Fallout (27 page)

Luke pushed the MiGs through five hundred knots toward six hundred. He struggled to figure out what Khan’s target was. He thought of all the cities and Air Force bases and Navy bases where Khan might inflict the most damage.

Luke concentrated on his radar. If Raymond was right, Khan should be about fifty miles ahead of them. Luke reached into the map case and moved the phone aside. He pulled out the Las Vegas sectional chart and examined it under the red light on the clip on the instrument panel. He listened as Stamp tried to contact the FAA on guard and Las Vegas approach. He knew they were violating all kinds of FAA airspace and regulations, and he couldn’t care less. He thought it would be just fine if he had a midair with another airplane about now, because he didn’t know how he was going to face his wife, his friends, his squadron, or his fellow TOPGUN instructors at Fallon or the rest of the world.

He searched the chart. The Las Vegas sectional didn’t go all the way to Southern California. He tried to think of the juiciest targets. Los Angeles? But where? Laser-guided implied precision strike. A particular target, not just to drop on a house or a hotel and kill a few dozen people. And there wouldn’t be anywhere that more than a couple of hundred people would be at 5:00 a.m. March Air Force Base? Possibly. Air Force One was there a lot. . . . He jerked his head up as his heart responded to the instantaneous stimulation of adrenaline. He transmitted, “Anyone know where the President is right now?”

“Camp David,” Thud replied.

Luke was relieved. “Anybody got them on the radar yet?”

“I’m getting something,” Vlad replied.

Maybe the Navy base in San Diego—32nd Street, or North Island, where the carriers were based. Oh, no, he thought. These guys are going to attack an aircraft carrier, a nuclear aircraft carrier. His heart pounded even harder as his mind raced from one potential disaster to another. The MiGs sped on, accelerating through supersonic, violating yet another flight regulation. “Anybody know if the carriers are in port at North Island in San Diego Bay?”

“They sure are,” Stamp replied. “Stennis and Nimitz.”

Both nuclear carriers. “They could be heading there!” Luke exclaimed.

“That would not be good,” Stamp replied.

“Thud, contact Miramar ops. See if the Marines have any alert F/A-18s they can get up between us and San Diego. Stamp, the carriers have any of their own aircraft aboard?”

“Negative,” Stamp replied.

Suddenly an unidentified voice challenged them. “Nevada Fighter 101, this is Los Angeles center. How do you read?”

Luke jerked to respond. Finally. “Loud and clear, how me?”

“Loud and clear. Say your intentions.”

“Did you copy the guard transmission?”

“Affirmative.”

“We are a flight of four MiG-29s. We have Russian air-to-air missiles with us and are in hot pursuit of four California Air National Guard F-16s that are being piloted by Pakistani pilots training at our base at Tonopah, in Nevada. They killed our guards and have taken off with laser-guided bombs and Sidewinder missiles. We have no idea where they’re going. Do you have them on radar?”

“We have a flight of four ahead of you fifty miles, heading south-southwest at thirty thousand feet.”

Luke pulled up to climb to thirty thousand feet. “Request thirty thousand feet. Request you clear the corridor south of them and between us of all traffic. These aircraft are extremely dangerous, and we do not know their intentions. They may try to shoot down an airliner. They have Sidewinder missiles. We don’t know what they have in mind.”

“Roger. Are you declaring an emergency?”

“Definitely. I’m declaring whatever is the worst possible thing you can declare.”

“Roger, squawk 7733, climb and maintain thirty thousand feet. Switch to 227.6 now.”

They did.

“Nevada fighter flight up.”

“Roger, read you loud and clear. Sir, how do we know you are who you say you are?”

“You’re just going to have to take my word for it. My name is Luke Henry. Call TOPGUN at Fallon, Nevada. They can vouch for me. We need to get any alert fighters airborne. Whoever would launch in case of a violation of the ADIZ needs to get airborne now, and these F-16s should be treated as a flight that is penetrating the ADIZ without authorization, and they are armed. And be sure to tell them the F-16s are the bad guys and the MiG-29s are the good guys.”

