Strike Eagle (36 page)
“Bruce.”
Bruce turned. Pompano’s face was bloodied and his left arm hung limp by his side. But in his right hand he held the pistol given to him by the First Special Operations Squadron—the thirty-eight with a silencer.
Pompano motioned with the gun. “Bruce … leave your vice president alone.”
“What?”
“Move away.”
Bruce reached out and placed a hand on the Black Hawk’s fuselage. It was not hot to the touch, so he supported himself. “Pompano … we’re through.…”
The roar of a jet rolled over the clearing. A volley of bullets from the strafing fighter’s cannon tore into the house and jungle, taking out the rest of the vehicles that had been untouched. The jet engines echoed throughout the area, finally dying with deep reverberations.
Bruce glanced at the chopper. “Pompano—the helicopter will explode! We’ve got to get him out of here!” Pompano simply clicked back the trigger. “Pompano! For God’s sake, why? After all this …
why?!”
The Filipino spoke softly. “I only went with you to save my daughter. She is safe.”
“But the vice president!”
“No—he is your
President
now. And what do you think your Chief Executive will do about the Philippines when he takes office? Be kind to them and pull your bases out, because he was mistreated?” Pompano shook his head. “I assure you, if Adleman lives, the bases will stay. This whole event will only convince him of the necessity of keeping an American presence.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Why did you help rescue him?”
“I have already told you—to save my daughter.” Pompano’s eyes grew misty.
“But to let Adleman die …”
“… would surely convince most Americans, your
public,
that the Philippines are not worth their while, not worth the billions they are spending here. For if your President is not safe here, then no other American would be safe.”
Bruce stared. He drew in a breath. “I can’t allow you—”
Pompano motioned with his head. “Move away from the helicopter.”
Yolanda’s voice interrupted them. “Father.”
Pompano kept the pistol trained on Bruce. “Yolanda—get back.”
“No, Father.” Bruce swung his eyes to where she stood. She held a rifle, the one the sniper had used, and it was pointed at Pompano. Her father. “Father—don’t make me use this.”
“Yolanda—you do not know what you are doing!”
“Yes I do. Leave Bruce alone.”
Pompano hesitated. “Little one … Think of the future of your land, your people.”
“I
am,
Father. This … this is a different world now. We cannot go back to the old ways. I have seen this vice president suffer. He tried to make them stop
using
me.
My
people raped me … not the Americans.”
Pompano took a step backward. “Yolanda, little one. You don’t know what this will do to us. The chance this gives us …”
“Put down the gun, Father.”
“I cannot … This is my life.”
Yolanda’s voice wavered. “Father?”
They stared at each other. Bruce tested his leg. If he’d been in better shape he’d have leapt at the old man, tried to take away the gun.
Pompano whispered. “I can’t, Yolanda.” He turned back to Bruce and raised the gun slightly.
Yolanda screamed. “No!” Her rifle wavered.
Bruce leaned to the left, onto his good leg.…
He fell to the ground and rolled to the side, away from the helicopter. Three shots rang out. A bullet tore into Bruce’s arm. It felt like someone had taken a hot needle and jabbed it straight through his flesh. Another bullet whizzed by his head, spraying mud.
He grabbed his arm and rolled over, expecting to be finished off.
Nothing.
Bruce peered up. Yolanda stood with her hands over her mouth. Pompano grimaced. Bent over, he gripped his leg where Yolanda had shot him.
Bruce started to push up.
Yow!
Between the arm and his right ankle, he was falling apart.
He hobbled into the helicopter, stepping over the bottom edge of the hatch.
Peering around the edge of the cockpit, he saw Gould and Head strapped into their seats, night-vision goggles in place. A line of blood ran from Head’s mouth.
A moan came from the back.
Bruce tried pulling himself into the craft, but couldn’t make it with one arm. He hopped around to the back and looked inside.…
Crumpled up against the corner, one of the gunners and Vice President Adleman were pushed under the troop seat that ran down the length of the back. Bruce reached in and grabbed Adleman’s arm. The vice president groaned.
It took Yolanda’s help, but ten minutes later, Gould and Adleman were lying at the edge of the jungle. Bruce pulled Pompano away from the others. All three were still alive.
They left Captain Head’s, Zaz’s, and the two gunners’ bodies by the helicopter.
Bruce held Yolanda with his left arm. They sat, quietly watching the Black Hawk burn. They had sat for only a few moments before the helicopter exploded, sending a thick fireball rolling up into the air.
A minute later, a fleet of eight HH-3 Jolly Green Giants swooped down into the clearing. A cadre of Navy SEALs thundered out of the helicopters and fanned out into the clearing.
They found Bruce and Yolanda sitting mute and holding hands.
