Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Pompano pulled a compass from his pocket. It was tied to his pants. He consulted the instrument, then nodded with his head. “This way.” He smoothed his vest and started off.

  Bruce shrugged. How Pompano was going to navigate without any landmarks was a mystery to him. The old man had perhaps spotted something while still in the air. Be that as it may, Pompano was a good fifteen feet away by now, and would soon disappear in the jungle if Bruce didn’t keep up with him.

  The White House

  “Mr. Salazar, Ed Hoi from Fox News. There has been a news blackout at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. Any comment?”

  Salazar raised his eyebrows. “News blackout? I don’t follow you.”

  “Blackout: a clampdown. Our correspondent covering the vice president’s arrival has not reported in, and we’re unable to raise him, or anybody at Clark for that matter. In light of the President’s death, would you care to comment?”

  Salazar spread his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Salazar! CNN has the same problem!”

  “Los Angeles Times.…”

  “NBC!”

  “Washington Post.…”

  “Mr. Salazar!”

  “Salazar!”

  Charlie minus twenty thousand over Tarlac

  Major Kathy Yulok hated flying this close to the ground.

  Her SR-73 was relaying intelligence data to Clark in an attempt to pinpoint the location of the high-power microwave weapon. With a three-meter dish, the weapon should be clearly visible with the visual, IR, hyperspectral and SAR equipment she carried. And with the other electronic sensors on her craft, if the HPM was anywhere near a power supply she’d be able to detect it as well.

  But if the HPM device was down there, it must be squirreled away.

  Kathy checked her fuel. The gauge looked low again; she had already refueled twice. A KC-10A tanker orbited three thousand feet below her. She decided to tank up and get back to Kadena. If the HPM weapon was not deployed, there was nothing more she could do.

  Tarlac

  Cervante watched Adleman, waiting until the vice president awoke. The plantation’s front room had a long picture window that looked out over the front yard. The jungle circled around the yard, a good quarter of a mile away. Through the drizzle, Cervante could barely see the single road that led from the plantation.

  Cervante sat in a leather chair. The vice president’s briefcase was next to Cervante. Adleman and Yolanda were at opposite ends of a long couch. The girl was curled up there, watching him without making a sound. Adleman’s head was thrown back against the couch. He moaned slightly and moved his head from side to side. Barguyo was the only other person in the room. He had delivered the ultimatum to Clark.

  Twenty-four hours! thought Cervante. By then either the vice president will be dead, or the Americans will be preparing to leave. The thought almost made him intoxicated, cocky with power.

  To think—a simple matter of bringing down a plane! He owned the jungle! For years the Huks had done what they wanted, always escaping the token resistance of the Philippine Constabulary.

  Moving into the plantation had been a masterstroke. No one would think of searching for them here. And even if someone stumbled across the mountain hideaway, the sensors he had planted would give him ample time to escape into the jungle.

  Adleman’s life was truly in his hands.

  Adleman stirred. His eyes fluttered open. He pulled his right hand toward him. Heavily bandaged, the hand was useless. Adleman tried to sit up, but it seemed to cause him too much pain.

  Yolanda glanced at Adleman, then swung her gaze back to Cervante. She reminded Cervante of a trapped animal, cowering in fear of its life.

  Cervante smiled at Adleman. “Mr. Vice President. I am glad that you are awake. I wanted to thank you for helping us get rid of the American bases.”

  Adleman’s eyes seemed almost ready to glaze over. But he met Cervante’s gaze and stared back. “I … will do nothing … to help you.” His voice was hoarse.

  “No? Then what about your finger? Surely you remember what happened. That was but a small sign of what will happen to you if your President does not remove your troops.”

  Adleman drew in a breath. He seemed to notice the briefcase, but didn’t say anything. He coughed, kept his eyes fixed on Cervante. “You’re crazy.”

