Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

Kadena AFB, Okinawa

  Major Kathy Yulok hated her dark green Nomex flight suit. Within her she knew it didn’t really matter, but that wasn’t the point.

  As an SR-73 pilot she was authorized to wear the bright orange flight suit that marked her as something special. It seemed to proclaim: Here is a person a cut above everyone else, with quicker reactions and steadier hands than you. It was the most explicit ego-stroking device she had ever seen in her operational career.

  But it was something she didn’t take lightly. Her thoughts drifted to her dad, his Wing carousing around in their “green bags,” special people because they flew fighters. She remembered seeing a poster with the caption “I dreamed I was the hit of the ball in my Nomex flight suit.” In the same way she knew she didn’t have to prove herself, explain to someone that no, she was not just a tanker pilot, when she wore her orange flight suit.

  It wasn’t a big deal, but it was what she had earned.

  And now, being forced to wear a green bag just so no one would know that she was a SR-73 pilot didn’t make her any happier.

  But it was a simple matter of “need-to-know.” No one but the SR-73 pilots had a need-to-know about the time of their next classified flights, or even that the plane was still being flown; so here she was, slumming.

  She stepped out of the crew van and briskly climbed the stairs to the Kadena Officers’ Club. Her flight wasn’t for another few hours and she had slept in, so this really wouldn’t be breakfast. But the dietician always insisted on a high-protein, low-fat meal just before the flight. Just in case.

  “Paper, ma’am?”

  Kathy smiled down at the voice. A thin, brown-skinned youngster held up a copy of Stars and Stripes. The boy was here every morning without fail, hawking copies of the American printed paper. Kathy suspected that what he earned might be the only money the boy’s family saw. She dug in her knee pocket and fished out two dollars. “Keep the change.”

  The boy bowed as he sat when she flipped him the money. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She started reading the front page while walking into the club. Finding an article on Indonesia, she almost missed the door to the special dining room for SR-73 pilots—a left turn, instead of a right, once inside the main entrance.

  Clark AB

  Yolanda followed Ed Holstrom through dark hallways; some of the ceiling lights were not working. She could just make out paintings on the walls—murals, like those on the sides of buildings in Angeles City, except that these pictures were of planes, flying high over the countryside. The murals mixed in with an unusual smell—food and some sort of fuel; this place seemed so strange to her.

  They turned a corner and entered a bright room. A group of men and women, all dressed in the same baggy green jumpsuits, were clustered around a table. Large pieces of paper covered the table, and one of the women was taking notes.

  Ed Holstrom called out, “Yo, Assassin.”

  Yolanda spotted Bruce—he had looked up, startled. “Catman.” Then when he spotted Yolanda, his eyes widened. He said, “Just a minute,” over his shoulder as he moved toward her.

  She saw Charlie at the table. He waved and flashed a grin at her, then went back to studying the maps on the table.

  Bruce set both hands on her shoulders.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Ed Holstrom. And this.” She folded the yellow visitor’s pass in her hands.

  “What’s up? Are you all right?” Yolanda kept quiet; she looked up at him. Bruce glanced around the room as if he were searching for something. He nodded with his head. “Over here—we can talk.” He led her to a row of computers, set apart from the rest of the room. Plaques and emblems of all sorts of strange things—sleek planes with tiger heads, large planes with impossibly large bellies—covered the walls.

  Bruce leaned up against a counter holding the row of computers. He moved his head close and said softly, “How’s your dad? Has he cooled down any?”

  Yolanda shook her head. “Father is still very upset with you—and me.”

  “That figures.” Bruce drummed his fingers against the wooden counter. Someone yelled from another room; the men by the table all laughed, and Yolanda felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Bruce drew in a breath. “Well, how long do you think it will take for him to cool down? I don’t mind meeting you away from the sari-sari store, but I’d really prefer to have your father’s blessing on this.” He lifted a finger and ran it lightly down her arm. “I don’t want you running around behind his back—not on account of me.”

