Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Head turned and looked his copilot up and down. He shook his head. “I keep forgetting this is your first helicopter assignment. You’ve spent too many years in Air Training Command.”

  “American Toy Company,” corrected Gould. “That’s for all the chicken crap we had to put up with.”

  Head muttered, “Okay. You’re new here, so I’ll explain it once.” He nodded to the row of F-15 fighters across the tarmac that made up the two squadrons of the 3rd TFW. “Helicopters are what keeps those dudes alive. If it wasn’t for us, these hotshot fighter jocks wouldn’t try half the stuff they do. Strapping themselves in a few tons of metal, hurtling toward the ground near Mach 1—and in a real war, there will be people shooting back at them. The chances of them pranging it in are pretty high, so what do you think is the only visible way out, a hope that someday if they’re shot down they might survive? Us, bucko. We did it in ‘Nam, then the Gulf, and several times a day in Iraq and Afghanistan. You see, we’re the cavalry, coming to the rescue to pull these guys out of trouble. Without us those hotshots are not going to get out of there, and they are grateful as hell. So what’s wrong with accepting their drinks?”

  Gould nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Let’s just get out of here,” interrupted Head. “Those girls and guys won’t keep waiting all morning.”

  Bruce Steele crouched at the edge of the clearing. The hole in the jungle canopy wasn’t more than fifty feet across, but it gave him an unobstructed view of the sky above.

  The rain had stopped last night, and for the first time the sun looked like it was trying to break through. Bruce listened intently for the sound of the rescue helicopter.

  Charlie stayed back in the jungle, scouting the area for Abuj or any of the “bad guys” that might have been assigned to the E & E team.

  Bruce knelt and fumbled in his flight suit. He pulled out a small radio. He switched it on, then back off; a faint hissing came from the speakers. The radio was waterproof, so they would be able to broadcast their position.

  He checked his watch; they should be hearing from the rescue chopper any time now. He drew out the antenna and flicked the radio on—nothing but static came out of the speaker.

  He knew that they were being watched. They had found few clearings, and the E & E staff probably had all the areas reconnoitered. All the dull green foliage, as well as the absence of real food, had started to get on Bruce’s nerves.

  A voice crackled from the radio speaker. “Maddog, Cobra Five. I am running a linear search. Please notify when you hear me.”

  Bruce hastily turned down the volume, then brought the radio to his lips. “Cobra Five, Maddog Four. We’ll call when we hear you.”

  Bruce melted back into the jungle and waited for the sound of the helicopter. He knew that the Pave Hawk wouldn’t stop crisscrossing the jungle area until Bruce called him. Bruce would then vector the helicopter in on sound alone—the louder the helicopter got, the closer they would be.

  He didn’t have to wait long before a faint sound caught his attention.

  Bruce strained to hear. As he leaned forward, his boots made a squishing sound. It felt as if his feet were covered with fungus. He had taken off his boots last night to dry off his feet, but had had nothing dry to wipe them with. He’d settled for just airing them out, and ignoring both the smell and the way they looked.

  The sound grew louder. Bruce spoke into the radio. “Cobra five, I hear you, and you are getting closer.”

  “Rog, Maddog. I will remain on this heading. Notify when sound decreases.”

  Bruce didn’t answer, keeping radio contact to a minimum. Charlie brushed up against his shoulder.

  “I think we’re still alone.”

  “Not for long.”

  Charlie listened and nodded. “It’s about time.”

  The helicopter made a distinct “whop-whop” sound that grew louder every second.

  “Sounds like they’re heading straight for us,” said Bruce. “But then again, how many times have they plucked guys like us out of the jungle?” The sound seemed to be right on top of them, then it lost intensity. “Cobra Five, you are getting away. Come back the way you came—we’re in a clearing about fifty feet across.”

  “Rog Maddog four, I have three possible areas in view.”

