by Doug Beason
Bruce tried to put himself in her shoes. What would it have been like if he had been accused—slandered!—by her father?
But he knew that the comparison could never be made. She had much more at stake. And since the Filipino culture had ingrained in her that saving face was paramount, it was as if Bruce’s father had stripped her in front of Bruce and his friends, publicly shocked and humiliated her.
Bruce glanced over to Yolanda. She shuddered quietly, as if sobbing to herself, but yet never allowing the others to see.
Bruce tried to control his voice and spoke quietly. “Yolanda … I’m … I’m sorry, and I know that nothing I do can change it. Maybe I can make you understand, tell you something that happened to me, something very close to me, that caused me shame—” He stopped for a moment, then prayed silently for the strength to go on. He found his voice had dropped to a whisper. “I was married until six months ago. I thought I had the perfect marriage, a girl that I had dated all through high school and college.
“How well can you know a person after seven years of dating and three years of marriage? But I guess it really didn’t matter—whatever is inside is the true person, and that doesn’t always show.
“Ashley and I grew apart the last few months, her job and friends demanding more of her time. Her best friend used to keep her company on those overnight trips I had to take, and I had always thought that it was a good idea.” He paused, then forced himself to continue. “One night, I came home after a flight was cancelled, and I found Ashley … Ashley with her girlfriend and a couple of guys … all … in my bed. That was the last time I saw her. Everything else, the separation, the divorce was all conducted through lawyers. I couldn’t bring myself to face her again. Or tell my friends about it.
“I guess things like being honest with each other, spending time taking walks, or just reading together … doesn’t mean much to some people. I know I can’t undo what my father did to you, but—at least you should know that you aren’t the only one to experience pain.”
Bruce stared straight ahead. The road was clear, and rice paddies on either side diffused into jungle; it didn’t take much to drive, and Bruce did the minimum keeping the car on the road.
Bruce felt a hand on his shoulder; Charlie squeezed tight.
Yolanda still sobbed quietly. Charlie removed his hand and settled back in his seat.
When Yolanda leaned her head over to Bruce’s shoulder, he felt a peace he had not felt for what seemed years.
The White House
Secretary of State Francis Acht closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The first-floor room was down the hall and two doors down from the President’s study. Normally reserved for the President’s National Security Advisor, Acht was using the room as a temporary situation room.
He didn’t want to draw undue attention to the President’s absence, but he knew that the effort was almost useless. Sooner or later someone on the White House staff would speak to the press—a “highly placed anonymous source,” earning favor with the reporters and thus raising his stature in the press’s eyes.
Acht opened his eyes and glanced at the note just handed him: The President was still in surgery, and the prognosis was bad.
Adleman was due to arrive in the Philippine Islands in less than twelve hours and, with any luck, should be able to wrap up the treaty by Sunday. Luckily, most of the details had been hammered out by a team handpicked by Acht. Adleman’s presence would assure Philippine President Rizular that the U.S. was not treating the Philippines as an unequal.
Acht blinked. The room’s hand-rubbed wood finish, dark blue decor, and soft lighting had been designed to soothe the tensions that might affect decisions.
The Secretary of State stood and shuffled to the curtains. Drawing the thick fabric aside, he looked out onto the White House lawn. No cars had passed in front of the White House for years, ever since the street had been closed after the 9-11 attack. Now he could barely make out people as they walked along the pedestrian path in the warm Washington night. Sometimes it felt as if all the security precautions were designed to keep him caged, rather than keep the masses out.
A sharp rap came at the door. “Come in.”
The National Security Advisor stood at the doorway. “No change. Things aren’t looking good.”
Acht threw one last look outside and sighed. Things were moving too fast. And it was no time for secrecy. “Let’s go ahead with the press release.”
“Should we have Adleman return, then?”
Acht shook his head. “The treaty is too important. If we bring him back, we might give the wrong message to Rizular. We pulled out of the Philippines once; if negotiations break down we’ll never be allowed to stay permanently. There’s too much riding on this.”
“So you think it’s the right thing to do, telling the press?”
“Absolutely. We’ve got the contingency plans ready. Adleman is flying from one American base to another. It can’t be safer than that. I think all of our ducks are in line. Just leave out how critical the President really is. We don’t want to start a panic.”
“And if Longmire dies?”
Acht shrugged. “We’ve done everything we can. We can’t put the government on hold, waiting for the worst. Business goes on. Mr. Adleman has been apprised of the situation and we’ve taken all the security precautions we can.” He paused. “This treaty is just too damned important. Let’s just pray that Longmire holds on until we can get Adleman back here,” he glanced at the calendar, “in something more than seventy-two hours.”
***
Chapter 14
Thursday, 21 June
Clark AB
Major General Simone paced up and down his richly decorated office, scowling. For the first time since he had stopped smoking some ten years before, he literally ached for a cigarette. He didn’t crave any booze—which was a good thing, for he would have stopped drinking years ago if he had. But he would have killed for a good hit of nicotine.
