Strike Eagle (25 page)

Chapter 19

Friday, 22 June

On the road to Tarlac

They had left the rice paddies far behind and were on the final leg to the plantation. The road was crowned in glorious green, and everywhere Cervante looked it seemed like he was being applauded for the ultimate coup. The rain—on the road, falling in the jungle, splashing up onto the side of the jeepney—all seemed to symbolize a washing away of the old, something never to be seen again. It was glorious. Cervante saw it as a validation of the very things he had so dearly believed in and fought for.

Every so often he had to sneak a look to the back, to see if the figure of Robert E. Adleman, vice president of the United States of America, was still there, still moaning and quivering, still waiting to be used to free the Filipinos.

And from the most powerful nation on earth!

A half a mile behind, the truck trailed Cervante, bringing the high-power microwave weapon and the girl.

At this point, Cervante couldn’t have cared less about either of them. Only about Adleman. And what the vice president could do for Cervante, dead or alive.

Angeles City

Bruce rapped on the door. He couldn’t understand why no one was home on the day Pompano and Yolanda were to sell the store.

“Yolanda?” Bruce walked around back, trying to peek into the tiny windows set high off the ground. Broken glass, cemented into the window sill, lined the windows.

Bruce looked around the back and moved to the back door, trying to remain under the overhang. He pounded on the door before noticing a brownish-red splotch. He knelt and ran a finger across it. Bruce’s heart began to palpitate.

He straightened. “Yolanda!” He fumbled with the doorknob, and it swung open …

A smear of bloody tracks led into the back room. Bruce’s breathing quickened. He entered the store, almost afraid that something was going to jump out at him, or that someone would come in through the back and start yelling, accusing him of—

Three bodies were stacked in the side room. Blood still oozed from wounds on their heads, their shoulders—a fetid smell filled the room. Urine and feces, body waste purged from their colons relaxing.

Bruce yelled: “Yolanda! Are you here? Yolanda?!” He peeked into the front room and he spotted Yolanda’s father tied to a chair.

Bruce didn’t know his name. He untied the man’s gag. “Where’s Yolanda?”

“Arat aka booto!”
His face was swollen, bruised. One side of his head oozed blood. Bruce straightened and looked around. The back room. He spotted the tiny bathroom and wet some towels hanging on a towel rack. They were tiny, pink towels with hearts sewn in them—probably Yolanda’s, something she had made for her father. Bruce used the towels to dab the old man’s wound.

“Cervante
.…” His eyes widened. “Yolanda?” He coughed. The man made a small motion with his hands near his mouth. “Drink … water.”

Bruce moved one of the wet towels next to the man’s lips. “Here. Don’t take it too fast.” He squeezed water into the old man’s mouth.

The man closed his eyes and asked, “Yolanda. What … what did you do? Where is she?” He opened his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Yolanda.” He sounded firm.

“I don’t know where she is. What happened? Can I get you some help?” Bruce hesitated. “What’s your name?”

The man coughed. “Pompano.” Bruce tried to untie him but Pompano jerked away. “I do not need any help. I must find Yolanda.”

Bruce squatted in front of Pompano. “You’re in no condition to do anything. Especially to find your daughter.” He wet his lips. “Who are those men in the back room?”

“What men?” Pompano coughed. Blood mixed in with the spittle.

“Back there.” Bruce was growing impatient.

“My Yolanda … my little one. If Cervante has taken her, I will hunt him. I will find her!”

Bruce helped Pompano to his feet. The two staggered into the back room. When Pompano saw the three men, he released his hold on Bruce’s shoulder and dropped to a knee. He crossed himself. “Holy Mother Maria.…”

“You know them?”

Pompano simply nodded. His chest started to heave. Bruce held onto the man and moved him away from the bodies. Pompano vomited in a corner.

Bruce wiped spittle from Pompano’s lips. “What’s going on? How is Yolanda wrapped up in this?”

Pompano waved an arm toward a chair propped against the back wall. Bruce helped him to it, easing the old man into the Spartan seat.

