Fallout (12 page)

Karachi was famous throughout the world as a place where you could buy or sell anything. The port served not only Pakistan, but all of the upper region of Central Asia: Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan—anywhere roads or railroads could reach. While not the capital of Pakistan, it was the largest city in the region. It was also famous for its corruption and crime.

Ships were loaded and offloaded continuously. Some arrived at night just so their unloading or loading could be done before fewer eyes.

Riaz Khan stood back from the window to avoid being seen. He watched the ordinary-looking cargo ship of Liberian registry. It carried bulk cargo and containers, but preferred bulk. The ship had its name painted in rusty white letters on the stern: eight seas. It had large cranes for loading the few shipping containers it carried on deck and open hatches for the bulk cargo. The cranes lifted large pallets of wool and lowered them into the hold. The men supervising the loading looked bored. They also cursed the crane operators or anyone else nearby for their having to load the ship at two o’clock in the morning. The Filipino ship’s crew supervised the loading of the hold and told the dockworkers when it was full. The last pallet was placed on deck, and a tarp was placed over the wool. The cranes swung over for the two containers to be loaded aboard and lifted them effortlessly. The containers swung to the deck of the ship and were carefully lowered to their spots on the deck.

When the containers were secure, the loading lights cast large shadows behind them. The Pakistani dockworkers were done. The loading had gone flawlessly, in spite of the tension they’d felt. They knew that their load was important to someone but weren’t sure who or why. They didn’t really care. As long as they got paid and the ship sailed on time, they were content. They walked away to the next ship in an endless stream of ships, their bodies showing their fatigue even in the low light.

The ship’s crew prepared to get under way immediately. They all knew that their orders were to sail the instant the containers were secured to the deck. They scurried to their places. The captain yelled to the men on the pier to release the lines for the
Eight Seas
. As soon as the massive, frayed lines were free, the two tugs on the port side pulled slowly, and the rusty ship inched away from the pier. The
Eight Seas
sat low in the inky water and pointed out to the Indian Ocean.

Riaz turned from the window as the ship got under way. He didn’t trust anyone to do anything right. Not anymore. He would personally supervise everything himself if that was what it took. A dark, unremarkable car was waiting for Riaz when he came out of the building onto the street. The back door opened as he approached. He looked straight ahead and made sure his face stayed in the shadows. He slipped quickly into the backseat, and the car pulled away. They drove down the waterfront, past rows of cranes, ships, and men, to another pier where another ship was just loading its containers.

Riaz touched the shoulder of the driver, who slowed the car as they all watched a Pakistani customs official approach the ship and call for the loading supervisor. Riaz didn’t like what he was seeing at all. The official pointed up into the spotlights to the container that was being swung onto the ship. The loading supervisor looked angry as he replied. Riaz stared through the tinted window.

The customs officer gestured quickly, with authority. The supervisor shook his head in frustration. The crane stopped, and the container, the size of a semi, hovered thirty feet off the pier and began to turn slowly.

“Call,” Riaz said quickly.

The man next to him in the back put the handheld radio to his mouth and quickly transmitted in Urdu. He received a click as an acknowledgment. The men in the car waited as the customs officer continued to argue with the loading supervisor. The customs man was suddenly interrupted and reached for the radio on his belt. He pulled it out and began talking into it. He looked at the container and went on talking back to the radio while waving his arm. He was confused and put out. He argued into his radio, then finally capitulated. He spoke to the supervisor, who nodded his approval.

The container began its slow trip to the ship again and was finally lowered to the deck.

Riaz nodded, and the car pulled out of the shadow of a building and onto the Karachi street.

“Crumb!” Luke bounded across the room and extended his hand to Delbert Crummey, one of his favorite Navy pilots and the one with the funniest name, a name that gave rise to absolutely endless jokes. His enthusiasm was legendary. “How you been?”

“Stick!” Crumb said. He’d left quite a mark as an instructor at TOPGUN, until he, like so many others, decided not to go back to sea. He got out of the Navy and took a job flying Falcon jets for a large company. As far as civilian flying went, it wasn’t bad. There wasn’t any high-G inverted flying, but Falcons were good performing jets, and once he got over having passengers, he’d grown not to hate it. But as soon as Luke had called, he offered to quit his job that day. He’d said he missed the flying, but he missed the camaraderie even more. “Where’s Thud?”

