Strike Eagle (10 page)
The presence of that young officer gave Robert Adleman a nagging sense of doubt. Lieutenant Colonel Merke was pretty enough—short-cropped red hair, striking green eyes, and a figure that wouldn’t quit—but her serious nature underscored the seriousness of the trip.
A ream of papers covered the table in front of his plush seat; Dubois, one of the Secret Service men, scooped the documents up, keeping the papers in a semblance of order.
Once the table was free of clutter and Adleman could see the tabletop, the engraved Presidential seal seemed to beckon out to him. There were changes coming to his life, and he’d have to make some adjustments. Adleman leaned back and closed his eyes.
Things are going to change.
Angeles City
It was so early that the bar girls were not in the streets. A few merchants shuffled under loads of fresh food, brought in from the countryside for the markets; cleaning crews left the all-night bowery; and a few store owners catered to the early-morning crowd. Even the jeepneys were sparse on the street.
Cervante pulled into a parking lot at the rear of a small motel. The jeepney he drove did not seem out of place—a wild paint scheme, fuzzy balls hanging from the top. But a closer look inside the elongated jeep would have revealed several boxes lashed to the front part of the passenger compartment. If anyone tried to board the vehicle, Cervante was prepared to politely, but firmly, turn them away.
Where were they?
He had been explicit in setting the time. Then he spotted three people walking toward him. They stepped over a pile of trash and moved quietly to the jeepney. Another came around from the front, as if he had been waiting separate from the others. Cervante made out Pompano’s features as those of the lone man.
Cervante started the vehicle and waited until the men were seated before he turned out of the parking lot. With the sparse traffic, they were leaving Angeles within minutes. The buildings grew fewer and were replaced with huts made of mud and straw. The road narrowed to two lanes; soon they passed rice paddies and saw no people at all. Cervante slowed and half turned in his seat so that he could speak while driving.
“We will be meeting the rest of the cell shortly. From there we will travel to our new base.”
Pompano leaned forward. “How long will that take?”
“Not more than a few hours. I have identified two old plantations that will serve us well—they are both isolated from the general population, yet centrally located with respect to the province. Either one will do much better than camping out in the mountains.”
Cervante glanced up at his rearview mirror; they appeared to be the only ones on the road. Soon, he knew, a steady stream of people from the outlying barrios would start their trek into the city, mostly laborers who worked on the U.S. base. By that time the Huks would be far away.
Rice paddies melted into the thickening jungle. A hand-painted sign advertising fresh fruit stood inconspicuously by the side of the road. Cervante slowed and marked off three-tenths of a mile on the odometer. He slowed to a crawl. Just visible on the right, through the thick foliage, were the bare markings of a dirt road.
Cervante turned onto the road and crept through the jungle for a mile. He tapped on the horn twice, then twice more before breaking into a clearing. Once he had stopped, a band of men quickly surrounded the jeepney. Cervante made a quick head count.
“Everyone is here. Quickly now—I want us to be in place to strike before nightfall. Make sure that your weapons are well hidden, underneath the seats and covered. You two”—he pointed the men out—“drive ahead of the truck. The rest of you follow. If PCs stop us, make sure none survive. Hurry. Ziggy now.” He turned to Pompano. “I want you to drive the truck, my friend. The others will ensure that you are well covered.”
Pompano walked with Cervante toward the jungle. As they drew close, the outline of a two-and-a-half-ton truck appeared. Pompano narrowed his eyes at Cervante.
“You wanted me to come with you simply to drive this truck?”
Cervante placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “If you are stopped by the PC, they will hesitate before bothering you. That hesitation will give us the edge to attack and destroy them—a younger man would only draw their attention to him. Or would you rather ride with the others and have to do the killing?”
Pompano breathed through his nose and stared at the ground.
Cervante knew that he had struck a nerve. The older man had always shown a dislike for violence, while actively supporting the Huk’s goals.
Pompano spoke in a low voice. “We are wasting time. I will drive.”
Clark AB
“First Lieutenant Edward Holstrom?”
“Call me ‘Catman’—my call sign. I haven’t gone by ‘Ed’ for a long time.” Catman plopped down in the chair offered him and looked around the office. Robin was waiting outside, ready to blast off for downtown. Catman glanced at his watch, feeling his time was being wasted. He sat in a typical government office—barf-brown paint on the walls, broken up by lime-green lines used for decorations. He never could understand why the non-rated pukes—non-pilots—would go to such lengths to exhibit their poor taste.
The man sitting across the table from Catman pushed his glasses up on his nose. He withdrew a wallet and flashed an official looking identification card that read defense investigation service and had the man’s picture on the bottom.
