by Doug Beason
Cervante felt himself warming to the debate, but knew that he could not persuade the old man with words. There was a limit to what the tongue could accomplish, and Cervante felt that the line was close. But he had to say one last thing.
“You must remember, Pompano. This is a war we are fighting. Our victories are not measured in battles won. Our measure of success is the day-to-day gain that we Filipinos get from seeing the American presence diminish. That is what we must talk about.”
Cervante took Pompano gently by the elbow and led him down the dark street.
“The raid we accomplished—we performed very well.”
“Of course. You obtained ammunition, rifles.”
“Yes, that and more.” Cervante lowered his voice. “The PC convoy had a new weapon—a high-power microwave device.”
“Microwave?” Pompano snorted. “What do you propose we do with this American microwave? Cook all the meat on their base?”
“A high-power microwave. I have read the manual. And I have looked up the implication of this weapon on the Internet. It is astounding what you can glean from the American press.
“The microwave device is not an end in itself. If we use it, we should be able to force them out quicker.”
“Not an end in itself. Now you are speaking foolishly, Cervante. Of what use is a weapon that will merely frustrate? The ammunition and supplies you have recovered should enable our people to accomplish great things.”
Cervante waved a hand. His cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. He took one last drag before flicking it away. “You do not understand. A small group, a tiny fraction of our manpower, can use this high-power microwave device to disrupt American flight activities. If we can get close enough, the microwaves will disrupt circuitry, causing the flight controls on their aircraft to stop working. They will not even know what is happening!
“Put yourself in the Americans’ position. They are now negotiating with our country a plan to stay at Clark forever. If we can frustrate the Americans in their day-to-day activities, make them know that the Filipinos do not want them here, they will be more likely to leave the P.I. The high-power microwave weapon is one aspect of our campaign to harass them; it will annoy the hell out of them!”
“We will be far enough away from Clark to avoid complete burnout of their electronics, but we will still succeed in disrupting their equipment.”
“Why don’t we simply get a missile and fire it at them, if that is what you want?”
“Because that would give the Americans a target, something tangible to rally around—and may force them to stay. And they will eventually ferret us out. But this high-power microwave weapon … it is just the device that could help make them leave.”
He paused.
“We will acquire a new base camp—a safe house to which we can flee. We are leaving tomorrow. I am in need of another driver. Can I count on your joining us?”
“How long will we be gone?”
“No longer than a week.”
“That is short notice.”
“Invitations are not sent out for revolutions.”
Pompano was silent for a moment. “I will join you.”
Clark AB
Charlie pulled Catman aside. At the bar, Bruce swept up his hands in a fighter pilot’s rendition of an inverted roll. His newfound friends watched in amusement.
Charlie leaned into Catman’s ear, holding him upright.
“What do you guys have planned for tomorrow?”
Catman bleared back at him; his eyes looked nearly as red as his hair. “Rejoin the living.”
“Look: we don’t have to report to the Jungle Survival School until the day after tomorrow. I thought we’d be able to take in some of the sights.”
Catman closed one eye. Now Charlie knew he was drunk. Catman didn’t resort to that maneuver unless he started seeing double.
“Okay, Foggy—what’s up?” The words slurred together. “Going alone has never stopped you before.”
Charlie hesitated. Bruce’s sudden divorce had seemed to bowl his friend over. Whatever had happened between Ashley and him was top-secret material. There had to be something the guys could do to pop the building pressure.
“Okay, swear you never heard this from me—Bruce’s dad is stationed at Subic.”
Catman lifted his eyebrows; his closed eye popped open. “I thought he lived in Texas.”
“He did—with Bruce’s mom. You know that he’s in the Navy?” Catman nodded. “But he was transferred to Subic three months ago; went remote so he could get back home faster, wouldn’t have to have the family move again.”
“Why didn’t Assassin tell anyone?”
Charlie looked pained. “Three months ago?”
Catman frowned, then slowly nodded as the memory of Bruce’s quick divorce hit him. “Oh, yeah.…”
Charlie wet his lips. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to get Bruce down to Subic tomorrow to see his dad? Before we go through Survival School?”
Catman smiled.
***
Chapter 7
Tuesday, 5 June
Ten miles outside of Subic Bay Naval Station, P.I.
Bruce’s eyes flew open. It seemed as if he had suddenly been transported into another world. His mouth felt dry, cottony; his tongue was caked with something vile.
Somewhere in front of him a radio softly played a song; people spoke in low tones.
Bruce tried to sit up. He was slumped against a window in a high-backed seat.
A bus. He looked around. A sharp pain jolted down his body from his head to his shoulder. He winced and brought up a hand to massage his neck.
No one sat next to him. The two seats on the opposite side of the aisle were empty as well. What the hell is going on? he thought.
He wore loose-fitting white trousers, sandals, and a colorful shirt. A hazy memory of Charlie goading him out of his flight suit came back to him. He remembered the Officers’ Club, something about a fight.…He touched his mouth, but felt no pain, no injuries.
The image of a helicopter flitted near the corner of his mind, but he couldn’t put anything together.
