Strike Eagle (27 page)
Simone waved her away. “Later, Stephanie.”
“General …”
“Dammit, Major. What the—”
“Now,
General! Tech Sergeant. Merkowitz is in the foyer. It has to do with the vice president.” Hendhold spoke quickly into the receiver. “Send him in.”
Simone growled to himself and headed for the door. Tech Sergeant Merkowitz entered and snapped a salute. Simone bore into him.
“All right. What ‘cha got?”
“It’s for you, General. Some Filipino kid delivered it to the gate, not ten minutes ago. I thought it was a joke … until I looked in the envelope.”
Simone glanced at a handwritten note taped to the manila envelope. He read through it before he looked up. “Well, your information corroborates with this Cervante character, Mr. Sicat. He claims to have the vice president.” He handed the note back to the security policeman. He opened the envelope.
He stared hard and drew in a breath. “Oh, my God.” He reached in carefully and withdrew a small plastic card.
He turned it over in his hand and read from it. “It’s Adleman all right.” He glanced back inside the envelope and set his mouth. “And they’ve got him.”
Bruce took an uncertain step to Simone. “Sir, you still don’t have proof.”
Simone ignored him and spoke instead to Merkowitz. “Who else knows about this?”
“You’re it, sir. I thought I’d better get over here right away.”
“Good, man. Keep it quiet—tell no one.” He nodded to the door. “And keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, sir. Afternoon, General.” Merkowitz started to bring his hand up in a salute but seemed to think better of it, and instead just backed out of the office.
His head down, Simone walked slowly to the podium.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Sir, I was just pointing out that—”
Simone looked up and stopped Bruce with a bland stare. “Lieutenant, take a look.” He shoved the envelope under Bruce’s nose.
Bruce’s stomach flipped at the site of a severed finger. Blood covered the bottom of the envelope. Thick, brown stains were smeared across the finger.
Simone threw the envelope on the table. The finger rolled out. “There you go, Mr. Sicat. There’s your answer. Do you really think that someone who could do this to the vice president of the United States would hesitate to harm your daughter? And for what reason—because I don’t reply fast enough to his demands?”
Simone shook the handwritten sheet of paper. “What do you think is going to happen when I get this to Washington? That they will trust some damned crazy fool hiding God-knows-where in the jungle to keep the vice president alive? And in exchange, move the entire American military presence out of the Philippines? In one day? Well? What the hell do you think, Mr. Sicat? Come on! Do you really think that this Cervante bastard is going to sit by
and let your daughter live?!”
Simone breathed deeply. He now stood a mere six inches from Pompano’s face. The Filipino stood rigidly, unblinking. He seemed to take in all of Simone’s ire.
As Simone continued to stare down at the old man, Pompano’s eyes flickered away from the general. He lowered his gaze. Bruce watched the old man steal a glance at the table, then finally rest his sight on the severed finger.
Simone cocked an eye at Pompano. “Well?”
“The place … it is too well defended. And Cervante has probably deployed the HPM.”
“But you’ve
got
to let us try!”
Pompano shook his head. His eyes started to fill with tears. “My daughter.…”
“She’s dead if you don’t help us.”
“No,” whispered Pompano. “I … can’t.”
Simone stared at Pompano. “Get him the hell out of here and have him interrogated. It’s time to stop screwing around.”
Bruce nudged Pompano. “Come on.” He felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the old man. He didn’t know why he felt that way but then again, he had never had a child, never been in this situation. He didn’t know what he would do if it were his daughter.
As Bruce was leaving, the phone rang. Hendhold answered it. “General, it’s Pacific Air Command.”
Simone didn’t look up from the maps. He growled, “Take a damn message.”
Hendhold spoke quietly, then looked up. “Sir … President Longmire died at eight-twelve in the morning, Washington time. And until the vice president is found, they can’t officially swear in a new President.” Hendhold hesitated. “They want him found. Now. No more excuses.”
