by Doug Beason
“Who you are, what you do. Why you met me here.”
“That’s not hard. To answer your last question first, I guess you seemed more intelligent than the usual guys I run into. There’s something to be said for not trying to impress a girl with fighter talk and guzzling beer.”
“I’ll let my friends do that—it’s not my style.”
“Obviously.”
He smiled. “I still don’t know who you are.”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” Charlie hesitated. “Unless you’re married.”
She sputtered. “No, no, no!”
“Okay, then. Tell me something about yourself. Uh, where you went to school.”
“I’m a senior at Stanford. My major is history, with a minor in music. I’m visiting my parents while on summer break, and I work part time at the Nipa Import Hut. I’m half-French, and I love the outdoors.” She stopped and popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “That’s it for now. Your turn.”
So that explains it, thought Charlie. “Well, I majored in history, too, but Auburn was some time ago. My father was a college professor, so I’ve always hung around that type of crowd. Like I said yesterday, I’m not a pilot—I’m a weapons systems officer in an F-15 Eagle and have been at Clark since Friday.”
“That’s pretty succinct.”
Charlie grinned. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
“So what’s a guy like you staying around in the Air Force for? I thought they had a hard time keeping WSO’s around, especially good ones.”
“They do.” From the way she used the Weapons Systems Officer abbreviation, Charlie knew that someone in her family had to be knowledgeable as to what WSOs do.
“Don’t you want to go to pilot training?”
Charlie was quiet for a moment. “I did once. But when I joined the Air Force they were restricting the number of pilot slots. I was told that if I became a WSO, I’d have a chance to go to pilot training.”
“So what happened?”
“If you’re good, people are reluctant to move you. One day, when I’d finally had enough and tried to force the Air Force’s hand, I was told I was too old to go to pilot training.”
Nanette lifted an eyebrow. “You?”
“Twenty-eight is the limit—and I turn the big three-oh this December. Does it shock you, now that you know I’m an old man?”
“Twenty nine’s not old.”
“Thanks.” He took another bite of bread and a moment passed. He leaned back on an elbow and studied her. “You know, I’ve never caught your whole name.”
She smiled slyly. “Too much information can burn you out—sensory overload.”
“If I want to give you a call?”
“Nanette at the Nipa Hut will do.”
“Then Charlie at the 3rd TFW for me.” The stadium lights went off just as a low rumble was emitted from the speakers—the opening strains to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
As they stood, Charlie could have sworn that Nanette’s lips had drawn tight at the mention of the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing.
***
Chapter 9
Wednesday, 6 June
Clark AB, Jungle Survival School
Bruce popped a piece of gum into his mouth. The sergeant standing in front of him reminded him of his vision of Air Force Academy upperclassmen on his first day: large, intimidating, and illiterate.
Sixteen men and women sat in a two-layered semicircle around the sergeant. The eight officers of Maddog Flight were in the back and eight enlisted troops were in the front. The briefing room was small, and curtains muffled any sounds. Other than the chairs they sat on, an exit sign above the door on the front right was the only fixture in the room.
Dressed in a white T-shirt, “BDUs”—camouflaged Battle Dress Uniforms—spit-shined boots and a baseball cap, the sergeant strode up and down in front of the group. White hair stuck out from beneath the cap, a deep tan covered his arms, and there was no sign of fat on his belly.
He didn’t look happy.
“All right, listen up. I’m Chief Master Sergeant Grune. This is my survival school. I’ve been running it for the past fifteen years and we haven’t lost anybody yet. So if you ladies and gentlemen out there”—he nodded to the officers sitting in the back row—“will kindly pay attention along with the enlisted men, we’ll get down to business.”
“This course is designed to familiarize you with the fine art of surviving in the jungle.” He paused. “Has anyone here not attended Fairchild or the Academy?” The references were to the Air Force survival school at Fairchild AFB, Washington, and the Air Force Academy’s school. No raised hands.