  She slowly shook her head. “Bruce …”

  A voice interrupted them. “Assassin, get the lead out. Wheels up in thirty minutes.”

  Bruce rubbed his hand against her arm and smiled. Yolanda drew in a breath. He doesn’t even know me, she thought. What my dreams are, what my future holds.

  She lowered her eyes. “Bruce, you are a very nice man. We have not spent much time together, but from what I have seen, you have a, what you say”—she stumbled for the word—“good … future ahead of you.” Yolanda started to talk fast. Frightened that her words might well up into tears, she tried to put the other people in the room out of her mind. She stared at the zipper on Bruce’s green jumpsuit.

  “My father and I have had plans for many years for me to attend the University in Quezon City. This is very important to me. My father is selling the sari-sari store so we can go down to Manila and get another store set up before school starts. I will have a chance to spend time with him.” She looked up and set her mouth. “This is something that I want very much. I cannot turn my back on my father, go against his wishes.”

  Bruce spoke for the first time. “His wishes?”

  “Yes. And mine.”

  He was silent. “Yours…?”

  “And mine,” said Yolanda firmly.

  “Are you sure about this? Is this what you really want?” Yolanda nodded stiffly. Bruce grasped her lightly by the shoulders. “Yolanda, look at me—tell me this is what you want.”

  She hesitated. “This is what I want.”

  “And us?”

  “With us, it cannot be.”

  Bruce dropped his eyes and smiled bleakly. He rubbed her shoulders, halfheartedly it seemed. “If you’re sure that’s what you want. I just can’t believe that you would change your mind so fast. And … what about your father forcing you? He seemed so hostile, it’s hard for me to believe this decision is what you want.”

  Yolanda bit her lip. Bruce was right, but she knew it was her decision—she could go against her father if she wished, but there were too many dreams, too much time invested in what she really wanted.

  For if she went against her lifelong desires and kept on with Bruce, would she not, as Bruce’s father had implied, be following Bruce only to get back to the United States?

  “Hey, Assassin!”

  “Just a minute!” Bruce returned hotly. Then to her, “I’ve got to get going.” He sounded defeated.

  Yolanda spoke softly. “My … my father is not angry at you, Bruce Steele. He does not even know you.” She was at a loss for words. “My father is a member of an, an anti-American group, the Huks, an organization of … patriots. It is not important why this is so.” She closed her eyes, remembering Pompano’s hushed voice as he told about her mother’s being brutally raped. “But his anger is against all Americans, not you in particular. You are a fine man, Bruce Steele, and I do not want to hurt you.

  “Your friend, Ed Holstrom, thinks very highly of you. He told me that you were personally chosen to escort the vice president of your country. You have many such friends. And what I have seen, and from what you have told me about your way of life, it truly is amazing … but, it is not for me.”

  Bruce stood silent, his mouth set.

  A voice came from outside the room. “Assassin—get your ass out here!”

  Yolanda put a hand on Bruce’s chest. “I wish you the best, Bruce Steele.”

  Bruce smiled tightly. When he spoke
, his voice just about cracked. “Time to kick the tires and light the fires, then.” He reached out and lightly touched her cheek. “Thanks …. I guess.” He strode away.

  Yolanda turned and watched him move to the table in the center of the room.

  A bald, bullet-headed man stuck his head into the room. He growled at Bruce. “It’s about time, Romeo. Charlie’s out there keeping the van warm for you. Get a move on.”

  Bruce lifted a dark brown bag and swung it over his shoulder. When he reached the door he hesitated, then walked quickly out of sight without looking back.

  ***

  Chapter 16

  Friday, 22 June

  East China Sea

  “Mr. Vice President, we’re a little more than an hour and a half from Clark. Just to let you know, there’s severe weather at the base. Visibility is down to less than a quarter mile, and the cloud ceiling has descended to less than three hundred feet.”

  Robert Adleman leaned forward to the intercom on his desk. He was rarely interrupted for a weather report in-flight, unless conditions were really bad. From what Colonel Wingate, the pilot of the modified 747, was saying, it didn’t sound good.