Bruce felt his breathing quicken. The world seemed to have gone crazy: dead men in the back room, the old man tied up, and Yolanda taken … where? His temper started ganging up on his fear, causing his glands to rev into high gear.

Bruce started pacing, both nervous and anxious to get to the bottom of it. “Yolanda! Where is she? You know something, but what aren’t you telling?”

Pompano only shook his head.

Bruce moved over to the old man. He drew back a hand, then looked at Pompano.
God, help me!
thought Bruce. He felt like he was going to pop apart. He grabbed Pompano by the collar. “Where is she?!”

“Cervante. It was him. He must have … succeeded.” Softly, as if he were defeated. “And he took Yolanda.”

“Where is she?!”

“You cannot get there.”

“The hell I can’t!”

Pompano glanced at Bruce, then looked away. “And you will die, along with her.” He paused. “Cervante is clever. He has taken her to the mountains. He has taken …
precautions
to ensure that no one approaches his place.”

Bruce knelt in front of Pompano. He saw a white-haired man with deep wrinkles and a defeated look in his eyes. “This Cervante. You said he succeeded. In what—taking Yolanda?”

Pompano slowly shook his head. “No. That is only part of it. A very small part of it.” He looked up. “If I am right, then he has your vice president. And if you try to go there, Yolanda and your vice president will die.”

“But you’ve got to help me. Where are they?”

“You do not understand. It does not matter how you try to approach Cervante. He will not reason with you. Cervante has worked hard, for too long, to accomplish this.”

Bruce slammed his hand against the wall.

“Dammit, Pompano. Cervante could not have known about the vice president coming to Clark.
I
didn’t know until this morning. Don’t tell me that he’s devoted his life to this.”

“It does not matter that this is your vice president, or even my daughter. Cervante has been waiting for an opportunity.
Any
opportunity. He has trained long and has prepared to grasp at any straw.” Pompano breathed deep. “And I know how fruitless it would be to try and hunt him down, because I have helped the man.”

Bruce turned at this revelation.
“You helped?”

“Aih.”

“Then you can help me. You know where he is, how to get to him!”

Pompano merely shook his head.

“You’ve got to!”

“I cannot take the chance. As long as I keep away, Cervante might not harm my little one.”

“Might
not? Get real, Pompano! He’s got the vice president of the United States there. Do you think he gives a damn about Yolanda?”

Pompano looked up coolly. “I do not care who else he has, especially if it is an American. My daughter is the only one who matters. I will not risk her life.”

Bruce’s breath quickened. He couldn’t believe the gall of the old man—the stubbornness. It just seemed plain friggin’ crazy that the guy wouldn’t want to jump up and do everything he could to save Yolanda—or the vice president. Bruce couldn’t put himself in the older man’s shoes, show any empathy at all.

With a sudden movement, Bruce reached down and jerked Pompano up out of the chair. He ignored the kicking, even the bite that Pompano tried to take out of his shoulder, and carried the old man out the door and through the rain to General Simone’s black Corvette.

After throwing Pompano in, Bruce held up a finger and growled, “Try to get out and I’ll tie you to the top.” He sloshed to the driver’s side and started the car.

The White House

Juan Salazar smoothed his jacket and adjusted his tie. The mirror reflected back a dark blue suit, white shirt, and his red “power” tie. It also showed what appeared to be a freshly scrubbed face. The bags around his eyes had been hidden by makeup, and Visine ensured that his eyes were not bloodshot.

On the outside, Salazar perfectly fit the part, that of a cool, highly competent spokesman for the United States government.

Inside, he was frightened to death that the press would scratch the surface of his coiffured image, and that the ensuing revelations would generate panic.

Two more minutes and he would be stepping before the cameras of the mainstream media, FOX, CNN, BBC, and a myriad of other networks. Another five minutes and he would be done.

Salazar studied the crib sheet in front of him. The announcement would express grave concern about the President’s chances, when in reality all that was keeping the Commander-in-Chief alive was the rhythmic chugging of the life-support system.

