Read Online Fallout by James W. Huston - Free Book Online

shack together.
    “My butt is killing me,” Thud commented.
    “Long flight.”
    They paused at the maintenance counter and put their helmets on it. A senior Air Force enlisted woman approached them. “Do you have your gas card, sir?” she asked.
    Luke removed a credit card from the small pocket on the left shoulder of his flight suit.
    “Your jets okay, sir? Need any maintenance?”
    “No, they’re fine, thanks.”
    “When do you expect to depart, sir?” she asked, writing.
    “Tomorrow at 0600.”
    “Yes, sir, the tower should be open. You might give them a few minutes to have their coffee so they don’t taxi you into a C-17.”
    “Good point. Make it 0630.”
    “Will do, sir,” she said, smiling as she glanced over his shoulder, apparently at someone approaching them from behind. Her face expressed sufficient concern for Luke to turn around and see a man walking toward them from two cheap black couches that formed the transient pilot waiting area. He was wearing polyester pants that might have fit once but certainly didn’t now and a short-sleeved plaid shirt that might sell for ten dollars at Kmart. The man was staring at Luke as he walked directly at him. He was unshaven. His hair was black and unkempt. He had clearly slept on his hair and hadn’t seen a mirror since.
    Luke’s concern grew as the man approached him.
    The man spoke with an accent. “Navy Lieutenant?”
    “Who are you?” Luke asked, not really wanting to know.
    “Are you Navy Lieutenant? From TOPGUN?” he asked, putting the emphasis on “gun.” He looked out the window at the two desert-camouflage F/A-18s with the distinctive circular TOPGUN logo and the lightning bolt.
    Oh, great, Luke thought. A wannabe who’s been obsessing his whole life in a basement somewhere about flying at TOPGUN. They were everywhere. Every air show, every port of call, every tour of a carrier, everywhere. Guys—almost always men—who knew more about the airplanes than the pilots who flew them did. They knew the manufacturing specs for the canopy and the number of landings the tires could take before they had to be changed. They were information sponges and generally not very much fun to be with. They almost certainly had never actually flown an airplane—or had a normal human relationship. “Yeah, that’s us,” Luke admitted reluctantly as he turned back to the female Sergeant.
    “We must talk,” the man insisted.
    Luke listened carefully to his accent. He’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. “What?” he said over his shoulder as he and Thud examined the paperwork that had been handed to them.
    “We must
talk
,” the man said again, touching Luke on his elbow.
    That was too much. Luke put down the papers and turned to the man, looking at him more carefully, to see if he was a threat. “Do I know you?”
    “I’m sorry, sir,” the Sergeant apologized, growing concerned. “He said he was a friend of yours. He was supposed to meet you here.”
    Luke looked at the man again, waiting for an explanation.
    “I am Vlad, from MAPS,” the man said quietly, with authority.
    Luke hesitated. “Vlad? Have we spoken?”
    “Yes, but I’m sure you have forgotten. I am very new at MAPS, and they have just assigned me to the idea you have sent them about this new TOPGUN School.”
    Luke quickly looked at the Sergeant to see if she was listening. She wasn’t. Luke headed away from the counter. “What are you doing here?”
    Vlad smiled and shook Luke’s hand with enthusiasm. “I didn’t warn you that I was coming. I for this apologize,” he said in his heavy Russian accent. “It was on the moment of a spur. They said you had told them you planned to inspect the MiGs this weekend and would try to get them the serial numbers. I offered to come help, and they told me to come.”
    “This is Thud,” Luke said, indicating Quentin.
    Vlad shook Thud’s hand with equal vigor. “I have heard of you. You are part of this, too. Yes?”
    “Yes,”