Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

Yolanda turned and placed her hands on the table. “I think it will be fun.”

  “Great! I’ll be by right before noon to pick you up.” He started to back up.

  Yolanda was surprised that he would be leaving so soon. “Can I get you something to eat before you go? You said you had not eaten for four days?”

  Bruce grimaced. “Thanks, but I made up for it at lunch.”

  As he left, Yolanda started humming to herself. Father would certainly approve, she thought. She had so much to look forward to the coming year—admission to the University of the Philippines, leaving the store—and the thought made her happy to be alive.

  Tarlac, P.I.

  Cervante stood, wiped his hands on his pants, and stepped back. It was just getting dark, and the dirt road was barely visible two feet away through the jungle. From there, Pompano’s sensor would be invisible.

  This was the last of the sensors—six of them planted by Cervante, their location unknown even to Pompano. Two hours ago he had sent the old man back to the plantation, after learning how to bury the cylindrical detectors and lay the thin wire lines. He had instructed Pompano to prepare the high-power microwave weapon, to make sure that there would be no surprises when it was transported the next morning. Cervante nodded to himself. They were almost ready.

  ***

  Chapter 12

  Thursday, 21 June

  Hotel Otani, Tokyo

  “Mr. Vice President … Mr. Adleman.” A hand shook his shoulder.

  Adleman rolled onto his side. Light streaming from the hallway shone in his eyes. He blinked; Lieutenant Colonel Merke stood patiently by the bed. An apparition—a beautiful, sultry woman just dying to climb into bed with him … and then he remembered where he was. “I’m awake.”

  Merke pursed her lips. “Sorry, Mr. Vice President. You didn’t answer the phone.”

  Adleman dismissed the action with a wave. “What’s going on?”

  “A call from the Security Council, sir.”

  Adleman pushed up. “Bring in a line.”

  “They want an encrypted link, sir.”

  “The STE should handle it.”

  Merke shook her head. “They insist on double encryption, Mr. Adleman, an SCI call. We’ll have to get back to Air Force Two.”

  Adleman’s eyes widened; he was really awake now. The fact that the Security Council wanted to bypass the normally secure STE collateral classified phones and discuss Special Compartmented Information smacked of something big.

  Adleman swung out of bed, ignoring Lieutenant Colonel Merke’s presence. She was a big girl and could avert her eyes if she wanted. He pulled on his shorts and glanced at the clock: two forty-five. The thirteen-hour time difference put Washington at three forty-five the previous afternoon.

  “Any indication what’s up?”

  “No, sir. Secretary Acht said it was urgent and insisted that he speak with you.” She nodded with her head to the briefcase she carried. “I have an updated situation briefing you could read on the way to Yokota.”

  “Thanks.” Adleman took the hint to hurry. After pulling on his shoes he grabbed a shirt and headed out the door, fully intending to finish dressing in the car.

  Adleman looked out the window from the backseat. Although no police cars accompanied them, unmarked and heavily armed Secret Service cars led and followed his limo. At the early hour the streets were nearly empty. Even though the city was settled in for the night, flashing billboards covering the tall buildings still lit up the night sky; advertisements for soft drinks, cameras, stereos, and fast food predominated. It could have been New York, had it not been for the Japanese characters adorning the billboards.

  Adleman turned his attention to the situation briefing that Merke had handed him. The title page was a red-bordered sheet with top secret stamped across the top and bottom. He flipped through the pages: a CIA assessment of the Middle East led the briefing; a Russian air show in Dayton, Ohio, followed; all the intelligence traffic looked routine—nothing “hot” to be found.

  It made Adleman feel uneasy. He settled back and flipped the briefing material shut. Lights whizzed by as they approached Yokota Air Force Base. The military driver, a young, slim black airman, kept his eyes on the road and didn’t attempt to engage the vice president in conversation. He’s probably scared half to death, thought Adleman. Either that, or he’s had his butt chewed one too many times by some general.

