Strike Eagle (3 page)
And now the Americans were back.
With the population increase came an exponential growth in prostitution, immorality, and other vices. Thousands of Americans filled the streets of Angeles every night—no wonder Angeles had turned out the way it had.
General MacArthur may have had good intentions, but the Philippines might never recover.
Cervante waited outside a small sari-sari store. The same Americans who pumped millions of dollars into the Filipino economy were also responsible for the city’s backwardness. It was unacceptable.
Tired of waiting for the old man, Cervante ground out the cigarette he smoked, salvaged the remaining tobacco and filter, and entered the store.
A long counter ran the length of the store, about two thirds of the way into the building. A door in the rear opened to a back room. Shelves covered every inch of the walls, and items were crammed into every space: food cans, diapers, soap, nails, magazines. Electronic equipment—Japanese flat screens, radios, DVD players, Korean stereos—lined the bottom shelf. A refrigerator guarded the back corner; two cartons of cigarettes were split open.
As Cervante entered, a young woman came from the back. She entered singing along with the latest pop song blasting from the radio. On the counter lay one of the digest-sized weekly magazines, printed in English, that listed the words of all the Top One Hundred songs. No music, just words. Most of the songs were American.
The girl spotted Cervante and stopped singing. She lowered her eyes.
Cervante asked tightly. “Where is Pompano?”
“Father … is not here.”
The young woman was a master of the obvious. “Do you know when he will return?”
She shook her head and kept silent.
Cervante studied her. Yolanda was almost too tall and light-skinned to pass for a native Filipino. At five feet seven, she towered a good half foot above her peers. Yolanda’s high cheekbones, soft dark hair, and long legs distinguished her from other Filipinos.
Cervante turned away from the young woman. Pompano was lucky that the sari-sari store was deep within the city, far enough away from “B-street”—the ubiquitous bar girl district—that Americans would not frequent it. Otherwise, Yolanda was pretty enough to draw the military men like bees to honey. And that would never do.
Cervante had started to leave a message for Pompano when Yolanda placed her hands on the counter.
“Father!”
A short, graying man hobbled in. He dragged one foot slightly behind the other but carried himself with dignity. His eyes lit up. “Hello, Little One.” They both laughed at his greeting. Cervante kept quiet at the obvious absurdity.
Before they said anything else, Yolanda gestured with her eyes toward Cervante. Pompano swung around. He nodded tightly, then without looking to his daughter said, “Yolanda, San Miguel and water.”
As she turned toward the refrigerator, Pompano took Cervante’s arm and led the younger man outside. Pompano leaned heavily on Cervante as they made their way to a table just outside the door.
“I wish I could have stayed to see what you seized during the raid. Have you appropriated enough supplies?”
Cervante nodded slightly. “Yes, and more.”
Pompano raised his eyebrows. Cervante leaned closer, and was about to speak when Yolanda came out of the store. She carried a San Miguel beer, grasping the brown bottle in one hand and carrying a glass of water in the other. She set the drinks on the table.
“Salamat po,”
smiled her father. He waved her away. “Go rest in the back, Yolanda—I will watch the front. Go on, we are just speaking man-talk.”
“Thank you, Father.” Ignoring Cervante as she left.
Which was fine with Cervante. Pompano Sicat was a good man and had his roots firmly entrenched in the movement. As long as Pompano kept his daughter separated from the Huks, Cervante had no qualms. It had been an integral part of his intensive training: a strong delineation between pleasure and business.
Cervante took a sip of his water.
“We have appropriated more than enough supplies to accomplish our goals. We can change the way we operate, expand our activities, and increase our power. There are several plantations in the mountains that will serve well as a base camp, a permanent place to extend the revolution.”
Pompano looked tired. “Cervante, is not my store good enough? From here we can ship people and supplies to any place on Luzon, without attracting attention. I am a clearinghouse, a way station for the Huks—not just your New People’s Army faction.” He waved his hand around, motioning to the street. “I have served this way for years and no one even suspects I am involved with the Huks—not even my very daughter! The store provides the perfect alibi.”