Simone glanced up at Bruce and Pompano. His face was gaunt and drawn tight, so that his ebony features stood out. “Well?”
“Your …
President …
is
dead?”
Simone simply nodded. “And if the vice president is rescued … he would become.…”
“Our President, Mr. Sicat. That’s the way we work.”
“If Cervante found this out, he would never give up the vice president.” Pompano wet his lips. He seemed to be thinking something over. He stepped back and glanced at Bruce. “Too many people would be noticed. Cervante would kill both Yolanda and your vice president if he had any warning. Yet …”
Simone approached them. His interest was clearly piqued by Pompano’s suddenly willingness to at least communicate. “What are you thinking?”
“I know where the sensors are located. I can get through the jungle.”
“A small special operations team can accompany you—stay behind you,” Simone interjected. “We’ve got SEALs at Subic who can help.”
“No. Too many people.”
“What the hell do you want?” exploded Simone. “Name it! How many—who? When?”
“One person beside myself.” Pompano turned to Bruce. “You are responsible for Yolanda being there—you will come with me.”
Simone held up a hand. “Wait a minute. He’s a fighter pilot, not a Jungle Joe.”
“Two people can slip through the jungle unseen. I can get us through to the … hiding place. I know how Cervante stakes his guards, and it will be a simple matter to rescue Yolanda and your vice president, then move back out to the jungle.”
“If it’s so damned simple, then why can’t you let some
trained
people go with you? People who know what the hell they’re doing?!”
Pompano shook his head. “I cannot oversee more than one person. I will not allow my daughter to die because of some American’s enthusiasm when rescuing your vice president. And since Cervante has the HPM weapon, you cannot fly in. I know the area.”
Bruce jumped into the foray. “Pompano is right, General. I’ve been through jungle survival, I can handle it. A chopper can drop us off near the hiding place. A few of the air-to-ground guys can give us air support once we rescue the vice president.”
Simone turned to Bruce, astonished. “What in the hell are you talking about, Lieutenant? This isn’t some party you’re going to! It’s rescuing the President of the United States! What are you going to do, waltz in there and
ask
them for Mr. Adleman? You’re not a Rambo; you don’t even have combat experience!”
“It’s our only chance, General,” interrupted Bruce. He felt a sense of justification. Here was a chance to cleanse the error he had made in allowing the vice president’s plane to have been taken down in the first place. He had been personally responsible for
escorting and protecting
the plane … and he had failed. He couldn’t speak fast enough to get all the feelings out: that Yolanda would never have been abducted if it hadn’t been for his persistence in seeing her … in going around Pompano’s back during the last few days of their relationship.…
“All right!”
Simone held up a hand. Bruce fell silent, words still stuck in the back of his throat. Simone studied Bruce and Pompano; his shoulders slumped. “All right, all right. Do it.”
Simone shot a glance at his aide. “Get a Black Hawk ready to take Lieutenant Steele and Mr. Sicat in-country. Scramble Bolte’s wing and have them ready to lay down enough metal to sink this island once Bruce gets Mr. Adleman out.” He was silent for a second. “And get Lutler from Special Ops on the line—have one of his MC-130s get the Fulton system ready.”
Simone turned back to Bruce. “All right—twenty minutes. Get Mr. Sicat out to the flight line; swing by Special Ops for combat vests.” He hesitated. “And Bruce.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The second you get back into the jungle with Adleman—get on the radio. We’re getting him the hell out of there, either with a Fulton pickup or a Black Hawk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major General Simone watched the door slam. His eyes were focused on the ornate wooden door, carved out of monkey wood from the jungles outside of Mactan, at the tiny Air Force station in the southern Islands; but Simone saw nothing. Nothing but the lives of four people hanging on a thin thread of hope.
“General?”
Hendhold was standing by the phone. Hell, that was all the major had been doing the past few hours. Standing by the phone and relaying bad news.
“What is it?”
“Admiral Gresham’s office at Subic. They’re pretty upset at being left out of the Search and Rescue planning.”