“Good. Every once in a while those bozos in personnel send me some young virgin who’s never been out in the woods. Since all of you are experts in eating bugs and surviving in the cold, let me tell you that the coldest it gets in the jungle is seventy-five degrees—if you’re lucky. You’re going to forget what you’ve learned and relearn new techniques. If you pay attention and demonstrate proficiency at your skills, the process will be easy. If you don’t,” he grinned wickedly, “We’ll give you some extra instruction.
“I will now introduce you to the backbone of our course and our head instructor. You will do what this man says.” He added softly, “And General Simone has assured me that our officers will comply also.”
Chief Master Sergeant Grune whirled and motioned to the exit. A body pushed through the curtains. Bruce envisioned some sort of Filipino Paul Bunyan, a real woodsman—leathery, large features, and not one to put up with any nonsense.
Out stepped a barefoot black man, not five feet tall.
He carried a long stick with feathers on one end that was almost as tall as he was. In his other hand he carried a cloth bag, which apparently contained a live creature. The front of his chest was decorated with some sort of white markings—soot?—and he appeared to have tiny stitches running up his side. It looked as though sequins had been laced into his body.
Thick, black, wooly hair stood out from his head. His eyes looked sad, and he stood quietly. The room seemed to be in shock.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Abuj Qyantrolo. He is a member of the Negrito tribe, and an expert in jungle survival. For the next two weeks you will do as he says.” Chief Grune looked thoughtful. “If there are any questions, I will be available during your break—sometime after your lunch, which Abuj is holding in his bag. Good day.” Grune strode from the room.
Catman leaned over and whispered, “I bet we’re going to wish we had bugs and grubs to eat.”
The Negrito blinked at the men. The room was dead quiet. Bruce could hear Charlie breathing next to him. Finally Abuj spoke.
“How do you do? Today, we learn the most important lesson in jungle: always drink water.” He paused. “Second most important lesson is always eat.” He rummaged in his bag. “First I show you, then you try.”
“Arrgg.” Robin screwed up his face. “I hate snakes.”
Bruce reached over and patted the bags of sugar he had sewed into his flight suit lining. It was going to be a long week.
Tarlac
Pompano stepped back and observed the television and the two radios set up outside the plantation house. An electrical wire ran from the equipment to the back of the house where the diesel generators were located. The Huks stood around the high-power microwave weapon in a semicircle. Cervante had insisted on testing the device, even before burying the bodies.
Pompano called to Barguyo: “Start the diesel engine.” He told the others to step back. The Huks shuffled behind the HPM device, slinging their rifles over their shoulders. A loud noise and a puff of smoke came from behind the house when Barguyo started the generator. Music warbled from the radios.
When all men had cleared the area, Pompano turned to Cervante and called, “I am ready.”
Cervante nodded.
Pompano and Barguyo joined the men, away from the house. Pompano boosted himself into the operator’s seat and wav
ed Barguyo up to join him, so that the young man could learn how to operate the weapon. He could barely hear the music coming from the radio. The three-meter-diameter dish was pointed directly at the electrical equipment, a hundred meters away.
Pompano switched on the HPM’s generator. He watched the dials as the weapon’s capacitors charged full of energy. After a half minute he turned to Barguyo. “It is very simple. After starting the generator, make sure the antenna is aimed at the target. Then push this button.”
Barguyo flipped open the cover and jabbed at the button. Pop! Pompano jerked his head up and squinted at the plantation house. Smoke curled up from the TV and radios.
Pompano glanced at Cervante. The Huk leader nodded quietly to himself.
Clark AB
The sixteen men and women gathered around the small Negrito. Dressed in only a loincloth, Abuj looked like he was the only comfortable person in the jungle.
The thick foliage formed a canopy around them. If Bruce hadn’t known that they were just outside the fence of Clark, he would have thought they were a thousand miles from civilization. He couldn’t see more than ten feet through the surrounding jungle.