“Next door. Let’s go see him.” They walked from Luke’s office to Thud’s. “Thud! Crumb’s here!”

Thud shook his hand vigorously. “Welcome aboard! It’s great to have you.”

“You’re the
XO
?” Crumb asked, surprised.

“Yeah. Benefits of partial ownership. We get to appoint ourselves as the bosses.”

“Who writes your fitness report?”

“Nobody, except maybe Luke.”

“And who writes
your
fitness report?” Crumb asked Luke.

“Nobody. That’s the beauty of it. How do you like the setup?”

“This is unbelievable,” Crumb said, looking around. “This is like the greatest job in the history of the world. Thanks a lot for calling.”

“Did you see the MiGs?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t ever seen one in person.” He glowed. “That’s a beautiful airplane—or at least somewhere there are beautiful MiG-29s, but yours look like
shit
right now. They need a lot of work. The one I saw looks like a jalopy you’d find in a barn that you try to turn into a hot rod.”

“Don’t let the paint fool you. They’re in good shape. Did you see the two-seater?”

“Yeah. That’s a good thing, so we don’t prang ourselves on our first flight.”

“It’s supposed to be ready to go Monday.”

“When is everyone else due to get here?”

“Monday except for Lips, who won’t be here until next month, and Stamp, who has a bunch of air shows to fly.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Vlad has set up a ground school and a flight instruction plan. Believe it or not, this guy who’s the head of the MAPS group for maintenance is a former Russian instructor pilot in the MiG-29. He’s going to do a lot of the instruction for us and run the ground school.”

“A Russian?” Crumb’s eyes narrowed, and he grew serious. “You’re going to let a Russian fly as an instructor?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“How do you know he’s not a Russian spy?”

“What the hell would Russia get out of spying on
us
? Maybe learn all about the MiG-29?”

“No, the syllabus. The whole way of running a TOPGUN school. I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you? We’ve all flown as instructors. We’re probably going to do it exactly the same way. Russia could never get inside the real TOPGUN. So maybe they sent him here to get it from us.”

“Hell, Crumb. We’re going to be giving instruction to foreigners. This is no big secret deal. We might even do it on an unclass level. It might be secret level, but certainly not anything higher than that. I’m not worried about it. But if you see something that bugs you, tell Hayes. He’s the resident spook.”

Crumb knew the whole story about Hayes. “I will. Too bad about his discharge.”

“Yeah.”

“How will I know which one is Vlad?”

Thud smirked. “Just follow your nose. He’s down with the jets. Speaking of which, let’s go down there and get a sandwich.”

They walked downstairs into the main hangar area, to a small deli that some of the employees had carved out of a space at the back. They’d scrounged an old refrigerator, and on the counter next to it were mayonnaise, bread, mustard, and some meat and cheese that had come together as something of a center of gravity where people could fix lunch sandwiches. Luke asked Thud, “How’s the Officers’ Club?”

“Almost done. I’ve got a new name: 94th Aero Squadron.”

“What’s that?”

“The only Navy ace of World War I flew for them.”

“Perfect. Who’s going to head it up?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, glancing at Crumb. “But Crumb here would be a good candidate.”

“Thanks for volunteering, Crumb,” Luke said, his voice full of feigned appreciation. “Thud’ll tell you all about it.”

Crumb frowned and smiled at the same time. “So . . . it really is just like the Navy? You check in and they start dumping all the shitty little jobs on you right away? It’s like I never left! What just happened? Am I now the coffee mess officer?”

“You’re the O’ Club officer. In charge of all the petty little details,” Thud said. He turned to Luke. “That reminds me; the guy from my father’s company is here to interview. He’s waiting topside.”

Luke was unenthusiastic. “Remind me why we need to hire this guy.”

“He just heard about the company and asked my father if he could come interview with us.”

“Right. But what exactly does he bring to it? What’s his area?”

