by Doug Beason
Vice president Robert E. Adleman knew the significance of flying in the 747, rather than the old C-137Cs that were still kept as backups: President Longmire was too ill to travel, and his staff was certain that the President wouldn’t need the plane.
A crew of twenty-three Air Force personnel and Navy stewards filled the plane, ranging from the pilot to the officer who carried a back-up “football.” With Long-mire’s illness, the woman who carried the “football” was effectively ensuring that if anything happened to the President a smooth transition of power would occur, and Adleman would have instant access to the top-secret nuclear-keying materials in the briefcase.
The presence of that young officer gave Robert Adleman a nagging sense of doubt. Lieutenant Colonel Merke was pretty enough—short-cropped red hair, striking green eyes, and a figure that wouldn’t quit—but her serious nature underscored the seriousness of the trip.
A ream of papers covered the table in front of his plush seat; Dubois, one of the Secret Service men, scooped the documents up, keeping the papers in a semblance of order.
Once the table was free of clutter and Adleman could see the tabletop, the engraved Presidential seal seemed to beckon out to him. There were changes coming to his life, and he’d have to make some adjustments. Adleman leaned back and closed his eyes. Things are going to change.
Angeles City
It was so early that the bar girls were not in the streets. A few merchants shuffled under loads of fresh food, brought in from the countryside for the markets; cleaning crews left the all-night bowery; and a few store owners catered to the early-morning crowd. Even the jeepneys were sparse on the street.
Cervante pulled into a parking lot at the rear of a small motel. The jeepney he drove did not seem out of place—a wild paint scheme, fuzzy balls hanging from the top. But a closer look inside the elongated jeep would have revealed several boxes lashed to the front part of the passenger compartment. If anyone tried to board the vehicle, Cervante was prepared to politely, but firmly, turn them away.
Where were they? He had been explicit in setting the time. Then he spotted three people walking toward him. They stepped over a pile of trash and moved quietly to the jeepney. Another came around from the front, as if he had been waiting separate from the others. Cervante made out Pompano’s features as those of the lone man.
Cervante started the vehicle and waited until the men were seated before he turned out of the parking lot. With the sparse traffic, they were leaving Angeles within minutes. The buildings grew fewer and were replaced with huts made of mud and straw. The road narrowed to two lanes; soon they passed rice paddies and saw no people at all. Cervante slowed and half turned in his seat so that he could speak while driving.
“We will be meeting the rest of the cell shortly. From there we will travel to our new base.”
Pompano leaned forward. “How long will that take?”
“Not more than a few hours. I have identified two old plantations that will serve us well—they are both isolated from the general population, yet centrally located with respect to the province. Either one will do much better than camping out in the mountains.”
Cervante glanced up at his rearview mirror; they appeared to be the only ones on the road. Soon, he knew, a steady stream of people from the outlying barrios would start their trek into the city, mostly laborers who worked on the U.S. base. By that time the Huks would be far away.
Rice paddies melted into the thickening jungle. A hand-painted sign advertising fresh fruit stood inconspicuously by the side of the road. Cervante slowed and marked off three-tenths of a mile on the odometer. He slowed to a crawl. Just visible on the right, through the thick foliage, were the bare markings of a dirt road.
Cervante turned onto the road and crept through the jungle for a mile. He tapped on the horn twice, then twice more before breaking into a clearing. Once he had stopped, a band of men quickly surrounded the jeepney. Cervante made a quick head count.
“Everyone is here. Quickly now—I want us to be in place to strike before nightfall. Make sure that your weapons are well hidden, underneath the seats and covered. You two”—he pointed the men out—“drive ahead of the truck. The rest of you follow. If PCs stop us, make sure none survive. Hurry. Ziggy now.” He turned to Pompano. “I want you to drive the truck, my friend. The others will ensure that you are well covered.”
Pompano walked with Cervante toward the jungle. As they drew close, the outline of a two-and-a-half-ton truck appeared. Pompano narrowed his eyes at Cervante.