“Stall them. Tell ’em we’re trying to pull the Navy planners in on this as soon as we can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simone’s thoughts drifted back to Bruce and Pompano. His mind shifted into high gear. As soon as the Black Hawk let the two down into the jungle, he’d have another reconnaissance run made of the area. The vice president wouldn’t be far away.
Once Simone had the hiding place pinpointed, he knew he could mount his own rescue mission, a
real
mission, with troops who were trained for this type of stuff—SEALs, PJs—and and not just an old man and a fighter pilot. They’d be able to watch the place from a distance, keep an eye on Bruce’s progress—even take out the HPM weapon, if it had been deployed. For if something did happen, Simone swore that he would be right on top of it.
“General? Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Subic isn’t buying it. Even though Admiral Greshan is out with the Fleet, he’s demanding an answer. And sir, he is a four-star.”
Simone pulled in a breath. “I’ll take it.” Time for Hendhold to get some rest—Simone knew that he couldn’t dodge all the crap coming his way.
***
Chapter 20
Friday, 22 June
Clark AFB
Thop thop thop thop.
Helicopter city. Squat, heavy, big ones with camouflage green; medium-sized ones with cold, sleek features; and baby ones with tiny rotors, ones that didn’t even belong to the Americans but existed solely for the Philippine Constabulary.
Everywhere helicopters. They bubbled out of the ground, growing from the black asphalt and multiplying in the rain.
Bruce checked over the pistol and M-16 that had been given to him by the Special Ops Squadron. He was not very proficient in either, knowing only that the gun was a .38-caliber with a silencer. He had shot the M-16 once at the Academy, and again during Jungle Survival School. Bruce was a fair shot, but he knew that if it ever came down to using the weapons, they were in deep trouble.
They gathered their weapons together. Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in the front mirror. Blackened face, camouflaged fatigues, and jungle boots. He had never cared for playing army.
As they walked toward the helicopter, a familiar face appeared at the hatch. “What’s the matter—you like the rain? Hurry up so we can get out of here.”
Bruce brightened at the sight of Captain Head. “Cripes, I couldn’t have asked for a better crew.”
“Come on, Steele, get your ass on board.” Head stayed out of the rain and motioned for the two to hurry.
Bruce swung up into the chopper. He turned to give Pompano a helping hand, but the older man shrugged him off.
Head glanced at the old Filipino. Pompano drew himself up and stared blandly at the helicopter pilot. Head said, “It’s going to be tough navigating in this weather.” He made a motion with his hands. “You understand? The clouds are low, and we can’t see very well. Especially if we get up into the mountains.”
“I understand.”
“Then can you show me where it is we’re going? I’m not crazy about flying into the side of a mountain. This is definitely not VFR conditions.” At Pompano’s blank stare, he said, “VFR—Visual Flight Rules. You know, being able to see where we’re going.”
“I will tell you where to go.”
Head set his mouth. “Look. I understand what you want, but we just can’t do it like that—”
Bruce grabbed Captain Head by the arm and pulled him aside. “Listen, the guy’s a rock. Nothing gets into his brain unless he wants it to. Simone just had a pissing contest with the guy
and lost!
So do what you can, but don’t argue with him.”
“Give me a break—look at the weather, for crying out loud!”
“Do you really think the military would mount a rescue mission with this old fart and
me
if they didn’t have to?”
Captain Richard Head opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and snorted. He threw up his hands “Okay … okay.” He threw a glance at Pompano. “A pissing contest with Simone?”
“Honest.”
A flight-suited man swung up on board and banged on the bulkhead separating the cockpit from the rear of the helicopter. “Ready, ready. Let’s crank it.” Two other men joined the crew—gunners—and sat in the back.
Head settled into his seat. He waved an affirmative to the man. The man turned and cracked a smile at Bruce.
“Howdy, Lieutenant. I’m Zaz, if you need anything. Gotta have ya strap in, if ya would.”