A null reading on the Alpha wave scan had showed no brain activity for the past two hours. Technically the President was still alive—as cognizant as a vegetable perhaps, but still alive. Salazar was prepared to explain that no contact could be made with the vice president because he was out on a tour. The plan was to keep the vice president’s crash under wraps until the Speaker of the House could be located.

Summertime on the Appalachian Trail had served too much of a temptation, and the man who was next in line for the Presidency after Adleman had taken off, with little advance warning, on a hike.

An hour and a half!
thought Salazar.
Who would
ever have thought that things would turn around so fast?
Even the special arrangements for bringing sophisticated communications gear along with the Speaker on his yearly vacation had not covered this unanticipated, spur-of-the-moment nature walk.

If they could just keep the press at bay until the Speaker was found.…

Tarlac

The road to the plantation was muddy and difficult to negotiate. Cervante left the jeepney twice to get the truck out of swamps. He stood by the side of the road in front of the truck, yelling and motioning with his arm for Barguyo to rock the truck back and forth.

The canopy of foliage over the road protected them from most of the rainfall. Water pooled on the road, adding to the mud and muck that made the going so difficult. They finally broke into the clearing where the plantation was located. Cervante was convinced that no one would be able to sneak up on them. With the sensors he had planted along with the mire on the road, he could hold off an army. Or at least give him enough time to bolt through the jungle.

Four men appeared in the clearing after Cervante drove in, stepping from their hidden positions in the jungle. They wore ponchos and carried their automatic weapons by the barrel. Cervante waved through the windshield at them, then motioned back at the truck that was just coming into view. The men moved to help the truck back up against the house.

Once satisfied that the high-power microwave weapon was in a position to be rapidly deployed, Cervante waved the men back to their posts.

As the vice president and the girl were taken inside, the men whistled at Yolanda. They nudged each other and talked among themselves, hoping that this time Cervante would offer them the girl.

Cervante quelled the jocularity with a stern look. “Whatever happens, leave the girl alone.” Cervante caught a few words about “having her all for himself,” but he ignored the muttering.

He left it unsaid that Yolanda would serve as additional insurance in case they were detected. The Americans had vowed that they would not negotiate with terrorists. Cervante knew that they stood steadfast on this policy. But he also knew about the power of graphic newscasts: They could sway even the most hardened politician. Certainly, the execution of a beautiful young girl on live television, with the promise that the vice president of the United States would be next, would cause even Solomon to capitulate.

Cervante had decided to demand the immediate evacuation of all the U.S. military bases. The treaty would never be signed.

He scowled at the Huks who were herding Yolanda away to the large master bedroom. A few days earlier he had met with Pompano in that bedroom and finalized the plans concerning the high-power microwave weapon.

“Once the girl is locked up, bring the vice president to the kitchen.”

Adleman was still unconscious. Diffuse light filtered into the room; Cervante still insisted on keeping the electric generators silent. The rain and low clouds made the kitchen appear gloomy, but it was still the best-lit place in the house.

Adleman slumped across a table, his head lolling to one side. Spittle ran from his mouth. Cervante studied the man. Next to him was the briefcase that the black marketeers had left. Although it was locked, it looked important.

The vice president wore a light-colored short-sleeve shirt that was torn in the back and splattered with mud. Black, mud-caked shoes and dress pants made up the remainder of his apparel. He seemed to be the same age as Cervante, but Cervante knew that the vice president was fifteen years older. Lying on the wooden table, Adleman looked the absolute antithesis of a respected world leader—helpless and beaten.

Cervante ran his hands over Adleman’s slacks. There was nothing more in his pockets than what Pompano’s friends had given Cervante. He pulled out Adleman’s driver’s license from his wallet. About half of the Huk contingent had gathered around. Barguyo stood quietly next to him.

Cervante said to the boy, “Get me paper, something to write with.”

When Barguyo brought Cervante the requested pen and paper, Cervante sat at the table next to Adleman and composed a letter, addressed to the President of the United States. He started to write a deadline by which the reply should be made, but he leaned back, thoughts racing through his head.

The Americans would drag their feet, no matter what the stakes, unless they had proof that the vice president was about to be executed. Putting pressure on the American government to respond, would increase their chances of success.