Strike Eagle (18 page)
Ten years ago Juan could never have imagined himself in front of the national press corps. His gas station in East L.A. had never brought in much money, but Juan had involved himself in local politics ever since graduating from the College of the Canyons, a community college up north. Getting involved in the fight for water rights, then in national issues, Juan soon found himself leading the election efforts of the Hispanic community for President Longmire.
News of good work travels fast. Once Longmire had been elected into office, and the deciding factor was revealed to have been the Hispanic swing vote, Juan was offered the highly visible job of press secretary for the new administration.
Juan took the job seriously and never withheld information. If something broke, Juan took it upon himself to accurately broadcast the information to the press. It was his job to be the intermediary, and he let his supervisors worry about what news they would give him.
So when Juan Salazar had sleepily answered the call from Secretary of State Acht an hour ago, he arranged the press briefing within fifteen minutes of the call.
“At two-nineteen yesterday morning, President Longmire was admitted into Bethesda Naval Hospital for a type of surgery known as a thoracotomy. The president has been suffering from acute adenocarcinoma, lung cancer, and has been undergoing chemotherapy for the past six months. The public will be informed as soon as a prognosis is made.”
Juan looked up. “I have time for just a few questions. Patti?” He pointed to an older woman dressed in a bright red dress.
“Juan, is the vice president planning to cut short his trip to the Far East?”
Juan shook his head. “The final negotiations with the Philippine government will continue. The treaty should be signed on Saturday, and Vice President Adleman is scheduled to deliver it to the Senate Monday morning.”
“A follow-up, Juan …”
“Go ahead.”
The woman shifted her weight, as if she found it difficult to stand. “Thank you. What are the contingency plans, in the event that something should happen to the President? If the worst should happen, will Mr. Adleman be called back in spite of the treaty’s delicate nature?”
Juan cleared his throat. He had always been one to say a glass was half-full instead of half-empty. “Vice President Adleman is aware of the President’s condition, and is also aware of his constitutional obligations. That is all I can say for now.” Juan set his mouth and looked around the room for the next question. “George?”
A young man dressed in a smart suit stood and read from a notebook. “If the President was admitted to Bethesda yesterday, why wasn’t the press notified? Is this an attempt at a cover-up, and who has been running the government during President Longmire’s incapacitation?”
Juan rolled his eyes.
Mother Maria,
he prayed to himself,
please help me get through this without punching anyone out!
***
Chapter 15
Friday, 22 June
Yokota AFB, Japan
“Mr. Vice President, we’re on a tight schedule.…” Lieutenant Colonel Merke quietly urged Adleman up the stairs while keeping a smile on her face.
Adleman continued to shake hands with the enlisted men and officers who had gathered around the stairs to Air Force Two.
Merke tapped Adleman’s elbow and kept her voice low. “Sir, thunderstorms are forecast for the Clark area. We need to rotate.”
Adleman nodded while continuing to talk. “The President and I cannot say enough about the importance of the job you are doing—underpaid, overworked, and putting your life on the line for your country. We are working on these compensation problems, but for those of you who are giving the best years of your life serving our country, America salutes you!”
Adleman straightened and threw the crowd a full-handed salute, bringing back memories of Reagan and Clinton at their best, playing up to the cameras. The men and women went wild.
As Adleman entered the plane he turned to Merke, flushed.
“That’s
the way to leave them—cheering for more.” He rubbed his hands together and made his way back to the suite. “Any word from Washington?”
“No, sir. The President is still in critical condition, and there’s been no change.”
“How about repercussions from Rizular? Has word gotten back on how he feels about us landing at Clark instead of Manila?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” As they reached the back of the plane, Lieutenant Colonel Merke handed Adleman a sheaf of papers. “Here’s the latest situation briefing … and here”—she handed him another bundle—“are some memos to sign. Flight time is approximately two and a half hours; we’re expecting to encounter some weather.”
Adleman grunted and glanced over the papers. He entered the suite and said, “Make sure I’m awake a half hour out of Clark. If reading this doesn’t put me to sleep, I’m going to try and catch a nap before we land.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he shut the door Adleman felt uneasy, as if he were forgetting something. Maybe he was starting to take this job more seriously.
Clark AB
Yolanda stood outside the main gate. The morning rush hour was over, and only a few people were straggling onto the base.