Bruce set his M-16 on the floor and strapped himself into one of the webbed seats. The seats extended down either side of the helicopter. To his right was a hatch, and an automatic weapon hung from a mooring, ready to be swung out the door. The .50-caliber machine gun could be used at either hatch.
The sound of rain was soon overcome by a high whine outside the craft. Bruce recognized the auxiliary power unit. The sound was soon followed by a vibration in the helicopter as the main rotor started up. The rain had left a fresh, washed-out smell throughout the chopper, but that too was replaced by heavy fumes of JP-4 as the craft started vibrating faster.
Bruce leaned back and watched out the side of the craft. He couldn’t see through the rain across the tarmac. His senses seemed abuzz, numbed by a cottony layer.
Thop thop thop thop.
JP-4, the rain, the vibrations—the excitement seemed to catch up with him, fully hit him in the gut, as he realized that it wasn’t just Yolanda that they were going after. Losing the vice president was one thing; hearing that he was now only an oath away from the Presidency was another.
But grasping that he was going to slip through the jungle to rescue him—with the help of an old Filipino with knee problems—made Bruce want to throw up. His stomach lurched. Bruce turned his head and frantically tried to unbuckle, but couldn’t get his fingers moving fast enough. He vomited just as the chopper lifted from the ground.
Seconds later Zaz shook his head as he surveyed the mess on the helicopter floor. “Damned fighter pilots. You can dress ’em up, but you can’t take ’em out.”
Pulled out of a nap, Catman felt like he was still dozing. Colonel Bolte had been terse during the briefing; none of the grab-ass that usually accompanied the pre-flight briefs took place.
Dead serious.
It was the emphasis on “dead” that got Catman worried.…
Orbit at thirty seven thousand feet and wait for the tankers launched from Kadena. You’ll be going in “hot” when the balloon goes up, and it will have to be pure IFR
—
Instrument Flight Rules
—
with the FLIR and LANTIRN. They’ll be taking out the vice president, so if you miss the bad guys on the ground and hit any friendlies, chances are you’ll be taking out the next President of the United States. Any questions? Okay, if nobody screws up then nobody dies. Nobody but the bad guys.
One more thing. You’re not screwing around Crow Valley anymore, hosing down old trucks. This is it, ladies and gentlemen; the real thing. Are there any questions?
FLIR: Forward Looking Infra-Red. That and the LANTIRN navigation and targeting pods had been designed for low visibility. They weren’t made for this weather, and cripes! Especially not with a three-hundred-foot ceiling, pea soup for rain.… And they were supposed to go after an unknown target?!
They picked up their helmets and stepped out into the rain, toward their war birds.
Steamboat Springs, CO
“General, the STE is up. Washington is on the line.”
“Thanks. And shut the door behind you.”
General Newman waited for his aide to leave the communications room. When the news of Longmire’s death broke, a helicopter had been dispatched from Peterson AFB in Colorado Springs to pick up the Chief of Staff. Newman couldn’t be in Washington for another ten hours. A hell of a way to run a war.
“This is General Newman.”
“Dave—Francis Acht.”
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m scheduled to get to Andrews by midnight. General Westschloe at Pacific Air Command is throwing every plane that can make it to Clark out over the Pacific; we’re ferrying in over ten thousand troops from Korea and Japan to aid in the search. By the time I get to Andrews, Clark’s population will have doubled.”
“That’s good. But it’s only a start. Dave—we’ve located the Speaker. He’s jumping at the bit to get something provisional set up.”
“Provisional?”
“That’s right, provisional. The Attorney General balks at doing anything rash, say swearing in the Speaker until Adleman is found—at least until she can get a ruling on this. Dammit, Dave, you guys have
got
to locate him! The lawyers are having a field day interpreting the accession … and no one wants to commit to having the Speaker step in.
“We’re holding back all public announcements until we get a handle on this. We need an answer,
anything
that might indicate that Adleman is still alive.”