“Lieutenant Holstrom …”
“Catman.”
The man pressed his lips together. “All right.
Catman.
I’m conducting interviews to upgrade the security clearance for First Lieutenant Bruce Steele. You have been listed as a reference on his information sheet. Do you know him?”
“Sure.”
“Very well, how long have you known Lieutenant Steele?”
Catman stole another glance at his watch. “Assassin? Two years.”
“Assassin?” The man hesitated.
“Yeah.”
The investigator scribbled on his sheet.
“Now, Catman, have you ever known Lieutenant Steele to drink to excess?”
Catman thought for a moment. “Nope.” As the man started to write, Catman continued, “I’ve always passed out before he got drunk.”
The investigator’s mouth dropped open.
Catman smiled.
Subic Bay Naval Base
Chief Bosun’s Mate Joe Steele stood waiting by the car. Bruce felt as if his feet were embedded in cement, incapable of movement. Bruce had not spoken to his father for the last two years.
Until half an hour ago in the Chaplain’s office.
And now, not ten feet away, the man waited.
There was nothing he could do to avoid the confrontation. Years ago he had sworn that he would never display the same self-centered habits, never drink himself senseless almost every night of the year like his father. Bruce glanced down at his shirt and grimaced—the faint yellow stains of vomit still decorated his clothes.
The sins of the father
.…The very things he had abhorred had gotten him in this trouble. His face grew red; so much for learning a lesson.
Bruce swallowed and walked straight ahead to the car.
Joe Steele stuck out a hand and said gruffly, “Son.”
Bruce shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
His father looked him over. “Some party.”
“Yeah.” Bruce was clearly ready to get going.
“So what happened?”
Bruce shrugged. “I got a little wild. Woke up this morning on a bus—didn’t know where I was, no wallet. Kind of a nightmare.”
“Was the party worth it?”
Bruce had a dim memory of the night before, but his father expected another answer. Bruce felt himself slipping back to the past.
“It was okay.”
His father roared and slapped Bruce on the back. “I knew those Air Force pilots had balls. That’s my boy.” He jerked his head to the car. “Come on. I was going to drop you off at the bus station and lend you a couple of bucks. But if you have time, I’ll take you by my place and show you around before you go.”
“Sure.” Bruce climbed into the Toyota. Even though the car was old, it was immaculate inside. Another memory rolled over Bruce, that of being jerked out of his bed as a teenager every Saturday morning to fulfill his father’s fetish of cleaning everything in sight—the car, the yard.
They remained quiet for much of the drive. Bruce looked out the window and spotted the fleet of ships out by Cubi Point, anchored away from the main part of Subic. They took a turn away from the base’s main road. Bruce frowned—they were headed off base. He spoke for the first time since entering the car.
“Where do you live?”
“The barrio.”
“I thought you had to live in the barracks.”
Joe hung his elbow out the window and drove with one hand. “Not enough room. That’s one of the perks of moving up in rank. Your old man is doing pretty good for himself, if you haven’t noticed.” He was quiet for a moment. “Have you heard from your mom lately?”
“Not since getting here.”
“When was that?”
“Last week. She’s looking forward to having you get home next year—eighteen months of remote duty is hard on her, but at least she knows it’s the last time.”
His father grunted. As they drove off base, they seemed to enter another world. The same seamy sights greeted Bruce, but along with the visual impact came a nauseating smell and incoherent sounds that had been masked by the air-conditioned bus.
His father waved a hand at the river below them. “That’s called the Shit River. The Beaks use it as a sewer.”
“Beaks?”
His father laughed. “You
are
new, aren’t you? Beaks, flips, Filipinos. Just another name.”
Just another name,
thought Bruce.
Black, colored, nigger. Like it doesn’t make a difference. He hadn’t changed a bit.
As they drove slowly down the street, scantily dressed girls walked up and tried to reach into the car. The girls laughed and waved as they drove on. Strange odors of burnt chicken and meat wafted through the window; loud music erupted, then diffused away as they drove past bars.
“Armpit of the world, Son,” said Joe, grinning. “But that’s the beauty of it—you can pick and choose whatever your taste. Like that—look at those tits!” He pointed out a buxom black woman.
Soon their surroundings grew more tranquil. They turned off the main drag and wove a path to a row of low-slung buildings. The streets were still paved, but potholes and pools of standing water dominated the black asphalt. Bruce’s father pulled up in front of one of the apartments.
“You said you need to get back to Clark by late afternoon?” Bruce responded with a nod. “The one o’clock bus will get you there by three—give you plenty of lead time. Come on in.”
