Fallout by James W. Huston Page A

explore how he felt, knowing he would never climb into a MiG again. It had been the only thing worthwhile in his life. He had ruined everything else.
    Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Petkov rolled slowly off the soft, noisy bed, walked across the concrete-floored room to the door, and opened it. It was Leonid Popovich, the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of all security on the base. Petkov immediately assumed he had somehow missed his watch. He was about to begin a profuse apology when he noticed another man with Popovich.
    “I want to introduce you to someone,” Popovich said in his distinctively raspy voice as he stepped through the door into Petkov’s room. The second man followed closely behind. He quickly surveyed the room with the expertise of someone who always watched his back.
    Petkov noticed that the visitor was wearing a Russian hat against the cold, but not the hat of the Russian Air Force, or even the Army. He was a civilian, and his hat was made of seal fur. Beautiful, dense, black seal fur. Very expensive and hard to find. The man himself was short and ugly and had mean eyes.
    “Sergei Alexei Gorgov, this is Major Vladimir Petkov, the one I told you about.”
    Gorgov looked up at Petkov with his mouth open. “Ah,” he said slowly, with a deep, penetrating voice, “you’re the drunk.”
    Petkov tried not to show the impact the comment had on him. He chose not to respond.
    Popovich closed the door. “He works for me now,” he said to Gorgov.
    “So,” Gorgov said, removing his gloves, “what do you want?”
    Petkov was confused. “I don’t understand.”
    “What do you want?” Gorgov repeated. “What do you want from life now that you have pissed it away?”
    Petkov wanted to yell at the man, to strike him. “Just to do my job.”
    Gorgov smiled, revealing his yellow, uneven teeth. “Your job,” he laughed. “Your job.” He shook his head. “From what I hear, you were one of the best pilots in the wing. Part of your job, then, was to not become a drunk, and you couldn’t do that, could you?”
    Petkov said nothing.
    “You want to do your job? What job?” He looked around at Petkov’s small room. “That’s all you want? To do your job? And then what? Become an old man and retire somewhere to sit alone and hold your dick?”
    “What do you want?” Petkov said angrily. “Why are you here?”
    “Colonel Popovich and I have been working together for some time now. He told me you were interested in a similar arrangement.”
    Petkov’s eyes darted to Popovich, who was staring back at him, warning him. They had never had any such conversation, and Popovich knew it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “An arrangement of mutual convenience. You have many skills. You can be of great value to me and my friends.”
    It suddenly hit Petkov where he’d seen the black seal hat before. Riding in the back of a black Mercedes, with the tinted window down just enough for him to see the hat on a short man sitting in the backseat of the car, the sign of a member of the Russian Mafia. “In what way?”
    “In your current position, by doing nothing. Or, I should say, at least doing nothing at the right time. The Air Force does not fully appreciate your skills. You, like most others, are underpaid. I can provide you the pay you deserve. You can own a car, you can own a
dacha
. I can get you all the women you want. You can live the life you’re entitled to live.” He studied Petkov’s face. “To get drunk every day, if that is what you want.”
    “I will
never
get drunk again—”
    “Major, please,” Gorgov said slowly. “Please.” He paused. “Have you ever said that before?”
    “It is hard.”
    Gorgov nodded, then paused, waiting for Petkov’s attention. “When I say so, you make sure your security watch does not interfere with my friends.” His mean eyes were locked on to Petkov’s. “Understand?”
    “I’m not
interested
,” Petkov replied angrily.
    Gorgov looked at