He shouldn’t have gotten upset. He’d met politicians before, wined and dined them, but that had been when he was Commandant of Cadets, never when he was in an operational unit. Why can’t they just leave me the hell alone? he thought.
The Thirteenth Air Force had an established routine for dealing with political VIPs—usually congressmen, whose wives and staffers accompanied the politicians on their “fact-finding junkets.” More often than not the trips turned out to be nothing more than Air Force-funded spending sprees, underwritten by the taxpayers.
Simone had a staff whose job it was to accompany the groups, showing them where the best buys were and the places to avoid. Simone usually made a star appearance at the beginning and again at the end of each trip, profusely thanking the delegation for showing up—but making damned sure that his operation was not affected by the junket.
But this trip by the vice president, of all the useless people! The place would be crawling with Secret Service, FBI, DIA, OSI, and probably XYZ agents. Flying would stop, then be staged to provide a “demonstration” for the Veep. He’d have lunch with the troops in their cafeteria, tour the base—meaning the whole base would come to a standstill as everyone picked up trash and painted old buildings. The nightmare would go on and on.
He stopped in the center of the room and bit his lip. Okay, he thought, pissing time is over. Time to get down to business. Much as he hated swallowing frogs, his philosophy was that if he had to swallow, then swallow the biggest frog first.
He walked over to the intercom on his desk and slapped at it.
“Stephanie, get a hold of First Lieutenant Bruce Steele. Tell him”—he paused, then slowly grinned to himself—“tell him he and his backseater are to fly escort for a VIP coming into Clark tomorrow morning.”
Angeles City
As Pompano settled back in his chair, he spotted a red four-door car approach from the market. Pompano narrowed his eyes. Rich Filipinos did not make a habit of coming to the market themselves.
> He spotted the American license plates.
A cold chill came over him, and a sudden vision of people taking him away, accusing him of stealing their HPM weapon, swept through his mind. But then it hit him that they would be coming in some sort of government car, a dark blue color so as not to draw attention.
The front door opened and a white man stepped out.…
Yolanda got out of the other side. Pompano’s breath quickened; his face grew warm. Yolanda? What have they done with her?!
Yolanda looked surprised when she saw him. “Father!” Pompano remained silent. “You read my note?”
“Aih.”
She smiled, as if she had dismissed his obvious anger, and instead turned to the American. As tall as Yolanda was, the man still towered a good six inches over her. Yolanda said proudly, “Father, I would like you to meet Bruce Steele.”
Pompano stiffly waved a hand. He glared at the young man and ignored his daughter. He spoke in Tagalog. “He is not welcome on my property. He will leave.”
Yolanda looked puzzled. “Father?”
“Did you not hear me?” He still avoided looking at Yolanda and bore his eyes into the man. The American shifted his weight from one foot to another. He looked puzzled.
“Yolanda, I had probably better leave.…”
“Father?!”
Pompano made a cutting motion with his hand and still spoke in Tagalog. “He is not welcome. Leave this store now, or I will call the PC.”
“But father, I must explain. This is the—”
“Yolanda, I’d better go.” The young man nodded slightly to Pompano’s daughter and turned to leave. “Please don’t take it out on your daughter, sir. It is entirely my fault. I can assure you—”
“Out!!” Pompano commanded in English.
The American shrugged and left, the screen door slamming behind him.
“Father!”
Pompano turned for the back room. “Shut the door, Yolanda; we will talk.”
“Yes, Father.”
Yolanda joined him moments later in the back. Pompano waited for her, sitting quietly in a chair. He waited until she sat. “Yolanda …”
“Father, Bruce Steele is a gentleman. You caused me to lose face, and you shamed him—”
“Quiet!” His daughter stopped talking and dropped her head. She folded her hands.
Pompano drew in a breath, trying to calm his pulse. It was the first time in a long time that he had had a run in with an American. He ignored the ones he passed on the streets. The few who entered his store were politely refused service. But now, one … accosting his daughter!
Pompano strained to stop the shaking. “Yolanda, you must stay away from the Americans. I have told you many times.”
She looked up, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “But why? What is so bad about going somewhere with a gentleman?”
“I told you.”
Yolanda stopped and dropped her head again.
Pompano started to continue, but stopped. He let out a breath, suddenly tired. “Yolanda … my little girl.”
“I am not little anymore, Father.”
“Yolanda, you must listen very carefully to me. There is a good reason why I do not want you near the Americans. We are proud to be Filipinos, and there are many things out of our control. We must stay together. The Americans will treat you as their little brown sister if you give in to their wishes.”
“Bruce is not like that, Father!”
Pompano raised his voice slightly. “They are all like that. You must understand. These are lonely men, away from their homeland. And young, lonely men turn to the only thing that consoles them—women. It does not matter what these women look like, who they are. It is only the fact that the women give them company.…And when they bring these women back to their country, then they quickly see that the Filipino women are not like their own.”
“But this is different! Bruce Steele and I have never spoken of going to America. This is not the same!”