Signs in English and Tagalog warned her that only personnel on official business were allowed on the base. A contractor’s entrance was visible twenty-five yards away. Filipino and American soldiers manned both gates.
A half hour before she had told her father she was going to the market, to walk around and clear her mind. Pompano had smiled at her and encouraged her to get up and around—she thought that he was happy that she wasn’t moping, rebelling.
She didn’t know what he would do to her if he learned her true destination.
Someone jostled her elbow. She looked around. “Excuse me.” The man who had bumped into her was already walking through the gate.
As she approached the gate she felt a light drizzle begin. She looked to the sky; the clouds seemed to have come closer to the ground. She hurried her stride to the gate.
A uniformed Filipino stepped from the concrete guard shack as she approached, took one look at Yolanda, and waved her through.
She clutched the yellow pass and moved quickly through the fence. The Filipinos entering the base streamed toward a row of buses, but they first approached a brown-shirted man, who seemed to give out directions and point them to specific buses. Yolanda was heading for the man when she heard a voice behind her.
“Hey, wait a minute!”
Yolanda turned, feeling suddenly cold. The drizzle had increased to heavier drops.
“Hold up.” A uniformed American ran toward her. He wore a blue beret, a gun holstered at his side, and camouflaged fatigues. The American kept one hand on his beret and the other hand on his holster. He huffed up to her.
“Excuse me, could I see an ID?”
Yolanda looked puzzled. “He said I could enter.”
“Yeah, and he didn’t check your ID either. Dependent or not, it’s a rule, miss.” He smiled amicably.
“Excuse, please?”
He started to say something, then looked at her closely. He frowned. “Say … you
are
a dependent, aren’t you?” Yolanda thrust out the yellow sheet of paper. The military policeman’s eyes widened. He took the sheet and scanned it. “Well I’ll be dipped.…” He squinted at Yolanda, then down at the sheet. “Yolanda Sicat?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not a dependent?”
Yolanda answered slowly. “I do not think so.”
He looked her up and down, then slowly handed the sheet back to her. His voice suddenly sounded gruff. “I’m sorry. Uh, I could have sworn you were a dependent. I mean, you look like an American.” He stopped, embarrassed and unsure of what to say next.
Yolanda took back the visitor’s pass. She lowered her eyes and stood there. The rain continued to increase in intensity. The policeman backed up.
“Sorry … Go on, then.” He turned and jogged back to his post.
Yolanda turned and headed for the man shepherding people onto the buses. She took her place at the end of the line, under an awning. The intensity of the rain had increased, so that it was difficult to see the main gate from where she stood.
When Yolanda’s turn came, the brown-shirted man whirled to her. She stood at least a head above him. She shoved the yellow visitor’s pass at him.
“I wish to visit Lieutenant Steele.”
“Lieutenant Steele?” The man lifted a brow and studied the paper. “Do you know where he live?”
“No.”
The man set his mouth. “Not married?” Yolanda looked surprised, but shook her head. The man brightened. “Okay. Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Blue line, that bus over there. Look for many two-story buildings with a sign out front: BOQ.” He nodded to the third bus in line.
“Salamat po,”
said Yolanda, but the bus dispatcher was already helping the next person in line.
She paid the one peso fare and settled back near the rear of the bus, which soon filled with Filipino workers and American youths.
Yolanda looked out the window as the bus rounded the long runway. Although the giant American base was not more than five miles from where she lived, she felt as though she were in a totally different world. Everywhere the grass was cropped close to the ground—a shame, she thought, for this would have provided a huge grazing area for water buffalo.
The buildings were all well-kept and painted, yet no one worked outside them. It was all puzzling to her.
But whatever the difference between the two worlds, she knew that she must not let it affect her meeting with Bruce. He seemed to be an honest, decent man … nice-looking, and he treated her well. But her father’s wishes must come first.
She closed her eyes.
My father’s wishes,
she thought.
But he is not even my real father!
The thought left her cold, unsure of what was happening. Things had seemed to be so secure in her life: the knowledge that someday she would attend the University of the Philippines, thinking that it was
her
father that had raised and protected her.
She opened her eyes, but couldn’t see through her tears. Discovering that she really was an outsider tore her apart. The lie she had lived through the years only intensified her feelings—telling her childhood friends that she had never known her mother, when it was her
father
she had never really known.