“I’ll contact the Air Force. I must put you on notice here that you’re in violation of Federal Aviation Regulations in that you did not file an IFR flight plan”—Instrument Flight Rules—“in that you’re flying above fly level 180 through the jet routes without clearance, in that—”

“I don’t care if I’m violating every FAR in existence! I’m telling you, these men are about to attack the United States somewhere. I don’t know where. Give me their heading! Help me get them. Give me a vector—”

“I don’t appreciate—”

“Then get somebody on who’s willing to help. I don’t need anybody else making it harder.”

“Their heading appears to be 190, but that is off raw radar return. Their IFFs are off.” The Identification Friend or Foe highlighted each plane’s position on the controller’s radar.

“Say their speed, and thanks.”

He hesitated, then, “Speed is estimated at 650 knots.”

“Request permission for supersonic—”

“I do not have the authority—”

“What’s your name?” Luke demanded.

“I am a retired air controller. My call sign was Catfish.”

“Navy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was with VFA-136, then TOPGUN. We’re on the verge of disaster here, Catfish. You’ve got to help me.”

“Stand by.”

Luke went to afterburner, and the other three airplanes joined him in the dark, leaving long trails of yellow flame behind them. He checked his airspeed. He was passing through 650 knots to 700. They were supersonic, screaming across southern Nevada, crossing into California. Luke did a quick calculation. If Khan and his men were headed for the California coast, they had about twelve minutes to stop them.

Catfish came back on the radio. “Sir, I raised the Air Force. They’re scrambling a flight of four F-15s. The Air Force controller will be vectoring them toward the F-16s. They are concerned about the rules of engagement and do not believe they will be given clearance to fire, as there has been no hostile intent. They cannot verify your claims nor can they verify that the F-16s are armed. Their instructions are ID and escort—”

Luke broke in. “Shooting guards isn’t hostile intent? I have an eyewitness that says they loaded bombs and missiles! Just get them up there. Intercept them. Then, if they roll in on anything, that’d be hostile intent.”

“I’ll pass it on. Stand by. Sir, I have completed the flight path analysis. They do not appear to be headed toward San Diego. Their current flight path will take them to the ocean well north of San Diego.”

Luke was puzzled. He glanced at the other three MiGs and thought for a moment. “What will they fly over?”

“Mostly mountains, then Orange County, then to the ocean just north of Camp Pendleton.”

“Maybe they’re heading for Camp Pendleton. Maybe they’re going to attack the barracks or the officers’ quarters.”

“We will alert Camp Pendleton.”

Luke envisioned the area in his mind. He’d been there innumerable times, up and down the California coast—San Diego, Orange County, the beaches, San Clemente . . . “San Onofre! They’re headed to San Onofre!”

“The nuclear plant?”

“Get on the telephone! Warn them! Tell them to evacuate the place! Shut it down!”

Luke glanced at his gas gauge. His fuel was disappearing at a shocking rate. He looked at his radar for any sign of the F-16s. He had two contacts close together thirty miles ahead. “I think I’ve got them, Catfish.” He compared his radar picture to their location and their closing rate. They had 150 knots’ speed advantage on the bomb-laden F-16s. It would take them seven minutes to get within a good missile-firing solution. By then Khan would have gone another eighty-four miles—just enough to put them at the coast. “Shit!” Luke yelled into his oxygen mask. “I don’t think we’ll reach them in time!” he transmitted.

“Yes, sir. The F-15s are airborne, but they’re as far away as you are.”

“Roger,” Luke said, checking his airspeed, wishing for more speed, anything to catch Khan. He stole a look at the chart again. “Do the F-15s have them yet?”

“Don’t know, sir. Separate control.”

“Damn it, Catfish! Fix it. Get everybody on the same frequency.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll work on that. Stay with me for now.”

“Do you still have them heading for the coast?”

“Yes, sir . . .” Catfish said, obviously studying the radar information, as minimal as it was. “Looks like they’re starting a descent.”

“Take combat spread,” Luke transmitted to his wingmen. “Acquire any of them you can, and be ready for missile launch, even if outside the envelope. We’ve got to distract them.”

“Two,” Vlad replied.

“Three,” said Thud.

“Four,” Stamp said.

Luke looked at his three wingmen, who were ripping through the sky with him, anxious to close on the Pakistanis, for the chance to get them before they did whatever they were planning on doing. Vlad backed off Luke and pulled out to his right.

