Strike Eagle (26 page)

One day. They would have twenty-four hours to respond.

Cervante finished the letter, folded the paper, and presented it to Barguyo. “The commanding officer at Clark will take this. You are to deliver it to one of the guards at their gate.”

Barguyo took the message and flipped it over in his hand. He looked skeptical. “This is it? They will give up their bases because of this letter?”

Cervante smiled. The boy continued to amaze Cervante with his insight, his quick grasping of subtlety. Cervante placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No. This letter is meaningless without some proof that we will follow through with our threat.” He handed Adleman’s driver’s license to the boy. “This is to validate that we have their vice president. You will give this to the gate guard with the letter. But there is something else you must give them.”

Cervante motioned with his head to one of the Huks standing by the kitchen sink. “Throw some water on the American.”

They rolled the vice president onto his back and splashed a pot full of cold water into his face. Adleman coughed, sputtered as the water roused him.

Cervante moved close to the vice president’s face, smiling down at the man. “Welcome to the Philippine Islands, Mr. vice president. I am afraid that this treaty you seek is not a very good idea. And there is something I must do to ensure your people know that we are quite serious about it.”

Adleman continued to cough. “Who … are … you?”

Cervante nodded to four of the Huks. “Hold him.”

“Hey!” Adleman moved his head from side to side.

The four Huks pinned Adleman to the table, one man on each of his arms and legs. Cervante rummaged through the kitchen drawer and pulled out a strand of fine wire. Wrapping his hand with two potholders, Cervante wound the wire tightly around his fists. “This will hurt more if you struggle, Mr. vice president. And you have to allow us time to stop the bleeding.”

Cervante barked to Barguyo. “Hold his index finger.”

The boy looked puzzled, but moved around to the vice president’s right arm. He pried open Adleman’s fist.

“Oh, God—no! Wait … wait!”

Cervante tuned out Adleman’s voice; the vice president’s body strained against the four Huks. “Pull the finger.”

Barguyo extended the index finger and pulled as hard as he could. Adleman’s knuckle popped. The finger moved away from the joint, leaving a small depression at the knuckle. Cervante quickly wrapped the wire around the finger.

“As I said, the driver’s license will validate our claim that we have the vice president.” Cervante jerked on the wire, pulling it as hard as he could.

Adleman screamed.… The yelling, sobbing seemed to go on forever.

Cervante picked up Adleman’s bloody finger, white cartilage showing at the cut. Adleman cradled his fist in his arm; he curled up in a fetal position, moaning.

Cervante gave the digit to Barguyo. “And this will ensure that they know we are serious.”

Clark AB

The door to Simone’s office flew open. Major Stephanie Hendhold grimly motioned with her head.

Bruce stood. Pompano remained seated.

“Lieutenant Steele—you’ve got five minutes.”

The young major looked like she had aged years. Her uniform was sharp but her eyes were red, puffy. From conversations overheard between various colonels, Bruce had caught on that Hendhold was coordinating the different search agencies.

Bruce nudged Pompano, “Let’s go.” When Pompano sat mute, Bruce reached down and yanked Pompano up by the elbow. “I said let’s go.”

Hendhold raised an eyebrow at Bruce but remained tight-lipped. Simone’s secretary watched wide-eyed as they strode past.

Simone’s office was plastered in royal blue and seemed to spread out to cover an acre. A podium stood at one end of the room, and a chest-high table was covered with maps, ops plans, and message sheets. General Simone did not look up when they entered, but he called out, “Come on in, Bruce. What’cha got? Juanita said it was important.”

He didn’t offer a chair or even a handshake. Simone held up several photographs and squinted at them, as if he were comparing a series of overhead photography. When they reached the table, Simone seemed to notice Pompano for the first time. He nodded to the older man but spoke to Bruce.

“You’ve found something?”

“General, this is Pompano Sicat. I think he knows where the vice president has been taken.”

Simone narrowed his eyes at Pompano while Bruce filled the general in. When he had finished Bruce said, “I’m not absolutely certain that he does know, General. I can’t get anything out of him, and didn’t know who else to go to.”

Simone folded his arms and looked Pompano up and down. Bruce stood silent and watched the two—in a way, they were very much alike, both physically and in terms of personality. Both were dark and squat, even with Simone standing a good six inches over Pompano. And neither of them put up with crap.

Pompano remained mute.

Simone said, “You helped bring the vice president’s plane down?”

“No. But I set up the high-power microwave weapon.”

Simone’s eyes widened. “An HPM weapon? Where the hell did you get one of those?”

Pompano shrugged. “From the PC, one of your military aid shipments.”

“But HPMs aren’t any good unless you’re less than a thousand yards away from the target. What did you do, get right up to the runway?”

Pompano didn’t speak.

Simone continued to stare at Pompano. He said slowly, “Bruce, you and Stephanie leave Mr. Sicat and me alone for a couple of minutes. I want to have a talk with him.”

“Yes, sir.” Bruce backed away and left the two standing there. Major Hendhold closed the door after they had left the office.

Bruce looked quizzically at Hendhold. “What’s up, ma’am?”

Hendhold shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe the general is going to Indian-wrestle him. Either that or shoot the poor bastard.”

Bruce smiled feebly at Hendhold’s attempt at humor. He thought of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.

Both runways hummed with activity. The clouds still hung a precarious three hundred feet above the ground and the rain continued to fall. Captain Richard Head stayed inside the MH-60 Black Hawk with Bob Gould, and waited for the crew bus.

