Strike Eagle (4 page)
“Fire Empire—two peso?”
The Filipino held up five fingers. Skipper started off for the next jeep. The Filipino called out, “Wait, Joe—four peso.”
“Three. No more.” A second passed.
The driver motioned with his head to climb in. “Okay. Ziggy now.”
Skipper turned to the group. “Let’s go, gang. Get ready for the ride of your life.” The men scrambled aboard and hung on wherever they could find purchase.
The jeep started off through the crowd before all were seated. It shot across the traffic, causing several cars to squeal their tires. The streets were brightly lit and crowded. It reminded Bruce of New Orleans on steroids, a constant party.
Skipper called out over the noise, “Lesson number two: what we’re in is called a jeepney. Never set foot inside one until you’ve bartered the price and exact destination. Otherwise you’ll be driving around the city for the rest of the night and owe a hundred bucks. The PCs—that’s short for the Philippine Constabulary, their local police and military—will back the driver up and throw you in jail.” He handed out a wad of bills to each man. “The exchange rate changes daily, so I can’t tell you what the peso is worth, but it’s in our favor now. I got a hundred bucks apiece for everyone at the club—pay me back later.”
Catman let out a laugh. “Where you taking us, Skipper?”
“Don’t ask. You are going to see the most amazing floor show this side of Paris. The last time I went to the Empire, there was this girl who smoked a cigarette in the damnedest way.…”
Washington D.C.
Throughout the last twenty years, Robert E. Lee Adleman had lived in many places, many climates, but the one thing he could not get used to was the sopping wet Washington, D.C, heat.
Adleman rocked back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Ninety-five percent humidity, you say?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” the young project officer from the State Department confirmed. “The Philippines stays that high. Will that affect your plans?”
Adleman shook his head. A sudden vision raced through his mind of a summer he had spent in Mississippi, traipsing through the swamps. “No, that’s fine.”
“Any more questions, sir?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Kelt.”
The man nodded and left the room, leaving Adleman alone with Jerry Weinstein. The National Democratic Party Chairman had been silent throughout the briefing on the Philippine Islands. Weinstein had insisted on speaking to the vice president before the next Cabinet meeting, and this had been the only time that Adleman had not been fully committed.
Weinstein leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. This looked ridiculous, because the former NBA basketball star’s kneecaps were at least a foot higher than the chair seat. Coming from a poverty-stricken background, Weinstein’s exposure to opulence as a high six-figure basketball player had made him appreciate the inequities of the American dream.
“Robert … ah, Bob.…”
“Umm?” Adleman turned his attention away from the upcoming trip and focused on Weinstein.
“I wanted to spend some time with you before the next meeting between the President and his Cabinet.”
“Okay, what’s up? We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“This trip.” Weinstein nodded with his head to all the information the State Department had left—briefing booklets, statistics, analysis of trends. “It’s critical for your political future. In fact, it might be the nail that drives in the lid on your election.”
Adleman looked puzzled. “I missed something. Run that past me again.”
Weinstein sat up. “Bob—Mr. Vice President. We both know you’re the unspoken leader for the next election. You have Longmire’s backing, you have the experience and background, no skeletons in the closest.…”
You said it,
thought Adleman.
The FBI special investigation background check had been nothing compared to the scrutiny of the Democratic party. The Democrats hadn’t had a viable Presidential contender since Clinton—including Obama, who Adleman was convinced had been a fluke, a backlash against the Bush era. So they were going to make sure their candidates were squeaky-clean.
Weinstein had personally examined Adleman’s record: as a
magna cum laude
Princeton grad with his sights set on Congress, and armed with a law degree from Berkeley, Adleman hadn’t made the same mistake as the last vice president: he had put in his time on active duty with the Army for a four-year-stint, serving as a staff judge advocate. The generals he had impressed were also the ones who introduced him to their congressional liaisons.
After leaving the Army, Adleman served on several congressional staffs, making a name for himself as a hard-charging fact-finder, turning out policy prose in a coherent fashion. Senator Longmire had fingered the young blond staffer as an up-and-coming force, and helped him to rise through the ranks of various political appointments.