  Bruce nudged Charlie. “Let’s get ready.” They ducked low and sprinted from the edge of the jungle to the center of the clearing. Bruce felt like he was naked without any trees around him.

  Seconds passed. Then the dark body of the Pave Hawk flashed over the clearing.

  “Cobra Five, we just saw you. Can you back up?”

  “Rog. Prepare for hoist.”

  The helicopter came back overhead. Even though the craft was well over a hundred feet above the clearing, Bruce could still feel the strong downdraft of the rotor. Moldy leaves flew up in the turbulent air.

  Someone’s head poked out from the side of the helicopter. The person quickly moved an arm up and down. A second later, the penetrator, a long rod with a weight on one end and a seat with straps on the other end, came hurtling down from the Cobra. Bruce and Charlie scrambled to get out of the way.

  The penetrator bored for the ground, and just before it hit, slowed to a stop. It settled gently onto the jungle floor.

  Bruce turned to Charlie. “Go ahead.”

  “You first. I outrank you.”

  “And I’m the AC.” Bruce shoved Charlie forward, letting his backseater know that the Aircraft Commander still had the last word.

  Charlie ran to the seat and quickly strapped in. Once fastened, Bruce spoke into the radio. “Maddog’s ready, Cobra Five.”

  Charlie shot up through the air, then disappeared into the helicopter.

  Bruce scanned the clearing—it was still empty. If this had been a real pickup, the helicopter probably wouldn’t have found them so quickly. In addition, running out into a clearing was a pretty stupid thing to do, especially with unfriendlies around. But in a peacetime training environment, safety rules supreme, no matter how it affects realism.

  The penetrator came back down from the helicopter; Bruce ran out and strapped in. He waved to the people above him—they brought him up like an elevator going all out.

  As the clearing drew away below him, a small dark figure stepped from the jungle and watched him go up. Abuj!

  The tiny Negrito had probably had them in his sights all along.

  Well, no use worrying about it now—they’ll find out how they did during the out brief tomorrow morning. But before then, he was looking forward to a shower and a belly full of food. And not necessarily in that order.

  As he drew close to the helicopter, a hand reached out and pulled him in. A Staff Sergeant helped him unstrap once the penetrator was secured to the craft. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.”

  Charlie sat in the back, covered with a blanket and drinking a cup of steaming liquid. The sergeant flipped Bruce an orange.

  “Here ya go, sir. Coffee and hot chocolate in the back if you want it.”

  “Thanks.” Bruce hesitated, then pushed for the front. He stuck his head into the cockpit. The pilot and copilot both wore shaded visors on their helmets. The helicopter was not more than a three hundred feet over the tops of the trees. Bruce called out over the roar. “Hey, guys, thanks.”

  The copilot turned around. Seeing Bruce, he elbowed the pilot. “Look who’s here.”

  The pilot craned his neck around. “Well, well—Assassin, isn’t it?”

  Bruce grinned. “Beer’s on me tonight.”

  Head turned back to the front. “As it should be.”

  Tarlac, P.I.

  Cervante nodded as Pompano handed him the box. It was surprisingly light. Cervante held his cigarette in his lips as he set the box on the table.

  Light shone from a single oil lamp set in the middle of the table, its flickering glow sending shadows dancing throughout the room. This was one of the drawbacks of living away from p
ower lines, and Cervante had not wanted to start the diesel engines outside the house, to keep from drawing attention to the plantation. It was still light outside, but Cervante had the curtains closed.

  He pried open the box with a knife. Ashes fell from his cigarette. Reaching into the box, he picked up a long cylinder that was as fat as a sausage on one end and narrowed to a thin point on the other end. All along the top, tiny sensors studded the cylinder. Cervante lightly bounced the object in his hand. It weighed less than a kilogram and was just under a third of a meter long.

  “Nice.” Cervante brought the object closer and turned it around. He took a drag from his cigarette. “Where did you get it?”

  Pompano shrugged. “The market.”