  Adleman spoke into the intercom. “You’re the expert, James. What’s your call—divert?”

  “No, sir. Clark’s got the best all-weather capability, as well as micro-burst diagnostics. From what tower says, it’s just a heavy rainfall with extremely low visibility. If we’re heading for the Philippines, Clark is where we want to go.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Colonel Wingate came right back. “The weather is right at the edge of our allowable limits. It’ll be rough going in, but I just thought I’d let you know what you’d be landing in.”

  Adleman drummed on the desk. Spread out in front of him were the latest agreements and negotiation points on the P.I. Treaty, e-mailed via secure channels to Air Force Two not fifteen minutes before. From what Adleman had deciphered, a treaty for all the American bases was imminent. The only holdup was a Filipino request to immediately release back to the Filipinos John Hay Air Station, a “resort” base high in the Philippine mountains. The base was innocuous, nothing to be lost if it were decommissioned—and it would be a huge public relations benefit if it were turned over. Still, the American team was insisting that it was part of the entire base structure.

  Adleman didn’t see anything wrong with the Filipinos’ request. This was what President Longmire had wanted him to do—break the stalemate, complete the treaty, show that he was capable of international politicking.

  Adleman lounged back in his chair. “How soon before the weather breaks?”

  Colonel Wingate said, “Can’t say. At least twenty-four hours.”

  Twenty four hours I can’t afford, thought Adleman. Not with Longmire’s condition the way it is. “Okay, let’s get to Clark. I’ve ridden in thunderstorms before.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Vice President.”

  Adleman studied the papers strewn out on the desk in front of him. Just what Longmire wanted to happen, he thought. A sudden thought hit him—what if this stalemate had been dreamed up by Secretary of State Acht, a preprogrammed path Acht was leading him down to ensure a smooth transition by the public? It smacked of something artificial, and Adleman didn’t like the behind-the-scenes implications.

  Adleman brushed the thought aside. No matter, for if push came to shove that’s one nice prerogative of any President—he decides who his cabinet members will be.

  Clark AB

  Bruce was livid on the way out to the flight line. Charlie kept quiet, not speaking—and it was a good thing. Bruce just might have torn off Charlie’s head.

  The weather looked about as bright as his life right now. Which gave him even more of an incentive to rise above the clouds, high above the earth, where the sun would lighten things up. Skipper and Panther kept to themselves.

  A figure came into view, sloughing through the water. The man wore an olive-green poncho and looked like a creature that had crawled from a swamp. He stomped up to the van and poked his head inside.

  “Assassin?”

  Mooselips looked like an entirely different person without his white T-shirt.

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s ready to go. Had a small problem with the avionics, but we got that replaced an hour ago. Anytime you ladies and gentlemen are ready, we’re standing by for you to crank up the auxiliary power units.”

  “Let’s do it.” Bruce grabbed his flight bag. Skipper stood. Bruce said to the driver of the van, “Any way to get us closer to the aircraft?”

  The Filipino driver slapped his knee and grinned. “Sorry—you know rules.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Charlie, “written by a bunch of staff weenies who never had to fly in weather.”

  Bruce clicked the mike. “Ready?”

  “Check complete.”

  “Crank it.” Bruce pointed at Mooselips, just visible through the rain. The crew chief cupped his hands and yelled something to the man kneeling by the plane. Seconds later, a whine came through the canopy.

  “Pressure, good. Fuel, good. Differential GPS?”

  “Up,” said Charlie.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Bruce waved at Mooselips. He and the other enlisted man scrambled around to the front of the F-15E and removed the wheel blocks. When Mooselips appeared at the front of the craft, he snapped to attention and threw Bruce a salute. Bruce returned it and pushed forward on the throttles. Skipper’s fighter followed at his wing.

  Ground control cleared them directly for the runway. Although Air Force Two wasn’t due into Clark for another hour, the place was already closing out flight windows and giving the vice president’s plane “clear skies.”

  Bruce clicked his mike. “Tower, Escort One. Request permission to take off.”

