Fallout (29 page)

Rashim expected that. He kept his eye fixed on the nose of the MiG-29 as he pulled, and flew his fighter right into Thud.

The two fighters collided like cymbals and burst into flames. Airplane and canopy parts littered the sky and fell to the ocean.

“Thud!” Luke cried. He fought the instant nausea that ripped into his gut. “No!” Luke gasped for oxygen through his mask. He pulled back on his throttles and came out of afterburner. He put his head back against the ejection seat. He couldn’t do it.

“You want us to take the last one?” the F-15 lead asked.

Luke watched as Khan’s F-16 got smaller as it headed out into the Pacific. He waited, then jammed the throttles forward as Glenda spoke in his ear, “Low fuel! Low fuel!” His eyes darted to the fuel gauge. She was right, but it didn’t matter. If he had to go swimming to get Khan, then that was just how it was going to be. He’d strangle him to death in the water.

Khan had taken advantage of the midair to make his escape. He was down on the deck, fifty feet off the water. He had a mile head start on the fighters chasing him. Luke and Stamp were right behind him at the same speed. It was a race to the middle of the ocean. He had nowhere to go. The flight of four F-15s flew cover above them, ready to pounce. The lead was ready. “Nevada Fighter, pull off. We’ve got a sweet missile shot on him.”

“Negative. I’ll take my shot, then you can have him.”

“Roger. Fuel state?”

“About twenty minutes. I’m okay,” he lied.

Luke was surprised. Khan was clearly planning on running west until he ran out of gas, then crashing into the ocean. But if Khan knew he was going to die, Luke was surprised he didn’t want to go down fighting as Rashim had just done.

Stamp was apparently thinking the same thing. “Any idea on his intentions?” he asked.

“None.”

Luke didn’t want to get too close. He settled in one mile behind Khan, waiting for him to commit himself, with the image of Thud’s airplane exploding branded into his mind. If he fired a missile now, it would hit the water instead of the F-16. But if he had to wait much longer, Luke would run out of gas and crash into the ocean himself. He had to act soon to have any chance of landing back at Miramar, the Marine Corps air station in San Diego.

As Luke contemplated his options, they reached seventy-five miles off the coast, in the middle of nowhere, with no land in sight. Khan suddenly pulled into a hard left turn, still fifty feet off the ocean.

“Here we go,” the F-15 pilot said.

Luke pulled up slightly as the turn took him by surprise. He had closed the distance to Khan too fast. He pulled up quickly into a high yo-yo to keep from overshooting. He looked down at Khan from a high perch position. Khan was in a tight five-G turn right on the surface of the ocean, circling. Suddenly he pulled up into a climbing spiral away from the ocean.

Luke hesitated. He couldn’t imagine what Khan was trying to do, but it was the opening Luke had been waiting for. He rolled in and locked up Khan with his radar. He selected Archer and directed his helmet-mounted sight toward the climbing F-16. He heard the growl from the Archer seekerhead. Khan was far enough away from the water to give Luke a clear shot. The F-15s above at ten thousand feet watched in anticipation as Luke pulled hard to line up his last missile shot.

Luke leveled his wings, his breath coming in short, quick gasps. He pulled the trigger, and the Archer hissed off the missile rail toward the F-16. Luke watched in shock as the canopy came off the F-16 and Khan ejected before the missile even arrived. “What the . . .” Luke said to himself. The ejection seat and rocket motor threw Khan away from the F-16 seconds before the Archer missile hit the Viper in the belly and cut it in half. The F-16 rolled over and headed for the water in its two pieces, flames coming out of both ends. Khan floated down gently in his silk parachute as he inflated his survival vest and deployed the seat pan on his ejection seat.

Luke rolled wings level and pulled his throttles back to idle, slowing quickly. He watched Khan float to the ocean. “Catfish, splash the fourth bogey. The pilot jumped out. Get the Navy out here to take this guy into custody.”

“Roger, copy.”

Luke looked down at his TACAN. “We’re on the 298 radial for 98 from Miramar.”

“Roger that.”

Luke’s heart climbed quickly into his throat and choked off any thought of speaking as he watched Khan touch down and splash into the ocean. A hundred yards away from him, a periscope pierced the ocean’s surface. It was barely moving in the water. Seconds later the submarine’s sail broke the surface in a bath of white foam. Khan had freed himself from his parachute and swam with a gentle backstroke toward the surfacing submarine.