“It always is, little one.” Pompano squeezed the back of Yolanda’s neck, then moved to his chair and sat heavily. “You still do not understand, do you?” Yolanda looked up at him and shook her tear-streaked face. “And I cannot explain it to you any clearer?” Again, she shook her head.
Pompano sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I did not know when to tell you this, but this seems to be the time.” He smiled to himself, then grew serious. He knew he would not be able to keep it from her forever.
“This liberty battalion, the group of Filipinos I associate with to build memorials for our war heroes? The Aquino memorial?”
“Yes?”
Pompano leaned forward and took his daughter’s hand. He looked down at the floor and spoke forcefully. “The Liberty Battalion does not exist. I have been involved with a faction of the Huks, the New People’s Army.” Pompano looked up, and Yolanda’s eyes were wide. “To strike back at the Americans. Nothing more—I do not believe in what most of the Huks want, I do not think that they will be able to change our government. It is my only way to get back at the Americans, to make them pay in some way for what they have done.”
“But, Father … why?”
Pompano hesitated. “You must understand, little one. I do not condone the killing; I do not participate in any of the Huk raids. I only provide my services, my talent, when it means that the Americans will be affected.” He breathed deep. If there was any way to spare her feelings … but I cannot, he thought.
Yolanda looked at him intently. “How can you say that? If this is true, do you not accept some of the responsibility for the killing? What would make you strike out at the Americans this way?”
Pompano stroked her hand; his voice grew quiet. “I loved your mother very much, Yolanda. She was everything to me.”
Yolanda brushed back her hair. “You have told me that, Father.”
Pompano closed his eyes. “But what I have not told you is that nineteen years ago, before you were born, your mother was raped, brutalized by a gang of Americans. She never regained consciousness, and you were born nine months later.” He opened his eyes. Yolanda’s mouth was agape, her eyes wide.
Pompano nodded. “Yes, you are my daughter, little one, but only because I was married to your mother. I do not know who your father is—he was sent back to the United States, taken away before our judicial system could ever indict him.”
Yolanda put a hand to her mouth and stood. She knocked her chair over, but Pompano let it lie. She started sobbing, then turned for her small room.
Pompano struggled to his feet and he called after her, “The Huks were the only way I could strike back at them! I love you so much, Yolanda.…You are my only reason for living.” He hobbled over to her room. A red curtain separated her tiny cubicle from the rest of the back room. Pompano leaned up against the wall and spoke softly to his daughter, over the crying.
“Now you understand why I demand that you stay away from the Americans. To do otherwise would be to spit on your mother’s grave, no matter if you believe what I say will happen to you or not.” Pompano suddenly felt tired. His joints ached and he felt like giving up.
He placed a hand on the door frame and called out quietly. “Yolanda … Yolanda?” The sobbing sounds grew quiet. Pompano tightened his grip on the frame. “I … I was planning to sell this store and go to Manila when you went to school. Quezon City is not far, and you could have a place to come when things get too hectic for you. My work with the Huks here is finished.
“Instead of waiting until your school starts this fall, I will sell the store now. Move to Manila … this month.” He ran a hand up and down the wood frame. Pompano glanced around the little room, the place where he had raised his daughter for the past eighteen years. He remembered the laughter, the tears that this room had seen—her little friends visiting. Yolanda, finishing her homework in the small chair in the corner.…It would be hard to leave, for the memories it held could never be replaced.
But he knew
those same memories would now hold nightmares for his daughter, and she would wake up in the middle of the night realizing that she didn’t have any blood family alive. Yet this was the only way it could be.
Pompano called out quietly, “What do you think, little one—would that make you happy? We could leave for Manila as soon as I sell the store.”
It took a long time for her to answer, but when she did her voice sounded somewhat surly. “Do not call me ‘little one’ anymore.”
Clark AB
Bruce slammed the door to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Catman and Robin had been waiting outside for him, but Bruce didn’t feel like talking. He stomped into the room, went to the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer.
A knock came at the door. “Assassin.”
“Get lost!” Bruce popped the top on the beer and took a swig.
“Assassin, come on, open up.” The rapping continued.
Bruce ignored the men and slouched down on a chair in the small room. He pulled at the beer, drinking until he had finished half of it. He fumed, pissed at the world in general.
It had been bad enough for his dad to act like a jerk, but then to get thrown out of the sari-sari store by that old Filipino. What the hell was going on?
That morning he had been on top of the world, his future looking so bright that he almost felt like wearing shades.
And now—crap.
A sound in the kitchen caused him to whirl. Catman peeked out from the door. “Hey, Assassin.”
“How the hell did you get in?!”
Charlie’s voice came from the kitchen, out of sight. “It’s my kitchen, too, Bruce.”
Bruce glared and turned away. He pulled on his beer.
Catman called out, “Assassin, I just came over to tell you that our house is ready. We can move in next Monday. Charlie has lined up a housemaid, and she’s coming over tomorrow morning so we can interview her.”
“Party time, bros! This is one excellent arrangement!” Robin’s voice interrupted Catman. He took one quick look in the room, saw the expression on Bruce’s face, said, “Uh-oh,” and backed up, out of sight.