  Cervante replaced the device. “I mean, where did they get them?”

  “The detectors are planted all along the interior of Clark. The Americans constantly replace them. Some stop working, some are run over by their jeeps or horses, some are just missing.”

  “How many did you get?”

  “Twelve. There has not been a market for the detectors—no one besides the Americans really wants them, or even knows about them. It is my guess that the person I bought them from collected them more out of curiosity than for profit.”

  Cervante nodded. He pulled on his smoke. “Who do you get them from?”

  Pompano smiled and lightly wagged a finger at Cervante. “Ah, yes. We all have our little secrets, don’t we? What do you say I keep this one to myself, so that the source is not compromised?”

  Cervante smiled tightly. “Of course.” The old man had started to put some distance between them, setting up an “insurance policy” so that he would be the only one who had some key information.

  It was a smart move—one that Cervante would have made himself. Pompano was proving to be more shrewd than Cervante had initially thought. He made a mental note to withhold some of the sensor locations from Pompano.

  Cervante placed the lid back on the top of the box. “What about the receiver? How do these detectors transmit information?”

  Pompano moved to a chair and sat. “That was harder to obtain. The devices detect sound to a very low level, and transmit the sounds as soon as they are heard. My, ah, source, he learned that the radio signals transmitted by the detectors are coded. A computerized station can unscramble the codes and tell you which detectors are transmitting and where they are located.”

  “And where is the station?”

  “I said it was harder to obtain.” Pompano paused. “So I decided not to get it and use a simpler method instead.”

  Pompano nodded to the box of sonic detectors. “The detectors can be modified to transmit along a wire. I have brought several kilometers of wire that we can lay from each sensor to our plantation. It is an easy way to hook up the detectors, and it works.”

  Cervante nodded, remembering the old radios and televisions in the old man’s sari-sari store. Fixing electronic equipment was another talent the old man had to offer. “Crude, but effective. You have come up with a good plan, my friend. How long will it take to modify the sensors?”

  A shrug. “Two, three hours. The wire is in the truck. I can start right away.”

  Cervante took a final drag from his cigarette. Pompano was beginning to outshine all of the other Huks. As a measure of his respect, Cervante decided then and there that Pompano would definitely not learn the locations of all of the sensors.

  Cervante ground out his cigarette and stood. He clasped Pompano’s shoulder. “We must move quickly. As soon as you can modify the sensors I will plant them, and we will move to a location outside of the Clark Air Base to start disrupting their flights. The faster we move, the better.”

  Pompano frowned. “So fast? We are not rushed for this.”

  Cervante breathed deeply through his nostrils. “We have a lot more at stake than what you might think. This new treaty about the American bases … it is a critical time. If we can disrupt their operations, put a thorn in their side during the negotiations so that it is known that not everyone supports this stupid treaty, we will succeed.”

  The old man nodded to himself, as if he were debating the process.

  Cervante reached down and squeezed his shoulder. “Anything, any person you need, I will get you. Once the sensors are in place, we will prepare to go to the American base tomorrow morning, early to avoid detection.”

  Clark AB

  The phone rang twice.

  “Bolte.”

  Charlie froze. “Uh … may I speak to Nanette, please.”

  “Stand by one.”

  A moment passed. Charlie’s pulse quickened. He started thinking to himself, started putting the pieces all together. Bolte—the Wing Commander. Like in Colonel Bolte. Charlie had known that he had children, but Nanette? She wouldn’t tell me who she was, acted like it was a game, he thought. What the heck is going on? Meeting a blonde beauty doesn’t happen every day, especially one who has the poise, background, and savvy as Nanette. Charlie grew flustered.…

  “Nanette?”

  A second passed. “Charlie?”

  “Hi.”

  She paused. “How did you get my home number?”

  “Nipa Hut. I looked sad enough for them to pity me when I showed up and you weren’t there.”

