Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Pompano appeared to chew on his lip, then asked, “How far from the runway are we?”

  “A little over two kilometers. At this range, the high-power microwave weapon should be able to disrupt their flight equipment. Not enough to pinpoint where we are, or even determine what we are doing, but enough to aggravate them greatly.”

  Pompano craned his neck and looked up; there was a tiny hole in the foliage that allowed him to view the cloudy sky. “Two kilometers?” He waved an arm around. “It can do that much damage?”

  Cervante strode to the truck and pulled a thick booklet from the back. He slapped it down on Pompano’s hand. “Here. The cartoons show how far this weapon can be from the target, how to set it up, and how to use it.”

  Pompano leafed through the multicolored manual. He glanced at the illustrations of helmeted men setting up the device and operating it. He pointed with the booklet up at the hole in the foliage. The clouds seemed like a kaleidoscope of black-and-white swirls. “What happens if a plane flies overhead, directly above us?”

  Cervante stopped. He took the operating manual from the older man and flipped through the pages. A picture of an aircraft spinning out of control, just bare meters above the ground, adorned a page.

  “If the plane is low enough, it goes down.…”

  Cervante stopped speaking. At that moment, a Pan Am 747 jumbo jet, probably carrying hundreds of servicemen and their children to Clark Air Base, roared not a thousand feet overhead.

  Cervante jerked his head up and got a fleeting glance of the jumbo jet before it disappeared. He looked back at Pompano.

  The older man had his mouth drawn tight, and remained silent.

  Ten miles off the western coast, P.I.

  For the first time in his life, Bruce started to feel airsick.

  In the forty-five minutes since General Simone had shot straight up from the runway at Clark, the fighter had not flown straight for more than twenty seconds. The general continuously slammed the craft through a gagging sequence of high-speed maneuvers, rolls, accelerations, and loops.

  Bruce eyed the fuel-indicator through the bouncing gyrations. Simone suddenly spun the craft to the right, then straightened as they soared up through fifteen thousand feet. Bruce keyed the mike.

  “Starting to get a little short on fuel, General.”

  The craft turned nose-down and Bruce suddenly felt weightless; they followed a neat parabolic path. “We used to run our jets through the wringer like this when they were first delivered to the squadron. Except you can’t fly a Smokin’ Rhino like this.”

  Bruce clicked twice on the mike. General Simone was referring to the ancient F-4 fighter, which had been the mainstay of Air Force fighters during the sixties and seventies. Its trail of black smoke could be seen from miles away.

  Suddenly the fighter turned up, as Simone brought her out of the parabolic path. Simone’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Let’s get our feet wet before heading back, Assassin.”

  “Rog.”

  Simone pulled the fighter into a backward loop. Blue sky melted into black as they rotated around. Bruce felt as though he should be able to see the stars. As they continued to rotate the black sky turned into blue, until Bruce saw the boundary of water with land miles in the distance. They accelerated straight down, screaming through the Mach numbers. When they swept past ten thousand feet, Bruce started calling out the altitude. Simone gave no indication that he knew how high they were.

  Seconds passed. Bruce wet his lips.

  “Four thousand … three thousand … minimum altitude, General.”

  With no response, Bruce called out, “IP has the aircraft.” He pulled back on the stick and the throttles, trying not to bring them out in too steep of an angle. Simone didn’t say anything—Bruce expected to be blasted by the general for taking away control of the fighter.

  The g-indicator rose, moving past six, then seven gs. Bruce grunted, anticipating brownout, but felt no indication even of tunnel vision. The gs dwindled off as he brought the aircraft up. At two hundred feet the jet leveled off. Bruce clicked his mike.

  “All right, General?”

  Two clicks answered him. “Your aircraft, Assassin.”

  Bruce clicked back. “I’ll have to bring it up for ‘feet dry,’ General. Take a last gander before we bring her up to altitude.”