Finally deciding to try his hand at political office, Adleman won his district in Albuquerque by a landslide. And then as a mere second-term Congressman, at forty, Robert E. Lee Adleman was chosen to run for vice president of the United States.
“… but now you need to show that you can pull off an international agreement, something that could affect the security of an entire hemisphere.”
Adleman nodded to himself. “Sounds like what Francis Acht was pushing. Except that he had the economic security, not necessarily our defensive security, in mind.”
“I’m sure he was speaking about both,” said Weinstein softly. “Francis knows that without one, you can’t have the other.”
“So you really think this trip can position me for the nomination?”
Weinstein spread his hands. “That’s why I wanted to catch you before the meeting—just in case someone tries to throw a wrench in the idea. Longmire’s health is on pretty shaky grounds, and if something happens it would be better for you to go into office as a hero, who’s been tested in international negotiations. This treaty could boost confidence in you and ensure you the next election, if Longmire lasts that long. You should view this trip as more than just service to the country. It’s a springboard for you as well.”
Adleman kept eye contact with Weinstein.
Boost confidence and ensure the next election.
Suddenly he felt uneasy about his actions, about being calculating and anticipating President Longmire’s demise.
But the first lesson he’d learned as an Army officer was to anticipate and be prepared. So when things went wrong, he could do something. Reacting was better than sitting still and allowing events to pass him by, which was like striking out by watching the balls go by instead of swinging.
***
Chapter 3
Friday, 1 June
Angeles City, P.I.
Bruce watched the floor show for as long as he could stomach it. Without Ashley to go back to, he should have been enjoying it, if for no other reason than because of his freedom.
His gum grew stale; tired of popping it, he slipped it into an empty beer bottle that littered the table top.
Set in a smoky, low-ceilinged bar, the show oozed sleaze. Tables were pushed up around an elevated runway. On the bed in the middle of the stage a naked Filipino woman gyrated her hips to music. Bruce couldn’t tell how old she was—it was difficult, since the Filipinos looked so much younger than he.
Technorock, driven by a throbbing bass and incessant drum, blared throughout the bar. The songs were old, from a different era than the one in which Bruce had grown up—not hard rock, but something more commercial, like the soundtrack to a cheap porno movie. It added to Bruce’s discomfort. He pushed his chair back. There must have been twenty beer bottles on the table in front of him.
“Hey, where you going, Assassin?”
“Fresh air.”
“You don’t look too good. Too much to drink?”
Bruce paused. “Yeah.”
Catman turned back to watch the act; he spoke loud enough so everyone could hear him. “Don’t wimp out on us.”
Right,
thought Bruce.
Talk about a wimp.
He remembered when Catman had finally soloed in the F-15—or rather he remembered the party afterward. They had stumbled into a bar during happy hour, and within a short time they were all drunk as skunks. Catman made a pass at the waitress, only to get sick and toss his cookies all over the table. He then promptly passed out and slumped head-first into his vomit. Thrown out of the bar, the boys had had to push Catman around in a shopping cart until they found their car.
ACC solo.
Catman’s first solo flight in an Air Combat Command fighter … a bonding experience known to only a few. Bruce’s thoughts drifted to his own first solo, high above the desert, outside of Luke AFB in Arizona.…
“Heads up, Assassin.”
“Rog.” Bruce craned his neck around the cockpit. At eighteen thousand feet, the view was breathtaking: cloudless blue sky above him, rugged red-brown terrain below. He felt one with the ancient F-15A fighter. He rocked the wings. The craft responded instantly.
What the hell?
he thought. He slammed the stick to the right, and the fighter instantly rolled around. He saw brown-blue brown-blue as he spun. He jerked the stick to the neutral position and immediately flew level. “Holy shit.”
“Say again, Assassin.” His instructor pilot’s voice from back at the training squadron on the ground came over his headphones.
“Ah, getting good response,” paraphrased Bruce. “This bird is pretty agile.” He had forgotten that his mike was “hot,” the transmitter left on an open channel during this first solo.
“Copy that,” came back his instructor, dryly. “You’ve got ten minutes before heading back. Go ahead and wring it out.”
