Fallout

by James W. Huston

  Khan studied the leveled dirt. “What work are you doing?”

  Luke stared at the dirt and his unfinished work. “Building a runway.”

  Khan and Rashim looked at Luke with surprise. “What for?”

  “To buy an airplane to fly to Tonopah every day instead of driving. Or anywhere else I want to go.”

  “Your own private airfield? Is this allowed?”

  “Sure. You have to follow the regulations, but you can fly from your own airstrip anytime.”

  Khan was stunned. “You own your own fighter squadron, your own private fighter base, and now you will have an airstrip at your own house?”

  Luke detected bitterness in Khan’s tone. “It’s always been a dream of mine. I want to own a biplane. An acrobatic plane that I can just fly in the sky over my house and run out of gas and dead-stick right back down to my backyard. It may sound silly to you—”

  “No,” Khan said.

  “I could fly to work. Take off here, land at Tonopah, fly my MiG, then fly my own airplane home for dinner.” He thought about it. “Well, it’s not going to happen anytime soon. The plane I want costs too much money.”

  “What kind of airplane do you want to buy?”

  “I was thinking about a Stearman, but I don’t know. A good refurbished Stearman would be over a hundred thousand dollars, and they’re sixty or seventy years old. I was thinking of buying a new Pitts Special. You can get them brand-new right out of the factory in Wyoming. But they cost even more than a Stearman.”

  “The Pitts? The one they used to fly in the acrobatic championships?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Small biplane.”

  “Yep.”

  “I have seen them before. Very nice.”

  “If I had a lot of nerve, I would buy a Sukhoi. It’s probably the best aerobatic airplane in the world right now. They’re a little squirrelly, and maintenance might be tricky, but what an airplane.”

  “It would be in keeping with your ownership of Russian fighters. You could get your private airplane from the other Russian design bureau, from Sukhoi,” Khan said. “I’m sure you never expected to be one of the biggest operators of Russian airplanes outside of Russia.”

  “Not even close,” Luke said.

  “How have you liked the school so far?” Luke asked as Katherine handed them each their drinks.

  “As you know, we would like more air-to-ground, but the training that we have been getting has been . . . adequate.”

  Luke almost choked on Khan’s description. Adequate? It was at least a hundred times better than anything he’d ever known before. If he paid attention, he might actually leave the school knowing something—knowing how to fight in combat, how to employ his aircraft, how to defend his country. Instead he was more interested in insulting Luke and the school and the United States. “Have you learned anything?” Luke asked, trying to keep the sarcasm he felt out of his voice.

  “Like what?” Khan asked.

  Never mind, Luke thought. Just never the hell mind. “Don’t forget to go down to the flight line tomorrow at 1600,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Why?” Khan asked.

  “Class picture. The first class of the Nevada Fighter Weapons School. It’s a momentous occasion.”

  Khan grew instantly uneasy. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have set a meeting for my group for that time.”

  Rashim glanced at him, confused.

  “This photo has been on the weekly schedule since you arrived.”

  “Impossible. Our meeting is extremely important.”

  Khan was obviously dodging the photo. Luke was tired of letting the little deceptions go by. “I guess we’ll have to change the photo to another time. You have any other meetings scheduled?”

  “Yes, many. But you go ahead and take the photo.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

  “No,” Khan insisted.

  “Why not?” Katherine asked.

  “You would not understand. It is a cultural imperative.”

  Luke knew he had Khan in a ridiculous corner. He decided to press it. “Tell you what—since you can’t make the photo shoot tomorrow, why don’t we have Katherine take our picture together tonight, just for fun?”

  “No photos.”

  “None at all?” Thud asked, seeing the concern on Khan’s face.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why?”

  “Cultural.”

  “What about your culture?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Thud leaned toward Khan. “Try me.”

  Khan looked back at him, unmoved. “No.”

  “It’s time to eat. I hope steak is okay,” Katherine commented, trying to keep whatever was happening from getting worse.

  “Fine,” Khan said.

  “Let me take your drinks. I have water on the table already.” Katherine put all five drinks on a tray and headed for the kitchen.

  Khan and Rashim wandered around the expansive family room looking at the decorations and the artwork. The sun had set, and the desert cast a reddening glow over the room through the enormous picture windows that faced south.

  Khan had his hands behind his back as he stared at a pottery vase on an end table. He picked it up. “What is this?” He studied it intently, turning it over in his hands, feeling the rough textures and examining the workmanship.

  Luke was surprised by his interest. “It’s a Paiute pot.”

  “What is a Paiute?”

  “Native American.”

  “Yes. Of course. An Indian. They are ever-present in my life.”

  Luke couldn’t keep from smiling. “Right. Indians. Columbus thought he’d made it to India.”

  “Yes. What did they use these for?”