He struggled to his feet. The movement caused a wave of nausea to wash over him. He placed a hand on the top of the seat and edged into the aisle.
The bus was filled with women, at least thirty ladies between the ages of twenty-five and fifty.
He swayed in the aisle, grasping the seat backs to keep steady. At the back of the bus were four long-haired kids, guitar cases and a drum set packed in with them. A hand-stenciled sign on the bass drum read the other end; They sure the heck looked like it. They shared a cigarette and glanced his way but otherwise ignored him.
He leaned over. A middle-aged woman, dressed in a long sarong, blinked back at him.
“Excuse me.” Bruce’s voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Uh, ma’am. I’m sorry to—”
The woman looked away. He started to say something to the lady next to her, but she also turned her head.
He turned to the front. The laughter quieted to a low murmuring. He tapped the sleeve of the woman sitting in the seat in front of him. “Ma’am … Excuse me, but could you tell me where we’re going? I guess I fell asleep and sort of forgot.…” he finished lamely.
The woman ran her eyes up and down his body. She crinkled her nose. “Subic.” She turned to look out the window.
“Subic!” Bruce was stunned. “What in the world—”
No one listened to him. Stepford Wives, he thought. This has got to be a bus to hell, and it’s straight out of The Stepford Wives.
He flopped back down in his seat and stared out the window. The radio in front of the bus blared music. It brought back memories, something that he had heard before. His head started to throb; he winced, but was unable to do anything about the headache.
Then he remembered—that sari-sari store he had visited. The girl there was singing along to the same songs. This was
a step back in time, back to the age when this music was popular.
The music had that same sickly sweet, freshly scrubbed innocence, and thus sharply contrasted with the rest of the seemingly seamy Filipino culture.
He looked down and saw a huge yellow stain on his shirt. I must have puked all over myself. A closer inspection of the seat confirmed his suspicion. No wonder no one is sitting near me!
But how did he get here? Out of a flight suit and into these clothes—Charlie had something to do with it. But on a bus to Subic?
Then he remembered the conversations with Charlie about his dad. The boys didn’t know about it, but that wouldn’t stop Charlie—or would it? But whatever their motivation, this was Charlie’s way of forcing him to meet his dad. His breathing quickened, his nostrils widened at the thought.
All he had to do was get a taxi back to Clark.…
He felt his back pocket—and panicked. His wallet was missing! He patted his other pockets. Feeling around the seat, he could not find his wallet. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read:
Assassin: This was the only way, dude. Your wallet and $$$ are safe with us, so don’t worry about getting rolled. Say hi to your Dad for us. v/r - Catman
The only way.
The boys had him figured out to a tee. He slumped back and looked out the window, trying to figure out how he was going to make it back to Clark. Without seeing his dad.
His instructors at the Academy had labeled him an overachiever. Top stick at Undergraduate Pilot Training, winning the Risner Trophy … he was a true role model, a hero to anyone.
Except to his father.
No matter how hard Bruce tried, Joe Steele displayed no emotion, gave no encouragement.
The memories of the constant putdowns still gave him pain. Long ago, Bruce had tried to understand his father’s feelings: Bruce had been born while his father was at sea—the family had a long, proud history of serving as enlisted sailors. Joe Steele had not seen his son until the boy was nearly a year old, and then the first flare of jealousy arose when the young boy garnered more attention than his world-traveling father.
Bruce’s lack of interest in the sea threw up a wall between the two. Bruce had gravitated toward athletics, and looked forward to attending college. Instead of encouraging the young man to pursue these interests, Joe Steele had heaped scorn and ridicule upon Bruce. “You think you’re too fucking good for this family? None of your relatives have gone to college, and we’ve turned out fine. Look at all you’ve got, all you’ve had. Are you ashamed of us?”
The appointment to the United States Air Force Academy had been Bruce’s only way out of the situation, something that he could do on his own. But the appointment only threw fuel on the fire, intensified the one-sided competition. Bruce’s letters home went unanswered, and his efforts to make his father proud of him elicited no response.
When his younger brother Fred had enlisted in the Navy, the parties and hoopla surrounding the occasion quickly outstripped any show of pride that had been bestowed upon Bruce.
Then, when Joe Steele refused to show up at Bruce’s graduation from pilot training, it was the final straw.
He intended to look up his father, but he wanted to do it on his own time scale. Bruce tried to settle back in his seat, but he was too worked up to relax.
The nipa huts and roadside shacks turned to row after row of corrugated aluminum-topped shanties. Dogs yipped as the bus roared past; unclothed children, some playing in mud in front of the huts and others sitting dully on wooden stoops, all watched the bus.
The traffic increased; jeepneys darted in and out of their path. The bus slowed as it started over a long bridge. Bruce saw a brown river below them. Long canoes were being poled by men wearing Saipan-style hats. Women on the bank dumped baskets of clothes into the water, then washed them out. Upstream, an old man urinated into the water.
The bus whined, then came the crunch of grinding gears. Minutes later it slowed to a stop before a large gate.