Cervante’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, but in the shadow of the Americans. We have to watch everything we do. In the mountains we can build a true base, where we will not have to fear the damn Americans and PC everywhere we turn.”
“What about the Huks in Angeles? You want to reorient our entire focus?”
“That is right! We can either stay small, forever nipping at the government’s heels, or we can seize the opportunity to grow, to make an impact.”
Pompano held up a hand. “I agree, Cervante. It appears that we have an opportunity to grow, but that may be a
bad
thing.” He smiled. “We will not decide today. This needs discussion, time to evolve, so we may grow and proceed carefully.”
“And if we take too much time, the opportunity will pass us by.” Cervante felt his face grow hot.
Pompano spoke softly. “We must seize the proper opportunity. Take me to the supply cache and we will discuss the options.”
Cervante started to retort, but a group of children, all dressed in their school uniform of white shirts and dark pants, crossed the busy street and entered the store. They called out to Yolanda as they entered.
Cervante kept his mouth shut, angry at Pompano’s cool reception of his news.
That is what happens when the founding member of a Huk cell grows old,
he thought. Too set in his ways, he spurns change. He had been immersed in the details for so long that he had forgotten what the overall goal of the Huks entailed.
First established as rebel activists after World War II, the Huks had fought against the cruel plantation owners who dotted the Luzon jungles, trying to topple the system oppressing the people. The Huks gained a wide range of notoriety and were even applauded for their democratic goals. But after the plantation owners had capitulated and the major Huk officers had surrendered to the PC, there still remained a dedicated core, a cadre of Huks that wanted reform.
The most famous, and most touted since it supported the Marcos government’s anti-socialist movement, was the radical pro-Communist file that had emerged within the Huks—the New People’s Army. Living in the mountains and striking fear into people’s hearts, this group received most of the press. And it was this group that was the most hated and sought after, since the free world had been programmed to react with a knee-jerk, froth-at-the-mouth reaction at even the mention of Communism.
Pompano had been instrumental in starting the first Huk cell in Angeles City. No other cell was close to an American military base. It was this closeness that had attracted Cervante to this particular cell. But Pompano was an old man, using old ideas to pursue old goals—he was content to steal from the Americans, support the vast black market that infected Clark.
As Cervante studied the man, Yolanda walked out with the group of children. She bid the children farewell, laughing at their joking, then brushed back her hair before heading back inside. Cervante caught Pompano’s attention and nodded to the store.
“Are you worried about your daughter, taking her up to the mountains?”
“Yolanda? She will attend the university in Quezon City later this year. She will not get involved in this. She knows nothing and suspects nothing.” He set his bottle down. “As far as she is concerned, you and I are members of the Friends of Bataan, sharing a common link in our country’s history by building war memorials in the countryside.”
Cervante picked up his glass and swirled it around before draining it. “That is good. Very good. I must travel—” He hesitated, wondering briefly if he should let the old man know where he was going, but decided against it. The meeting with Kawnlo must remain secret.
“I must travel, but I will be back Sunday. When can we next meet? I will know then when I can take you to the mountains.”
Silence, then: “Monday, after the weekend.”
Cervante stood. “Good. Meet me in front of the Skyline Hotel—eight o’clock at night.” He looked toward the door and saw the shadow of Yolanda’s lithe figure and a feeling stirred inside him. Some time would elapse before his return.
***
Chapter 2
Friday, 1 June
Clark Air Base
Sweat rolled off Bruce’s forehead. The humidity was as high as in a sauna.
Jet engines roared behind him. From the deep pitch it sounded like a C-5, one of the giant transports that flew into Clark. Without any wind, the heat was even more unbearable. He could see the colonel, waiting by the staff car, hands on hips—ready to have Bruce’s butt for flying upside down on final approach.
Bruce felt a gentle push against his back. Charlie spoke urgently. “Let’s move ... I gotta go.”