Down the ramp and around the corner from Base Operations, a fleet of six MC-130H Combat Talon II aircraft from the First Special Operations Squadron started their engines. Four Allison T56-A-15 turbo-props rumbled alive on each of the airplanes; black smoke kicked out behind the MC-130s and swirled up and out of sight into the falling rain.

Specially equipped with sixth-generation terrain-following radar, precision navigation, a Fulton STAR midair recovery unit, and myriad self-protection systems, the black-snouted Combat Talons looked inherently evil to Richard Head. The MC-130s were used to flying into areas best left unmentioned, close to the deck and completely unobserved. They had so many bells and whistles hanging off the airframe that Richard Head suspected they could fly into China, take out most of the electronics in the country, and get the hell out without ever being seen.

The Special Ops boys kept mostly to themselves. Commanded by Colonel Ben Lutler, a quiet, steely-eyed veteran of nearly thirty years, the First Special Operations Squadron told no one what they were doing.

Today, Special Ops was pulling out all the stops. Head knew that they would be combing the jungles, searching for any sign of the vice president.

The MC-130s rumbled past, sending out gusts of wind that swept through the drizzle. Head could feel the Black Hawk helicopter rock as the squat planes roared by.

Head turned to Gould. “Looks like we’re the only ones not up in the air today.”

Gould lounged back in the copilot seat with one foot up on the instrument panel. He picked at his teeth. “Give them an hour and we’ll be back up. They’ll want us to have Zaz hanging out the door, swooping through the trees looking for Adleman.”

A voice came from the rear of the helicopter. “What? You guys bad-mouthin’ me again?”

Gould pointed out the crew bus coming through the drizzle. “It’s eating time. Let’s get something down before they send us out.”

“Rog.” Head turned to the back. “Zaz—one hour. You comin’ with us?”

“Naw, maintenance is bringing out some bang-bang. Bring me back a sandwich, would you?”

“Yeah.”

Head lifted an eyebrow at Gould. “Bang-bang? Somebody thinks we’re going to be shot at.”

“They don’t give us live ammo for nothing, Dick. Kind of makes you feel like ole Barney. You remember, no real bullets for the deputy sheriff of Mayberry?”

“Yeah. And don’t call me Dick.”

Fifteen minutes. Bruce fidgeted, waiting for Major General Simone to come out with Pompano.

He called the hospital and spoke with Nanette—Charlie had stabilized, but they wouldn’t know about his eyes until later. The ophthalmologist was driving down from Bagio and wasn’t due back to Clark for another few hours.

Nanette assured Bruce that there was nothing more he could do. She promised to keep him informed.

A small army of colonels and their assistants waited in the foyer with Bruce.

Major Stephanie Hendhold entered the room and crossed into Simone’s office. The young major carried a handful of sheets, pictures, and maps. The door closed behind her.

Bruce was acutely aware that he was by far the youngest and lowest-ranking officer in the room. And on top of that his flight suit was still dirty, smelly, and smeared with blood. Bruce didn’t exactly look like the quintessential wonder boy, but there was nothing he could do. He decided to ignore the colonels and keep to himself.

A burly security policeman entered the office. His uniform was soaked with water and he looked worried. He carried a manila envelope as though it held something precious. He sought out Simone’s secretary, Juanita.

“I need to speak with General Simone.”

“You and every other person on the base.”

“It’s urgent. It has to do with the vice president.”

Juanita pressed her tips together and picked up the telephone. She dialed a number. “Major Hendhold, someone here needs to talk with you.”

The security policeman grabbed the phone, turned his back to the crowd, and spoke quietly.

“Bruce?”

“Yes, sir?” Bruce stood and became instantly alert.

Simone stood at the door, holding on to the handle. “Come on in.” Bruce walked briskly past the other officers.

Pompano sat in a chair at the far end of the office. Major Hendhold was on the phone, talking quietly with her back turned to them.

Simone looked irritable. “Let me make this quick. I’ve assured Mr. Sicat that no attribution will take place if he helps us locate the vice president. So that leaves us with one final issue to settle. And frankly, I’m not happy with it—Mr. Sicat refuses to budge.”

Bruce set his mouth.

“The upshot is this: Mr. Sicat does not want any harm to come to his daughter. He refuses to allow anyone to help him rescue her. He’s afraid that this Cervante character, or whoever the hell masterminded this act, will kill her at the first sign of a raid. Going in there to rescue his daughter and the vice president is non-negotiable. Am I correct?” Simone looked down at Pompano. The old man nodded stiffly.

Bruce looked puzzled. “I don’t get it, sir. What do I have to do with this?”

Pompano stood. He blinked but otherwise looked impassive; he spoke in halting English. “You are responsible for Cervante kidnapping Yolanda.”

“Hey, wait one damn minute.…”

Simone held up a hand. “Hear him out, Lieutenant.”

Pompano’s nostril’s flared slightly. “Yolanda would not have been kidnapped if you had kept away from her. Cervante has taken her to a well-hidden place. There are too many safeguards; no one can get close to it without being detected. There are … sensors … mines.” Pompano shook his head. “It is too dangerous. If only you had left her alone.…”

Simone persisted. “But if you tell us where it is, we could help you.”

“No.” Pompano stared back at the feisty general. Bruce almost thought that they were going to go at it, toe-to-toe.

Major Hendhold interrupted, her hand over the phone. “General, there’s an urgent message for you.”