Fallout (26 page)

“Pentagon. The duty watch officer.”

“Here is the Pentagon’s general number, sir.” She immediately connected him to the computer-generated number without waiting to find out if that was what he wanted. He listened to the number and dialed it immediately.

“Pentagon, Captain Hargrove. May I help you?”

“Are you the watch officer? Who deals with military emergencies?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Luke Henry. Formerly Lieutenant Luke Henry, United States Navy. I now run a private fighter aviation school in Nevada, and four Pakistani pilots—who were approved by the Department of Defense—have laser-guided bombs and are about to take off with them. I don’t know where they’re going or what they’re going to do, but it’s bad. We need Air Force help right now!”

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Luke Henry. I’m calling from my car, driving in excess of a hundred miles an hour and heading toward that base now to try to stop them myself. I need help. I need the Air Force’s help. If there are any fighters on alert anywhere in the southwestern United States, they need to get airborne now and head toward southern Nevada.”

“I don’t know that we’ll be able to do that, sir. We’ll need to authenticate you, your story, your concern, and the risk. We don’t simply launch fighters at the request of a citizen on his car phone.”

“Do whatever the hell you have to do. Just start doing it. Wake up the person who’s going to be really mad at you for waking him up. Wake up a General, or an Admiral! Get somebody responsible on this, and get them on it now.”

“I don’t know that I can do that, sir, based just on what you’ve told me. Who was it you said had authorized it from the Department of Defense?”

“Undersecretary of Defense Merewether.”

“I’m afraid he is no longer the Undersecretary of Defense. That doesn’t help you.”

“What if everything I’m telling you is true? What would you do if you were me?”

“I don’t really know, sir. I can’t say I’ve ever been faced with such a situation where I’m responsible for foreign fighters being in the United States ready to attack a target and nobody knowing about it.”

“People do know about it! You know about it! I know about it! I just can’t get anybody to do anything about it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know you, and you’re not a member of the military, and you’re not with the United States government. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You asshole! You personally are going to be responsible— What is your name again?” The line went dead. “Shit!” Luke cursed again. The phone rang. He pressed the talk button. “What?”

“Mr. Henry?” It was Raymond.

“What?”

“They’re starting their jets. I think they’re going to be taking off.”

“I’m eight minutes away, Raymond. You stay put. Did you get hold of Vlad?”

“Yes. He’s over at the hangar. He was worried they might have people over there waiting for them, or may have already disabled the MiGs.”

Luke suddenly recalled Brian’s fears about Vlad, about his being in tight with the Pakistanis, about his getting thrown out of the Russian Air Force. And now Vlad was the one getting the MiGs ready to go. “I didn’t even think of that. They get those guards, too?”

“I didn’t see any shooting from there. They might not have thought to look at the outlying hangar. I don’t think they’ve ever seen you use it before.”

“What about Thud and Stamp? Did you get them?”

“Yes. They’re both on their way. They should already be on base. Vlad was supposed to talk to them and meet them at the hangar.”

“Okay—I’ve got another call. Later.” He pressed talk again. “Yes?”

“Luke? Vlad.”

“Vlad! We are in deep shit. Can you get the planes started?”

“Yes. The Pakistanis have started their jets, they will not hear us. The doors of the hangar are open. Thankfully, they face away from the other hangar. I’m going to start the jets in the hangar, which will ruin the hangar where the jet blast hits it, but I don’t want to taxi until they make their move—”

“Do it,” Luke said immediately. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Are Stamp and Thud there?”

“Not yet. They are on their way. I have two mechanics who are helping me start the jets. They will be ready to go when you get here. Wait—I hear the F-16s taxiing. They are moving away from the flight line.”

“We’ve got to know which way they’re going. Did you find anybody for the tower? Or to operate the radar?”

“There is no one here. But I did not check every room. I don’t want to get shot.”