  “We will learn shortly just how valuable your life is to your fellow countrymen. You Americans have such a funny way of showing your allegiance to your comrades. The Romans’ Pax Romana lasted for years because one murdered Roman citizen would lead to a hundred tortures. But you Americans …” Cervante shook his head. “You will allow a hundred of your countrymen to be kidnapped, and yet do nothing in return. So we will see. If your President thinks we are bluffing”—he shrugged—“then we simply deliver your dead body to them.”

  “That’s … insane.” Adleman coughed. “What have you to gain if you kill me? You … lose your bargaining chip.”

  “Oh,” smiled Cervante. “We would first want them to consider carefully what they were about to do.” He motioned with his head to Barguyo. The boy stood and walked up to the couch. He held a small camera, and took several pictures of Adleman and Yolanda, sitting back expressionless on the couch.

  Cervante spoke to Adleman, as if with an afterthought. “The girl … I was planning on using her to ensure our safety if we were stopped on our way here. But since no one stopped us, there is even a better use for her. If we have not heard from your people in twelve hours, these pictures of the two of you will reach Clark. Yolanda will accompany the pictures. She will be in, shall we say, not very good shape, when she arrives—if she is alive at all. Your President will have plenty of reason to believe that we will carry out our threat.”

  Adleman’s eyes widened. He whispered hoarsely, “But … what will you gain … if I … die?”

  “Gain? Oh, Mr. Vice President. You do not understand. That is not the point. Having killed the vice president of the United States of America, having proved that we are capable of shooting your jets down at will, your own people will insist you get out of the Philippines. We win, no matter what happens. We are merely talking about time scales now, about when these events are going to occur. If you live, the bases will be vacated immediately. And if you die”—Cervante shrugged—“it will take a little longer, but you will still pull out.” He thought for a moment. “This is yours?” He nodded to the briefcase.

  “Yes.” Adleman wet his lips.

  Cervante started to have Adleman open it, but decided to wait. They would have time later. He nodded to Barguyo. “The girl has served her purpose. Take her. You and the others do with her what you want. In ten hours, she will leave for Clark with that camera.”

  A tight smile came across Barguyo’s face. He walked toward the couch, grabbed Yolanda by the arm, and yanked her up.

  “Wait!” Adleman struggled to the edge of the couch. His voice sounded gravelly. “Leave her alone. She does not—”

  “You have no place in this,” said Cervante, with an edge to his voice.

  “You will not … touch her. Or I swear I will have you.”

  Cervante raised an eyebrow at Adleman. “You are in no position to threaten us, Mr. Vice President.”

  “Leave … her … alone!”

  “I see.” He motioned with his arm. “Barguyo, take her. As for you, Mr. Adleman, you have not learned your lesson. You think that somehow you are going to walk out of here, safe and sound. Since raping the girl does not convince you who has the upper hand, we need to give you another lesson.”

  Barguyo held Yolanda’s arm behind her back. She struggled, and even though she towered over the boy, she could not break his grip.

  Cervante stood. “Now, Mr. Vice President, we return to the kitchen. Let us see if, once your other index finger is removed, you will finally show some civility.” As he approached the couch, a Huk came running into the room.

  “Cervante—we just heard the news!”
>
  “What?”

  The Huk motioned with his eyes to Adleman. “The President of the United States has died. Once the vice president is sworn in, he will become their President!”

  Cervante clenched his fists in excitement. “So! Things have changed for the better!” He turned to Adleman and gave a mock bow. “Well, Mr. President. You are now in control; you can make the decision to leave the Philippines! I think it is time to deliver another note to Clark, telling them of your decision—with your index finger to personalize the message, of course.”

  ***

  Chapter 21

  Friday, 22 June

  Tarlac

  Sloughing through the jungle, Bruce had no time to think about the pain. For the first few minutes his ankle had hurt. Now the tingling had gone away and all that remained was a tight feeling. If only the swelling would stay down for a few more hours …

  The rain had ceased to be a factor. It seemed as if he had been hiking for all his life in the wetness. Squishy shoes, chafing clothes … and constant rivulets of water ran down his face. It just didn’t matter anymore.