The apartment was typical of his father—neat, though cluttered with tacky junk: miniature anchors, nautical rope, dozens of model boats, wispy ostrich feathers. His father seemed preoccupied, standing by the kitchen door.
“Bruce, ah …” Joe scowled and held a hand up to his bulging chin. Maybe that was another reason his father had never been able to acknowledge his athletic prowess; Bruce had been in tiptop physical shape since high school, never even a hint of a spare tire.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Ah, shit. Sit down, Son.” He waved a hand at a wicker chair. “Beer?”
Bruce remembered last night, then answered slowly. “Sure.”
A minute later Bruce was sipping on a San Miguel while his father downed his own can. “You know, this really is going to be my last tour, Son. Too many times I’ve left your mother sitting back at home, all alone. You and Fred were the best things to happen to her. She loves you like crazy.”
They grew quiet at the mention of Fred’s name. Bruce didn’t know his younger brother well. He had been too involved in football to have spent much time with him … which made the pangs of guilt dig even deeper. Frail as a youth, Fred eventually filled out and took after his older brother by the time he was a senior in high school.
Fred differed from Bruce as much as Bruce differed from his father. But the younger brother had had a penchant to please, to be subservient to his father’s wishes. So much so that Fred had volunteered for the Navy fresh out of high school in the centuries-old Steele family tradition. As a junior at the Academy, Bruce had tried to talk his younger brother out of enlisting, but he’d been met with cold silence.
And the nail was firmly hammered in place during Fred’s going-away party, when their father had drunkenly presented Fred an ornately engraved plaque inscribed: IF YOU AIN’T A SAILOR, YOU AIN’T SHIT. Joe Steele had slurred through a speech that hinted that Bruce had been destined for the plaque, made twenty years before, but that it had taken a man like his youngest son to finally fulfill a father’s wish.
Fred’s death last year—washed overboard when a ninety-foot wave hit the U.S.S. Bella Wood—hit the family hard.
After Fred’s death, Joe Steele volunteered for a remote assignment—one without his family—at Subic, his last naval station.
Thirty-two years in the navy. One son dead, a martyr. The other seeming to do everything in his power to piss his dad off. A wife whose only purpose in life was to attend the noncommissioned officers’ wives’ bazaar.
His father stumbled over the words. “Now, you know I’d never do anything to hurt your mother. She and I’ve been married nearly twenty-six years now.” He hesitated. “Well, I’ve got someone to introduce to you.…”
Bruce didn’t bat an eye when Joe introduced him to his Filipino girlfriend.
***
Chapter 8
Tuesday, 5 June
The Barrio, Subic Bay
His father’s girlfriend looked pretty. Or maybe Bruce’s mind was
forcing
her to be pretty, seeking a reason for his father’s behavior toward his Mom.
Bruce knew the answer—the practice was openly condoned overseas. It kept the men out of the bars and out of trouble, and put some sort of routine back into their lives.
No one had ever taken UCMJ action against those who did it, even though the Uniformed Code of Military Justice specifically prohibited the behavior. Very few of the men took their girlfriends back to the States.
The woman extended her hand and smiled. “I am Tanla.”
“Hi.” Bruce quickly shook her hand and looked around for his seat, not wishing to show his embarrassment.
“She has to go to work,” said his father, gruffly. He, too, seemed embarrassed.
Tanla nodded and slipped from the room. Bruce remained quiet; he stared at one of the anchors holding up a flower pot. Tanla appeared a minute later, smiled at Bruce, then said to his father, “You stop by later?”
“Sure.” Joe Steele dismissed the woman, who left through the front door.
Bruce’s father lounged back in his chair and took a pull on his beer. He hesitated before speaking.
“It’s the only way to keep from going crazy, Son.”
“Don’t make apologies on my account,” said Bruce. “You never have.”
His father put down his drink. “Now don’t start that up again.” A moment passed, then, “Okay … okay. Bruce, I want you to listen to me.”
“I am.”
“I love your mother very much. If I didn’t have Tanla here, I’d probably have killed myself. She keeps me honest, sober enough to go to work, and we have sex much less frequently than you’d ever think.”
“Then why does she shack up with you?”
Joe answered softly. “Security, Son. It’s her way of ensuring she’s always fed, always has a roof over her head. She’s lived with men like me for probably ten years now … and as long as there are crusty ole Bosun’s mates out there, she’ll always have a place.” He scooted to the front of his chair and placed his elbows on his knees. “She doesn’t mean a thing to me, Son—I’ll be gone next year, and someone else will take my place. It’s purely for convenience.”