“I’ll come right to the hangar.” Luke tossed the phone onto the seat. He concentrated on the road, accelerating slightly more, pushing even his own limits. There was more adrenaline than blood in his veins. He felt as if he could rip the steering wheel off the car. He came around the corner, the last curve in the hills out of which he descended toward Tonopah, just in time to see the afterburner of the first F-16 light on the darkened runway. He couldn’t see the airplane at all, just a long blue flame as it rolled down the runway for three thousand feet, then lifted off into the night sky. Then a second blue flame illuminated the runway where the first one had been, and then a third.

Luke accelerated still more and drove in furious frustration toward Tonopah. He suddenly knew without any doubt what had happened to Sluf. He’d stumbled onto Khan and his men doing something that morning he had flown in and disappeared. They’d killed him, rather than let him warn the others. Luke’s anger grew even hotter. The fourth F-16 lifted off the runway as he approached the gate to his base with its floodlights in his face.

Luke slowed at the gate. He saw the dead guard’s bloody body lying where he’d been shot, then run over. He floored the Corvette as he made a hard left and tore toward the southern end of the base and the auxiliary hangar. He could hear the MiGs. Luke ignored all the stop signs, curves, and anything that might slow him when he suddenly remembered there were additional men with assault rifles on the base. They might be setting up an attack force to prevent anyone from going after the F-16s.

His heart pounded even harder than it had been as he thought of a couple of dozen men with automatic weapons charging his MiG as he taxied. He would just have to take whatever came. May as well go out in a blaze of glory, he thought, whether here or in the air. He skidded to a stop next to the hangar and saw Vlad taxiing the third MiG-29 out to the tarmac with its engines running and canopy opened.

Luke jumped out of his car and ran toward the MiG nearest him. The first two were waiting for their pilots with the ladders on the side. The third was about in position and then stopped as Vlad put on the parking brake, hurried down the ladder, ran toward the fourth one, clambered up its ladder, jumped into the cockpit, took off the parking brake, and taxied forward in the darkness. He was about to throw the ladder down on the tarmac when one of the two Russian mechanics appeared from nowhere and stood underneath the airplane waving at him, indicating that they’d handle the ladder.

Vlad had retrieved their flight gear and hung it on the ladders, waiting for the pilots to arrive. Luke saw his helmet on the closest ladder. He jumped into his Russian-made harness and scrambled up the ladder, Vlad right behind him. Luke yelled into his ear over the jet noise, “Turn your radio to squadron common plus point-five! I don’t want them monitoring our radios to see if we’re up.”

Vlad nodded and hurried back down the ladder. Suddenly Thud and Stamp drove up. They jumped out and raced for the other two MiGs. Vlad pointed Thud to the third MiG and Stamp to the second. They grabbed their flight gear, jumped into it, put on their helmets, and ran up the ladders into the cockpits. The Russian mechanics pulled the ladders down as soon as Thud and Stamp were in their airplanes. The pilots closed the canopies and began to taxi away from the hangar.

The old man checked his watch, then pushed open the door of his dilapidated Buick. It was still dark, and he was the only one in the entire parking lot just west of Interstate 5. He popped open the trunk and got out his gear. He slipped headphones over his dirty old Dodgers baseball cap and let them rest around his neck. He carried the metal detector in his right hand as he threw his ratty backpack over his left shoulder.

He closed the trunk quietly and began walking to the beach. His gait was painful and difficult, as if he were about to surrender to a lifetime of fatigue, his skin dark brown and deeply wrinkled from years in the sun. He was the first one on the beach that morning, long before sunrise. The moon, now approaching the ocean to the west, gave him just enough light to see his way.

The worn-out leather backpack had a drawstring at the top and shiny edges on the side. His headphones were attached to a device on his belt that had input wires from the long-handled metal detector that searched endlessly for coins and other valuables that had made their way into the sand on the coast of California.

The old man pulled the tired Dodgers cap down over his eyes to protect him from the coming sun. It settled into the comfortable position of a hat that had been worn for years in exactly the same place.

He headed south down the beach, sweeping his detector from one side to the other, occasionally sifting some sand through a can when he came across something. After a mile he turned around slowly, shuffling his bare, flat feet in the fluffy sand away from the hard-packed sand, and pulled his face up as if listening for something. He held the headphones to his ear with his hand as he looked north. He turned south again. Ahead of him, on the water line, he could just make out the two huge rounded shapes outlined against the dark blue sky.

