Luke frowned. “When the U.S. bought these planes from Moldova, they bought the spare parts, too. I hope there are also some spare engines.”
“Yes, there are. But you will need more.”
“Where are we going to get extra engines?”
“I get them. You pay for them, but we can get you anything. You forget that MAPS is half Russian. Owned by company that makes MiGs. They want to sell lots of parts. They make them, so we can buy them. You just have to be able to buy them.”
“I need you to do some things for me.”
Vlad looked across at him. He glanced down at his grubby little notebook with Russian writing and numbers in it. “Anything.”
“I need an estimate of the costs of refurbishing the MiGs, bringing them up to NATO specs, and the expected cost of maintenance for five years on an annual basis.”
“Yes, yes,” Vlad said as he wrote in his notebook with a stubby pencil, the kind one might find at a golf course.
“And then, if you can, I need an estimate for MAPS to train Thud and me to fly the MiG-29, in Germany or Russia or wherever.”
“Germany. Much easier.”
“Okay. How long it would take—”
“For TOPGUN instructor? Ha! You could fly now. No question. I could tell you in five minutes things you need to know. Fighting in air combat would take longer, and learning weapons. But flying? Easy. Very forgiving airplane. And no fly by wire. No computer tricks. What you ask for from the stick is what you get.”
“Still, for a syllabus—the kind the German Air Force went through when they got the MiG-29s from the East German Air Force.”
“Sure. MAPS would do that for free, if we do business.”
“Would MAPS actually be able to contract to do the maintenance for us? Here? In Nevada?”
Vlad’s already red eyes grew more intense and cloudy. “Yes,” he said, but with some reservation, Luke could see. “I want to do it. I want to come to Nevada to do the maintenance, train your own people, take care of everything for you.” Vlad reached down to his beat-up brown leather briefcase and pulled it onto the small table in front of them, nearly knocking over his half-full coffee cup. “I have something for you.” He pulled out two thick manuals and handed them to Luke and Thud.
“What is this?” Luke asked.
“Pilot manual for MiG-29.”
Luke stared at the manual. He was skeptical. He opened it to an arbitrary page and began reading. The English was excellent, and it had all the diagrams and charts in the right place. He was shocked. “Outstanding,” he said.
“Good. So do we do business?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to get the U.S. government to approve all this. They own the MiGs and have to agree to lease them to us.”
“You have money?”
“I think so. We’ve had interest from investors.”
“You have a lot of money?”
“What do you mean by a lot?” Thud asked.
“Many millions. You won’t be able to maintain these airplanes for less than many million dollars a year.”
“We think we have enough. If you get us the estimates, we’ll have a better idea.”
“I will do it.” Vlad looked down and was clearly considering whether to say what he had in mind.
Luke and Thud could both sense what was happening.
“What?” Thud asked. “What’s eating you? You don’t think this will work?”
“Oh, no, it will work. Your idea is brilliant. And good for my company.”
“What then?” Luke asked.
“I have two dreams,” Vlad said. He studied their faces. “Two things I want in life. I have no wife. No children. Maybe one day… but I want to fly again. It was taken from me. I am good pilot. Maybe you could think of having me as your instructor pilot for other pilots, when you start your company. You should get eight C models and the one two-seat UB. I will do training for you. I trained many to fly MiG-29. I could do it.”
Luke was leery. “What else?” he asked noncommittally.
“I want to live in United States. I want to work with green card.”
“How do you expect us to help?”
“You could employ me. Could ask INS for green card. I will take care of you. You can be sure I’ll take care of everything. But I want you to help me.”
“I don’t know, Vlad. Those are pretty tough—”
“You need to have special skill. I have that. There is not another MiG-29 flight instructor in the country. I am sure.” He looked at their eyes, watching him. “You don’t know if you can believe me. I understand. I have copied my Russian flight records and had them translated for you. You can have them translated again. I have one thousand hours in MiG-29. I can teach your people. Give me chance.”
“We’ll think about it,” Luke said, not giving him any tone of encouragement at all. “Have you talked to MAPS about it? Would they let you?”
“They have given me permission.”
“You want us to keep those?” Luke asked, indicating his translated flight records.
“Sure,” Vlad said, his optimism renewed. “You keep and look at these.”
“Great,” Luke said, taking them and putting them on the pile of MiG manuals. “Why don’t you let me have the copies in Russian, too.”
Vlad understood immediately. “Of course,” he said, handing them across the table. “What is next?”
“I need to get those maintenance-cost estimates from you. In writing. Numbers that MAPS can commit to. Then it’s up to me to sell it.”
“You will have it.”
“We’ll need it right away. We’ve got a meeting with the government this week.”
“Yes, of course. What is name of person?” Vlad asked.
Luke glanced at Thud, his mind drawing a blank.
Thud tried to remember. “He’s an Undersecretary of Defense. Merewether, or something.”
7
Luke walked down the passageway of TOPGUN toward the glass doors to the parking lot. He had just left Commander Beebe’s office. The letter of reprimand, the copy of which Gun had given him with no explanation or ceremony, no softening apology, was smoldering in the pocket of his flight suit. Gun had given it to him as if it were next month’s watch bill.
Gun had finally shown some surprise, though, when Luke handed him his letter of resignation in return, without even looking at the letter of reprimand. He’d said he understood. Would have done the same thing, he’d said. Right, Luke had thought. Gun had said he would approve Luke’s request and forward it up the chain of command. “Great,” Luke had said, not even attaching a “sir” to the end of his sentence. He couldn’t possibly. He had no more respect for Beebe.
As he headed out the door to his car in the hot parking lot in front of the building, he saw Brian Hayes, almost completely masking his ongoing fight with MS. “Hey, Spy Man,” Luke hailed. “What’s up?” Luke could see that Hayes had been standing by the door of his car without moving for some seconds. Hayes’s face was filled with emotion. “What’s the matter?” Luke asked as he walked over to him.
Hayes’s eyes were swollen and pink. “They’re giving me a medical discharge.”
Luke knew that would be the result. The Navy wasn’t about to keep someone with MS on active duty. “I’m really sorry, Brian.”
Hayes spoke quietly. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do, Stick. This is where I belong. I’m good at this.”
Luke nodded. “The best.”
“What are you up to?”
“Just submitted my letter of resignation.”