“Said he’d do anything.”

“What does he do for your father?” Luke asked.

“Security guard.”

Luke finished putting his sandwich together and glanced over his shoulder at Thud with a “you’ve got to be kidding me” look. “We’re set for security. Remember? It’s part of our contract. We can’t just hire some minimum-wage flunky to join them. Why are we doing this?”

“I told my father we’d interview him. My father likes him.”

“Here we go,” Luke said, with a tone of having been offended in a way that was anticipated, “We do things just because your father hints at it?”

“Hey, the way I see it, if my father asks us to do something that isn’t
illegal
, we
do
it. If he
tells
us to hire somebody, we will.”

“Fine, you interview him. Hire him. I’ve got too many things going on.”

“Nope. We’re going to interview him together.”

“Says who?” Luke asked, annoyed.

“Says me.”

“What is this, a mutiny?”

“No, just some friendly advice.”

Luke slapped his sandwich onto a paper plate and headed to his office. Before he could take one bite, Thud walked back in with a middle-aged man whose gut was hanging so far over his belt that Luke couldn’t even tell what his huge brass buckle said. He was wearing a black baseball cap that had “51” on the front in numbers so large they could be read a hundred yards away. It was the kind of baseball cap you would see at a tractor pull. It sat on top of his small head like a dunce cap. It appeared to be made out of Styrofoam, or the cheapest polyester possible. It puckered in the front and had mesh around the sides to the back. He showed absolutely no inclination to remove it as he walked into Luke’s office.

The man was about five feet ten and weighed at least two hundred fifty pounds. He had a swollen, serious look on his face and watery eyes behind silver-framed glasses. Luke stood up. “Hi. My name is Luke Henry.”

“Raymond Westover, sir,” the man replied in a low, confident voice. He took Luke’s hand with his own small, pudgy one.

“Sit down, please,” Luke said, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. He rubbed his hand on his flight suit to remove the man’s sweat. Thud sat next to Westover across from Luke. “So. You want to come to work for the Nevada Fighter Weapons School.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re here.”

Luke smiled. “Like why men climb mountains—because they’re there.” He looked at Thud. “Who said that? Was it Sir Edmund Hillary? Or . . . that guy whose body they found frozen like an Otter Pop on Mount Everest a couple of years ago? What the hell was his name?”

“Mallory, I think.”

“Yeah.” Luke returned his gaze to Raymond. There was no recognition in his eyes. “What do you mean, because we’re here?”

Raymond looked around, pointed to the floor, and said enthusiastically, “Because you’re
here
. Here, meaning . . .
here
.”

“Tonopah?”

“Exactly. Tonopah.”

“What’s so special about Tonopah?”

Raymond’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

“Sure. A perfect airfield,” Luke said, knowing it wasn’t what Raymond had in mind.

“Sir, I understand why you guys want to be here,” Raymond said, looking back and forth at the two principals. “I’d just be excited to work out here in the desert.”

Luke decided to do it a different way. “What kind of work did you have in mind?”

“Security. I’ve been a security guard for over thirty years now, sir. Never had an incident on my watch.”

Luke nodded understandingly. “Unfortunately, our security is being handled by a private company. The DOD had to sign off on them. They have lots of experience in this sort of thing. They do their own hiring.”

Raymond was visibly disappointed. “I can do anything. I’m pretty handy. I can fix toilets, replace electrical outlets, things like that.”

Luke nodded again. “Well, we don’t really have a handyman. I’m not sure—”

Thud jumped in. “How about a deli?”

“What about a deli?” Raymond asked.

“Would you be willing to build and maintain a deli for the aircrew and maintenance people to eat at during the week?”

“I don’t know much about that,” Raymond said, thinking it over. “I’ve never been much of a cook. Glenda always fixes my lunch.”

“Who’s Glenda?”

“The little lady. Thirty-one years.”

“Bring her. She can make the food, and you can take care of the deli and other things. You can do it as a team. Do you think she’d be interested?”

Raymond considered it. “She may very well be. She’s kind of just knocking around the house right now. Sort of looking for something to do, now that the kids are gone and all.”