Fallout

Synopsis

The fourth high-action military thriller from author James W. Huston, Fallout is filled with a muscular narrative voice that tells the high-tech story of a man trapped between following his government's orders and his own principles.

TOPGUN instructor Luke Henry quits the Navy after being unjustly accused of causing a mid-air collision and starts his own private aerial combat training school. Alongside several other ex-TOPGUN fliers, Luke takes on a government contract to train Pakistani Air Force pilots for the Department of Defense. Luke is immediately resistant to teaching foreign pilots to use sophisticated American planes, but he grows even more suspicious when he begins to suspect that something even more mysterious — and deadly — is occurring around him.

Although the aerial action here is magnificent and highly genuine, Fallout deals just as much with the emotional and spiritual incentives for war and their cost upon human history.

“Hafez,” the older guard said. “Someone is coming.”

The headlights working their way down the rutted road two miles away were not a welcome sight. The two Pakistani border guards were standing their usual night duty on Pakistan’s mountainous border with Iran. They both knew they weren’t there because of their skill as guards. They were there because they had failed in their duties elsewhere, and the only place left to put them was an obscure border in the mountains on a rutted road in the middle of the night where one vehicle a night might come through loaded with chicken feed.

Hafez sat up in the drafty wooden shack warmed only by a glowing electric space heater that was inadequate against the biting cold. He breathed in loudly through his nose, trying to stretch while pretending that he hadn’t been sleeping. They both had scruffy beards and wore mismatched Army uniform pieces. “I know,” Hafez said harshly as he stood. Even though he was younger, he outranked the older soldier. Hafez was in charge of the border crossing until they were relieved in three hours. “We will inspect him completely,” he said.

The older guard groaned. “What for? There is never anything. Why bother?”

“Think about it! Why would a truck come through this checkpoint? We get shepherds, traders, refugees, but not trucks.” Hafez sniffed against the cold. “Not many anyway.”

The older guard looked at him, then at the truck, now half a mile away. It started to snow softly in the darkness. The floodlights pointing out from their guardhouse toward the truck highlighted the snowflakes. “We do get trucks; five or ten every month. What difference does it make anyway?”

“It is our
job
,” Hafez answered as he threw back the sliding door and put the strap of his assault rifle over his shoulder. He stepped in front of the truck that had pulled up to the bar that defined the border between the two countries. The Iranian border guards two hundred yards away had waved the truck out of Iran without so much as a comment. Hafez put out his hand for the truck to stop. He shook as a chill rushed through him. “Right here,” Hafez said in Urdu.

The driver stopped and rolled down his window. “Good morning,” he said in Farsi as he handed Hafez his passport and the truck’s documents.

Hafez shook his head as he took the driver’s papers. He didn’t understand Farsi. He looked at the older guard behind him. “Iranian.”

On top of a large hill between the border and the high mountains behind it, Riaz Khan lay on his belly on the cold ground and cursed as he studied the border scene through his night vision binoculars. “They are stopping the truck,” he said to the men behind him, who could not be seen from the border side of the hill. “This was supposed to be the easiest crossing point,” he said as he glanced back at one of his men.

“That’s what we were told.”

“You had better be right.”

At the border, the older guard nodded, completely uninterested.

Hafez looked at the truck, then leaned into the floodlights so he could read the documentation. “Where are you going?” he asked the driver, again in Urdu.

“I don’t understand,” the man said in Farsi.

“You speak English?” Hafez asked.

“Little,” the driver replied.

“Where are you going?” Hafez asked.

The driver’s face soured. “Everything is in the papers.”

Hafez didn’t like that response at all. “Get out of the truck,” he ordered.

The driver looked up at the falling snow, reluctantly grabbed his coat off the seat, and slid to the frozen ground. “What did I do?” he asked as he threw on his heavy, soiled coat and jammed his hands into the pockets.

“I didn’t ask you about the papers. I asked you where you were going. Do you not know where you are going without looking at your papers?”

“Quetta,” the driver said. He spit on the ground, partially in contempt of the guards, but ambiguously enough that they couldn’t accuse him of it.

Hafez knew Quetta, a distant Pakistani city. “Why?”

“Because they told me to go to Quetta. Why do you think I’m going to Quetta? For vacation?”

Hafez looked at the truck. It was a Russian-made stake truck that had seen better days. The diesel engine idled roughly. The back of the truck was full of random scrap metal exposed to the elements. “What is in the truck?”

“Scrap metal.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“From the Aral Company in Kazakhstan.”

Hafez studied the papers in his gloved hands. “You are driving a piece-of-shit truck from Kazakhstan to Pakistan, all the way through Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Iran to deliver scrap metal?”

The driver hunched his shoulders. “If you think it is stupid, tell the one who is paying me to ship it. Now I must go. My penis is going to freeze off.”

“I don’t care about you
or
your frozen penis,” Hafez said, stepping in front of the man. “Pull over there,” he said, pointing at a dirt spot to the right of the road.

“Aaaaaah,” the driver protested.

“Move your truck over now,” Hafez warned, “or you will
never
pass through this country.”

The driver held his tongue. He climbed back into the cab. He forced the reluctant transmission into first gear and moved the truck to the side.

“Get the machine,” Hafez ordered the older soldier.

The older guard protested in Urdu, confident the driver couldn’t understand them. “What is the point? We have
never
found anything, and if we drop the machine it will break and they will make us pay—”

“Get it!” Hafez ordered.

The older guard mumbled as he walked to the storage shed behind their guard shack and took out the American instrument they been trained on. It rarely got used. He carried it to Hafez and held it out. “Here.”