Charlie squeezed around him at the top of the stairs, holding his helmet in one hand and his flight bag in the other. Unfastened from the helmet, Charlie’s mask bounced against the stairs, looking like a miniature elephant’s trunk as it dangled free.
Bruce swung his flight bag up and followed. As he climbed down the stairs he noticed that a small crowd had gathered around Skipper’s fighter, Maddog One. They stood watching Bruce’s aircraft.
Oh well,
thought Bruce.
It’s not like I haven’t been chewed out before.
He braced himself for the tirade to come. It was something he had learned to endure at the Air Force Academy—thank God he had gotten something out of the arduous training. He had a dim memory of his fourth-class, or freshman year.
Doolies,
they had called them, meaning
slaves,
in Greek. The first year had been bad enough, but the worst was Hell Week—a seventy-two-hour period that made every doolie wish he were dead. It had begun with a special ceremony. The doolies had been ordered to wear their sharpest dress uniforms and line up in a row in the hall with their noses to the wall. After what seemed to be an hour, the strains of
Also sprach Zarathustra
—the
2001
theme—rumbled down the hall, accompanied by the sound of marching upperclassmen.
The command was given—”Fourthclassmen, about face!”—and the screaming started. Each doolie had been assigned a special “mentor”—an upperclassman whose sole purpose in life was to ensure that the doolie’s life was made as miserable as possible during Hell Week.
Except that Bruce’s mentor was nowhere to be seen. Still looking straight ahead and oblivious to the shouting around him, Bruce momentarily thought that they had forgotten him. After all, as a starting defensive back for the varsity football team as a freshman, Bruce had not seen much of the usually unavoidable hazing.
Then Bruce remembered that the meanest upperclassman had also been the shortest.
Bruce looked down—right into the eyes of Cadet First Class Ping. Standing barely five feet tall, Cadet Ping glared up at Bruce. “Well, Steele, it is about time you look down. Now you really going to eat shit!”
The experience had been a coda to an already formidable year, but it had prepared him for the blastings to come. To be indifferent, not to take it personally, and not to crack.
So no matter how bad this colonel was, Bruce knew that the sun was going to rise tomorrow morning.
Really.
Charlie was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. As Bruce turned he kept a stony face, then they started for the colonel, fifty feet away. Bruce was taller than Charlie by a good six inches, but they fell into step as they left the plane. It was something every military man naturally dropped into, even if they tried to stay
out
of step—phase-locking, the phenomenon was called, just as pendulum clocks located across a room would start beating together.
“Afternoon, sir,” saluted Charlie. His voice sounded pleasant, masking any emotion he might have felt.
The colonel let them stand at attention, holding the salute. His name tag was now visible—bolte, read Bruce.
Slowly he removed his glasses. His blond hair fit the rest of the man perfectly: blue eyes, a deep tan, and a wiry build. He had a fighter pilot’s look about him, decided Bruce—cautious, almost catlike.
“Just … what … in … the …
hell
are you trying to do, young man? Buy the farm … before you even land?”
The question was rhetorical. Bruce and Charlie still held their salutes.
Colonel Bolte dropped his hands, then whipped up a quick salute. Bruce and Charlie hit the side of their flight suits at the same time as they brought their hands down.
Bolte glanced at their name tags. “Captain Fargassa, you listen to what I have to say to your aircraft commander,
Lieutenant
Steele. This upside-down crap on final will cease as of
now.
Next time he tries one of those stupid-ass maneuvers, just remember that it’s your butt on the line. He dies, you die too. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bolte paused, then turned his attention to Bruce.
Bruce’s face was emotionless. He stared straight ahead, unblinking.
Bolte set his mouth. “Well, well. The famous Lieutenant Steele. Your reputation precedes you, Son. And to think Clark Air Base just about didn’t get to see you. Flying in the jungle is unlike anywhere else. Winds come out of nowhere, thermals pop up, clear-air microbursts—this isn’t Luke Air Force Base, Lieutenant. You aren’t flying your bird above the desert, keeping the commies out of Phoenix. If the weather doesn’t get you, then some Huk sitting in a tree might decide to take a potshot at your jet. And if he’s lucky he just might hit you—go through your canopy and ruin some poor girl’s day.
