Strike Eagle (11 page)
Cervante caught a glimpse of movement from the other side of the house. The Huks had reached the front. Cervante knew that the rest of the men would be watching his position, waiting for his cue. He didn’t use an animal call to notify them. Instead, he moved to the perimeter of the clearing. Nothing came from the house.
Cervante fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a revolver; he pushed the gun firmly under his belt, crouched, and sprinted toward the nearest storage hut. He crossed the wet grass without effort, carrying his rifle in one hand. Still nothing from the house.
He waved his men to follow. Six Huks ran from the jungle, appearing from nowhere in the late afternoon drizzle. The other two-thirds remained in the jungle, covering their movement and allowing a path for escape in case something went wrong. The tactics had been gleaned from Kawnlo’s teachings, but retailored for the jungle instead of the brown North Korean hills. Cervante caught the smell of hot food wafting from the house.
He crept forward in a crouch and shifted the rifle so that he held it in both hands, the safety off and ready to fire.
A loud snap caused him to twirl. One of the Huks moved off to the left and pointed to a branch on the ground. Cervante angrily motioned for the man to keep it quiet, then sped to the corner of the house, keeping clear of the windows. Moments later his men joined him, breathing quietly through their noses. Cervante quickly checked them over—he made sure their safeties were off, their spare ammunition ready.
He pointed to Barguyo, the youngest of the Huks. Tasked with detonating the explosives during the convoy raid, Barguyo had been part of the New People’s Army since he was fourteen. He had been recruited easily enough, as a youngster in a government-run orphanage, Barguyo had been raised by a wealthy family, the dream of every waif.
But years of sexual abuse by the rich merchant had instilled a deep hatred for those with extravagant material possessions. Cervante had recruited the boy off the streets when the youngster had attempted to go underground, accused of murdering his foster parents. He had turned out to be the most dependable of the recruits, as one motivated by vengeance rather than ideals—which caused Cervante to post Barguyo for the most dangerous assignments, yet keep an eye on the boy in case he should get out of hand.
Back at the University of the Philippines, the economic analogy was high risk, high yield.
Cervante instructed Barguyo to circle the house and storm the opposite end. Barguyo nodded and slipped off with two of his compatriots. Cervante knelt and followed his progress from underneath the house. He saw the boy’s legs move swiftly around the corner. When Barguyo was in position, Cervante nodded for the rest of the men to follow him. He pulled out the revolver and slung the rifle around his front—he didn’t want to be slowed in close quarters. Cervante swung up around the corner and lifted himself onto the porch. He didn’t wait for the others as he moved quietly toward the door.
Two, three steps brought him to the screen—Barguyo mirrored his movements at the opposite end of the sprawling porch. Cervante swept open the door and bolted inside. Nothing. He spotted a piano, wicker chairs, and a rug covering a waxed wooden floor. Cervante peeled off to the left, his men covering the right.
They moved as if they were still in the jungle— stealthily, stepping carefully. Cervante raced through a side bedroom and into the back kitchen. A toddler in a high chair banged on a plate; his older sister shrilled. The children’s mother dropped a pot of water, splashing it over the floor. A scream. The woman knelt to pick up her child while keeping her eyes glued on Cervante.
Someone bellowed outside the room; a single shot silenced the commotion.
Barguyo huffed into the kitchen from the opposite side of the house.
“Only one man.”
The woman shrilled, “No, no, no!”
“Silence!” shouted Cervante. He wanted time to think, tried to remember how much traffic he had observed coming up the long stretch of road into the jungle. At this time of year, plantations were dormant. More people were therefore not to be expected.
The woman gathered her two children around her, sobbing.
What to do with her?
he thought. She was young enough to keep the men occupied.
Cervante swung around and took in the men’s faces; already some were smiling in anticipation. It might be wise to have a little entertainment … but one woman in a pack of men would soon start to sow dissension, plant the seeds of distrust and doubt, cause the formation of cliques and eventually turn the men against one another.
They had much more important work to attend to—to set in motion the wheels that would eventually save the Filipino people. He turned. The woman narrowed her eyes at him and drew her young children close.
Too bad that a few had to suffer in the interim.
Cervante drew up his pistol and pumped two bullets into the woman’s head. She sprawled backward from the momentum of the bullets; both children started screaming.
Barguyo put down his rifle and smiled at the children. He looked quizzically up at Cervante. The look was forlorn, detached.
Cervante didn’t hesitate—they had much more important work to attend to.
A bullet each took care of the children.