  Adleman remembered the touch of paranoia he’d always felt when in the presence of ranking officers he had served with when he was in the military. After ROTC and law school at Brown, his stint as an Army lawyer had filled the square for military service, even if he didn’t go to the Gulf. It was an unstated requirement now for political office—no one was going to be caught dead without serving some real time, not after the Hagel brouhaha.

  The limo slowed and pulled up to the gate of Yokota AFB. The guard inspected the driver’s credentials, then snapped to attention and threw a salute when she realized that Adleman was in the car. It took another ten minutes to reach Air Force Two.

  Someone shone a flashlight into Adleman’s face for the first time as he approached the 747. The light quickly disappeared.

  “Sorry, Mr. Vice President. I had to make sure it was you.”

  “S’all right.” Adleman blinked back the blue-and-orange afterimage of the light as he entered the jumbo jet.

  “This way, sir.” Merke steered him to the back, toward the Presidential chambers.

  Merke shut the door as she left. The room was quiet, except for the faint pulsing of the plane’s electrical systems as air pumped throughout the craft. The chamber was insulated against sound and electromagnetic emissions. Rich, deep-blue carpeting with the presidential seal embossed in the center of the room contrasted with the blue-and-white patterns on the walls. Two phones sat on the desk before him—one white, the other red. The red phone had no buttons.

  Adleman moved around the desk and made himself comfortable before picking up the red phone. “Adleman.”

  “Bob?”

  The voice sounded tinny. “Yes?”

  “Francis here.” Even through the digitally reconstructed double scrambling, the Secretary of State’s voice sounded tired. “We’ve got a little problem.”

  Adleman tightened his stomach. “Okay. How do I play in this?”

  “The President is being taken to Bethesda. His situation has … deteriorated. It doesn’t look good. We wanted to alert you before the press got wind of it, keep it under wraps for another forty-eight hours until you’re in the Philippines.”

  “Two days?! Can you keep the press off it that long?”

  Acht tightened his voice. “The press is well aware of his condition. He sometimes doesn’t make a public showing for days on end.”

  “But why keep it from the press? I knew all along it might come down to this. It doesn’t seem necessary to pull me out of bed for a double-encrypted call—”

  “The other reason, Mr. Vice President,” interrupted Acht, with an edge to his voice, “for this double-encrypted call is that intelligence has spotted a terrorist who has surfaced for the first time in two years. This man is extremely dangerous. Yan Kawnlo was behind the attempted Thai assassination two years ago, and has acted as a consultant to terrorist groups throughout the world, from Syria to North Korea.”

  Adleman leaned forward in his chair. “How does that affect me?”

  “Kawnlo has a reputation for taking promising young terrorists under his wing, turning them into protégés, reminiscent of how bin Landen operated. CIA hasn’t gotten a name yet, but they have verified that a student of Kawnlo is operating out of Manila. The high-profile publicity of your upcoming visit there makes you a perfect target.”

  “Are you advising me to stay out of the Philippines? I can’t let a terrorist dictate terms to the United States.”

  Acht came back instantly. “No sir. I am not advocating canceling your trip,” he said, emphatically. “It is my opinion, as well as tha
t of the intelligence community, that it would be a mistake to fly into Manila.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Fly into Clark. You’ll have some of the best defenses available in the world. No one will be able to get within miles of Air Force Two when it lands. And from there it’s a simple helicopter ride to the treaty negotiations in Manila. It’s much, much easier to defend against a helicopter than a jumbo jet, Mr. Vice President. We can always change the meeting place at the last moment and have the helicopter take you there, but we can’t change the location of Manila International Airport.”

  Adleman pondered the news. Longmire is actually dying, he thought. It was something he had known all along—but until now, he had not felt the weight of this responsibility.

  Now every decision he made could become a major policy, every statement, every offhand comment would be dissected and analyzed by an academician trying to glean a shred of meaning.

  Would flying into Clark actually work against the U.S.? Would that be interpreted as an American lack of trust in the Philippine government—give the impression that the vice president was not willing to become another Benigno Aquino, landing at Manila only to be slaughtered?