  Pompano trooped ahead, never looking behind him and moving through the jungle like a machine. Every once in a while he stopped to look at his compass, but there were no rest breaks or pep talks. Just straight ahead to his destination.

  It had been three hours, and Bruce had lost track of how far they had gone. After the first steep climb, they had encountered no other hill. The jungle had no outstanding landmarks. They could have been traveling in circles, for all that Bruce could tell. There were about five feet between the trees; low brush filled the intervening space. Often the sight of a banana plants would break up the monotony, but it was like living in an infinite world of trees and brush.

  And rain.

  He almost bumped into Pompano when the old man suddenly stopped. Bruce spoke in a whisper. “Are we there?”

  Pompano shook his head. He consulted his watch. “Another half hour.”

  Bruce broke out a canteen and drank deeply. He offered it to the old man. Pompano hesitated, then took a drink.

  Bruce shifted his weight; his ankle yelped at him. “Where are we going?”

  Pompano blinked. He studied Bruce for a moment. “We are going to a clearing, about a half mile wide, with a house in the center. I had the helicopter place us four miles away, on the other side of a ridge.”

  “That was the hill we climbed about two hours ago.”

  Pompano looked at Bruce. “It is time to start listening for … the others. There are some guards, but they are concentrated by the road and just outside of the clearing. There should be one sensor not far away. I doubt whether Cervante planted any on his own away from the road, but I cannot be sure.”

  Bruce wet his lips. The stop had given his legs a rest, but feeling now returned to his ankle. “What’s the plan? You said we could get in without being seen.”

  “Once it is dark we can slip up to the house. Cervante is a man of habit, and I think he will keep your vice president, and Yolanda …” Pompano hesitated, then spoke hurriedly, “in the side bedrooms. The house is not alarmed, and we can take our time getting them out.”

  Bruce shook his head. The plan didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. You just don’t waltz into a place and leave unnoticed! “I don’t know.…”

  “Cervante has guarded the entrance to the plantation. He is sure that no one could get in without being detected.”

  Bruce knelt down and itched at his leg. His pistol slapped at his side. He tightened the holster and ran his hand over the long silencer. Just in case, he thought. His ankle felt worse and worse. He straightened. “Let’s get going.”

  Pompano turned, consulted his compass, and took off.

  As Bruce followed, he felt inwardly relieved. It was the first civil conversation he had had with the man.

  Thirty-seven thousand feet above the ground the cloud layer broke into crystal-clear sky. Maddog Flight orbited a good five hundred feet above the top of the clouds.

  Catman kept in a loose trail, bringing up the rear of the three-ship formation. The F-15Es were in a near constant bank. They didn’t want to be far from the action when the call came.

  The clouds seemed to extend forever. Twenty miles away, a KC-10A tanker pulled in and started its own orbit. If the fighters needed fuel, they had their very own gas station.

  Catman flipped on the intercom. “Robin—you still awake?”

  “Negatory, Catman. You woke me right in the middle of a dream.”

  “What do you think is going on down there?”

  Silence. Then “Besides the rain?”

  “Rog.”

  “Beats me. You think Assassin is having fun?”

  “Get real.”

  Robin was silent for a minute. “Look on the bright side. He’s got a hell of a lot of trees to hide behind.”

  “Yeah. Just like jungle survival.”

  Catman glanced at the LANTIRN interface on the heads-up display. The tiny pod fixed underneath the left air inlet was the key to eventual success. The infrared optics were cued by the F-15’s GPS and inertial navigation system, and they granted the pilots enough precision to lay their weapons down in the crappy weather.

  Just roll into the clear, following the LANTIRN, and trusting in the electronics all the way. They’d even have to pull up while still in the clouds.…

  Catman hoped that the Special Ops boys would feed them the right data for the flight profile. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if something went wrong. Three hundred feet above ground level—where the clouds broke—was not a long distance to react, even if they did go in on a shallow angle.