Clark AB
It seemed crazy to Charlie, waiting in front of a football stadium to go to a movie. The sign over the entrance read
bamboo bowl
, but the stadium wasn’t made of bamboo nor was it shaped like a bowl—but it was the only stadium on base, so he waited.
Charlie glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The sun was just setting and the clouds were bathed in a soft red glow. It looked like it was raining in the mountains. In the distance the roar of a jet taking off washed over the base. A string of people shuffled into the stadium. Charlie looked out over the crowd and wondered if Nanette would really show.
When they had departed from the pool yesterday afternoon, the “date” had come about because of an impromptu comment. Nanette had remarked that the classic movie
2001: A Space Odyssey
was playing tonight at the Bamboo Bowl, leaving it tentatively open that they would meet.
Darkness quickly fell. People were still walking in from the parking lot. Charlie had just begun to think that she wasn’t going to show when he heard his name being called. He turned and saw her. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up; her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Even in the dusk Nanette’s face looked radiant, freshly scrubbed. She huffed up, carrying a blanket and a paper sack with two long pieces of bread sticking from it.
“I couldn’t get free from the Nipa Hut.” At his puzzled look she laughed and tossed her golden hair over her shoulder. “You
are
new here, aren’t you? That’s the duty-free shop.”
Charlie nodded and took the blanket from her. “No problem. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it.”
Over my dead body!
he thought. He looked around. “So how does this work?”
“Come on.” She took his arm and led him to the entrance; she just came up to his shoulder.
At the ticket booth Nanette insisted on paying her own way. They walked through the main corridor, passing by locker rooms labeled home and visitor and into a long tunnel. The tunnel opened up into the stadium. They were a third of the way up the stairs, looking out onto a football field. In the center of the field, a metal scaffolding held up a large screen four stories high. Wheels were positioned on either side of the support structure and a long, worn path in the playing field grass showed where the screen was moved when the field was in use.
“Want to sit in the grass?”
“Sure.”
They positioned the blanket away from the other people, mostly couples their age. Nanette rummaged through her paper bag and pulled out the two thin loaves of French bread, an immense hunk of cheese, and two bottles of sparkling water. Charlie’s eyes widened.
“I could have picked something up.…”
Nanette handed him a loaf and tore off a piece of bread. “We had some leftovers. It’s no big deal.”
Charlie opened his bottle of water. He didn’t miss the reference to
we
—which made Nanette seem even more mysterious.
He chewed off a piece of the bread; it was hard, almost crusty, unlike the large loaves of French bread he was used to eating. “You’re lucky I didn’t have
my
leftovers—otherwise we’d be eating cold chicken and bean dip.”
She made a face. “Bean dip?”
“Sure. It’s one of the seven basic food groups: bean dip, nachos, brownies, ice cream ….” She was laughing before he’d finished the list. Charlie chewed on the bread for a moment. “So, tell me about yourself.”
Nanette sliced off a hunk of cheese and lounged back on the blanket. She propped a knee up and leaned toward him. “What do you want to know?”
“Who you are, what you do. Why you met me here.”
“That’s not hard. To answer your last question first, I guess you seemed more intelligent than the usual guys I run into. There’s something to be said for not trying to impress a girl with fighter talk and guzzling beer.”
“I’ll let my friends do that—it’s not my style.”
“Obviously.”
He smiled. “I still don’t know who you are.”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” Charlie hesitated. “Unless you’re married.”
She sputtered. “No, no, no!”
“Okay, then. Tell me something about yourself. Uh, where you went to school.”
“I’m a senior at Stanford. My major is history, with a minor in music. I’m visiting my parents while on summer break, and I work part time at the Nipa Import Hut. I’m half-French, and I love the outdoors.” She stopped and popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “That’s it for now. Your turn.”
So that explains it,
thought Charlie. “Well, I majored in history, too, but Auburn was some time ago. My father was a college professor, so I’ve always hung around that type of crowd. Like I said yesterday, I’m not a pilot—I’m a weapons systems officer in an F-15 Eagle and have been at Clark since Friday.”
“That’s pretty succinct.”
Charlie grinned. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
“So what’s a guy like you staying around in the Air Force for? I thought they had a hard time keeping WSO’s around, especially good ones.”
“They do.” From the way she used the Weapons Systems Officer abbreviation, Charlie knew that someone in her family had to be knowledgeable as to what WSOs do.
“Don’t you want to go to pilot training?”