  Bruce glanced at the heads-up display, which indicated air speed was right on five hundred knots.

  A speck through the cockpit caught his attention—it looked like an old rickety fishing boat, directly ahead of them on the horizon. Bruce immediately broke right and accelerated up. He wasn’t about to capsize the boat.

  Overturning a group in a rice paddy was one thing, but sinking a fishing boat miles from shore was an order of magnitude worse.

  As they gained altitude, Simone came over the intercom. “That happened to me once years back, Assassin. Never quite forgave myself for strafing an unarmed boat.”

  Bruce kept quiet for a moment. Breaking through ten thousand feet, they passed over the beaches on the west side of the island. White sand quickly changed to jungle as they flew toward Clark. Bruce received the necessary clearances as they proceeded on to a landing.

  Once down, Bruce removed his helmet and drew in deep breaths of humid air. Clouds covered most of the sky, and a light drizzle had just started to cover the ground.

  Simone reached the bottom of the stairs before him. When Bruce climbed down, the general held out a slender ebony hand; his flight suit was soaked with perspiration. He showed evenly spaced teeth when he smiled.

  “Thanks, Son.”

  Bruce shook his hand. “Thank you, sir—you’re the one who put me through the paces. That was some nice flying.”

  Simone picked up his helmet and started for the staff car that waited for him at the edge of the flight line. Sounds of auxiliary power units cranked up in the distance; laughter drifted from a group of airmen playing volleyball on the opposite side of squadron headquarters. Simone nodded for Bruce to follow. Bruce stepped up and kept pace with the general. Simone spoke straight ahead, as if Bruce weren’t even there.

  “Flying these jets is a cathartic experience for me; purging my soul of all the humdrum activity that comes with command.” He paused. “Sometimes I think I might even take it too far, Bruce—try to push the limits of what I can do. Some people can’t handle it when I take them up, refuse to fly with me anymore. That’s how I weed out the true pilots.” He stopped and lifted up his sunglasses. He looked Bruce over. “That took balls to take the plane away from me, Bruce. For all your bravado, I think there’s a damn good fighter pilot in you. Stay with it, Son. Don’t let the bullshit get you down and you’ll go far. I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Ah, are you all right…? I mean when I took the airplane away? Were you okay then?”

  Simone dropped his sunglasses back to his face and growled. “I said it was a test, didn’t I?”

  Bruce watched the staff car drive away, the flag with two stars on it waving from the front.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped,” he said to no one.

  One mile south of Clark AB

  Cervante took a final drag on his cigarette before walking over to the HPM weapon. One man was struggling to unfold a dish antenna. The camouflaged parabola unfurled, until it was nearly ten feet across. A collector in the center of the dish stuck out a good three feet. The HPM weapon looked to be nothing more than a delicate dish, a gigantic flower that sat in the middle of the clearing.

  As Cervante approached, he could tell that the antenna was only a small part of the weapon. A long pipe protruded from an array of capacitor banks. The pipe was connected to the antenna through a convoluted series of fittings—“mode converters,” the operating manual had called them. From what Cervante understood, the weapon produced microwaves that were a million times more powerful than those found in microwave ovens; although the microwaves literally “fried” electronic components, the beam quickl
y spread out and was ineffective over long distances.

  Cervante paused before the device. “Is it complete?”

  “Except for turning it on.” Pompano emerged from beneath the dish. A motorized pointing and tracking unit held the giant antenna in place. He wiped his hands on already grimy pants.

  “The manual does say that the setup time should take no longer than two hours. And knowing the average intelligence of the American troops, I had no fear that you should find the tasking easy.”

  Pompano ran a hand over the long metal piping that connected the dish to the capacitor banks. He spoke in a low voice. “Do not underestimate those people, my friend. That cartoon operating manual does not reflect their true capabilities—ask any Iraqi.”

  Cervante fished a cigarette out of a pack in his sock. “Whatever. But that does not concern me now. What is important to me is using the weapon. When can we start?”

