area behind the canopy. “Larger than the A model.” He smiled. “It,” he said, pronouncing the word as “eat,” “has active radar jammer there. Here is radar warning receiver. Very good one.” He gazed at the intake, which was closed by the movable doors. “Big engines.” He smiled again, looking over his shoulder at Luke and Thud, who were watching him with amusement. “Eight thousand three hundred kilograms of thrust.”

  “Eighteen thousand three hundred pounds each,” Luke replied.

  “You know this?”

  “Sure.” Luke grinned. “This is my number one most likely enemy. My biggest threat.”

  “That is more thrust than your F-18, yes?”

  “Yep. But the F/A-18 is lighter.”

  Vlad stood up straight and turned around. “No, my friend. Maximum takeoff weight for the F-18 is twenty-three thousand kilograms. Yes?”

  Luke quickly multiplied the number by 2.23 in his head. “About.”

  “Maximum takeoff weight for the MiG-29 is eighteen thousand five hundred kilograms.”

  “That just means the F-18 can carry more.”

  “Ha!” Vlad exclaimed. “Ha!” He walked around to the front of the airplane with Luke and Thud in tow. “These airplanes have 1:1 thrust-to-weight ratio at maximum takeoff weight! F-18 is not close to that.”

  “What kind of shape do you think they’re in?” Luke asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Fine shape,” Vlad said. “Look here,” he said, crouching at the side of the nosewheel. “See this?” He pointed to a small fender on the wheel. Not waiting for them to answer, his accent becoming stronger with his excitement as he tried to talk faster, he continued, “This is to clean mud and dirt off wheel before it is pulled up into plane on takeoff. You know why?”

  “Unimproved runways.”

  “Ha! Not just unimproved, but dirt! Or grass! What other jet fighter in world can take off from dirt strip? Wheel stays clean, and engine intakes stay closed until takeoff. Did you know that?”

  Luke and Thud nodded.

  “You know about louvers on top of wings for air during start and takeoff ?”

  Again they nodded.

  The Air Force Captain was watching them with growing skepticism. The loud, smelly Russian made her uneasy. She understood that the Russians were now our friends, but she also understood that Americans still got arrested now and then for “spying” in Russia. But these were Russian airplanes. There wasn’t anything particularly secret about them. Their purchase from Moldova had been announced at a press conference by the Secretary of Defense. And if there was anything secret about the planes, they were Russian secrets, not American. She just stood with her arms folded and watched them.

  “Let’s look inside,” Vlad said. He looked around for the standard yellow ladder and found one lying beside the MiG two places down. He jogged to it and lifted the ladder upright, expertly placing it against the side of the jet.

  The Captain didn’t want them opening the planes at all. She unfolded her arms and began walking quickly toward Vlad.

  Suddenly there was an electrical noise as the canopy opened. The Captain saw Vlad grinning as the canopy on the second MiG started up toward the sky.

  Before she could say anything, Vlad had scrambled up the side of the MiG with Luke right behind him.

  “Run interference for us, Thud,” Luke said.

  Thud intercepted the Captain with his hands up. “They just want to take a look,” he said.

  She hadn’t been prepared for this at all and wasn’t sure if it was even allowed. She wanted this visit to be as uneventful as possible, a “nonevent,” as she wanted to describe it to her boss. But now it was an event.

  Vlad didn’t even hesitate. He climbed into the cockpit with a knowing, fluid motion that Luke knew could come only from hundreds of repetiti
ons. His hands quickly dashed around the dusty cockpit, reveling in the familiar sensations and appearance.

  Luke followed him up the ladder and looked over his shoulder. “What do you think?” he asked, full of hope and expectation.

  Vlad smiled. “Compared to your multifunction displays, not fancy. But it will work. They have all their instruments—radar, weapons wiring, everything. And look here,” he said, pointing to the weapons panel.

  “What?” Luke asked.

  “Nuclear capable. These C models are wired to carry nuclear weapons.”

  “Holy shit,” Luke said, looking down at the nervous Captain, who was deep in conversation with Thud and glancing their way. “Do you think that will make it harder?”

  “No, it makes no difference,” Vlad said, running his hands over the stick, the throttle, and the innumerable switches throughout the cockpit. He looked at Luke. “Unless you have some nuclear weapons.”

  “Not yet,” Luke said, smiling.

  Luke’s eyes raced from one instrument to the next. He’d seen pictures of MiG-29 cockpits before, but had never studied them to learn specific instrument locations. The Cyrillic notations on the glass gauges threw him. He thought he could probably guess what each instrument was—which was the airspeed indicator, which was the engine temperature, the fuel flow, the accelerometer. But he wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t want to climb into the plane right now and try to fly it. He realized that getting accustomed to this plane would be a longer process than he had anticipated.

  “Will it fly?” Luke asked.

  “Don’t know,” Vlad answered. “Depends more on the engines.” Vlad started to get out of the cockpit, and Luke backed down the ladder to the tarmac. Vlad made straight for the nosewheel well, stood up inside it, and took out a small notebook and pencil. He wrote down the airplane’s identification number and ducked out of the wheel well. Luke watched Vlad head for the engine intake. Luke climbed back up and sat in the cockpit. He held the stick and studied the buttons all over it. He put his left hand on the throttles of the two powerful but cold engines. He found the lever to allow him to adjust the location of the rudder pedals and moved them back until they were at a comfortable distance. He looked at Vlad’s Taurus through combining glass HUD—the Heads-Up Display—and smiled. He felt more comfortable in the cockpit of a fighter than anywhere else in the world. It was where most of what he thought and cared about came together.