  Or would his flying into Manila be viewed as the act of a rash, macho new President, one who probably ignored the advice of his closest associates?

  Adleman finally spoke. But when he did, his voice sounded stronger than it had just minutes before. “We’ll go into Clark. But don’t publicly announce the change until my flight is in the air. It’s been years since a vice president has visited the base, so I’ll use that as my ‘last-minute’ excuse for changing plans.”

  Secretary of State Acht sounded relieved. “Very well, Mr. Vice President. We’ll keep you updated on the President’s condition.”

  “Fine. And please, unless there’s any intelligence data that goes along with the call, I’d prefer an STE.”

  Clark AB

  “Howdy, Son.”

  Bruce Steele glanced up, ready to growl at the person who had dared interrupt as he was getting ready for The Flight. His eyes widened as he caught the gleam of two silver stars shining off the shoulders of the man standing next to him.

  “Good … good morning, sir.” Bruce drew himself up. Oh, crap, crap, crap!

  General Simone stuck out a hand. “Peter Simone.”

  “First Lieutenant Bruce Steele, sir.” Bruce shook the general’s hand. A ream of flight maps covered the table where Bruce stood. The squadron briefing room was empty except for the two of them. A can of Pepsi and a candy bar sat next to the maps.

  “Glad to meet you, Bruce.”

  “Thanks, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Simone cocked an eye at the young lieutenant. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s see—you had already graduated from the Zoo when I was Commandant, hadn’t you?”

  “That’s right, General. You arrived there the year I left.”

  “Have you ever flown a general officer before, Bruce?”

  Bruce hesitated. He had heard stories about Simone after he had left the Academy and gone to pilot training. “Blackman Simone” had not been the typical commandant, but rather had gotten rowdy with the cadets and thumbed his nose at red tape, paperwork, and bureaucrats. The story was that he was more concerned about his people than his own career. But that still didn’t guarantee Simone was someone to get chummy with. Bruce decided to treat him as he would anyone else. “No, sir. My instructor pilot at Holloman was a major. That’s as high as I’ve gone.”

  “Good—no preconceived notions then.” Simone leaned against the preflight table. He looked more like the fatherly Chuck Yeager, “aw shucks” type than Commander of the entire Thirteenth Air Force. “Just remember when we’re up there, you’re the aircraft commander. I was flying fighters before you were born, so don’t feel like you have to hold back because of me. The day I start puking or feeling that I can’t handle a maneuver, I’ll know it’s time to leave the cockpit and do something really useful—like running the commissary service.”

  Bruce grinned. He was going to like this guy.

  Major Dubois signed the aircraft over to Bruce without blinking. A book sat in the middle of the desk. From the lurid cover, Bruce deduced that he had changed paperbacks, which confirmed that the man could read. Or that he liked to look at covers.

  Bruce kept up conversation with the general on the way out to the aircraft. Once they’d reached the flight line, Bruce headed for the backseat of his F-15, while Simone threw his gear in the front.

  Mooselips, Bruce’s crew chief, stepped up and accompanied the two.

  “Glad you made it back from the jungle, sir.”

  “You’re not half as glad as me.”

  Bruce flipped through the maintenance log; nothing serious had occurred to the plane over the past two weeks while he’d been gone—with the exception of an upgrade to the avionics. They were all “fly-by-wire,” electrical in nature, so it didn’t concern him much. As long as it worked. He looked up and flipped the log to Mooselips. General Simone patted the airframe and walked around to the back.

  Bruce lowered his voice. “Anything I should watch out for?”

  Mooselips grinned. “Don’t forget to bring your barf bag. From what I’ve heard the general likes to run his pilots through the wringer.”

  “Thanks.” Bruce turned to follow Simone as he walked around the fighter.

  Bruce approached Simone with a wry grin on his face. This could turn out to be fun. He pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth.

  “How’s it look, General?”