Charlie was quiet for a moment. “I did once. But when I joined the Air Force they were restricting the number of pilot slots. I was told that if I became a WSO, I’d have a chance to go to pilot training.”
“So what happened?”
“If you’re good, people are reluctant to move you. One day, when I’d finally had enough and tried to force the Air Force’s hand, I was told I was too old to go to pilot training.”
Nanette lifted an eyebrow. “You?”
“Twenty-eight is the limit—and I turn the big three-oh this December. Does it shock you, now that you know I’m an old man?”
“Twenty nine’s not old.”
“Thanks.” He took another bite of bread and a moment passed. He leaned back on an elbow and studied her. “You know, I’ve never caught your whole name.”
She smiled slyly. “Too much information can burn you out—sensory overload.”
“If I want to give you a call?”
“Nanette at the Nipa Hut will do.”
“Then Charlie at the 3rd TFW for me.” The stadium lights went off just as a low rumble was emitted from the speakers—the opening strains to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
As they stood, Charlie could have sworn that Nanette’s lips had drawn tight at the mention of the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing.
***
Chapter 9
Wednesday, 6 June
Clark AB, Jungle Survival School
Bruce popped a piece of gum into his mouth. The sergeant standing in front of him reminded him of his vision of Air Force Academy upperclassmen on his first day: large, intimidating, and illiterate.
Sixteen men and women sat in a two-layered semicircle around the sergeant. The eight officers of Maddog Flight were in the back and eight enlisted troops were in the front. The briefing room was small, and curtains muffled any sounds. Other than the chairs they sat on, an exit sign above the door on the front right was the only fixture in the room.
Dressed in a white T-shirt, “BDUs”—camouflaged Battle Dress Uniforms—spit-shined boots and a baseball cap, the sergeant strode up and down in front of the group. White hair stuck out from beneath the cap, a deep tan covered his arms, and there was no sign of fat on his belly.
He didn’t look happy.
“All right, listen up. I’m Chief Master Sergeant Grune. This is
my
survival school. I’ve been running it for the past fifteen years and we haven’t lost anybody yet. So if you
ladies and gentlemen
out there”—he nodded to the officers sitting in the back row—“will kindly pay attention along with the enlisted men, we’ll get down to business.”
“This course is designed to familiarize you with the fine art of surviving in the jungle.” He paused. “Has anyone here
not
attended Fairchild or the Academy?” The references were to the Air Force survival school at Fairchild AFB, Washington, and the Air Force Academy’s school. No raised hands.
“Good. Every once in a while those bozos in personnel send me some young virgin who’s never been out in the woods. Since all of you are experts in eating bugs and surviving in the cold, let me tell you that the coldest it gets in the jungle is seventy-five degrees—if you’re lucky. You’re going to forget what you’ve learned and
relearn
new techniques. If you pay attention and demonstrate proficiency at your skills, the process will be easy. If you don’t,” he grinned wickedly, “We’ll give you some extra instruction.
“I will now introduce you to the backbone of our course and our head instructor. You
will
do what this man says.” He added softly, “And General Simone has assured me that our officers will comply also.”
Chief Master Sergeant Grune whirled and motioned to the exit. A body pushed through the curtains. Bruce envisioned some sort of Filipino Paul Bunyan, a real woodsman—leathery, large features, and not one to put up with any nonsense.
Out stepped a barefoot black man, not five feet tall.
He carried a long stick with feathers on one end that was almost as tall as he was. In his other hand he carried a cloth bag, which apparently contained a live creature. The front of his chest was decorated with some sort of white markings—soot?—and he appeared to have tiny stitches running up his side. It looked as though sequins had been laced into his body.
Thick, black, wooly hair stood out from his head. His eyes looked sad, and he stood quietly. The room seemed to be in shock.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Abuj Qyantrolo. He is a member of the Negrito tribe, and an expert in jungle survival. For the next two weeks you will do as he says.” Chief Grune looked thoughtful. “If there are any questions, I will be available during your break—sometime after your lunch, which Abuj is holding in his bag. Good day.” Grune strode from the room.
Catman leaned over and whispered, “I bet we’re going to wish we had bugs and grubs to eat.”
The Negrito blinked at the men. The room was dead quiet. Bruce could hear Charlie breathing next to him. Finally Abuj spoke.
“How do you do? Today, we learn the most important lesson in jungle: always drink water.” He paused. “Second most important lesson is always eat.” He rummaged in his bag. “First I show you, then you try.”
“Arrgg.” Robin screwed up his face. “I hate snakes.”