On the hill, Khan had seen enough. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he knew by the gestures of the guards that his plan was on the verge of collapse. “Let’s go,” he said angrily. “Get your weapons ready.” Khan and the men with him ran to their two trucks and raced down the dirt road in the dark with their lights off.

“You do it,” Hafez said at the checkpoint. “I’m going to watch this driver. I don’t trust him.”

The older guard turned on the machine and watched the needle as he walked around the truck, ready to find nothing so the inspection could be over and he could go back to the warm shack. Directly above the VU-meter on the instrument was a small plate that said in English, a gift of the american people. He watched the needle as he turned the corner to the back of the truck. Suddenly it jumped to life and bounced around the lighted dial. He looked closely at the indicator, then at Hafez, who was standing by the cab of the truck with the driver. He motioned with his head for Hafez to come to the back of the truck.

Hafez frowned in concern and started walking to the back of the truck. “Stay right there,” he said to the driver. He joined the older guard. “What?” he asked.

The guard simply looked at the meter on the box. Hafez followed his gaze, realized what it meant, and stepped away from the truck. The older guard followed suit.

“Twelve hundred milliroentgens per hour!” Hafez exclaimed. He ran back to the front of the truck. “What is this?” he screamed at the driver. “What are you doing? What do you have in there?” he asked, pointing to the scrap metal piled in the back of the truck.

Hafez turned and ran to the guard shack for the phone as the two unlighted trucks rounded the hill and headed straight for him. He stopped and watched the trucks come, then looked back at the older guard, who was standing stupidly next to the truck staring at the VU-meter on the instrument. The driver was inching away from the truck. Hafez stepped toward the oncoming trucks and took his assault rifle off his shoulder. He didn’t like the way this was developing.

Khan and the others came to a skidding stop fifty feet from the truck. The men jumped out of the trucks and pointed their weapons at Hafez. Khan yelled at the driver in English, “Get in the truck! Drive on! Now!”

“No!” Hafez said, aiming his rifle at the truck driver. “Get away from the truck. It has radioactive material on board and is being confiscated!”

The driver looked at Khan and Hafez and slowly moved toward the truck.

“Stop!” Hafez screamed.

Khan lowered his assault rifle toward Hafez and fired.

The bullets hit Hafez and drove him back. Hafez fired into the sky as he fell down screaming.

The driver ran to the door of the truck and climbed into the cab.

The older guard stood motionless, holding the machine, unsure what was happening or what to do. He finally moved behind the truck, dropped the instrument, and unslung his assault rifle. The others with Khan began firing at the older guard, but he was too far behind the truck to be seen clearly.

“Drive!” Khan yelled.

The driver threw the gearshift forward into first and started the truck moving. The older guard aimed for the tires as he fired. The four tires in the back of the truck were immediately shredded by the high-speed bullets. Two of Khan’s men dropped and started firing under the truck, which continued to roll away from the checkpoint with the driver hunched down, trying to avoid the bullets flying in the darkness.

Hafez rolled over. Blood ran from his stomach wounds. He was determined not to let the truck escape. He began firing at the truck and the driver from the ground. Three of his bullets hit the fuel tank, which exploded, breaking the truck in two just behind the cab and rupturing the heavy containers in the back of the truck underneath the scrap metal.

“Let’s go!” Khan screamed.

“We must get the material!” one of his men yelled.

“It is too late! Get in the trucks!”

Hafez and the older guard continued to fire furiously.

Khan and his men jumped back into their vehicles and raced away from the burning truck.

The driver jumped out of the cab and began to run as the entire back end came off the ground from the explosion of the extra fuel tank behind the cab in the back. Before he had gone five steps, he collapsed to the ground in a heap, dead.

Hafez and the older guard lay motionless on the ground near the burning truck. Just like the driver, their bodies had surrendered to the gamma rays coming from the weapons-grade plutonium in the middle of the raging fire.

Lieutenant Luke Henry—Stick, as he was known—kept his desert-camouflage F/A-18 pointed straight up. He pushed the throttles into afterburner to sustain his climb. As he reached twenty-five thousand feet, he pulled the engines out of afterburner and pulled back on the stick, flipping his jet onto its back, flying straight and level but upside down. He looked up through his canopy at the earth. There were airplanes everywhere. F/A-18s, F-14s, and F-5s. The camouflaged F-14s and F/A-18s were being flown by TOPGUN instructors like Luke and were simulating Russian fighters. It was the graduation strike, where the TOPGUN student class led a strike on a target east of Fallon, Nevada, that was defended by TOPGUN instructors and actual Russian SAM sites.

Luke checked his fuel and pulled down toward a student F-14 that was tearing in supersonic. Luke waited until the F-14 passed directly underneath him, pulled down hard, and quickly locked up the F-14 with his radar. The F-14 knew it immediately.

The F-14 came out of afterburner and turned hard to meet the threat which the two men in the F-14 thought would be directly behind them. He waited for the right moment, then saddled in on the Tomcat from directly above. “
Archer, Archer on the F-14 turning left at fifteen thousand feet
,” Luke transmitted on the radio. The controller conveyed the bad news to the F-14 on the students’ radio frequency. Luke watched the F-14 hesitate for a moment, then perform a slow aileron roll, an “I’m dead” roll, and exit north.

No students had reached the target. They had failed utterly in their mission, which wasn’t uncommon in the graduation strike. It was a hard target to get to when defended aggressively by instructors who weren’t holding anything back.