Two men opened a hatch in the sail of the submarine and came out onto the bridge. They saw Khan and clambered down a ladder to the flat deck behind the sail. They wore life jackets and dark clothes. Luke lowered the nose of the Fulcrum. “You seeing this?” Luke asked.

“I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it,” Stamp replied.

This cannot be happening, Luke thought. “Catfish, we’ve got a submarine surfaced on the water. They’re pulling Khan out of the water. Call the Navy! Get some antisubmarine assets here now!”

“A submarine, sir?”

“Yes, a submarine?”

“Whose, sir?”

Luke lowered his nose and slowed down to take a hard look at the sub. It was black, in good shape, and almost clearly a diesel. He asked in desperation, “Anybody got a camera?”

“No,” Stamp said with regret.

“Negative,” the F-15 leader replied.

Luke pulled up hard and tried to get out of the way as Stamp followed him down and attempted to get a radar lock on the submarine with his MiG radar to shoot his last missile. The radar refused to lock on to the submarine. It couldn’t separate the sub from the rest of the ocean. Stamp fired anyway, hoping against hope that the missile would guide, but he was disappointed. The long Alamo went ballistic as soon as it was launched. It headed straight down into the ocean like an arrow hundreds of yards from the sub.

Luke watched helplessly as the submarine started to dive. “Emergency fuel! Emergency fuel!” Glenda warned. He ignored her. Khan stood on the bridge of the submarine, removed his helmet, and waved at Luke flying two thousand feet above. Suddenly Khan turned and dropped through the open hatch, which closed quickly behind him. The blue ocean closed over the submarine, and the deck was soon awash in white foam and surging water. The sail grew smaller, and the submarine disappeared into the ocean.

Luke reduced his throttles and pulled back on the stick as the MiG climbed away from disaster. Glenda continued to remind him of his fuel state. “Catfish, I’m emergency fuel. Request bingo profile vector for straight-in approach to Miramar.”

“Roger, Nevada Fighter 101. Fuel emergency. Take heading of 113, climb and maintain maximum-range altitude, and report level.”

“Catfish, Eagle flight RTB.”

“Roger. Take heading 060, climb and maintain fifteen thousand feet. Break, Nevada Fighter, I’ve been informed, sir, that the Navy is on their way to get to the submarine,” Catfish reported.

As Luke climbed away from the ocean, he glanced back at the vague disruption on the surface of the Pacific where the submarine had been. “Tell them they’re too late.”

Luke was on fumes when he landed at Miramar Marine Corps Air Station in San Diego. He barely had enough fuel to taxi to the operations shed, but he wasn’t about to be towed; he’d rather flame out. His mask hung down in surrender, exposing his sweating face. He glanced at the operations building and was surprised to see the throng of people waiting for him. He shut down the starboard engine to save fuel. He kept his visor lowered. He didn’t want anybody to see his eyes, which were full of frustration and fury. At least the Pakistanis had missed the nuclear plants. Luke was suddenly acutely aware of why Khan had demanded more air-to-ground training.

He taxied slowly, treasuring the quiet, protective shell of the airplane cockpit that kept the world away. Vlad had lost his MiG. Four F-16s had attacked San Onofre and been lost, and his school would be blamed for everything—of that he was sure. He taxied by the windsock. The prevailing wind was from the southeast. It had allowed him to land straight in from the ocean on Runway 6, the opposite direction airplanes usually landed at Miramar. The prevailing wind in Southern California was almost always from the ocean, between 240 and 270. But not today. Today all of Southern California was experiencing a Santa Ana, a wind condition that meant the winds were coming from the east, from the desert. They were hot, dry winds that could easily reach twenty or thirty knots. He was thankful the attack hadn’t resulted in a radioactive cloud. He was sure the steam he’d seen meant they’d hit a power substation or the heating plant for the base.

Luke taxied forward slowly to the point where the lineman was indicating, waited until his wheels had been chocked, and shut down the MiG. He waited until his engine had completely stopped and then opened the canopy. A lineman put a ladder in place for him. He unstrapped methodically as he watched Stamp land and taxi toward him.