The ground was covered with a bouncy mat of mulch. To their right a path led from the clearing. The open area was at least twenty yards across, and from the worn spots on the ground it looked as though the place had been used many times before.
A small calf bellowed at them, its tether short enough that it could not reach any of the plants to munch on. Abuj stood by the calf, which came up to his shoulder. It reminded Bruce of the “Little Britches,” rodeo when the kids would try to bulldog a calf.
Abuj spoke quietly, and the others listened intently.
“In jungle, you eat anything. It simple choice: You die or something else die. I already show you how to eat bugs and snakes. Now, you learn big.”
He grasped the calf’s chin and held it up high, so that the throat was exposed. “Like your enemy, you must strike fast, hard. You do this for the animal, as yourself.”
He nodded at Catman, who was standing just behind Bruce. “Here. You hold.”
Catman wiped his hands on his flight suit and moved forward. The half circle of men and women widened to allow him to pass. The Negrito held the calf’s neck up. Catman moved in behind the man and took the calf’s chin in his hand. The animal tried to get away, and Catman had to struggle to keep it still. His face grew as red as the shock of hair on top of his head. A drool of saliva dribbled down his hand.
Abuj removed a machete from his belt. The blade looked coarse, not like the shiny, mass-produced instrument Bruce had seen displayed in stores. Abuj ran the edge along his finger. He spoke to the men.
“You must respect the animal. To kill it and not respect it is very, very bad.” He shivered slightly. “The animal will thank you for making its death come quickly. It will help you, nourish you.” He turned and looked upon the men. They had all participated in similar training either at Fairchild AFB or at the Air Force Academy during their survival course, but it had always been in groups of up to a hundred, and sometimes as many as four hundred. This was much more personal, something they couldn’t watch from afar.
Abuj nodded to Charlie. He held out the blade. “I feel … you can know the animal.”
Charlie barely hesitated. He avoided looking at anyone and stepped up to take the blade. He turned it over and ran his finger lightly along the edge. He flipped the machete back over, satisfied he had found the sharpest edge.
The calf snorted; Catman tightened his grip. “Come on, Foggy—I don’t have all day.”
Charlie stepped up to the opposite side of the calf and brought the blade near.
“Quick,” whispered Abuj.
Charlie set his mouth. In a sudden swipe he sliced the calf s throat and brought the machete up high, nearly severing the head.
The calf bucked, straining against the tether, and Catman yelped, “Crap!” The calf ceased moving.
Catman and Charlie laid the animal down. Blood spurted from the wound, covering the ground in a bright red liquid. Abuj moved close. He placed his ear on the calf’s body, listened for a moment, then moved over to the spot where the blood still flowed. He put his mouth to the wound and drank.
Bruce watched, his eyes open wide. Abuj stood and spoke, blood dripping in a tiny rivulet from his mouth. “What was once the animal is now yours. Nourishment is full of vitamin, protein. Drink … but respect.” He turned and walked to the side. He sat cross-legged and watched the men.
No one spoke. Bruce breathed through his nose, unsure of what was happening.
A sudden movement.
Charlie knelt by the dead calf and placed a hand where the blood came from the animal. The flow had slowed to a fast ooze. He scooped up a handful of blood, brought it to his lips … and drank.
Once finished, he sat beside the Negrito. Panther stepped up and drank next, then took her spot sitting next to Charlie. Revlon followed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Catman snickered and moved back to where Bruce stood. He spoke in a stage whisper. “Hey, man—this is too weird. Reminds me of The Night of the Living Dead. Next thing you know we’ll be going after Skipper, cutting him open and drinking his blood.”
Skipper turned and glared.
One of the enlisted men knelt beside the calf and then sat next to Revlon. One by one the men and women lined up; the officers in Maddog slowly joined them until Robin, Catman, and Bruce stood by themselves.
Catman chattered nervously. “What the hell is going on? What do they think this is, some sort of initiation rite?” He started to sound angry.