  Pompano was silent for a moment. He answered slowly, “We are ready now. It is not difficult to operate—Barguyo already knows how. Basically, all that is needed is to charge up the capacitors, aim the weapon, and set it off. Once the weapon fires, the capacitors recharge so we can use it again.”

  Cervante puffed away quickly. “So we can use it now?”

  Pompano shrugged. “Of course.”

  Cervante threw down his newly lit cigarette. The prospect of finally having this tool so close to the American base excited him. He felt like cranking the dish straight up, pointing toward the hole in the jungle above.

  The distant sound of a jet only intensified the feeling.

  It seemed as though the dream he had had over the past years was coming to a head, culminating, frothing to a finish. And all it required was “charging and pointing.” It almost seemed too easy.…

  And it was.

  Cervante realized that if he were to rush, hurry and set off the weapon, he might be tracked. The device would have to be used selectively—only against those targets that would produce the maximum effect.

  Gaining access to a list of incoming aircraft should not prove difficult. Cervante smiled amicably at the old man in front of him.

  “Perhaps we should not rush with this device. Can your sources obtain a list of incoming flights to the American base? Flights that, if irradiated, would give us maximum political leverage?”

  Pompano looked surprised. “I do not see why not.”

  “Good. Tomorrow afternoon will be a good time to return here.”

  Pompano held up a hand. “I do not know if I can obtain anything for you by then.”

  “But at least you should know if the information is forthcoming.” Cervante paused; he had allowed the man to keep his source, and now that Pompano played such an integral role the old man would be sure to come through. “Why don’t we test the device, to make sure it still works after the trip?” He looked around the clearing. Besides the high-power microwave weapon, two jeepneys and one truck were in the clearing. “Aim the device at the truck; it is the most expendable.”

  Pompano shrugged and headed for the weapon. Cervante waved for the men to move the two jeepneys out of the way.

  Moments later Pompano called out, “Ready!”

  Cervante crossed his arms and nodded. The men were lined up behind the dish, now pointing almost horizontal, straight at the battered truck.

  Pompano pushed a button. A sharp “pop” ricocheted throughout the clearing. Cervante frowned. Unlike the last test there had been no smoke, no explosion. The truck looked unscathed.

  Cervante strode toward the truck. Looking inside, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pushed into the front seat and turned the ignition. Nothing. The engine didn’t even crank.

  Pompano pushed his face up to the window. “Well?”

  “It does not turn over.”

  “What else did you expect?”

  Cervante’s brows went up. “Is this it?”

  “This is it.” Pompano was silent for a moment. He nodded to Cervante’s watch. “Have you checked that?”

  Cervante glanced at his wristwatch. The electronic timepiece was completely blank. There was no sign that the liquid crystal display had ever worked.

  And he had been standing behind the weapon.

  Cervante smiled.

  Clark AB

  “What?!” Staff Sergeant Evette Whiltree pushed back her chair in the control tower. The wheeled chair slid across the waxed floor. She had an unobstructed view of the outside—four major runways, F-15s, F-22s, C-5s, C-130s, MH-60s, HH-3s, support vehicles, and almost anything else that the air base had to offer.

  The control tower should have afforded her no surprises.

  But the blip that appeared on her radar screen seemed to defy all those precautions.

  It was as if someone had turned all the power off, then back on again within the blink of an eye.

  And if that had happened—an abrupt power failure, for example—then her computerized systems would have undergone an immediate re-initialization sequence.

  But whatever had happened, it wasn’t a power failure.

  The rest of the control tower acted as if nothing had happened. Evette glanced around—no one else had noticed.

  She glanced at her computerized screen. Nothing unusual.

  She thought hard. She’d been on the rock now for nearly eighteen months. Another six months and she’d be heading back to the States, back to Travis AFB where she had been guaranteed an assignment. Northern California had it all over the P.I.