***
Postlude
0225 Monday, 3 December
En-route to Travis AFB, CA
Zero-dark early.
It was the middle of the night, but Bruce was wide awake. The giant C-5 aircraft felt motionless as it flew over the Pacific Ocean. The lights in the passenger chamber were down low, and most of the people around him slept.
He pulled out the telegram for the hundredth time and read over the text, an OFFICIAL USE ONLY e-mail:
CAPTAIN BRUCE STEELE 3rd TFS/3rd TFW/13th AF CLARK AFB PI
1. SUBJECT APPOINTED SPECIAL ASSISTANT TO THE AIR ATTACHE, REPUBLIC OF THE PHILIPPINES. PERMANENT CHANGE OF STATION TO QUEZON CITY, P. I. AUTHORIZED.
2. IMMEDIATE ASSIGNMENT AUTHORIZED WITH ONE (1) MONTH LEAVE EN ROUTE BEFORE REPORT DATE OF NOT-LATER-THAN 1 JANUARY.
MILITARY PERSONNEL COMMAND 376
Quezon City!
Yolanda had written several times since she had left for school, some three months before. She had said her father was still bitter, but improving. Now he would be in the same city.…
It had taken her months to gain the courage to speak to him again. She had sought professional help, and Bruce hadn’t wanted to push the relationship, to force her to move too fast. They both had a lot to sort out, but things were definitely looking up.
Bruce wasn’t naive enough to think the assignment was purely out of Military Personnel Command’s benevolent nature; he saw President Adleman’s hand in his assignment. A phone call three weeks before from the President had ended with the statement: “You can have any assignment you want.”
The political-social circle would call for some adjustment—dinners, formal uniforms, hob-knobbing with the elite.
No more throwing beer bottles, that’s for sure.
Catman had had a fit, thinking Bruce could get the whole flight assigned to the new Advanced Tactical Fighter follow-on undergoing testing at Edwards; all of them but Skipper and Panther, that is.
Bruce drew in a breath.
Skipper, Panther, Head, Zaz, and the two helicopter gunners.
The Americans were lucky to get off with only six casualties. No telling how many more would have died if Skipper hadn’t taken out the HPM weapon. Bruce had spent some time with Skipper and Panther’s families, and even though it had been six months, he still broke up when he thought of the children they’d left behind.
Bruce tried to push those memories from his mind.
One month leave.
Charlie and Nanette were picking him up at Travis AFB in northern California. Palo Alto was only a three-hour drive. He looked forward to catching up with Charlie. Too bad he’d had to take that medical discharge, but Nanette’s e-mails indicated that his condition was improving. More importantly, he loved Stanford, even if he only had fifteen percent of his vision back.
And then on to Texas, one last trip to see his mom.
And Dad.
His father had come by the hospital on Clark right after he was pulled out of the jungle. Bruce didn’t remember much of the meeting. He was too doped up at the time.
A letter from his mother six weeks later informed him that his father was retiring, too shook up to remain in the Navy. The loss of one son had been bad enough, she had written—almost losing another had made his father want to settle down.
Bruce didn’t look forward to the visit, but he promised himself that he would at least try to be civil.
One month.
He looked forward to recharging, getting some rest.
He folded the paper and shoved it in his top pocket.
It was the first time in, what—
years?
—that he hadn’t worn the old green bag. He’d been through a lot in that suit.
It was going to take some getting used to.
But, above all, he would miss the flying. Like taking off with Simone in the front seat, blasting away with afterburners, straight up.
Or screaming down from five thousand feet and laying hot, killing metal onto targets; pulling back up, grunting to keep conscious as the g-suit kicked in.
Or just flying at night above the clouds in his Strike Eagle, watching the moonlight reflect off the water through a hole in the cloud layer.…
The road not taken.
The Air Attaché job was too important to turn down; it opened too many doors for him to walk away from them. And with Yolanda there, it could only make things better.
But he always knew what he would come back to … what he was the very best at doing … the best in the world.
And what he loved more than anything else on earth.
***
About the Author
DOUG BEASON is a retired USAF Colonel and has lived overseas in Canada, Okinawa, and the Philippine Islands. A graduate of the United States Air Force Academy, he holds a Ph.D. in Physics, was Commander of the Phillips Research Site, and has served as the Associate Laboratory Director of Los Alamos National Laboratory and Chief Scientist of Air Force Space Command. In addition, he has worked for the President’s Science Advisor at the White House in both the Bush and Clinton administrations. He is an accomplished short-story author in addition to his several novels.
***
Author’s Note
This book is based on current research, as well as memories while I was in the Philippine Islands as a high school student (1968—1970) … selectively updated to reflect
some
of the changes that have occurred. Places such as the old Officers’ Club and Rathskeller may have changed—but certainly not the men and women who make up the Philippine experience.
***