  “This one was just ornamental. Sort of . . . art. From about a hundred years ago. They used to live near Pioche, Nevada, where I grew up. In fact, Pioche was founded when a Paiute Indian showed a miner an ore—”

  “Interesting,” Khan said, returning the pot to Luke.

  Luke placed it back on the table. Khan had the annoying habit of asking about things just so he could dismiss the answer as unimportant or uninteresting.

  Hayes decided to ask the question he had been waiting to ask. The more off-the-wall his timing was, the more likely that Khan might actually give him an unfiltered response. “How come you were so shocked by Crumb the other day?” Hayes asked.

  “What?”

  Luke interjected, “I’m going to go see if Katherine needs any help.”

  “When Crumb mentioned warheads to you—you know, when he asked you if you wanted a warhead, that hard candy he offered you—you about came out of your skin. Why?” Hayes pressed.

  “I didn’t understand him. I thought he wanted us to load actual warheads on our airplanes for the school. I couldn’t imagine why.”

  Hayes wasn’t buying it. “That’s what you thought? Seriously?”

  “Yes. That is exactly what I thought.”

  Hayes drank from his glass and looked at the desert behind Luke’s house. “Tell me about life in the Air Force in Pakistan.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Where exactly are you stationed?”

  “Do you know Pakistan?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then what good would it do for me to tell you?”

  “Just curious. Tell me about your career, from training to where you are now. How does it work there? You know, promotion, job selection, that kind of thing. Where you’ve been stationed, the kinds of airplanes you flew—all of that.”

  Khan was on guard. “Why would you care about that?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I am a Major in the Pakistani Air Force and am based at the Air Force base near Islamabad.”

  “Where were you stationed before that?”

  Khan looked at Hayes differently than before. “Why
the sudden interest?”

  “Just curious,” Hayes repeated.

  Khan folded his hands behind his back and pushed his chest out slightly. “You are an intelligence officer.”

  “Was.”

  “That is your job at NFWS, yes?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Is it part of your job to check out the students? To see whether you trust them?”

  “No.”

  Khan glanced at Rashim, who was concentrating on the smells coming from the kitchen, leaning toward them as if he were about to be drawn to the dinner table against his will. Khan faced Hayes and looked him directly in the eyes. “You don’t trust me, do you, Mr. Hayes?”

  Hayes was unruffled. “What reason would I have to not trust you?”

  “Have you been checking up on me? Have you been asking about me?”

  “Why in the world would I do that?” Hayes responded, his mouth growing progressively drier.

  “I don’t know,” Khan admitted. “Just a feeling that I have. Whenever I am talking to someone else, you watch me like you are trying to discover something about me. You have seen others do that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I have noticed it in you. It is disturbing, to be at a school and have the intelligence officer be suspicious of you. You wanted to know what it was like in Pakistan? Well, in Pakistan you don’t want the intelligence officers to be suspicious of you—of that you can be sure. If they are, you must do something about it.” Khan’s eyes bored into Hayes’s until Hayes felt as if he were under physical assault. He’d never encountered such energy, such hostility.

  Thud watched Khan, afraid he was about to attack Hayes.

  Finally Brian answered Khan. “That would be bad. It’s not like that in the U.S. Intelligence officers just collect data and sit in dark rooms thinking. They’re your best friends.”

  “I think not,” Khan replied.

  “Dinner!” Katherine called from the dining room.

  Brian cursed under his breath. Then he reached into his pocket and turned off the microcassette recorder.

  * * *

  Renee’s dark skin fitted in well with her look. She had dressed to make herself invisible, wearing a burkha. Her face was completely covered, except for her deep brown eyes, deep brown only because of the colored contact lenses she was wearing. She had the look of someone of the lower middle class in Islamabad, perhaps the lower class clawing to become lower middle class. The kind of woman anyone of substance would not even look at even if she spoke to them, a woman with a frayed burkha and dirty hands.

  She walked into the mandi—the marketplace—thirty minutes before the scheduled rendezvous. She looked around carefully for indications of intelligence activities, for someone who might be expecting her, other than her contact. It was an extraordinarily busy square, far from the center of town but near many residential areas. It was where people went to do their daily shopping for produce, as well as to eat—on the rare occasion when they might go to a street vendor.

  Renee stood hunched over, working her way down the rows of vegetables while flies circled. She shooed a swarm of them from a bunch of carrots and dropped the carrots into her plastic net bag. She glanced around as if looking for a friend and quickly surveyed where she was to meet her contact. She continued purchasing produce and made her way around several tables, in the process getting numerous wide-angle views of the mandi.

  After twenty minutes of meticulous shopping she had selected five items and went to the clerk to pay. She pulled out a thin wad of rupees, took two bills, and handed them over. The clerk spoke to her sharply. She replied in a hoarse, tired voice. She put the change in the bottom of her large bag.