  And she didn’t really want to jeopardize it by bringing up a questionable incident.

  The longer she thought about it, the more it made sense. It had been her imagination.

  She pushed back to her screen and donned her headphones.

  ***

  Chapter 13

  Thursday, 21 June

  Clark AB

  Bruce waited in the car as Charlie got out to get Nanette. Brilliant red-and-yellow flowers dotted the side of the yard, meticulously kept by the yard boy. Lush trees masked the house from direct sunlight. The house was one of thirty on “Senior Officers’ Row,” the private loop that housed all of Clark’s senior ranking officers. A sign by the door read: col bolte.

  Bruce slouched in his seat and pulled his sunglasses down on his face. He scanned the house, but no one appeared. He knew it was crazy to try and hide— Colonel Bolte was most likely at Wing Headquarters—but the initial chewing out that Bruce had gotten the day they first arrived at Clark still stuck in his mind.

  Charlie disappeared inside, and moments later came out with a slender blond. Her white shorts accented tanned legs. Bruce watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying not to appear interested.

  He felt happy for his backseater. The poor guy had been searching for years for the right woman, never finding anyone with the right combination of looks and brains to satisfy him. He hoped this worked out for Charlie.

  Bruce made a mental note to be on his best behavior. And with Yolanda coming along, that should not prove to be difficult.

  Bruce twisted around as they got into the backseat. “Hi. I’m Bruce Steele.”

  “Nanette,” she said, firmly returning his shake.

  Bruce started the engine. “Charlie tells me we’ve already met.” He watched her through the rearview mirror.

  She threw a glance at Charlie and smiled. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “I don’t; that’s why Charlie had to tell me.”

  “A catcall across a swimming pool doesn’t qualify as a formal introduction, so I guess we really haven’t met.”

  Bruce dug out a pack of gum. He held it up to the backseat. “Gum?”

  “No thanks.”

  He popped a piece in his mouth and concentrated on getting to the main gate. Traffic on base was not bad.

  It had been a while since he had actually driven. His car had not yet arrived on the boat from the States—a corvette, his “cadet car,” that he had had at the USAF Academy. The rental car he was dri
ving didn’t have nearly the pickup that he was used to. But it beat the heck out of waiting for taxis and riding the bus, especially for a double date.

  As they approached the main gate, Bruce pulled over to the side. Parking the car, he said, “Be back in a moment.” He entered the base’s Visitors’ Center and applied for a visitor’s pass, using his identification card as credentials. After the airman pushed the pass to him, Bruce strode back to the car.

  “What was that all about?” asked Charlie.

  Bruce held up the visitor’s pass as he pulled back into traffic. “I don’t want Yolanda to have to go jumping through hoops if things work out and she wants to get on base.”

  Once outside the main gate, he steeled himself for automotive culture shock. Jeepneys screeched precariously near, and pedestrians darted in and out of traffic. He kept one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. Blended with the traffic came a cacophony of noise and smells: honking horns, people yelling curses, odors of urine and stale beer, and the sound of music blaring from the bars outside the base. He rolled up his window.

  “I’m going to air conditioning.”

  Charlie and Nanette rolled up their windows, and all of a sudden they seemed to be in a different world.

  Bruce directed his voice to the back without turning around. “I hate air conditioners. It’s like giving into the environment.”

  “It kills Bruce even to go to oxygen when we’re flying,” said Charlie.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” retorted Bruce. “After all those cold winters in Colorado, I can’t get enough of warm weather. And resorting to air conditioning seems to be the wimp’s way out.”

  Nanette thought for a moment. “Man against Nature, the most basic conflict and the lowest rung in Maslow’s hierarchy. Applying that to Bruce’s reluctance for air conditioning sounds like a good thesis topic, Charlie.”

  Bruce’s eyes widened. Looking through the rear-view mirror, he couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. Maybe Charlie had found his match.