by Doug Beason
Then Bruce remembered that the meanest upperclassman had also been the shortest.
Bruce looked down—right into the eyes of Cadet First Class Ping. Standing barely five feet tall, Cadet Ping glared up at Bruce. “Well, Steele, it is about time you look down. Now you really going to eat shit!”
The experience had been a coda to an already formidable year, but it had prepared him for the blastings to come. To be indifferent, not to take it personally, and not to crack.
So no matter how bad this colonel was, Bruce knew that the sun was going to rise tomorrow morning.
Really.
Charlie was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. As Bruce turned he kept a stony face, then they started for the colonel, fifty feet away. Bruce was taller than Charlie by a good six inches, but they fell into step as they left the plane. It was something every military man naturally dropped into, even if they tried to stay out of step—phase-locking, the phenomenon was called, just as pendulum clocks located across a room would start beating together.
“Afternoon, sir,” saluted Charlie. His voice sounded pleasant, masking any emotion he might have felt.
The colonel let them stand at attention, holding the salute. His name tag was now visible—bolte, read Bruce.
Slowly he removed his glasses. His blond hair fit the rest of the man perfectly: blue eyes, a deep tan, and a wiry build. He had a fighter pilot’s look about him, decided Bruce—cautious, almost catlike.
“Just … what … in … the … hell are you trying to do, young man? Buy the farm … before you even land?”
The question was rhetorical. Bruce and Charlie still held their salutes.
Colonel Bolte dropped his hands, then whipped up a quick salute. Bruce and Charlie hit the side of their flight suits at the same time as they brought their hands down.
Bolte glanced at their name tags. “Captain Fargassa, you listen to what I have to say to your aircraft commander, Lieutenant Steele. This upside-down crap on final will cease as of now. Next time he tries one of those stupid-ass maneuvers, just remember that it’s your butt on the line. He dies, you die too. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bolte paused, then turned his attention to Bruce.
Bruce’s face was emotionless. He stared straight ahead, unblinking.
Bolte set his mouth. “Well, well. The famous Lieutenant Steele. Your reputation precedes you, Son. And to think Clark Air Base just about didn’t get to see you. Flying in the jungle is unlike anywhere else. Winds come out of nowhere, thermals pop up, clear-air microbursts—this isn’t Luke Air Force Base, Lieutenant. You aren’t flying your bird above the desert, keeping the commies out of Phoenix. If the weather doesn’t get you, then some Huk sitting in a tree might decide to take a potshot at your jet. And if he’s lucky he just might hit you—go through your canopy and ruin some poor girl’s day.
“Clark has seen your type, Steele, and I tell you, we don’t want you. I don’t need you. With the new treaty, we have to rotate our fighters in and out of here—we can’t afford mistakes. You might be the best stick coming out of the F-15E program, but there’s one thing I want to make perfectly clear: Dead … pilots … don’t … win … wars. Got that? If you die, you aren’t any good to me. Not only would you have wasted over a million dollars of good taxpayers’ money spent training you, you would have destroyed one of America’s top-line fighters. And that’s the only reason I’m in this job, to win one if the balloon goes up. None of my boys died in Iraq, and none are going to die here. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Bruce’s reply was quick, curt. Smooth sailing, thought Bruce. This isn’t bad at all. And that crack about his reputation preceding him—did the wing commander know about Bruce’s winning the Robbie Risner award, given to the top graduate of the Fighter Weapons School?
“Next time you think about doing anything foolish, remember your reputation. You still piss off every grad who watched that Notre Dame game. You’re marked as a hot dog.” Bolte pulled back. “Welcome to Clark, gentlemen.” He turned for the staff car.
Charlie whispered, “Got off easy there, Assassin. I was expecting him to bite down on our butts and get lockjaw. But we got away with no teeth marks, much less blood loss. Now let’s get going—I’m up to my eyeballs in piss.”
Sweat ran down Bruce’s face, and he was tired as hell. Why did it seem so friggin’ hard to breathe? It had to be the humidity. They walked toward the bus.
As they approached, a short, overweight captain dressed in a Nomex flight suit stepped from the bus. He nodded as Charlie pushed past him.
“Foggy.”
“Hey, Skipper. Nice to be on the ground.”
“Yeah. We’ll get you to the pisser as soon as Assassin gets his ass in gear.”
Charlie smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
Skipper turned to Bruce. “Just a minute, Assassin.” He steered the younger man by the elbow away from the bus.
Skipper was Captain Thorin Olsen’s call sign, given to the man the year he was in pilot training at Vance AFB. Olsen was a dead-ringer for “Skipper” on the old TV program Gilligan’s Island: paunchy, a gleam in his eye, and good-natured. But at that moment Skipper’s face wore an expression of pain.
“I guess he spoke to you about your stunt.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Colonel Bolte—the Wing Commander, I guess.”
“Yeah, the wing commander. For crying out loud, that’s the one guy who could have your ass in a sling, Assassin. Don’t screw around with him.”
A redheaded man leaned out the bus window. “Hey, Skipper, Assassin—either crap or get off the pot. Foggy’s about to pop.”