Bruce continued to stare, away from his father. He felt confused.
“I’m not asking you to approve, Bruce. Just accept what I’m doing.”
Funny,
thought Bruce.
You never accepted what I was doing.
It seemed so absurd to Bruce: The times that his father had been at home when he was younger, it had been all putdown and competition. And now, when things were upside-down, he felt closer to his father than he ever had.
Bruce whispered, “I’ll try to come back after things settle down.”
His father simply nodded and leaned back in his chair.
The ride back to Clark was a fog of memories, contradictions, and reminiscences. It would take time to sort out, to put the pieces together so that it all made sense.
A lifetime of put-downs can’t be healed overnight.
The trip took a little longer than two hours. They were stopped once by a roadblock. Men wearing colorful barongs and wide smiles waved them down and boarded the bus. The Filipino driver interpreted the rapid-fire Tagalog that the men spat at him: they were collecting for the barrio fiesta and wanted to know if anyone on the bus would care to donate.
A look outside the window revealed that the bus was surrounded by men carrying rifles and semiautomatic weapons. They didn’t aim the guns at the bus, yet they made no effort to conceal them.
Everyone on the bus donated at least a dollar.
The man backed off the bus, bowing and smiling while all the time repeating
“Salamat po.”
As the bus drove along the two-lane road, the rice paddies became dotted with activity. Houses began to appear, and before long they entered Angeles City. The traffic grew thick, and soon the background noise seemed to consist of one long melee of honking.
Bruce watched out the window, still sorting things out in his mind. Suddenly, he spotted a sign outside the bus: fire empire, the strip place he had left …
Friday night?
Only four days ago.
He remembered the girl he had met that night … Was it really that she had been so beautiful, or had he still been on that adrenaline high from arriving at Clark, starting a new life?
“Driver!” Bruce moved to the front of the bus. “Can you let me out here?”
The driver looked puzzled. “Traffic no move.”
Bruce shook his head. “I don’t care—can you let me out?”
The driver shrugged, then started to open the door. He spotted the Fire Empire, then grinned widely. “Okay, have fun, G. I.”
“Right.”
Once off the bus the heat hit him full in the face; the sky looked like it was going to rain. Bruce darted around the jeepneys and cars, finally reaching the front of the striptease club.
“Hey, Joe—special show! Good seats for you!” A burly man waved him in.
Bruce ignored the hawker and strode up to a row of jeepneys waiting just outside the door. He tried to remember the driver and the paint scheme of the vehicle that had taken him and Charlie around. No two jeepneys were alike, but he still couldn’t tell one from another.
One of the drivers gave his cigarette to his friend and called out to Bruce. “Hey, Joe—go to Clark?”
“No, the market.”
“Market?”
The driver grinned and threw a sideways glance at his friend. The other driver had finished off the cigarette down to the butt. “Which one?”
“Uh, one that’s part indoor and outdoor. It spills into the street, high buildings all around?”
“Oh, yes—I know.” The driver hopped into his jeepney and patted the seat. “Get in, Joe—I take you.”
Bruce approached warily. “How much?”
The driver eyed Bruce and started to name a price. One of the men jabbered at him in Tagalog, and the driver stopped and seemed to think things over. “You been there before, Joe?”
Bruce hesitated. He wondered if the guys were about to fleece him, or if they figured that if Bruce had been there before then he would have a good notion of what the fare was. Bruce answered, “Sure.”
“Okay, twenty-five peso.”
Bruce climbed in back to show his approval.
Just as Bruce suspected, the man took off down one of the side streets. They wove a complicated path through the city, never quite stopping at the myriad stop signs but not racing through them either. Shortly, the high buildings that marked where the market had been appeared. The driver slowed to a stop. Bruce paid, then stepped out.
Here he was back at the sari-sari store. Three children, all dressed in white shirts and dark pants, sat giggling around a table outside the tiny store. He was too far away to make out the sounds, but he could see that they all drank Pepsi.
I’ve still got the eagle eyes,
he thought.
As he approached, the store was less exotic in the daytime. It looked like an old county store—the type that would sell anything from individual nails to a piece of fried chicken. The long, low counter stretched completely across the back. And as before, a soprano voice trilled along with a popular song playing over the radio. The girl entered the room.
Bruce blinked and drew in a breath. She
was
beautiful.
She didn’t have the features, or the relative short height, that were typical of the Filipino. If Bruce had seen her back in the States he would have been mystified as to her background. The long black hair and deep brown eyes combined with her soft, full features to give her an exotic air.…
She lowered her eyes. “May I help you?”