He continued his long, slow walk toward them as he searched for something of value on the way.

The canopies came down, and the radios went on. “Everybody up?”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four,” they said, instantly adopting the positions they’d been scheduled to fly on the missile shoot later that morning. Luke advanced his throttles, released the parking brake, and began taxiing toward the runway. “I have no idea what they’re up to. Get airborne in two sections. Use burner. Fuel is no concern until we catch them. Any questions?”

“Did you notify anybody?”

“I tried,” he transmitted. “I’m going to keep trying. Stamp, I want you on the radio talking to the FAA about this until you get somebody. Thud, when we get airborne, I want you on every Air Force frequency you can find, particularly Nellis. Talk to anybody who’s awake, and tell them what’s going on.”

“Roger,” they both said.

Luke was taxiing much faster than was safe, particularly in the dark. The taxiway lights were not lit, and he could barely distinguish the black taxiway from the sand right next to it. He was following the faint yellow line in the middle of the taxiway, illuminated by a remnant of moon. He didn’t turn on his airplane’s taxi lights. He didn’t want to draw attention to his position. He had no idea where the rest of the Pakistanis were.

On the other side of the airfield, all the remaining Pakistanis, including the mechanics, piled into the back of the now empty trucks. The drivers and riders climbed into the front and slammed the doors as they quickly started their engines and raced off the tarmac, past the hangar for the gate with their lights off, hoping to escape undiscovered.

Vlad was right behind Luke as they taxied onto the runway in position for a section takeoff in the dark. Luke leaned forward and strained to see the centerline. He looked at his compass and saw that he was heading exactly 260, the precise heading of the runway. He released his brakes and went to full military power. No afterburner—less illumination.

They weaved down the runway, unable to see the centerline, and reached rotation speed. They lifted off the ground and raised their landing gear. Behind them, Stamp and Thud taxied onto the runway and rolled rapidly into a ragged but successful section takeoff.

Luke continued to climb. He quickly took off his oxygen mask and ripped off his helmet. He picked up the cell phone that he’d stuck in his flight suit pocket and dialed the number Raymond had given him. Luke pressed the telephone to his ear, hopeful he could hear the conversation over the jet noise in the cockpit. “Raymond?” he yelled.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Stick. We just took off from Tonopah. Flight of four. You see us? You still on your hill?”

“Yes, sir. I saw everything. Four F-16s took off, and I saw you after them. I’d say they got about a five- or ten-minute jump on you.”

“Which way did they go?” Luke demanded.

“South,” Raymond said confidently.

“You sure? Can you give me a compass heading?”

“Positive. I followed them with my binoculars. I watched them as far as I could. I could see right into their tailpipes. They went south, sir. I’m sure.”

“You just earned your salary, Raymond. Call everybody you can think of in the world and tell them that the Pakistanis have taken off with F-16s and bombs, headed south from Tonopah. Just tell whoever you can raise—the FAA, the Air Force, anybody,” he yelled.

“Will do, sir. Good hunting.”

Luke hit the end button on his phone, put it beside him in the map case, and latched the door over it. He had no flight plan and no idea where Major Khan was taking his men and their bombs. He pulled on his helmet and reattached his oxygen mask. “Back up,” he transmitted to the other three. He could hear Stamp on guard, 243.0 MHZ, the emergency UHF frequency every aircraft was required to monitor. The FAA and all military establishments monitored guard twenty-four hours a day.

“Mayday, Mayday. This is Nevada Fighter 103. A flight of four F-16s is airborne in southern Nevada with laser-guided bombs. We’re unsure of their heading or intended target. Requesting fighter assistance. Mayday, Mayday . . .” Stamp repeated the warning.

Luke cringed. He hadn’t told Stamp to use guard. He wouldn’t have. It was monitored by everybody, almost certainly including Khan. Now Khan knew that they were onto him, airborne, and coming after him.