“You wanted me to come with you simply to drive this truck?”
Cervante placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “If you are stopped by the PC, they will hesitate before bothering you. That hesitation will give us the edge to attack and destroy them—a younger man would only draw their attention to him. Or would you rather ride with the others and have to do the killing?”
Pompano breathed through his nose and stared at the ground.
Cervante knew that he had struck a nerve. The older man had always shown a dislike for violence, while actively supporting the Huk’s goals.
Pompano spoke in a low voice. “We are wasting time. I will drive.”
Clark AB
“First Lieutenant Edward Holstrom?”
“Call me ‘Catman’—my call sign. I haven’t gone by ‘Ed’ for a long time.” Catman plopped down in the chair offered him and looked around the office. Robin was waiting outside, ready to blast off for downtown. Catman glanced at his watch, feeling his time was being wasted. He sat in a typical government office—barf-brown paint on the walls, broken up by lime-green lines used for decorations. He never could understand why the non-rated pukes—non-pilots—would go to such lengths to exhibit their poor taste.
The man sitting across the table from Catman pushed his glasses up on his nose. He withdrew a wallet and flashed an official looking identification card that read defense investigation service and had the man’s picture on the bottom.
“Lieutenant Holstrom …”
“Catman.”
The man pressed his lips together. “All right. Catman. I’m conducting interviews to upgrade the security clearance for First Lieutenant Bruce Steele. You have been listed as a reference on his information sheet. Do you know him?”
“Sure.”
“Very well, how long have you known Lieutenant Steele?”
Catman stole another glance at his watch. “Assassin? Two years.”
“Assassin?” The man hesitated.
“Yeah.”
The investigator scribbled on his sheet.
“Now, Catman, have you ever known Lieutenant Steele to drink to excess?”
Catman thought for a moment. “Nope.” As the man started to write, Catman continued, “I’ve always passed out before he got drunk.”
The investigator’s mouth dropped open.
Catman smiled.
Subic Bay Naval Base
Chief Bosun’s Mate Joe Steele stood waiting by the car. Bruce felt as if his feet were embedded in cement, incapable of movement. Bruce had not spoken to his father for the last two years.
Until half an hour ago in the Chaplain’s office.
And now, not ten feet away, the man waited.
There was nothing he could do to avoid the confrontation. Years ago he had sworn that he would never display the same self-centered habits, never drink himself senseless almost every night of the year like his father. Bruce glanced down at his shirt and grimaced—the faint yellow stains of vomit still decorated his clothes. The sins of the father.…The very things he had abhorred had gotten him in this trouble. His face grew red; so much for learning a lesson.
Bruce swallowed and walked straight ahead to the car.
Joe Steele stuck out a hand and said gruffly, “Son.”
Bruce shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
His father looked him over. “Some party.”
“Yeah.” Bruce was clearly ready to get going.
/> “So what happened?”
Bruce shrugged. “I got a little wild. Woke up this morning on a bus—didn’t know where I was, no wallet. Kind of a nightmare.”
“Was the party worth it?”
Bruce had a dim memory of the night before, but his father expected another answer. Bruce felt himself slipping back to the past.
“It was okay.”
His father roared and slapped Bruce on the back. “I knew those Air Force pilots had balls. That’s my boy.” He jerked his head to the car. “Come on. I was going to drop you off at the bus station and lend you a couple of bucks. But if you have time, I’ll take you by my place and show you around before you go.”
“Sure.” Bruce climbed into the Toyota. Even though the car was old, it was immaculate inside. Another memory rolled over Bruce, that of being jerked out of his bed as a teenager every Saturday morning to fulfill his father’s fetish of cleaning everything in sight—the car, the yard.
They remained quiet for much of the drive. Bruce looked out the window and spotted the fleet of ships out by Cubi Point, anchored away from the main part of Subic. They took a turn away from the base’s main road. Bruce frowned—they were headed off base. He spoke for the first time since entering the car.