  She shuffled across the square toward a street vendor who was selling unidentified meat on sticks, and out of the corner of her eye she saw her contact. He didn’t recognize her and stood waiting at a table where a woman was selling small rugs. He chewed on a tough piece of meat and sipped a drink as he pretended to examine the rugs. There was a sign on the table telling prospective patrons the woman vendor was deaf.

  Renee walked to the end of the table and poked at the cheap rugs. She spoke to the man softly in fluent Urdu. “Thank you for coming.”

  He replied, “I told you I do not like meetings. Why is this necessary?”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Some. Why does this matter?”

  “It may not.”

  “Then why do you want to know?”

  “I don’t.”

  The man bit down angrily on the dry meat. “Then why did you ask these questions?”

  “Have you found anything?”

  “The records go back only five years. Before that, nothing.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “They’re very careful about military records. His are incomplete.”

  “If you’re writing false records, wouldn’t you be complete?”

  “I would.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An Air Force Major.”

  “Is there more to it?”

  “Not according to the records.”

  “Where is he from?”

  “The records say Islamabad.”

  She listened carefully. “You don’t think so.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. If you were hiding your origins, you would say you were from here. It is easy to disappear in Islamabad. Our records are poor. We don’t have—what do you call them?—social numbers.”

  “Social Security numbers.” She coughed as if she were tubercular, then paused, leaning over the table in apparent pain, still hunched over. Those around glanced at her, then looked away. “But you found other things. What have you found?”

  He looked at her in disgust. “Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  He went on reluctantly. “He seems to be well known. He is thought to be many things by many different people.”

  “Explain.”

  “Those who are in favor of the government believe he is a threat to the government. Those who are against the government believe him to be a threat to them, and pro-government. The Islamic fundamentalists believe he is an intelligence agent who will be their undoing. Those who are the secularists, and afraid of the Islamic militants, fear he is an Islamist.”

  Renee thought about what he was saying. It troubled her deeply. He sounded like a professional intelligence operative. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds disturbing. He sounds like someone that you do not want to be on the wrong side of, and an awful lot of people believe themselves already to be on his wrong side.”

  “Does he have a particular cause?”

  The man finished his drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “If he does, it is unknown. You can find someone who will tell you what he thinks this Khan’s cause is, but it will just be whatever the person telling you most fears.”

  “Any associates?”

  “Many associates, but few of them are known. Even fewer are recognized.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One thing.” The man fought with himself as he debated whether to tell Renee what he had learned. “It doesn’t make sense to me, so I hesitate to repeat it.”

  “What?”

  “He was seen in Karachi recently.”

  She was surprised. “That’s a long way.”

  “It is a long way, and his Air Force base is up here, near Islamabad, flying F-16s, I’m told. He was not in Karachi on behalf of the Air Force.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “He was seen with other men. Near the docks.”

  “The docks?”

  “Yes. Near some ships loading.”

  “Why?”

  “No one knows. He seemed out of place.”

  “Do you know when?”

  “Six weeks ago.”

  “Exactly?”

  “I don’t know.”

/>   “Can you find out?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “He must have been there for a reason. If we know the date, we might somehow learn what he was doing.”

  “That’s all I know. If you want something else, you’ll have to get it from somebody else.”

  “You don’t think he’s related to the head of Pakistani intelligence?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I just am.”

  “Where did you get the information that he was in Karachi?” She waited, but there was no response. She waited, then glanced up and saw that he was gone.

  Renee had noticed his growing restlessness and nervousness. She wasn’t sure of the cause, probably that he was feeling awkward standing with a woman at a table selling rugs. She did not look for him and did not look up from the table. After a minute or so she grabbed her bag and shuffled out of the mandi in the direction of a poor residential district.

  15

  Luke and Thud leaned on the hangar door as they watched Vlad and Dr. Thurmond climb down from the two-seat MiG-29. They looked for a bulging pocket in his G suit indicating a newly filled barf bag, or that green, peaked look people had on their faces that they tried to smile through to convince others that flying in a jet is really fun. They didn’t see anything on Dr. Thurmond’s face. They pushed away from the door and walked to meet them.

  “How did it go?” Thud asked his father.

  “Incredible,” Dr. Thurmond replied, a huge grin illuminating his face. “I’d forgotten how great that is.”

  “Did you let him fly it?” Luke asked Vlad.

  “Yes, of course. As soon as we got airborne, I gave him the controls. He did wonderful. Natural pilot.”

  “How did you think it handled?” Thud asked.

  “Great turning ability, incredible acceleration. When I’d get the nose pointed up for a long time at slow speed, I’d get real anxious. If you do that with a 105, you’ll find yourself in a hole in a hurry. With this airplane the speed just doesn’t bleed off. You can point the nose anywhere you want. Amazing airplane.”

  They entered the hangar, and Vlad started over toward one of the MiGs that had an engine out of the bay. “I must check on the engine replacement,” he said, then stepped under the wing.