  She laughed. It sounded like music. “I’ll bet. I’m glad that you got a hold of me. So, what’s up?”

  “Well, my roommate and I are thinking of heading down to Subic tomorrow afternoon. He’s bringing a date, and I thought you might like to go along.”

  “Subic?”

  “Bruce’s father is stationed there. We’ll go down, meet him, and make an afternoon of it. What do you think?”

  She was silent for a moment. “Sounds like fun. Can I call you back if I can’t get a replacement at work?”

  “Sure.” He gave her his number. “Pick you up around eleven? We can stop for lunch somewhere.”

  “Yeah. And your roommate—was he one of the guys out by the pool that day we met?”

  Charlie hesitated. “That’s him.”

  She sighed. “I think this is going to be an interesting day.”

  Angeles City

  Yolanda Sicat sang along with the radio, lightly adding a harmony part to the melody. The music helped get her through the day. Her father had been away from home a lot lately, and the music kept her company.

  The early years were hard, when she had first realized that she was unlike the others—the time when girlhood giggles and sly smiles had turned to boastings of what their mothers could do, and Yolanda had no mother of which to boast. She was four when she realized what it meant not to have a mother, a mommy, like the rest of them. The tears that had come were tempered by her father. He took her in his arms and assured her that she would never be alone, that she would always have a friend in music.

  He had taught her more than the simple childhood melodies. Pompano had opened an entire new world, a pastiche of melodies through the radio. In all of his workings with electronics, nothing delighted her more than the day when he had given her first radio.

  Regardless of the friends she gained, Yolanda always returned to the sari-sari store to help her father. She acquired a sense of responsibility by taking care of her father, especially during those early years when he would drink too much and lie weeping on his bed, crying for her mother.

  It was then that he would admonish her to stay away from the Americans. When pressed he would give her no clear-cut reason, only turn to more alcohol.

  Living by the market, Yolanda had never befriended an American until this Bruce Steele appeared, although she had served them behind the counter. Until now they had been nothing more than curiously foreign.

  Tiny bells jangled in the front. Yolanda smoothed her skirt and glided into the store. She drew in her breath—it was the American.

  He wore blue jeans and a colorful T-shirt. She had always thought that this combination was for delinquents, the types that frequented the slea
zy part of town. But his clothes were so clean and good-smelling. And there was something about his eyes.…

  “Hello, Bruce Steele.” Yolanda did not look down, but smiled to herself. “I have ordered some more gum for you.”

  He turned slightly red. He fumbled in his pocket and held out a pack to her. “Would you care for a piece?”

  “No, thank you.” She reached back and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I would think you would not have any gum left after nearly two weeks.”

  Bruce pocketed the pack. He leaned up against the long tabletop that traversed the back of the sari-sari store. “I’ve been in the jungle for the past ten days. A survival school.”

  “Did you have fun, learn anything?”

  “Fun?” His eyebrows rose. “No. It wasn’t too much fun, going four days without eating.” He grew silent for a moment, then said slowly, “But now that you mention it, I guess I learned a lot. About myself, I mean.”

  Bruce paused. “There’s something I thought we could do, if you had time.”

  Yolanda brightened. “Oh, tonight would be a good time to have dinner.”

  Bruce looked squeamish. “Uh, I’m not really too hungry, but I had something else in mind.”

  “Oh?” She felt slightly embarrassed at having brought up the subject.

  “My dad lives near Subic. My roommate, his girlfriend, and I are heading down to see him tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come with us?”

  “To Olongapo?”

  “Sure. It’ll only take a couple of hours.”

  Yolanda drew in a breath. She had closed the store before while on her own—once to go with some girlfriends to the barrio, another time to see a music festival. Both times her father had approved of her leaving the store, and she had made each decision on her own.

  This did not seem too much different. Especially if she was going to meet Bruce’s parents. And father had wanted to meet Bruce, too, so perhaps this was a good time.