Strike Eagle (28 page)

But on the console, a color-enhanced display showed the MH-60 Black Hawk in astonishing detail. An elongated pod fastened to one of the MC-130’s wings held an upgraded AN/AAQ-18 Adverse Weather Vision System, a microcomputer-controlled radar and next generation infra-red surveillance device. The back of the MC-130 was crammed full of navigation, surveillance, and electronic counter-measure gear, enough high-tech weaponry to sizzle equipment for miles around.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Minutes earlier, the Black Hawk had turned sharply over the jungle and started to slow. When it started to hover over a part of the jungle, Lutler bit his tongue and waited for the MC-130 aircraft commander to pull the plane into a tight orbit.

The EWOs—Electronic Warfare Officers—sat in the back of the craft and kept the AN/AAQ-18 trained on the helicopter. The EWOs were specialists in the electro-optical bells and whistles hanging off the airframe. They could listen to a radio signal and tell what kind of gear was transmitting it, where it was, and what they had to do to take it out. They were known as “wizards,” and were treated as such.

When the MC-130 banked into a turn, the console continued to display the chopper.

“This is it.” The pilot turned to Lutler. “What do you think, sir? We’ll track Lieutenant Steele once the Black Hawk lets him off, both on IR and the GPS chip he’s wearing. Should we start trying to pin down their destination?”

“Yeah. But don’t broadcast where they’re going if we find it. There’s a flight of F-15Es orbiting six miles above us, just itching to roll in and take out the bad guys. We want to make damn sure the vice president is out before we call them in.”

“Rog.” The pilot turned and spoke over the intercom to the rear of the craft. “EWO, pilot. Do a sweep search on buildings near the Black Hawk.”

“That’s a rog. We’ll get you a list soonest.”

Lutler settled back in his chair. The wizard had spoken. In minutes they should have a fix on the vice president’s location. If it was close by, another few hours and they’d be ready for the pickup.

Outside of the cockpit window the two-pronged fork of the Fulton Recovery System was invisible in the clouds. The concept was simple: A person on the ground would strap into a harness and deploy a balloon; the balloon would lift up a cord for the MC-130 to snag. The person on the ground would be jerked into the air and hauled into the Combat Talon.

The only problem was they’d have to come down out of the clouds before they attempted a recovery.

It should be a piece of cake.

Right.…

“This is it!” Zaz unbuckled and stood in the back of the Black Hawk. Bruce fumbled with the straps. He checked over his combat and survival vest for the tenth time. Two long clips of ammunition fit over his shoulder. He thought momentarily about leaving the extra bullets behind, but they did give him a sense of security.

Grabbing his M-16 he stood and joined Zaz. The two gunners remained in the back of the craft. Zaz swung a winch out from the bulkhead and positioned it near the hatch. The Black Hawk hovered a good twenty feet over the top of the trees. Zaz turned to Bruce and yelled over the
thop thop thop
of helicopter blades.

“Know how to do this?”

“Roger that.” Bruce remembered being lifted up through the jungle at the end of survival training. The last thing he had seen was Abuj, his dark face silently watching him being hoisted away. Bruce wished that he had the small Negrito with him now.

Pompano stepped from the cockpit. Zaz led the old man up to the penetrator seat.

“This will take you through the trees and get you to the ground. Sit on this seat, and keep your arms and legs in tight. Lieutenant Steele will help you off once you get down. Are there any questions?” Pompano shook his head. Zaz turned to Steele. “Ready, sir?”

Bruce stepped up to the penetrator. Zaz helped him to climb on. The device looked like a long pole that flared out and back again. Bruce sat on the flared section and wrapped his arms and legs around the pole. The penetrator had enough weight to push through the thick jungle foliage, and still offer Bruce protection from the branches.