U.S. and Filipino military men shared the building. Guards wore khaki uniforms, holstered side arms, and silver helmets. Their hair was cut buzz-short and they all stood erect, even when they walked. Marines. By the gate a sign read:
SUBIC BAY NAVAL STATION
UNITED STATES NAVY
WARNING!
PERSONNEL ON THIS FACILITY
CONSENT TO SEARCH AT ANY TIME
BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDER
The Marines guarding Subic took no nonsense, and probably wouldn’t give him the time of day. No ID card, smelling to high heaven—bets were they’d just as soon lock him in the brig as try to check out his story.
You’re a fighter pilot?
Yeah, right.
The driver opened the bus door. A marine, wearing his helmet, stepped inside and looked down the aisle. Bruce slid down in his seat and looked out the window, trying to be nonchalant, invisible.
After signing a chit held out by the driver, the guard turned to go.
They started onto the base, passing seamen and local workers. A turn gave him a view of the bay—seven large ships were moored at various locations. He picked out two frigates and a destroyer. The unmistakable conning tower and lines of an aircraft carrier were visible at the opposite end of the bay.
Years ago the US Navy had been thrown out of the P. I. when the US Air Force left Clark. And just like the Air Force had returned to Clark, now they were back at Subic.
Today it looked like the fleet must be in town. And so would his dad.
The Filipino driver spoke over a microphone. “Welcome to Subic. We are parked at the main exchange complex. The bus will be back here at 1530 hours and will leave at 1600. Do not leave any valuables on the bus. Salamat po.”
Bruce sat low in his seat and waited until the bus cleared. When the kids from the back started hauling out their rock gear, Bruce moved slowly to the front. The driver spotted him; the grin on the driver’s face melted to a scowl. The Filipino leaned over and spat into a can that he kept at the front of the bus. He shooed Bruce out.
“Off. Okay, you. Get off.”
“Wait. Can I get a ride back to Clark…?”
“Off, you get. Hurry, ziggy now.”
Bruce stepped backward off the bus. The heat hit him like a sledgehammer as he left the air-conditioned coolness of the bus. “Hey, wait a minute!” He balled his fists.
Standing on the step of the bus, the driver towered over him. The Filipino dug in his pocket and waved a dingy sheet of paper. “You see this? Aih? This my rules. You must obey. It signed by base commander.” He pointed to a paragraph. “If G.I. disorderly I stop bus, throw him out.”
“I wasn’t disorderly!”
The driver stopped and spat. He looked Bruce up and down. “You get sick twenty miles outside Angeles—dirty all over. You very lucky, Joe. I want to throw you off bus. Ladies make me change my mind. I could have done it—but they no let me.” He spat again.
Everyone he approached ignored him. Bruce couldn’t decide if it was the smell or the sight that turned them away.
He ducked into the men’s bathroom outside the Base Exchange. He groaned at his image in the mirror. He quickly debated the best way to clean up, then decided to hell with it—he couldn’t make himself look much worse than he already did. He stripped off his shirt and used wet paper towels to scrub himself clean. A quick rinse in the sink cleaned his shirt. Within ten minutes he looked as though he had stood in a shower with his clothes on, but at least he smelled halfway decent.
Bruce ignored the sideways looks that people gave him as he left the bathroom.
A map was posted outside of the building, protected from the weather by a plastic case. Bruce ran his fingers down the listing of facilities. His finger stopped at the notation chapel. He wet his lips. The last time he’d been in church was at the Academy; he and Ashley had been married there, only hours after he had graduated. It couldn’t hurt to try.
The
donuts and sugary coffee that the chapel staff fixed for him gave him a sugar high. Three aspirins, and a chance to step into a quick shower, almost made him feel human again.
Chaplain White warmly shook his hand as an old, red Toyota turned around the corner. The Chaplain searched Bruce’s eyes. “Feel free to come back and talk, Bruce—especially if things don’t work out with your father.”
“Eh?” Bruce glanced at the aging Commander. “I didn’t know it showed.”
White smiled. “Sometimes a child has to tell his parents to go to hell before he can completely sever ties with the past.” He held up a hand. “I don’t mean you should do the same—that was more for shock effect than anything else.”
The Toyota pulled to a stop and a man stepped out. Bruce recognized the beer gut and tattoos immediately.
Andrews AFB, Maryland
The Boeing 747-200B sat at the end of the runway. The oversized cockpit looked like a graceful serpent’s head, rising out of the sleek airliner’s nose. To the untrained eye, and from a distance, the 747 looked like any jet transport. But the white-and-blue paint scheme, bearing the words united states of America, gave away the fact that the plane was an official aircraft.
The military designation “VC-25A” was assigned to the plane, a specially equipped airframe that sported a Bendix Aerospace EFIS-10 electronic flight instrument system and state-of-the-art communications gear. The jet was crammed with defensive gear, navigation aids, and electronic countermeasures. The public knew the plane as “Air Force One,” although it was actually one of two aircraft; but today the plane bore the call sign “Air Force Two” in honor of the vice president’s presence on board.
