by Doug Beason
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 cor
ner 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?”
“Right.” The “no alimony” pierced him. Divorced … He thought it would never happen to him—but no use dwelling on it. Charlie was right, they all had adjustments to make.
Bruce leaned to the front of the jeepney; he tried to speak over the onrushing air so that the driver could hear him. “Excuse me.”
“Aih?” Again the driver turned, smiling back at Bruce.
“Are there any stores that sell gum?”
“Cigarettes? You want Blue Seal?”
“No, gum. You know chewing gum?” Bruce pantomimed putting a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing.
“Aih, gum! Yes, yes, the market! One minute.”
The man turned back to the front and gunned the jeepney. He pulled off the main street and slid between long rows of buildings. As they slowed, they passed what appeared to be an open market. It was a cross between an outdoor and indoor shopping center: merchants spilled out into the street hawking animals, complete meals, fabrics, stereo equipment, books, plants, furniture, fresh vegetables, mounds of rice three feet tall, chickens—anything imaginable. The selling extended far into a tin-covered, single-story building. Buildings in the neighborhood resembled warehouses more than offices.
The driver stopped in front of the market. An incoherent jabber of foreign language surrounded the jeepney. The driver nodded happily. “Here, you find gum.”
Bruce turned to Charlie. “What do you think?”
“Whatever.”
Now Bruce concentrated on the time. “Skipper cautioned us to stay together, and it’s getting late. What do you say we skip it this time and head back to the Club—for dinner.”
“That’s a rog, Assassin.”
Bruce waved the driver on. “Thanks, but we’ll pass.”
“No market?” The driver looked disappointed.
“It will take too long. We’ll try another time.”
The driver suddenly brightened. “Okay. Maybe I help you.”
The jeepney shot off down the street, and had not had much time to accelerate before it screeched to a halt. It stopped before a low-slung building.
“Here. Sari-sari store. Run in fast. Ziggy now.” The driver tried to shoo Bruce into the tiny building.
“Uh?” Bruce looked bewildered. “What’s going on?”
“He wants you to go in there,” said Charlie.
“Master of the obvious. Maybe it’s their equivalent of a 7-11.” Bruce hopped out of the jeepney and started for the store. “Stay with this guy. I don’t want to have to walk back.”
“If we can even find our way back,” muttered Charlie.
Six tiny tables were pushed to the side of the store, making it look like an Asian version of a Paris cafe. The screen door had a tiny bell attached to it. Inside, a long counter ran the entire length of one wall. Music came from an open door to the back; someone was singing “Obla-dee, obla-da” along with the Beatles.
The singing stopped as a girl walked into the room from the back. All Bruce could see was dark hair that extended halfway to the floor. When she swung her hair around and looked up, Bruce
was floored, unable to talk. She was the most beautiful woman he’d seen in his life.
The girl lowered her eyes. She spoke in halting English. “May I … help you?”
Bruce stuttered, trying to talk coherently. “Uh, yeah. Do you have any gum?”
“Gun?” The girl looked up, puzzled.
“No, gum. You know, chewing gum? Chew, chew.” Bruce pantomimed putting a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing. He felt suddenly foolish at his Pidgin English.
She still avoided his eyes. “Gum. Yes we have.” The girl turned and stretched, reaching to the top shelf, and brought down several packs of Wrigley’s gum, some of them open. She held them out to Bruce. “How many sticks?”
The girl finally looked at him, and he felt lost in her deep brown eyes. Her skin was flawless; she looked so innocent he couldn’t tell her age. It took Bruce a moment to figure out what she was asking.
“How many sticks? Oh, you mean I can buy just a stick of gum, rather than a pack?”
“Yes.” The girl seemed amused now.
“Well, then … here.” Bruce dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of pesos. He shoved the money to the girl. “I’ll take all the gum. Is this enough money?” The foreign currency seemed more like play money—Monopoly bills—than hard cash.
The girl carefully counted out the money and held out the remainder to Bruce. As she counted, her long black hair fell over her shoulder, giving it the appearance of a waterfall. She pushed eleven packs of gum across the counter to him, then swung her hair back over her shoulder and lowered her eyes.
Bruce backed out of the tiny store. The screen door swung shut, cutting off his view of the young woman. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but Charlie’s voice seemed to pierce through a fog that enveloped him.
“Hey, Bruce! Would you get back in here? The O’Club is going to close.”
Bruce turned and headed for the jeepney. Reaching out to grab the railing, he realized that he still tightly held the packs of gum. He shoved them into a pocket.
Charlie eyed his frontseater as the jeepney started off. “Get enough gum?”