What kind of man would rape her mother? Knock her senseless, so that she would never regain consciousness?
No wonder that Pompano—yes, he
was
her father!— was driven to get back at the Americans.
She too felt the anger, the blind white rage.
It was the only thing she could do, to save face and to ensure that her girlhood dreams were not dashed … to meet with Bruce and explain, however hard it was, that they could not go on seeing each other.
Cervante let the phone ring twenty times, then slammed the receiver down.
“Booto!”
He glanced at his watch.
Pompano should have gotten the flight times by now,
he thought.
If I am to start
the harassment, I cannot afford to wait for the old man.
He lit up a cigarette, the last one in the pack. He crumpled the container and threw it across the room. Sucking on his cigarette, he thought through his options. He could not allow the HPM weapon to just sit in the jungle. It worked and was ready for use. But without the incoming flight information Pompano would provide, the HPM would be a mere random operation. He knew that was what he had originally wanted, but that vision of the 747 flying overhead had sparked his imagination.
Bringing down an entire plane!
He glanced at the phone. The sooner he had the flight schedule in hand, the sooner they could start the operations. Cervante finished his cigarette.
By this afternoon he would be back in action, operating the HPM weapon.
Catman had the speakers cranked up to the max, playing vintage Toto.
The rock group played the type of technorock that Catman couldn’t get enough of. He’d seen them once, playing a concert in Phoenix during their 40th reunion tour, and the live concert hadn’t differed at all from his CD. They were that exact, that …
perfect.
Like executing a belly roll, a pilot turning a supersonic fighter around in the opposite direction from where he was looking, checking a blind spot. At over one thousand miles an hour. A technically correct, technically
perfect
maneuver in the hands of a shit-hot fighter pilot. The best.
Catman had just pushed out of the bed and begun to flip through his CD collection when a curt knock came at the door.
He ambled to the door and swung it open, wide.
She stood no more than six inches away, just under the overhang.
“Uh …” It was all he could manage to get out. Behind him came the erotic beat of Toto’s “Rosanna.”
The girl held out a wet sheet of paper to him. “Excuse, please. I am looking for Bruce Steele.”
“Bruce, uh?” Catman gathered his wits about him and tried not to stammer.
Of course,
he thought,
the house girl. There is a God in heaven.
He swore to himself that he’d attend Sunday School for the next twenty years. “Come on in and get dry. Sure, you’re looking for Bruce—uh, I’m his roommate.”
She hesitated before entering. “You are not Charlie.”
“Charlie? No, no. I’m Catman, Ed Holstrom. Call me whatever you like. Bruce, Charlie, and I are all getting a house—I’m really his roommate.” He stopped talking and just grinned.
Thank you, Charlie, for picking out this woman. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
The girl stood at the door, uncertain whether to enter. Catman just watched her, drowning in her large brown eyes, relishing her long, black hair. It was time to make his move. And to think he had almost turned down this assignment to Clark! He grinned like a goofy puppy … until he realized that they were he was at a Mexican standoff. He tried to make her feel at ease by sticking out his hand.
“I didn’t catch your name. If you want to come in, I’ll let you know the kind of food I eat, how much we’ll be paying you, and that sort of thing.” Catman stood aside to allow her to enter.
She frowned and ran a nervous hand through her wet hair. “Excuse, please. I do not understand why you will be paying me.”
“For doing the house. You know, making the beds, cooking the meals, cleaning up .…”
The girl slowly shook her head and took a step backward, into the downpour.
“Hey, wait …” Catman felt suddenly foolish. “You’re not coming here to interview as a house girl?” His voice trailed off.
“No.”
“Aw, crap. I mean, I’m sorry. Really. Look, come on in, before you drown out there.”
Once inside, she shook her hair, allowing the long, dark strands to fall at her side. Water dripped onto the carpet.
“Why are you looking for Bruce?”
She tightly grasped the yellow sheet of paper. “It is very important. I must see Bruce Steele right away. He gave me this to come onto Clark Air Base if ever I needed to see him.”
“He’s not here. Bruce was selected to escort the vice president of the United States into your country. The vice president, you know, the number two guy for all America? Bruce is just too busy right now.”