“Uh, yeah. I was here the other night—Friday?” No response. “I got some gum, and well, I guess I ate it all and don’t have any more.…” he finished lamely.
She turned to the shelf behind her and spoke with her back to him. “The same type?”
“Sure.”
She turned and pushed two packs across the counter, brushing back a strand of hair. “Two peso.”
Bruce dug out two bills. “Thanks.”
“You are welcome.” She flicked her eyes up at him, then lowered them, but this time shyly.
Bruce opened the pack and held it out to her. “Care for a piece?”
Silence. Then, “Thank you.”
They chewed in silence for a moment. He tried to make conversation. “Do you get much business, next to the market?”
“Some.”
“Many Americans?”
“No.”
“I guess this is pretty much out of the way for most of them.”
“Yes.”
This is crazy,
thought Bruce.
The women here either try to drag you into bed or they won’t talk to you.
He ran a hand through the back of his hair. She seemed willing to talk, but things just weren’t going anywhere. And he desperately wanted for her to raise her head so he could see her face.
Bruce leaned against the counter. “I arrived in the Philippines last week.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Flew in right over Angeles. It took most of two straight days to get here.”
“How do you like my country?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Oh? How did you find out so quickly?”
“My father lives at Subic—I, ah, visited him today, and drove through the countryside.”
She brightened. “Did you get a chance to stop in any of the barrios?”
Bruce remembered the roadblocks and the men asking for “donations.” “Yeah, but not for long.”
“The barrios can be so beautiful. My father says they used to be better. Where do you come from in America?”
Bruce was surprised to find himself droning on, expounding on the various places he had lived as a Navy brat—Virginia Beach, San Diego—and all the bases he had lived on after entering the Air Force. She seemed fascinated by his knowledge of geography, and never once raised the issue of what he did now.
When customers entered the store, she ignored Bruce until they left, then resumed the conversation quickly.
He tried to peg an age on her and kept coming up with twenty—more mature than a teenager, but without the cynicism of someone older.
Bruce opened another stick of gum. “I’m sorry—I never introduced myself. I’m Bruce Steele.”
“Yolanda Sicat.” She didn’t offer her hand, but half bowed her head. Bruce followed suit.
He rubbed a hand across his face. The thickness of his five-o’clock shadow surprised him. “Say, Yolanda—I really need to get back to the base. I have to attend a survival course during the next two weeks.” He softened his voice. “Is there any way I could interest you in having dinner tonight?”
She smiled. “I am sorry. I must stay and watch the store.” Bruce must have looked crestfallen, for she said quickly, “Maybe after you return, Bruce Steele.”
Bruce smiled wanly. “You won’t forget?”
She laughed. “The gum-buying American? Oh, no.”
He said gently, “Two weeks, Yolanda Sicat—I shall return,” and turned to leave.
Tarlac, Philippine Islands
The sky drizzled a light rain, never quite breaking to a heavy downpour. The weather was well worth the trouble—certainly it would have been harder to obtain the weapons, ammunition, and that high-power microwave weapon if the day had been clear and dry; in bad weather people tended to think of themselves, and to move away from external irritations.
Today, Cervante hoped that the trouble of getting drenched would yield them yet another prize.
They stood at the edge of a clearing in the jungle. Cervante had directed the men to abandon the jeepneys and truck, hiding the vehicles in the dense foliage a full two miles from the clearing; unnatural sounds travel far in the jungle.
Two and a half hours of travel through the undergrowth had brought the cadre of Huks to the clearing.
Unlike the ambush of the Philippine Constabulary convoy, where the Huks had to get away as fast as they could, Cervante fully meant to stay and use the remote plantation as a base. He had reconnoitered the location in detail, but he still didn’t have a clear picture of the house’s defenses.
The large, airy house sat a quarter mile away in the center of the clearing. They were almost directly behind the house, a hundred and eighty degrees from where the road came out of the jungle. Elevated off the ground by several pillars of thick red bricks, the plantation house had plenty of room for air to circulate underneath. It reminded Cervante of a barn.
Several Nipa huts sat around the house, all showing few signs of use. A children’s playground sat next to the house. Clotheslines crossed the play area, and a large dirt region the size of a soccer field ran out to the jungle. To Cervante it looked like it had once served as a holding area for crops.
Cervante motioned to the man beside him, making a large circle with his hand. The man nodded, then crept off through the jungle to the front of the house. The minutes passed. No one came out of the house, but Cervante saw shadows sweeping by windows and heard random sounds.
The sky grew dark. Cervante began to feel impatient; he knew that it would be a lot easier to take the house during the day. The drizzle kept up, soaking the already waterlogged men.