Zaz put his mouth next to Bruce’s ear. “We’ll drop the Fulton pack when you give us the signal after the rescue. You’ll have that option if you can’t find a clearing for us to get you out. Got your radios? GPS?” Bruce nodded and patted his survival vest. “After we let you off, Captain Head will return to base for refueling—we can’t do an air-to-air in this weather. We’ll be back up here in an hour. All you’ve got to do is call. We’ll know where you are: there’s an MC-130H tracking you.”

“Right.” Bruce swung the M-16 over his shoulder and grasped the penetrator. He took a deep breath. “Let’s get it over with.” He knew that they were being watched from a MC-130, but he didn’t want Pompano to know just how
closely
they were being tracked.

Zaz started the winch. The penetrator swung off the floor and over to the hatch. Bruce moved out of the helicopter. The rain immediately soaked his fatigues. The wind came straight down, washed down from the rotors. Suspended in air, he swung back and forth, as if on a huge pendulum. He looked straight ahead, and could tell he was getting closer to the jungle.

Seconds later the foliage enveloped Bruce; green, wet, wood smells enveloped his senses. He couldn’t see the ground. A branch flipped up and ran across his body. There were crashing sounds of tree limbs breaking—he thought everyone would hear them descend.

The bottom of the penetrator hit. The jungle was a morass of greenery, moss, leaves, shrubs, tree trunks, branches, all jumbled together. Bruce waited a second to see which way the penetrator would fall, then he leapt out …

He hit a tree, stumbled backward, and twisted his right foot. He crashed through a thicket of plants, finally coming to rest on the ground. He waited a full second before moving. His face stung where the exploding heads-up display had cut him earlier in the morning.

He pushed up off the ground, covered in mud. He tried to rock back, but putting weight on his right foot caused him to wince. He fell to the side. With a hand he pushed himself up, then sat on a large rock to examine his boot. His foot wasn’t broken, but when he tried to put weight on it again, it stung like crazy—great, probably sprained.

The penetrator remained on the jungle floor, dormant. Bruce pushed up and wobbled over to the blunt device. He pulled twice on the line and jumped back on one leg. The line tightened, then pulled the penetrator back up. A mass of leaves rained down as the penetrator disappeared through the jungle canopy.

Bruce quickly plopped down. He rummaged through his survival vest and pulled out a thick wind of bandage. He tightened the laces on his boots, then wrapped the bandage around his ankle on the outside of the boot.

He could barely hear the helicopter, which lifted his spirits. If he had a hard time detecting the Black Hawk, the bad guys would too.

It didn’t take long for the penetrator to reappear. Bruce heard the crashing noise from behind him. He favored his right foot and moved through the dense growth. He found that by zigzagging around the larger plants, he could make good time.

He spotted the penetrator right before it hit. “Jump!”

Pompano pushed off backward and landed with an “Ooof!” He immediately bounced up. Bruce hobbled up.

“Are you all right?”

“Aih.”
Pompano narrowed his eyes and looked Bruce over, but didn’t say a word.

Bruce shifted the M-16 to his left hand. “Okay—where do we go?”

Pompano pulled a compass from his pocket. It was tied to his pants. He consulted the instrument, then nodded with his head. “This way.” He smoothed his vest and started off.

Bruce shrugged. How Pompano was going to navigate without any landmarks was a mystery to him. The old man had perhaps spotted something while still in the air. Be that as it may, Pompano was a good fifteen feet away by now, and would soon disappear in the jungle if Bruce didn’t keep up with him.

The White House

“Mr. Salazar, Ed Hoi from Fox News. There has been a news blackout at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. Any comment?”

Salazar raised his eyebrows. “News blackout? I don’t follow you.”

“Blackout: a clampdown. Our correspondent covering the vice president’s arrival has not reported in, and we’re unable to raise him, or anybody at Clark for that matter. In light of the President’s death, would you care to comment?”

Salazar spread his hands. “I don’t know.”

“Mr. Salazar! CNN has the same problem!”

“
Los Angeles Times
.…”

“NBC!”

“
Washington Post
.…”

“Mr. Salazar!”

“Salazar!”

Charlie minus twenty thousand over Tarlac

Major Kathy Yulok hated flying this close to the ground.