Luke climbed out of the MiG and down the ladder with his helmet in hand and began walking slowly to the operations shack. A man in a dark blue suit came jogging toward him with three other men on his heels. The man spoke to him from fifteen feet away as he slowed to a fast walk. “Are you Mr. Luke Henry?” he asked, reaching inside his coat for his identification.

Luke stood there with his hands on his hips, his helmet hanging in his left hand, and nodded. “Yeah. Who are you?”

“FBI,” the man said, holding his ID out in front of him for Luke to read. “You’re under arrest.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke said, suddenly furious.

“Put your hands up, sir.”

Luke stared at the man. “Are you shitting me?” he demanded angrily, not moving.

“Put your hands up, sir!”

Luke raised his hands, holding his helmet over his head. The lead FBI agent walked behind him, pulled down his right hand, and put a handcuff over his right wrist. Then he pulled down Luke’s left hand and the helmet fell out of his hand, hit the pavement, and began rolling unevenly down the flight line.

“Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney—”

“What am I being arrested for?”

“For conspiracy to commit a terrorist act.”

“That’s total bullshit,” Luke replied. “I was trying to stop them,” he protested.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you were.” They escorted him to the operations office, where the press was already congregating. When reporters saw him coming, they began yelling questions at him. The camera motor-drives were audible as they pushed toward him. Television cameras focused on his face.

“Why did you bomb the nuclear plant?” one shouted. “Do you have a grudge against the United States?”

Katherine had gotten dressed as soon as Luke had jumped out of bed. She’d thrown on a loose shirt, gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and sat down at the table with the telephone. She’d called the Air Force, the Navy, the FAA, the FBI, the Department of Defense, and anyone else she could think of. The few times she’d actually spoken to a person resulted in the same response: “Yes, that’s very interesting. I’m sure it’s terribly important, and I’m sure you’re right about what has happened, but I am simply not in a position to do what you have asked . . .”

Always the same. Very nice, respectful, as if they were talking to someone from an asylum, someone who needed the stiff canvas jacket with the sleeves wrapped around her back, and everything would be just fine.

She had kept the television tuned to CNN, hoping against hope that nothing had happened, that nothing would happen, and that Luke would come back with a great story to tell at the O’ Club.

Eventually she ran out of numbers to call. Besides, she was beginning to feel ridiculous. She put down the phone and drank the last of her tea. She was about to get up and make some more tea when the morning weather on CNN was interrupted. An ominous screen came up: the following is a special report from cnn. “Oh, no,” she said.

A man appeared on the screen and began, “Good morning. I’m Carl Allen, and this special report is just in. There has apparently been an attack on the San Onofre nuclear power plant on the coast of San Diego County, California. Four jet fighters attacked the nuclear plant at about five-thirty Pacific time this morning. San Onofre is comprised of three nuclear reactor plants, Units One, Two, and Three. Unit One was deactivated several years ago. The other two units are large domelike structures designed to withstand the impact of a 737 jet flying directly into them from thirty thousand feet. As it turned out, the bombs released by the airplanes missed the reactor plants and hit a flat building south of the reactors. Initial reports are that six people were killed at San Onofre by the bomb blasts, and three of the four pilots, who were apparently Pakistani, were shot down by the U.S. Air Force. We are just now getting our first pictures from the site. Reporting live from San Onofre is Leslie Monteneri. Leslie, what can you tell us?”

San Onofre? Katherine was horrified. She’d never imagined that Khan would attack a nuclear plant.

The picture cut to a reporter sitting inside a helicopter flying over the ocean. The sky was light, as the sun had just risen above the horizon. She spoke loudly to be heard over the turbine engine and the vibrating blades spinning over her head. “Carl, the situation at San Onofre is bad. Several people have been killed. There is a large fire where the bombs hit, with a sort of vapor or dust cloud from the bomb blast curling up into the sky.”

The camera swung to the outside of the helicopter. The two damaged buildings were clearly visible, and there was steam and dark dust still rising out of the fire on the ground. “You can see where the bombs hit. Fortunately, they did not hit the nuclear plants themselves. We are told that the plants are intact and undamaged. We’re still trying to find out what was in the buildings that were hit, but we’ve been told that there are at least six people dead and several wounded. The death toll could climb as more information becomes available.