Bruce reached over and patted the bags of sugar he had sewed into his flight suit lining. It was going to be a long week.
Tarlac
Pompano stepped back and observed the television and the two radios set up outside the plantation house. An electrical wire ran from the equipment to the back of the house where the diesel generators were located. The Huks stood around the high-power microwave weapon in a semicircle. Cervante had insisted on testing the device, even before burying the bodies.
Pompano called to Barguyo: “Start the diesel engine.” He told the others to step back. The Huks shuffled behind the HPM device, slinging their rifles over their shoulders. A loud noise and a puff of smoke came from behind the house when Barguyo started the generator. Music warbled from the radios.
When all men had cleared the area, Pompano turned to Cervante and called, “I am ready.”
Cervante nodded.
Pompano and Barguyo joined the men, away from the house. Pompano boosted himself into the operator’s seat and waved Barguyo up to join him, so that the young man could learn how to operate the weapon. He could barely hear the music coming from the radio. The three-meter-diameter dish was pointed directly at the electrical equipment, a hundred meters away.
Pompano switched on the HPM’s generator. He watched the dials as the weapon’s capacitors charged full of energy. After a half minute he turned to Barguyo. “It is very simple. After starting the generator, make sure the antenna is aimed at the target. Then push this button.”
Barguyo flipped open the cover and jabbed at the button.
Pop!
Pompano jerked his head up and squinted at the plantation house. Smoke curled up from the TV and radios.
Pompano glanced at Cervante. The Huk leader nodded quietly to himself.
Clark AB
The sixteen men and women gathered around the small Negrito. Dressed in only a loincloth, Abuj looked like he was the only comfortable person in the jungle.
The thick foliage formed a canopy around them. If Bruce hadn’t known that they were just outside the fence of Clark, he would have thought they were a thousand miles from civilization. He couldn’t see more than ten feet through the surrounding jungle.
The ground was covered with a bouncy mat of mulch. To their right a path led from the clearing. The open area was at least twenty yards across, and from the worn spots on the ground it looked as though the place had been used many times before.
A small calf bellowed at them, its tether short enough that it could not reach any of the plants to munch on. Abuj stood by the calf, which came up to his shoulder. It reminded Bruce of the “Little Britches,” rodeo when the kids would try to bulldog a calf.
Abuj spoke quietly, and the others listened intently.
“In jungle, you eat anything. It simple choice: You die or something else die. I already show you how to eat bugs and snakes. Now, you learn big.”
He grasped the calf’s chin and held it up high, so that the throat was exposed. “Like your enemy, you must strike fast, hard. You do this for the animal, as yourself.”
He nodded at Catman, who was standing just behind Bruce. “Here. You hold.”
Catman wiped his hands on his flight suit and moved forward. The half circle of men and women widened to allow him to pass. The Negrito held the calf’s neck up. Catman moved in behind the man and took the calf’s chin in his hand. The animal tried to get away, and Catman had to struggle to keep it still. His face grew as red as the shock of hair on top of his head. A drool of saliva dribbled down his hand.
Abuj removed a machete from his belt. The blade looked coarse, not like the shiny, mass-produced instrument Bruce had seen displayed in stores. Abuj ran the edge along his finger. He spoke to the men.
“You must respect the animal. To kill it and not respect it is very, very bad.” He shivered slightly. “The animal will thank you for making its death come quickly. It will help you, nourish you.” He turned and looked upon the men. They had all participated in similar training either at Fairchild AFB or at the Air Force Academy during their survival course, but it had always been in groups of up to a hundred, and sometimes as many as four hundred. This was much more personal, something they couldn’t watch from afar.
Abuj nodded to Charlie. He held out the blade. “I feel … you can know the animal.”
Charlie barely hesitated. He avoided looking at anyone and stepped up to take the blade. He turned it over and ran his finger lightly along the edge. He flipped the machete back over, satisfied he had found the sharpest edge.
The calf snorted; Catman tightened his grip. “Come on, Foggy—I don’t have all day.”
Charlie stepped up to the opposite side of the calf and brought the blade near.
“Quick,” whispered Abuj.
Charlie set his mouth. In a sudden swipe he sliced the calf s throat and brought the machete up high, nearly severing the head.
The calf bucked, straining against the tether, and Catman yelped, “Crap!” The calf ceased moving.
Catman and Charlie laid the animal down. Blood spurted from the wound, covering the ground in a bright red liquid. Abuj moved close. He placed his ear on the calf’s body, listened for a moment, then moved over to the spot where the blood still flowed. He put his mouth to the wound and drank.