Her SR-73 was relaying intelligence data to Clark in an attempt to pinpoint the location of the high-power microwave weapon. With a three-meter dish, the weapon should be clearly visible with the visual, IR, hyperspectral and SAR equipment she carried. And with the other electronic sensors on her craft, if the HPM was anywhere near a power supply she’d be able to detect it as well.

But if the HPM device was down there, it must be squirreled away.

Kathy checked her fuel. The gauge looked low again; she had already refueled twice. A KC-10A tanker orbited three thousand feet below her. She decided to tank up and get back to Kadena. If the HPM weapon was not deployed, there was nothing more she could do.

Tarlac

Cervante watched Adleman, waiting until the vice president awoke. The plantation’s front room had a long picture window that looked out over the front yard. The jungle circled around the yard, a good quarter of a mile away. Through the drizzle, Cervante could barely see the single road that led from the plantation.

Cervante sat in a leather chair. The vice president’s briefcase was next to Cervante. Adleman and Yolanda were at opposite ends of a long couch. The girl was curled up there, watching him without making a sound. Adleman’s head was thrown back against the couch. He moaned slightly and moved his head from side to side. Barguyo was the only other person in the room. He had delivered the ultimatum to Clark.

Twenty-four hours!
thought Cervante.
By then either the vice president will be dead, or the Americans will be preparing to leave.
The thought almost made him intoxicated, cocky with power.

To think—a simple matter of bringing down a plane!
He
owned the jungle! For years the Huks had done what they wanted, always escaping the token resistance of the Philippine Constabulary.

Moving into the plantation had been a masterstroke. No one would think of searching for them here. And even if someone stumbled across the mountain hideaway, the sensors he had planted would give him ample time to escape into the jungle.

Adleman’s life was truly in his hands.

Adleman stirred. His eyes fluttered open. He pulled his right hand toward him. Heavily bandaged, the hand was useless. Adleman tried to sit up, but it seemed to cause him too much pain.

Yolanda glanced at Adleman, then swung her gaze back to Cervante. She reminded Cervante of a trapped animal, cowering in fear of its life.

Cervante smiled at Adleman. “Mr. Vice President. I am glad that you are awake. I wanted to thank you for helping us get rid of the American bases.”

Adleman’s eyes seemed almost ready to glaze over. But he met Cervante’s gaze and stared back. “I … will do nothing … to help you.” His voice was hoarse.

“No? Then what about your finger? Surely you remember what happened. That was but a small sign of what will happen to you if your President does not remove your troops.”

Adleman drew in a breath. He seemed to notice the briefcase, but didn’t say anything. He coughed, kept his eyes fixed on Cervante. “You’re crazy.”

“We will learn shortly just how valuable your life is to your fellow countrymen. You Americans have such a funny way of showing your allegiance to your comrades. The Romans’
Pax Romana
lasted for years because one murdered Roman citizen would lead to a hundred tortures. But you Americans …” Cervante shook his head. “You will allow a hundred of your countrymen to be kidnapped, and yet do nothing in return. So we will see. If your President thinks we are bluffing”—he shrugged—“then we simply deliver your dead body to them.”

“That’s … insane.” Adleman coughed. “What have you to gain if you kill me? You … lose your bargaining chip.”

“Oh,” smiled Cervante. “We would first want them to consider carefully what they were about to do.” He motioned with his head to Barguyo. The boy stood and walked up to the couch. He held a small camera, and took several pictures of Adleman and Yolanda, sitting back expressionless on the couch.

Cervante spoke to Adleman, as if with an afterthought. “The girl … I was planning on using her to ensure our safety if we were stopped on our way here. But since no one stopped us, there is even a better use for her. If we have not heard from your people in twelve hours, these pictures of the two of you will reach Clark. Yolanda will accompany the pictures. She will be in, shall we say, not very good shape, when she arrives—if she is alive at all. Your President will have plenty of reason to believe that we will carry out our threat.”