“Where do you live?”
“The barrio.”
“I thought you had to live in the barracks.”
Joe hung his elbow out the window and drove with one hand. “Not enough room. That’s one of the perks of moving up in rank. Your old man is doing pretty good for himself, if you haven’t noticed.” He was quiet for a moment. “Have you heard from your mom lately?”
“Not since getting here.”
“When was that?”
“Last week. She’s looking forward to having you get home next year—eighteen months of remote duty is hard on her, but at least she knows it’s the last time.”
His father grunted. As they drove off base, they seemed to enter another world. The same seamy sights greeted Bruce, but along with the visual impact came a nauseating smell and incoherent sounds that had been masked by the air-conditioned bus.
His father waved a hand at the river below them. “That’s called the Shit River. The Beaks use it as a sewer.”
“Beaks?”
His father laughed. “You are new, aren’t you? Beaks, flips, Filipinos. Just another name.”
Just another name, thought Bruce. Black, colored, nigger. Like it doesn’t make a difference. He hadn’t changed a bit.
As they drove slowly down the street, scantily dressed girls walked up and tried to reach into the car. The girls laughed and waved as they drove on. Strange odors of burnt chicken and meat wafted through the window; loud music erupted, then diffused away as they drove past bars.
“Armpit of the world, Son,” said Joe, grinning. “But that’s the beauty of it—you can pick and choose whatever your taste. Like that—look at those tits!” He pointed out a buxom black woman.
Soon their surroundings grew more tranquil. They turned off the main drag and wove a path to a row of low-slung buildings. The streets were still paved, but potholes and pools of standing water dominated the black asphalt. Bruce’s father pulled up in front of one of the apartments.
“You said you need to get back to Clark by late afternoon?” Bruce responded with a nod. “The one o’clock bus will get you there by three—give you plenty of lead time. Come on in.”
The apartment was typical of his father—neat, though cluttered with tacky junk: miniature anchors, nautical rope, dozens of model boats, wispy ostrich feathers. His father seemed preoccupied, standing by the kitchen door.
“Bruce, ah …” Joe scowled and held a hand up to his bulging chin. Maybe that was another reason his father had never been able to acknowledge his athletic prowess; Bruce had been in tiptop physical shape since high school, never even a hint of a spare tire.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Ah, shit. Sit down, Son.” He waved a hand at a wicker chair. “Beer?”
Bruce remembered last night, then answered slowly. “Sure.”
A minute later Bruce was sipping on a San Miguel while his father downed his own can. “You know, this really is going to be my last tour, Son. Too many times I’ve left your mother sitting back at home, all alone. You and Fred were the best things to happen to her. She loves you like crazy.”
They grew quiet at the mention of Fred’s name. Bruce didn’t know his younger brother well. He had been too involved in football to have spent much time with him … which made the pangs of guilt dig even deeper. Frail as a youth, Fred eventually filled out and took after his older brother by the time he was a senior in high school.
Fred differed from Bruce as much as Bruce differed from his father. But the younger brother had had a penchant to please, to be subservient to his father’s wishes. So much so that Fred had volunteered for the Navy fresh out of high school in the centuries-old Steele family tradition. As a junior at the Academy, Bruce had tried to talk his younger brother out of enlisting, but he’d been met with cold silence.
And the nail was firmly hammered in place during Fred’s going-away party, when their father had drunkenly presented Fred an ornately engraved plaque inscribed: IF YOU AIN’T A SAILOR, YOU AIN’T SHIT. Joe Steele had slurred through a speech that hinted that Bruce had been destined for the plaque, made twenty years before, but that it had taken a man like his youngest son to finally fulfill a father’s wish.
Fred’s death last year—washed overboard when a ninety-foot wave hit the U.S.S. Bella Wood—hit the family hard.
After Fred’s death, Joe Steele volunteered for a remote assignment—one without his family—at Subic, his last naval station.