“Clark has seen your type, Steele, and I tell you, we don’t want you.
I
don’t need you. With the new treaty, we have to rotate our fighters in and out of here—we can’t afford mistakes. You might be the best stick coming out of the F-15E program, but there’s one thing I want to make perfectly clear:
Dead …
pilots …
don’t …
win …
wars.
Got that? If you die, you aren’t any good to me. Not only would you have wasted over a million dollars of good taxpayers’ money spent training you, you would have destroyed one of America’s top-line fighters. And that’s the only reason I’m in this job, to win one if the balloon goes up. None of my boys died in Iraq, and none are going to die here. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Bruce’s reply was quick, curt.
Smooth sailing,
thought Bruce.
This isn’t bad at all.
And that crack about his reputation preceding him—did the wing commander know about Bruce’s winning the Robbie Risner award, given to the top graduate of the Fighter Weapons School?
“Next time you think about doing anything foolish, remember your reputation. You
still
piss off every grad who watched that Notre Dame game. You’re marked as a hot dog.” Bolte pulled back. “Welcome to Clark, gentlemen.” He turned for the staff car.
Charlie whispered, “Got off easy there, Assassin. I was expecting him to bite down on our butts and get lockjaw. But we got away with no teeth marks, much less blood loss. Now let’s get going—I’m up to my eyeballs in piss.”
Sweat ran down Bruce’s face, and he was tired as hell. Why did it seem so friggin’ hard to breathe? It had to be the humidity. They walked toward the bus.
As they approached, a short, overweight captain dressed in a Nomex flight suit stepped from the bus. He nodded as Charlie pushed past him.
“Foggy.”
“Hey, Skipper. Nice to be on the ground.”
“Yeah. We’ll get you to the pisser as soon as Assassin gets his ass in gear.”
Charlie smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
Skipper turned to Bruce. “Just a minute, Assassin.” He steered the younger man by the elbow away from the bus.
Skipper was Captain Thorin Olsen’s call sign, given to the man the year he was in pilot training at Vance AFB. Olsen was a dead-ringer for “Skipper” on the old TV program
Gilligan’s Island:
paunchy, a gleam in his eye, and good-natured. But at that moment Skipper’s face wore an expression of pain.
“I guess he spoke to you about your stunt.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Colonel Bolte—the Wing Commander, I guess.”
“Yeah, the wing commander. For crying out loud, that’s the one guy who could have your ass in a sling, Assassin. Don’t screw around with him.”
A redheaded man leaned out the bus window. “Hey, Skipper, Assassin—either crap or get off the pot. Foggy’s about to pop.”
Skipper slapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Let’s move. I don’t want Foggy to hose down the crew bus.”
Bruce followed Skipper onto the bus. As soon as they were on board the vehicle started off.
Skipper stood in the aisle and read out loud from a sheet of paper given to him by the bus driver. He held on to a rail that ran the length of the bus.
“All right, listen up. After Foggy relieves himself, we’ve been booked into the Q for the next few nights.” “Q” was short for VOQ, or the Visiting Officers’ Quarters. “The Housing Office has arranged appointments for us tomorrow, and you married guys will attend some additional briefings.” He stopped reading as the bus rounded a corner—on two wheels, it seemed, from the Filipino driver’s speed. “And congratulations on a safe trip. Beers are on me tonight. I’ll show you the sights downtown.”
The boys roared their approval—except for Charlie, who sat at the edge of his seat with a pained look on his face.
Angeles City
Cervante sat alone in his apartment, smoking a cigarette and staring at a blank wall. He didn’t know the time, or how long he had been sitting, thinking. His ashtray was spilling over and an empty pack of cigarettes lay at his feet.