Newman interrupted. “General Simone is working the problem, Mr. Secretary. There is a strong lead that he is following, and he has his best people on it now. We’re aware of the situation in Washington; there is just nothing more we can do until we actually find Mr. Adleman.”
Both men avoided calling Adleman the vice president. At this point he was either the President or a dead man. Newman felt as frustrated as Acht, but even more under the gun. Even with the changes in Iran, the Middle East, China and North Korea, the cuts that the military had been seeing for the past decade had started to affect operational capability. A military surge of this magnitude was the first real test that the forces had seen since the second Iraq war.
Acht seemed to settle somewhat. “Keep us informed. Secretary Zeringue isn’t here right now, but he wanted me to pass along that he supports what you’re doing and will meet with you tonight at Andrews.”
The reference to Newman’s boss, the Secretary of Defense, brought a smile to the general. The feisty little Secretary was probably off slashing bureaucrats’ throats. It was the first time that Newman had smiled in the past three hours.
A tap came at the door. “The helicopter is ready, General.”
Newman spoke hurriedly. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. If anything breaks, we’ll keep you informed.”
“Fine. Fine. And General Simone … this lead he’s working on … what are the chances it will work?”
Same as a snowball in hell,
thought Newman.
A damned First Lieutenant fighter pilot and a sixty-year-old-store keeper.
But it was all they had.
“I can’t say, sir. Really can’t say. But Simone says his best men are on the job.”
Outside of Tarlac
“This way.” The old man sitting behind Captain Head pointed to the right. The Black Hawk followed the road two hundred feet above the ground. It reminded Richard Head of a James Bond movie, of the helicopter swinging in behind a car carrying the British secret agent.
Flying this low had led to typical reactions from the ground: people shaking fists at them, young children jumping up and down and waving, startled chickens flapping around the farms. So far there were no unexpected hazards—Gould kept a running commentary from the GPS, flight maps, and radar, singing out whenever they were about to come up to a tower.
Head glanced down at the navigation sensors. The TADS/PNVS—Target Acquisition Sight and Pilot Night Vision Sensor—used forward-looking infrared to assist them in the low visibility. The system was slaved to their line of sight and displayed imagery that allowed them to hug the ground.
Pompano pushed his face right next to Head. He watched a small road as it swept by below. “We are five miles away. You need to land us—quickly.”
“By the road?”
“No. You need to take us over the jungle.” He motioned with his arm at a point to the right.
Head squinted, but could not make out anything more than a mile away. “You want me to take you in there?”
“Yes. But stay away from the dirt road, or you might be heard.”
“I got news for you, gramps,” said Head. “They can probably hear us if we’re three miles away. But after all these search flights, they might not pay attention to us. If that’s where you want to go, I’ll get you there.” Head turned away from the road and banked over the trees. They were only a hundred feet above the tree line; misty shapes of hills rose up, just out of view in the cloud and rain.
“Can you find a clearing?”
“If not, we’ll let you down on the crane. You’d better get on back with Bruce.”
“Aih.”
Pompano unstrapped and moved slowly to the rear of the helicopter.
Head glanced down at the navigation system. Once Pompano had left the cockpit he looked up. There was no clearing, as far as he could see—only the dense growth of trees. Head leaned to Gould. “Craziest thing I’ve ever heard of. It’ll be a miracle if it works.”
“You got it,” said Gould.
At three thousand feet in the clouds, the MC-130 couldn’t be heard on the ground. The dense cloud layer dissipated the sound from the plane’s four engines.
The lack of visibility didn’t prevent the crew from the First Special Operations Squadron from completing their mission. In fact, the cloud layer actually enhanced their ability to do their job—keeping track of the MH-60 Black Hawk flying just below the cloud layer.
Colonel Ben Lutler watched over the shoulders of the two pilots in the cockpit. Outside the cockpit window there was nothing to see—a gray mishmash of formless patterns. It looked like an old, analog black-and-white TV set after the television station has gone off the air.