  “Great. This is great.” He drew in a deep breath. “Even the JP-4 smells good, brings back memories.” He slapped the fuselage. “I’d give my left nut to be back in a wing, a line pilot again. Enjoy this while you can, son. These days are going to pass you up and you’ll never get back to them.”

  “Sounds like you’re forgetting the bad times, sir. There’s a lot of rinky-dink stuff we put up with down in the trenches.”

  “I tell ya, it only gets worse the higher up you get. You’d think commanding an Air Force would give me a chance to change some of that Mickey Mouse bullshit, but I’ve got my hands tied. Sometimes it feels like being in the middle of a tree full of monkeys: When you look down you see the line pilots, grinning up at you; and looking up, it’s the assholes in Washington, crapping all over you.”

  They ducked under the twin tailpipes. The roar of a C-5B landing on the adjacent runway rolled over them, drowning out their conversation. The giant transport seemed to barely move; black smoke shot up from its tires as they touched the ground.

  Bruce climbed in the instructor pilot position, behind and slightly above the general, where Charlie would normally sit. Tower treated them as just like any other flight, replying to their transmissions with curt answers. But Bruce bet that the “Blackman 1” call sign sure gained some attention.

  General Simone and Bruce waited at the end of the runway. Radio calls mixed in with Simone’s chatter. Bruce tried to pay polite attention to the general’s patter, but he also tried to keep alert to everything happening around him. A loud whistling overhead caught his attention—a pair of F-22’s landed, one after the other.

  The radio cackled. “Blackman 1, you are cleared for takeoff.”

  Simone answered immediately. “Tower, Blackman. Request clearance to twenty thousand.”

  “Affirmative, Blackman. There is no traffic to twenty thousand.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Bruce heard the click of Simone’s mike, switching to intercom. “IP?”

  “Ready, General,” answered Bruce.

  It felt like Bruce had been kicked in the butt.

  Simone must have jammed the throttles to full afterburners. The fighter leaped forward, continuously accelerating as it rolled down the runway. Bruce kept his eye on the airspeed indicator. In no time they were passing a hundred knots.…As their velocity increased Bruce waited for Simone to announce “rot
ate,” but nothing came over the intercom. They passed the rotate mark—Simone must be forcing the craft to the ground.

  Bruce started to say something, but just as he opened his mouth Simone pulled back on the stick.

  Once airborne, the fighter’s attitude kept going up.

  “Oh, crap,” muttered Bruce. The fighter continued to accelerate, and soon they were pointed straight up—the F-15 was still accelerating, moving completely vertical. Now Bruce realized why the general had requested clearance to twenty thousand feet. At this rate, they’d be there in seconds.

  “Still there, Bruce?”

  “Rog, sir.” Bruce gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to say anything until Simone was about to kill them.

  One mile south of Clark AB

  Cervante surveyed the site. The one road to the clearing was well guarded, and from all indications it had not had much use. He hopped down from the truck and went around to the back of the vehicle. Seconds later Pompano followed him, walking slowly.

  Cervante lifted the tarp covering the rear of the truck. Inside, a potpourri of boxes, cables, and equipment was stuffed into every corner, like a rat’s nest of high-tech gear.

  Pompano limped up. Cervante threw him a look.

  “What is the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Getting old. These dirt roads are starting to get the best of me.”

  “You have been traveling on dirt roads all your life, old man.”

  “Not in a heavy truck, loaded down and hitting every bump.”

  Cervante pulled the trap from the truck. A crowd of Huks congregated where the road opened up to the clearing. Cervante shouted to them. “Barguyo, run down to the start of the road and help stand guard. The rest of you, set up this equipment.”

  Pompano moved around the clearing, poking his nose into where the jungle started, overturning old cans and bottles that were strewn over the area. He called to Cervante. “This place is used by kids—probably to come drink, or use drugs.”

  “Americans,” confirmed Cervante. He wiped his hands and joined the older man. “This is the best location I could find this close to the runway. We should not have any problem with children—keeping a guard back down the road will deter anyone from coming here. They do not want any attention brought to them for their drugs … or sex.”