He looked past the bare apartment wall, and remembered … the cold Korean nights; sloughing through the mud on a training mission; holding his hands over a fire and smelling the burning flesh, yet denying the pain.…
And all the time his master, Yan Kawnlo, silently watching the training. Observing as Cervante grew wise in the ways of a true freedom fighter.
Cervante had trained with the best. And now he was preparing to return for the final time, to gather the wisdom of his master.
He crushed out his cigarette. Tomorrow he would fly out from Manila, and within a week he would be ready to move against the Americans.
Clark AB
Two taxis pulled up to the Visiting Officers’ Quarters and honked their horns. Half of Maddog Flight spilled out of the VOQ and made for the cars.
“They dragged me along,” Charlie mumbled.
“Designated driver,” said Skipper as he raced by.
“With taxis?” But Charlie’s protests went unheard.
Bruce waited for his backseater before heading to the cars. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”
Charlie nodded. “You heard him. I guess they need someone to keep them out of trouble.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ve been there before.”
“You bring anything to keep you busy?”
Charlie pulled a paperback book out of his back pocket. “I don’t plan on getting much read if I have to ride herd on you guys.”
Bruce squinted at the title. It was written by some guy named Toynbee. Oh, well—to each his own. One thing though: It was nice to have Charlie around when the Flight got ripped. One cool head in the midst of an alcohol-induced fog was well worth it.
As they approached the Skipper’s taxi, a shock of red hair whizzed by. “Dibs on the front seat!” Ed Holstrom—Catman, by his call sign, ostensibly because he was such a smooth operator—slid in the front seat next to the driver. His red hair and freckled face made him look more like a teenager than a fighter pilot.
Bruce shrugged and moved to the back with Skipper.
The Filipino driver slapped the wheel with both of his hands, enjoying the exchange. He was making money just sitting still.
After Charlie squeezed in the back, a face appeared by Charlie’s window. Steve Garcioni—Robin, Catman’s backseater and right-hand man—pushed his face up against the glass, squashing his nose and cheeks while keeping his mouth open; his tongue made crazy patterns.
Skipper called out, “Where are the girls and the rest of the guys?”
Robin rolled his eyes. “The married ones? Probably writing letters home.”
“Come on, let’s go,” urged Catman. Robin squeezed in and pushed Catman next to the driver.
“Okay. Tell that other driver he’s not needed.
”
Soon, all five officers and the driver were barreling down Mitchell Highway toward Friendship Gate.
The group hadn’t even begun to drink, but from the yelling and laughing it sounded as if all the passengers had been soused for a week.
When they stopped,
the taxi driver bowed several times at the waist, grinning as he collected his fare and tip. The men were deposited at the gate, the portal to Angeles City, since the American-owned taxis were forbidden to leave the base. And for a very good reason. More often than not, the taxi would keep heading out into the country after the party had been dropped off, only to wind up in some barrio or have its parts stripped in Manila.
Bruce followed Skipper to the pedestrian gate. Cars streamed in and out of the base through the four-lane road next to them. It sounded like a carnival outside the gate—laughing, children jabbering. Skipper turned to the group and held up his wallet.
“First lesson, gentlemen, is to keep your wallet in your front pocket at all times. You’re going to be bumped every which way but loose out here.”
As they entered Angeles City they were swarmed by a sea of brown bodies. Bruce was put off at first—something was missing, and he couldn’t quite tell what it was. The five plowed through the crowd toward a string of gaily painted jeeps. They moved like icebreakers, pushing aside the flow of people.
And then it hit Bruce what was wrong.
All five of the officers stood a good six inches to a full foot above the crowd. And the crowd were men and women,
not
children for the most part, all clamoring for their attention: “Say, Joe—my sister a virgin, short time, no?”
“Ten pesos will blow you away, Joe!”
“Blue Seal Special, you sell, Joe?”
“Here down the street—long time, short time, just what you need!”
No one grabbed at his wallet, but there was a constant pushing that crowded the bodies against him.
Skipper reached the jeeps first. The one he picked was elongated, painted in wild day-Day-Glo colors. The back was open and had long seats running down both sides. Skipper bartered with the driver.