Thirty-two years in the navy. One son dead, a martyr. The other seeming to do everything in his power to piss his dad off. A wife whose only purpose in life was to attend the noncommissioned officers’ wives’ bazaar.
His father stumbled over the words. “Now, you know I’d never do anything to hurt your mother. She and I’ve been married nearly twenty-six years now.” He hesitated. “Well, I’ve got someone to introduce to you.…”
Bruce didn’t bat an eye when Joe introduced him to his Filipino girlfriend.
***
Chapter 8
Tuesday, 5 June
The Barrio, Subic Bay
His father’s girlfriend looked pretty. Or maybe Bruce’s mind was forcing her to be pretty, seeking a reason for his father’s behavior toward his Mom.
Bruce knew the answer—the practice was openly condoned overseas. It kept the men out of the bars and out of trouble, and put some sort of routine back into their lives.
No one had ever taken UCMJ action against those who did it, even though the Uniformed Code of Military Justice specifically prohibited the behavior. Very few of the men took their girlfriends back to the States.
The woman extended her hand and smiled. “I am Tanla.”
“Hi.” Bruce quickly shook her hand and looked around for his seat, not wishing to show his embarrassment.
“She has to go to work,” said his father, gruffly. He, too, seemed embarrassed.
Tanla nodded and slipped from the room. Bruce remained quiet; he stared at one of the anchors holding up a flower pot. Tanla appeared a minute later, smiled at Bruce, then said to his father, “You stop by later?”
“Sure.” Joe Steele dismissed the woman, who left through the front door.
Bruce’s father lounged back in his chair and took a pull on his beer. He hesitated before speaking.
“It’s the only way to keep from going crazy, Son.”
“Don’t make apologies on my account,” said Bruce. “You never have.”
His father put down his drink. “Now don’t start that up again.” A moment passed, then, “Okay … okay. Bruce, I want you to listen to me.”
“I am.”
“I love your mother very much. If I didn’t have Tanla here, I’d probably have killed myself. She keeps me honest
, sober enough to go to work, and we have sex much less frequently than you’d ever think.”
“Then why does she shack up with you?”
Joe answered softly. “Security, Son. It’s her way of ensuring she’s always fed, always has a roof over her head. She’s lived with men like me for probably ten years now … and as long as there are crusty ole Bosun’s mates out there, she’ll always have a place.” He scooted to the front of his chair and placed his elbows on his knees. “She doesn’t mean a thing to me, Son—I’ll be gone next year, and someone else will take my place. It’s purely for convenience.”
Bruce continued to stare, away from his father. He felt confused.
“I’m not asking you to approve, Bruce. Just accept what I’m doing.”
Funny, thought Bruce. You never accepted what I was doing. It seemed so absurd to Bruce: The times that his father had been at home when he was younger, it had been all putdown and competition. And now, when things were upside-down, he felt closer to his father than he ever had.
Bruce whispered, “I’ll try to come back after things settle down.”
His father simply nodded and leaned back in his chair.
The ride back to Clark was a fog of memories, contradictions, and reminiscences. It would take time to sort out, to put the pieces together so that it all made sense.
A lifetime of put-downs can’t be healed overnight.
The trip took a little longer than two hours. They were stopped once by a roadblock. Men wearing colorful barongs and wide smiles waved them down and boarded the bus. The Filipino driver interpreted the rapid-fire Tagalog that the men spat at him: they were collecting for the barrio fiesta and wanted to know if anyone on the bus would care to donate.
A look outside the window revealed that the bus was surrounded by men carrying rifles and semiautomatic weapons. They didn’t aim the guns at the bus, yet they made no effort to conceal them.
Everyone on the bus donated at least a dollar.
The man backed off the bus, bowing and smiling while all the time repeating “Salamat po.”
As the bus drove along the two-lane road, the rice paddies became dotted with activity. Houses began to appear, and before long they entered Angeles City. The traffic grew thick, and soon the background noise seemed to consist of one long melee of honking.