“Roger that.” Bruce squinted out of the cockpit. Luke lay off the horizon to his left; directly below were mountains; on the other side, a long fissure wound its way through the Arizona desert. “Request permission to descend through two thousand.”
“Affirmative—but watch those mountains. We won’t be able to paint you on the scope.”
“Rog,” said Bruce.
That’s the whole idea
.
He pushed the stick forward and to the right. The F-15 broke out of its level flight and began to descend. Bruce flicked his eyes from the altimeter to the airspeed indicator to his radar.
The fissure lay before him. The walls seemed far enough apart to safely bring the craft. He spotted the rugged cliffs that opened up like a yawning mouth. A thin ribbon of water lay at the bottom of the fissure. It must have taken hundreds of thousands of years for the river to create the fissure.
“Five minutes, Assassin. Time to head back.”
“Rog.”
But not before I take a look-see.
Bruce shoved the stick forward; the craft screamed to the ground. The numbers on the altimeter dropped like a rock.
Bruce’s whole attention was outside the aircraft. The F-15 descended into the fissure. Rocky cliff walls rose up on either side. As on the desert floor, the fissure showed no sign of vegetation, only red-brown earth of a gravel-like texture. The sharp edges of slanted geological zones, painting the walls in weird striped patterns, zoomed by. The walls were treeless. He inched the craft even lower.
The cliff walls closed to within a hundred feet of the wing tips. He lost radio contact in the canyon. As he flew closer to the water, he slowed the craft by pulling back on the throttles. The F-15E bounced slightly from the thermals.
Bruce drew in a breath—the feeling was unfathomable: boulders as big as a house dashed by, a ripple of water lay below … it was almost a psychic experience, like that old scene in
Star Wars.
A fuzzy
dot ahead, just over the water, caught his attention. As he grew closer, he could make out
two
dots—two red balloons that hovered in the middle of the fissure. His eyes widened.
Yanking back on the stick, Bruce hit full afterburners. The F-15E jerked up and stood on its tail, accelerating upward while still moving forward. “Come on,” muttered Bruce. Sweat formed at his brow and ran into eyes. The craft seemed to claw upward as the acceleration pushed him back into his seat. He forced his head to the right and tried to find the balloons.
As the F-15E shot up from the fissure he spotted them below him. A thick strand of wire ran across the canyon, holding the balloons in place. The balloons warned low-flying planes that power lines crossed the fissure. If he had not pulled up when he did, his F-15E might have hit the wire and smashed into the rocky walls; a smoking pyre in testimony to his low-flying antics.…
“… can you read? I say again, Assassin. Can you read?”
Bruce tried to keep his voice steady as he kicked off the afterburners and nosed the F-15E back to Luke. “Rog. I … I was pulling out of a roll. I’ve got a vector back home.”
“Copy that.”
Minutes later, after the F-15E Eagle had rolled to a stop, Bruce climbed out of the cockpit. Buckets of cold water doused him, chilling the sweat that still covered his body. He held up a hand to his classmates, who were enthusiastically participating in the ritual: after a first solo, the pilot was drenched in water. Catman threw the last bucket on him. “Congrats, Assassin. With your reputation as a hot dog, we all thought you’d try something spectacular.”
Bruce only flashed a wan smile.…
The others kept watching the act. The woman lifted her hips high, arching her back and giving the audience an unobstructed view. From behind a set of curtains a man sauntered on stage to the music, also unclothed, carrying an assortment of items.
“Holy crap, look at the size of
that!”
Bruce left the table.
“Make sure Foggy goes with you, Assassin,” called out Skipper. “You don’t want to be caught out in this area alone.”
Bruce wove his way around tables, mostly packed with young Americans. A few tables held Filipino men quietly smoking their cigarettes, but the place obviously catered to foreigners such as himself. When he reached the lobby the air was clear of smoke; more importantly, the lack of music now enabled him to think.
Charlie sat at the end of a long red bench, opposite the door, reading his book. Two bouncers chatted quietly just outside, ignoring what was going on. Charlie looked up; he folded the top right-hand corner of the page to mark his place.
“You guys through?”