Skipper slapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Let’s move. I don’t want Foggy to hose down the crew bus.”
Bruce followed Skipper onto the bus. As soon as they were on board the vehicle started off.
Skipper stood in the aisle and read out loud from a sheet of paper given to him by the bus driver. He held on to a rail that ran the length of the bus.
“All right, listen up. After Foggy relieves himself, we’ve been booked into the Q for the next few nights.” “Q” was short for VOQ, or the Visiting Officers’ Quarters. “The Housing Office has arranged appointments for us tomorrow, and you married guys will attend some additional briefings.” He stopped reading as the bus rounded a corner—on two wheels, it seemed, from the Filipino driver’s speed. “And congratulations on a safe trip. Beers are on me tonight. I’ll show you the sights downtown.”
The boys roared their approval—except for Charlie, who sat at the edge of his seat with a pained look on his face.
Angeles City
Cervante sat alone in his apartment, smoking a cigarette and staring at a blank wall. He didn’t know the time, or how long he had been sitting, thinking. His ashtray was spilling over and an empty pack of cigarettes lay at his feet.
He looked past the bare apartment wall, and remembered … the cold Korean nights; sloughing through the mud on a training mission; holding his hands over a fire and smelling the burning flesh, yet denying the pain.…
And all the time his master, Yan Kawnlo, silently watching the training. Observing as Cervante grew wise in the ways of a true freedom fighter.
Cervante had trained with the best. And now he was preparing to return for the final time, to gather the wisdom of his master.
He crushed out his cigarette. Tomorrow he would fly out from Manila, and within a week he would be ready to move against the Americans.
Clark AB
Two taxis pulled up to the Visiting Officers’ Quarters and honked their horns. Half of Maddog Flight spilled out of the VOQ and made for the cars.
“They dragged me along,” Charlie mumbled.
“Designated driver,” said Skipper as he raced by.
“With taxis?” But Charlie’s protests went unheard.
Bruce waited for his backseater before heading to the cars. “I thought you were
staying home tonight.”
Charlie nodded. “You heard him. I guess they need someone to keep them out of trouble.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ve been there before.”
“You bring anything to keep you busy?”
Charlie pulled a paperback book out of his back pocket. “I don’t plan on getting much read if I have to ride herd on you guys.”
Bruce squinted at the title. It was written by some guy named Toynbee. Oh, well—to each his own. One thing though: It was nice to have Charlie around when the Flight got ripped. One cool head in the midst of an alcohol-induced fog was well worth it.
As they approached the Skipper’s taxi, a shock of red hair whizzed by. “Dibs on the front seat!” Ed Holstrom—Catman, by his call sign, ostensibly because he was such a smooth operator—slid in the front seat next to the driver. His red hair and freckled face made him look more like a teenager than a fighter pilot.
Bruce shrugged and moved to the back with Skipper.
The Filipino driver slapped the wheel with both of his hands, enjoying the exchange. He was making money just sitting still.
After Charlie squeezed in the back, a face appeared by Charlie’s window. Steve Garcioni—Robin, Catman’s backseater and right-hand man—pushed his face up against the glass, squashing his nose and cheeks while keeping his mouth open; his tongue made crazy patterns.
Skipper called out, “Where are the girls and the rest of the guys?”
Robin rolled his eyes. “The married ones? Probably writing letters home.”
“Come on, let’s go,” urged Catman. Robin squeezed in and pushed Catman next to the driver.
“Okay. Tell that other driver he’s not needed.”
Soon, all five officers and the driver were barreling down Mitchell Highway toward Friendship Gate.
The group hadn’t even begun to drink, but from the yelling and laughing it sounded as if all the passengers had been soused for a week.
When they stopped, the taxi driver bowed several times at the waist, grinning as he collected his fare and tip. The men were deposited at the gate, the portal to Angeles City, since the American-owned taxis were forbidden to leave the base. And for a very good reason. More often than not, the taxi would keep heading out into the country after the party had been dropped off, only to wind up in some barrio or have its parts stripped in Manila.
Bruce followed Skipper to the pedestrian gate. Cars streamed in and out of the base through the four-lane road next to them. It sounded like a carnival outside the gate—laughing, children jabbering. Skipper turned to the group and held up his wallet.
“First lesson, gentlemen, is to keep your wallet in your front pocket at all times. You’re going to be bumped every which way but loose out here.”
As they entered Angeles City they were swarmed by a sea of brown bodies. Bruce was put off at first—something was missing, and he couldn’t quite tell what it was. The five plowed through the crowd toward a string of gaily painted jeeps. They moved like icebreakers, pushing aside the flow of people.
And then it hit Bruce what was wrong.
All five of the officers stood a good six inches to a full foot above the crowd. And the crowd were men and women, not children for the most part, all clamoring for their attention: “Say, Joe—my sister a virgin, short time, no?”
“Ten pesos will blow you away, Joe!”
“Blue Seal Special, you sell, Joe?”
“Here down the street—long time, short time, just what you need!”
No one grabbed at his wallet, but there was a constant pushing that crowded the bodies against him.
Skipper reached the jeeps first. The one he picked was elongated, painted in wild day-Day-Glo colors. The back was open and had long seats running down both sides. Skipper bartered with the driver.