Robin nudged him. “Come on.”
Bruce looked over at Charlie. His backseater stared straight ahead, ignoring his inquisitive look. Bruce muttered, “I’m going to drink it just to snap those guys out of it.” He strode to the calf and knelt. Bruce put his hand down. The blood still came, but Bruce needed to push against the carcass to cause enough to fill his cupped hand.
He brought the blood quickly to his mouth and pulled some in. It tasted salty and warm, thick. He quickly swallowed before he gagged. Bruce joined the others.
Catman argued with Robin at the opposite end of the clearing. They were the only two who had not partaken in the “ceremony.” And the argument was one-sided—Robin was halfway to the calf while Catman admonished him to return.
“Come on! For crying out loud, what the hell do you think this is—voodoo land? Some superstitious, munchkin mumbling, a bunch of mumbo jumbo. If I ever have to drink it to survive, then I’ll do it. You’re crazy if you think that cow is going to help you. I can see it now—terror of darkness, the Cow From Hell! No matter where you are, it’s going to hunt you down and hose you with its deadly milk.”
Robin knelt and drank.
Catman had backed up to the edge of the clearing. He waved a hand at his backseater. “Well, what the hell. Do you feel better now? Are you going to save us because you are now one with the cow? Give me a break, give me a friggin’ break.”
Robin stood slowly and made his way to where the men sat. His face was expressionless.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. The experience had not been a revelation, but more one of bonding with the men in the course. His mouth still tasted bitter, and certainly no religious experience had occurred. He was sure that the other men felt the same way. Yet there was something about Robin’s face as he approached … When he was ten feet from the men, he suddenly stopped.
Catman called from across the clearing; he sounded alarmed. “Hey, what’s going on? Robin, are you all right?”
Robin lifted a hand.
“Robin?!”
Robin’s fingers slowly spread out into a modified v—and then it hit Bruce that it was the Vulcan greeting sign, from the Star Trek series.
“Live long and prosper,” said Robin in a low, deadpan voice.
Bruce sputtered, then lost control. The men and women rolled on the ground, laughing.
“What the hell is going on?” Catman ran for the crowd.
As he wiped a tear from his eye, Bruce realized that Catman would never understand.
Clark AB
“How ya doin’, Son?” Major General Peter Simone slapped the squadron duty desk as he walked by.
It took Major Brad Dubois three seconds to realize that the two-star Commander of Thirteenth Air Force had just walked into the squadron area.
“Squadron, atten’ hut!”
“Down, sit down, Son.” Simone gazed around the room.
Major Dubois wavered slightly as he stood. “Uh, how do you do, sir. I mean General, sir.”
“Down, dammit. I said sit down, Son.” Simone waved the bald-headed man down. The general glanced at the desk: the major had a paperback book open, but other than that the long desk was absolutely uncluttered. Simone frowned. He had always believed that an empty desk denoted an empty mind. Either the man had too little to do or he was kissing things off.
Simone’s aide walked briskly into the room. “There you are, sir. I thought I lost you.”
Simone pointed at the whiteboard behind Dubois’s head. “Okay, where’s our firecracker, Stephanie? When’s the next time he’s going to rocket?”
Major Stephanie Hendhold squinted up at the board. Dubois started to open his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it and clamped it shut instead. Hendhold read slowly.
“Maddog Four, sir. The next sortie is scheduled for a week from tomorrow.”
“That long? Has Bolte got them out house-hunting or something?”
“Survival School, sir. Wing policy changed to have the men go through it the first week they’re on station—it acclimates them faster, and prepares them if they have to punch out when they first arrive.”
“I don’t know if I agree with that, but it’s Bolte’s Wing, not mine.” Simone placed an elbow on Major Dubois’s desk. “Can you arrange my flight, Son?”
“Sir?”
“What the hell do you think I came down here for, a party? Any problem with that?”
“No problem, sir!” Dubois didn’t have the faintest clue what he was to do.