Bruce watched, his eyes open wide. Abuj stood and spoke, blood dripping in a tiny rivulet from his mouth. “What was once the animal is now yours. Nourishment is full of vitamin, protein. Drink … but respect.” He turned and walked to the side. He sat cross-legged and watched the men.
No one spoke. Bruce breathed through his nose, unsure of what was happening.
A sudden movement.
Charlie knelt by the dead calf and placed a hand where the blood came from the animal. The flow had slowed to a fast ooze. He scooped up a handful of blood, brought it to his lips … and drank.
Once finished, he sat beside the Negrito. Panther stepped up and drank next, then took her spot sitting next to Charlie. Revlon followed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Catman snickered and moved back to where Bruce stood. He spoke in a stage whisper. “Hey, man—this is too weird. Reminds me of
The Night of the Living Dead.
Next thing you know we’ll be going after Skipper, cutting him open and drinking his blood.”
Skipper turned and glared.
One of the enlisted men knelt beside the calf and then sat next to Revlon. One by one the men and women lined up; the officers in Maddog slowly joined them until Robin, Catman, and Bruce stood by themselves.
Catman chattered nervously. “What the hell is going on? What do they think this is, some sort of initiation rite?” He started to sound angry.
Robin nudged him. “Come on.”
Bruce looked over at Charlie. His backseater stared straight ahead, ignoring his inquisitive look. Bruce muttered, “I’m going to drink it just to snap those guys out of it.” He strode to the calf and knelt. Bruce put his hand down. The blood still came, but Bruce needed to push against the carcass to cause enough to fill his cupped hand.
He brought the blood quickly to his mouth and pulled some in. It tasted salty and warm, thick. He quickly swallowed before he gagged. Bruce joined the others.
Catman argued with Robin at the opposite end of the clearing. They were the only two who had not partaken in the “ceremony.” And the argument was one-sided—Robin was halfway to the calf while Catman admonished him to return.
“Come
on!
For crying out loud, what the hell do you think this is—voodoo land? Some superstitious, munchkin mumbling, a bunch of mumbo jumbo. If I ever have to drink it to survive, then I’ll do it. You’re crazy if you think that cow is going to help you. I can see it now—terror of darkness, the Cow From Hell! No matter where you are, it’s going to hunt you down and hose you with its deadly milk.”
Robin knelt and drank.
Catman had backed up to the edge of the clearing. He waved a hand at his backseater. “Well, what the hell. Do you feel better now? Are you going to save us because you are now one with the cow? Give me a break, give me a friggin’ break.”
Robin stood slowly and made his way to where the men sat. His face was expressionless.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. The experience had not been a revelation, but more one of bonding with the men in the course. His mouth still tasted bitter, and certainly no religious experience had occurred. He was sure that the other men felt the same way. Yet there was something about Robin’s face as he approached … When he was ten feet from the men, he suddenly stopped.
Catman called from across the clearing; he sounded alarmed. “Hey, what’s going on? Robin, are you all right?”
Robin lifted a hand.
“Robin?!”
Robin’s fingers slowly spread out into a modified v—and then it hit Bruce that it was the Vulcan greeting sign, from the
Star Trek
series.
“Live long and prosper,” said Robin in a low, deadpan voice.
Bruce sputtered, then lost control. The men and women rolled on the ground, laughing.
“What the hell is going on?” Catman ran for the crowd.
As he wiped a tear from his eye, Bruce realized that Catman would never understand.
Clark AB
“How ya doin’, Son?” Major General Peter Simone slapped the squadron duty desk as he walked by.
It took Major Brad Dubois three seconds to realize that the two-star Commander of Thirteenth Air Force had just walked into the squadron area.
“Squadron, atten’
hut!”
“Down, sit down, Son.” Simone gazed around the room.
Major Dubois wavered slightly as he stood. “Uh, how do you do, sir. I mean General, sir.”
“Down, dammit. I said sit down, Son.” Simone waved the bald-headed man down. The general glanced at the desk: the major had a paperback book open, but other than that the long desk was absolutely uncluttered. Simone frowned. He had always believed that an empty desk denoted an empty mind. Either the man had too little to do or he was kissing things off.
Simone’s aide walked briskly into the room. “There you are, sir. I thought I lost you.”
Simone pointed at the whiteboard behind Dubois’s head. “Okay, where’s our firecracker, Stephanie? When’s the next time he’s going to rocket?”