“Fire Empire—two peso?”
The Filipino held up five fingers. Skipper started off for the next jeep. The Filipino called out, “Wait, Joe—four peso.”
“Three. No more.” A second passed.
The driver motioned with his head to climb in. “Okay. Ziggy now.”
Skipper turned to the group. “Let’s go, gang. Get ready for the ride of your life.” The men scrambled aboard and hung on wherever they could find purchase.
The jeep started off through the crowd before all were seated. It shot across the traffic, causing several cars to squeal their tires. The streets were brightly lit and crowded. It reminded Bruce of New Orleans on steroids, a constant party.
Skipper called out over the noise, “Lesson number two: what we’re in is called a jeepney. Never set foot inside one until you’ve bartered the price and exact destination. Otherwise you’ll be driving around the city for the rest of the night and owe a hundred bucks. The PCs—that’s short for the Philippine Constabulary, their local police and military—will back the driver up and throw you in jail.” He handed out a wad of bills to each man. “The exchange rate changes daily, so I can’t tell you what the peso is worth, but it’s in our favor now. I got a hundred bucks apiece for everyone at the club—pay me back later.”
Catman let out a laugh. “Where you taking us, Skipper?”
“Don’t ask. You are going to see the most amazing floor show this side of Paris. The last time I went to the Empire, there was this girl who smoked a cigarette in the damnedest way.…”
Washington D.C.
Throughout the last twenty years, Robert E. Lee Adleman had lived in many places, many climates, but the one thing he could not get used to was the sopping wet Washington, D.C, heat.
Adleman rocked back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Ninety-five percent humidity, you say?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” the young project officer from the State Department confirmed. “The Philippines stays that high. Will that affect your plans?”
Adleman shook his head. A sudden vision raced through his mind of a summer he had spent in Mississippi, traipsing through the swamps. “No, that’s fine.”
“Any more questions, sir?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Kelt.”
The man nodded and left the room, leaving Adleman alone with Jerry Weinstein. The National Democratic Party Chairman had been silent throughout the briefing on the Philippine Islands. Weinstein had insisted on speaking to the vice president before the next Cabinet meeting, and this had been the only time that Adleman had not been fully committed.
Weinstein leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. This looked ridiculous, because the former NBA basketball star’s kneecaps were at least a foot higher than the chair seat. Coming from a poverty-stricken background, Weinstein’s exposure to opulence as a high six-figure basketball player had made him appreciate the inequities of the American dream.
“Robert … ah, Bob.…”
“Umm?” Adleman turned his attention away from the upcoming trip and focused on Weinstein.
“I wanted to spend some time with you before the next meeting between the President and his Cabinet.”
“Okay, what’s up? We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“This trip.” Weinstein nodded with his head to all the information the State Department had left—briefing booklets, statistics, analysis of trends. “It’s critical for your political future. In fact, it might be the nail that drives in the lid on your election.”
Adleman looked puzzled. “I missed something. Run that past me again.”
Weinstein sat up. “Bob—Mr. Vice President. We both know you’re the unspoken leader for the next election. You have Longmire’s backing, you have the experience and background, no skeletons in the closest.…”
You said it, thought Adleman.
The FBI special investigation background check had been nothing compared to the scrutiny of the Democratic party. The Democrats hadn’t had a viable Presidential contender since Clinton—including Obama, who Adleman was convinced had been a fluke, a backlash against the Bush era. So they were going to make sure their candidates were squeaky-c
lean.
Weinstein had personally examined Adleman’s record: as a magna cum laude Princeton grad with his sights set on Congress, and armed with a law degree from Berkeley, Adleman hadn’t made the same mistake as the last vice president: he had put in his time on active duty with the Army for a four-year-stint, serving as a staff judge advocate. The generals he had impressed were also the ones who introduced him to their congressional liaisons.
After leaving the Army, Adleman served on several congressional staffs, making a name for himself as a hard-charging fact-finder, turning out policy prose in a coherent fashion. Senator Longmire had fingered the young blond staffer as an up-and-coming force, and helped him to rise through the ranks of various political appointments.
Finally deciding to try his hand at political office, Adleman won his district in Albuquerque by a landslide. And then as a mere second-term Congressman, at forty, Robert E. Lee Adleman was chosen to run for vice president of the United States.
“… but now you need to show that you can pull off an international agreement, something that could affect the security of an entire hemisphere.”
Adleman nodded to himself. “Sounds like what Francis Acht was pushing. Except that he had the economic security, not necessarily our defensive security, in mind.”
“I’m sure he was speaking about both,” said Weinstein softly. “Francis knows that without one, you can’t have the other.”
“So you really think this trip can position me for the nomination?”
Weinstein spread his hands. “That’s why I wanted to catch you before the meeting—just in case someone tries to throw a wrench in the idea. Longmire’s health is on pretty shaky grounds, and if something happens it would be better for you to go into office as a hero, who’s been tested in international negotiations. This treaty could boost confidence in you and ensure you the next election, if Longmire lasts that long. You should view this trip as more than just service to the country. It’s a springboard for you as well.”