Luke transmitted, “Vlad, I’ve got them dead ahead, at thirteen miles. Thud, you and Stamp take a position to the south and west. I want everybody launching on these guys as soon as possible.”

“Don’t we need clearance?” Thud asked.

“We can try. Break, Catfish, we need clearance to fire. Get whatever General is in charge on this frequency. We’ve only got about thirty seconds.”

“Sir, there’s no authority to do anything yet. They’re waking up everybody in the country right now, trying to figure out what’s going on. We don’t have anybody on the line yet except the Air Force duty officer, and he hasn’t given anybody clearance to do anything except take off and investigate. I seriously doubt he’ll be saying anything to you, sir. You’re a civilian.”

“We’ve got to take them out, Catfish. They’re going after a nuclear power plant, and—”

“Sir, I’m showing them approaching the coast.”

“They’re starting a bombing run! Where are they?”

“Directly over San Onofre. That’s restricted airspace—”

“That ought to really matter to them. Get us clearance to fire on them, Catfish!”

“Sir, I work for the FAA. I can’t give anybody—”

Luke’s transmission ran over Catfish’s response: “Nevada Fighters, I’ve got four targets. I’m locking on the target second from the right. Vlad, take the lead to the right.”

“Roger,” Vlad said. He was nearly overcome by the idea of piloting a MiG-29 in California defending an American target trying to shoot down an American F-16 with Gorgov whispering in his memory. He replied to Luke, “It is a difficult shot for the missile.”

“We’re taking whatever shots we can get, Vlad. Get ready to launch.”

Luke could only imagine what would happen if any of the bombs actually hit the rounded domes of the two operating facilities. It would send up a cloud of nuclear fallout that could contaminate all of Southern California. It could contaminate the Pacific Ocean. Depending on which direction the wind was blowing, Los Angeles, San Diego, Orange County, and Palm Springs were all in danger. If it erupted to the same level as Chernobyl, the entire western United States could be endangered by the cloud of radioactive fallout. He pulled his mind back to the fight ahead.

Luke started down as they approached the coast. The F-16s had begun to descend in the darkness toward the coast of California. The horizon behind Luke was just beginning to brighten. Exactly the conditions Khan had wanted. They would be coming out of the east.

Luke looked through the thick, illuminated glass of the HUD, the heads-up display that projected symbols onto the glass in front of him. The missile-launch indicator and the target were moving closer together in the HUD, indicating that his shot was improving with every passing second, but he was still out of range. He knew that Vlad was looking at a virtually identical display.

“I have them on my radar. Request permission to launch!” Vlad insisted. Luke checked his own position and looked at how far ahead of them the F-16s were. It was down to nine miles as they screamed through the black sky at Mach 1.2 in their Russian fighters over Orange County, California. The entire trip from Tonopah to Orange County had taken only twenty-one minutes. The F-15s took ten minutes just to get airborne. He could imagine the F-15s closing on the F-16s supersonic, just as they were, but doubted they’d get there in time, let alone be cleared to do anything decisive. He knew better than most how the military mind worked. They would much rather hesitate and be wrong for inaction than take decisive action and kill people and be wrong. They can always claim they didn’t have enough information to act decisively. They knew they were less likely to be held accountable for doing nothing than for doing something dramatically wrong that would provide pictures of dead, burning bodies.

Luke strained to see the two cement domes of the San Onofre nuclear plant on the coast between Interstate 5 and the Pacific Ocean, dramatically outlined by the morning sun. But there wasn’t any morning sun yet, no light for them to see ahead, only a pink horizon behind them.

The radar showed a good lock on one of the jets in front. It was heading down rapidly. He knew that the F-16 was now getting a MiG-29 radar strobe on its radar warning indicator. He prayed it would deter them from completing their task, but held out little hope.

“Fire!” Luke said to his wingmen, taking full responsibility on his own shoulders for whatever came next. He was hanging so far over the edge in so many different ways that it almost didn’t matter. He expected to die.

Luke pulled the trigger with the jerking motion he taught his students not to use. He felt the large AA-10 Alamo drop off his left wing. He squinted in the darkness as the rocket motor ignited and lit up the sky all around his Fulcrum. A trail of white smoke followed the blazing yellow light toward the California coastline. A missile flew off Vlad’s Fulcrum almost simultaneously.