“I am.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just ready to go.” Bruce pushed his way out the door. The heat and humidity hit him as he left the air-conditioned building. At least there was no smoke, but the heavy, humid air made up for it. It was just getting dark, with a little less than a half hour until night. The street outside the Fire Empire was still crazy with traffic, honking horns, and the cacophony of unfamiliar words. Charlie followed him outside. His paperback book bulged in his rear pocket.
A jeepney spotted the two and pulled a U-turn. The driver motioned with his head to climb in. “Back to base?”
Bruce remembered Skipper’s lesson. “How much?”
“Four peso.”
Charlie started to climb in the vehicle. “How much to take the long way?”
“Long way?” The driver looked puzzled.
Charlie swept his arm in a circle. “Yeah, the long way home—show us some of the city.”
“Ah, yes. A tour.” The driver nodded. “For you, forty peso each. I show you Angeles.”
Charlie snorted. “Ten peso.”
The driver shook his head. “Thirty, special for you.”
“Twenty-five.” Charlie wasn’t about to lose a centavo.
The man thought for a moment, then brightened. “Okay, twenty-five peso. Hop in, Joe.”
Charlie climbed in and waved Bruce on board. They roared off. The Filipino driver turned in his seat to half face the two Americans. He kept a lazy hand on the wheel while darting in between cars. “You see something and want to stop, tell me loudly.”
“Right, right.” Charlie waved for the man to turn around.
Bruce watched the exchange without emotion. A short time ago he had been looking forward to a new locale, a new beginning, but now, in-country only six hours, he already felt like going home. The noise, heat, humidity, and strange smells all overloaded his senses. There was nothing in the Islands to anchor to, nothing familiar. And what he had just seen in the bar was beyond erotic—it bordered on the clinical.
They passed one place that seemed to provide a reminder of home—the sign was of a fried chicken fast-food place. But then Bruce saw carcasses hanging from the ceiling—the bodies of skinned dogs—with a sign “Dog-On-A-Log” displayed in English.
He felt a tap on his arm.
“Okay Bruce, what’s eating you? You haven’t talked since we landed.” Charlie paused, then added, “What did Colonel Bolte tell you?”
“Uh?” Bruce shook his head and switched gears. He had almost forgotten about what Colonel Bolte had said, the crack about his reputation preceding him. “That? Nothing.”
“Yeah. Think I believe it? Come on—he must have jabbed you pretty well.”
“That’s a rog.” Compared with everything else going on, Colonel Bolte’s remarks did seem ludicrous. “You know, when Bolte was going on about my reputation, I was sure he was alluding to the Risner Trophy we’d won.”
“You
won. That was for being the best stick, not a team effort.”
Bruce shrugged Charlie’s observation off. “We did it; it wasn’t just me. Anyway, that’s not the point.” He looked away.
Ashley,
thought Bruce.
That’s the real reason I’m down, isn’t it? But Charlie would never understand
.…They expect you to bounce right back, act as if divorce were no big deal.
Charlie let the matter be.
Bruce tapped a finger on the railing that ran the length of the jeepney. Cloth decorated in psychedelic patterns covered the jeepney’s top. Little cloth balls hung from the sides, running along the entire top. Large linked chains made up the steering wheel; in place of the rearview mirror there sat a black velvet painting of Jesus, which looked back at the passenger compartment and down on the driver.
The traffic thinned. The houses and stores were still packed together, but the crowds and noise had abated. Charlie finally spoke, as if he had been thinking.
“When will you try to see your father?”
“Dad?” It was Bruce’s turn to be quiet. He nodded slowly. “He knows I’m here—or at least that I’ll be coming soon. My mom spoke with him last week, and he’s expecting me. I guess I’ll wait until I’m settled a little more before I give him a call.”
“He lives in Subic?”
“Olongapo.” Bruce looked around the dingy streets as they sped through the city. “It’s right outside Subic.”
“We all have some adjusting to do, Bruce. This has been a big change. Skipper’s family won’t be able to get over here for at least six months; Catman left a fiancée behind.”
Bruce snorted.
“Okay,” said Charlie, backing off. “So Catman has three or four fiancées. But look at it this way—you’re a new man now: single, on flight pay, no kids, no alimony, and you’ve got your health. What more could you ask for?”