  “Permission granted, Escort One. Skies are clear to thirty thousand.”

  “Rog. Got that Skipper?”

  Two clicks affirmed that Skipper was primed.

  Bruce didn’t ask Charlie if he was ready—he simply slammed the throttles to full forward. The F-15E Strike Eagle seemed to leap forward as the afterburners lit—over fifty thousand pounds of thrust generated by the Pratt & Whitney engines.

  They rolled down the slick runway, gaining speed every second.

  Bruce watched the airspeed indicator, counting to himself as they passed through one hundred knots, one twenty-five, one fifty. The plane felt like it wanted to reach up and claw into the sky. Bruce kept the nose down.

  Charlie’s voice came over the intercom. “Ah, rotate, Assassin.”

  Bruce still kept the stick forward. As Charlie started to speak again, Bruce yanked back on the stick.

  The F-15 slipped into the air. Bruce kept the nose rotating back until they were pointed straight up. If Blackman can get away with it, there’s nothing stopping me, thought Bruce.

  “Yowwee!” Charlie zinged out. “It’s going to be one of those days, Assassin.”

  They quickly disappeared into the clouds. Bruce kept his eyes glued to the attitude indicator, ensuring that they kept climbing. Charlie reported the altitude in clipped tones.

  As they continued to climb, the sky grew brighter.

  Within seconds they broke through the heavy cloud layer. Bruce eased the nose over. The clouds extended to the horizon, fluffy, thick, and pure white. Bruce craned his neck around the cockpit. Seconds later Skipper popped up behind him. Bruce clicked his mike.

  “Loose trail, two.”

  “Rog.”

  Bruce flipped down the shades on his helmet so that the polarized lens cut out most of the glare. They continued to climb, but at a more gradual rate.

  The two fighters were alone, nothing around for a hundred miles.

  Bruce clicked his mike. “Got me a heading for intercept?”

  Charlie came back immediately. “Air Traffic Control confirms heading three-two, five hundred miles out.”

  “Let’s greet the Veep.”

&n
bsp; “Rog.”

  Bruce slammed a quick roll to the right, rotating the F-15 quickly around its axis. Now he was starting to feel human again.

  Angeles City

  Cervante threw a half-smoked cigarette at the floor. “Booto! At least give me the name of your black market contact!”

  It took a full minute for Pompano to slowly scribble a name on a sheet of paper.

  Cervante ground out the cigarette and grabbed at the paper. “This is the phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  Cervante pocketed the paper and paced up and down the length of the sari-sari store. Moments before he had locked the door, shielding them from any potential customers.

  Cervante tried to hold in his rage, but did not succeed. Even Pompano’s gesture of supplying him with the black market contact did nothing to defuse his anger.

  To control his emotions, direct his anger, and thus bridle his energy, was a basic axiom of Kawnlo’s. But the wrath that Cervante felt could not be contained. Not when this, this … old man sitting across the counter could be so blasé, so indifferent about quitting.

  Cervante turned to Pompano. Maybe he could reason with the fool. “When do you plan to leave?”

  “I have already put the sari-sari store up for sale. Today we are packing. On Monday, we will drive to Manila and find a place to stay.”

  “What if you do not sell the store?”

  Pompano shrugged. “Someone will buy it, if not as a store, then for storage space.”

  Cervante stopped pacing. He leaned against the counter and stared at Pompano. “But why are you quitting? We have done so much—the plantation is a secure base, the high-power microwave weapon is working … we are just beginning to do all that we planned. Why pull out now?”

  Pompano sighed and slowly rose from his stool. He shuffled over to a shelf and picked up a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and offered it to Cervante; the Huk refused. “I told you, I am old, tired. You just said that you have succeeded in doing everything you set out to do.”

  “Except drive out the Americans, start a new beginning!”

  “Yes, yes.” Pompano waved smoke away from his face and sat down stiffly.

  “I cannot believe this! There must be another reason.” Cervante thought for a moment. “What has your daughter done to make this happen so fast?”