  Captain Richard Head positioned the “1 to 50,000 map” right up to the windshield. A lime-green Day-Glo line zig-zagged across the map, outlining the path that they had followed into the jungle.

  Minutes before, a few hundred copies of the map had been scanned and e-mailed to the SEALs and other special operations troops searching for the vice president. Battlefield iPads and printers—durable enough to withstand being dropped into combat from the back of a C-17—were in use throughout the search areas. The entire search team was rerouted up to the area where Bruce had been dropped. They would set up roadblocks and wait.

  Head squinted at the map and tried to figure out a faster way to return to the drop area. If the new avionics upgrade had come in, he’d be able to map the route on Google Earth. But for now he used the paper map and followed the rough contours of hills, ridge lines, and mountains that peppered the northwestern part of Luzon. A town called Tarlac seemed to be the closest seat of population. There were no other features except for a few towers and a handful of bridges.

  Gould popped into the cockpit and slipped into the right-hand seat. He glanced at the map. “What do ya think—half an hour to get there?”

  Head jabbed a finger at the map. “At least. You know, I’m not too crazy about going back and forth between the drop area and here, having to refuel if we’re forced to loiter.”

  “If this is so all-fired important, then why can’t they swap us off with another Black Hawk?”

  “Good question. But since we’re the only chopper around, I guess we’re it.”

  “Still, you’d think they’d pull some of the other guys off the search effort.”

  “They will. I was told to yell if we needed help, and they’ll get someone out to us.”

  “Hell of a way to run a war. Sometimes I wonder what the commanders are thinking when they come up with war plans like this.”

  Head folded the map and leaned over to stick it in the leg pocket of his flight suit. “Hey, don’t complain. That’s all you pilots ever do: bitch, bitch, bitch. Let’s get back up there.”

  “I thought you were worried about having to keep coming back to refuel?”

  “I am. But if we land outside of Tarlac, we’ll save fuel and be a half hour closer.”

  General Simone stood behind his high-backed chair in t
he center of the Thirteenth Air Force Command Post. An array of oversized, high-definition color liquid-crystal displays covered the walls.

  He stared at a computer-enhanced display of two blobs slowly moving through the jungle. Taken from the MC-130 orbiting three thousand feet above, the images faded in and out as Bruce and Pompano stepped around trees and scrub brush. The view slowly rotated as the MC-130 kept in a continuous bank, circling the two. The signal was shot to a geosynchronous AEHF satellite 22,400 miles above the Earth, then relayed back to the command post.

  The next screen had the same wobbly infrared features, but it showed the top part of what appeared to be a plantation. The airy house was located in the center of a clearing. People moved around the perimeter of the house. A close-up view showed men carrying rifles.

  The details of the house were smeared—because of a huge heat source and the clouds, said a lieutenant from Intelligence—which diffused the IR radiation getting to the sensors on board the MC-130. They couldn’t tell if the HPM weapon was there or not, so to play it safe they had to keep away.

  Bruce and Pompano were half a mile from the clearing. Their progress had slowed. No guards were around them.

  The other screens displayed various communication links, aircraft in the air, and their locations. People walked through the command post, updating the screens and constantly feeding information into the combat-control database.

  Simone studied the screens with a tight mouth. He picked up a phone on a stand at his right. “Get me General Newman.”

  Thirty seconds later, the Chief was on the line. “Pete. What’s the status?”

  Simone drew in a breath. If it hadn’t been for Newman’s backing, Simone would now be commanding the Army Air Force Base Exchange Service, banished from operational command by the other generals who had disliked his style. He could be frank with the Chief.

  “It’s going, General. Thank God the Seventh Fleet is out and not at Subic. Can you imagine Admiral Greshan trying to pull rank and heading this thing up?”

  “Greshan wouldn’t have fallen for that crazy stunt of sending Steele out with that old man.”