Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

“Good.” Simone slapped the desk. “I’m about to go stir-crazy cooped up at that desk. If I don’t get a flight in soon I’m going to pop.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see Lieutenant Steele next week, then. Glad to meet you, Major. Catch you on the rebound.”

  Tarlac, P.I.

  Cervante watched through a screen window as a last shovelful of dirt was thrown on the grave. Pompano had insisted that the graves be a full six feet deep and as far away from the house as possible.

  Pompano was turning out to be very useful. Although he had not participated in the raid, the old man had not stepped away from lugging his share of the weapons and ammunition into the plantation. Besides directing the grave-digging, Pompano was proving to be very efficient in setting up a schedule for the work.

  At first Cervante had been taken back by the older man’s efficiency, the attention to detail with which Pompano ran the encampment, but it was precisely that deed that brought Cervante to a sudden realization: The military maneuvers were completely distinct from the homemaking. Cervante was unequaled in the guerrilla warfare, yet he knew nothing of setting up schedules and the practical matter that it took to run a house—Pompano could draw on his many years of practical experience running a store.

  So Cervante had appointed the old man to take charge of the basing aspects, which left him even more time to prepare the other raids.

  Cervante inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. The men, having finished their work on the graves, walked back to the house, laughing and wiping their hands on their pants. The days were much cooler in the mountains. And although it rained more up here than down in the central valley, the humidity was more bearable.

  He turned to a set of plans that Pompano had drawn up. Demonstrating his efficiency once again, the old man had taken a yardstick to every room in the plantation and put the measurements down on paper. The house measured over seven thousand square feet. The items Pompano had found in the bedrooms and throughout the house indicated that the people they had just buried were long-term inhabitants.

  Pompano had uncovered a Christmas potpourri, along with some family heirlooms: old baby furniture and photo albums. The find had satisfied Cervante—he did not have to worry about the owners coming and taking the Huks by surprise. Whoever the people had been, they had intended to be here permanently.

  The dirt road leading to the plantation wound over ten miles off the main highway from Tarlac. The road narrowed to one lane for most of the journey. Thick jungle started to encroach onto the compressed dirt, and a canopy of foliage covered the middle section.

  Cervante discovered that the plantation had once been a small staging area for the harvest of the sugar cane crop that stretched up through the Tarlac region. Unlike the sprawling company-owned abodes that dotted the island of Luzon, this house had been privately owned and, it appeared, recently sold to the young couple.

  Scores of young couples had moved out from the cities, out to the simpler lifestyle of the country. These people may well have been one of those. It was just unfortunate that they had chosen this particular spot, which had been too centrally located to pass up. But it would have been too easy for them to go to the authorities if they had been allowed to live.

  The main matter was that Cervante’s Huk cell now had a permanent staging area, a base from which to operate. No longer would they have to ferry their weapons from one safe house to another. This base could very well become the dominant spot on this part of the island. With this revelation, Cervante decided to take advantage of Pompano’s common-sense approach. He met the men and singled out Pompano.

  “I want to ensure that the road to the house is well protected.”

  Pompano allowed the men to move on before answering. His clothes smelled of damp dirt.

  “What do you mean well protected?”

  “I want to be able to stop an ambush—or if that is not practical, to give us enough warning that we will have time to escape.”

  Pompano leaned against his shovel. “So, you already have doubts about your assault-proof hiding place?”

  Cervante narrowed his eyes.

  “I do not have doubts—I am being practical. Even with a house full of supplies and no reason to leave, we will still have to send men out to get us food. If there is only one way into the plantation, then for a high enough fee, one of our freedom fighters might decide to sell out to the highest bidder.”

  “You do not trust your own men?” Pompano seemed to be mocking him.

  “No one can afford to trust anyone completely.” Cervante stared hard.

  Pompano spoke softly. “There has to come a time when even you must depend on someone, my friend.”

  “Until we bring about the new order, there can never be a time.” Cervante suddenly laughed. He reached down to his sock and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Pompano and the two lit up. “I am starting to sound like the PC—a threat behind every bush, so they must lock up all the people.”

  Pompano was silent for a long while. “Do you want the men to know about all the warning devices?”

  Cervante looked up, struck by Pompano’s observation. “No. The men should be aware of some of them, whether explosives or some sort of sensor we can obtain. But no one is to know all of them …”

  Pompano blew smoke at Cervante. “You do not trust me? Even though I do not complain about the lack of Blue Seal cigarettes?”

  Cervante smiled. “Especially because of that.”

  For half a mile the road out of the plantation was wide enough for two vehicles to pass, then it narrowed and turned sharply to the right. An army of flowers covered the path, blooming at the start of the rainy season. A parabolic mirror was nestled high above the ground, so a car coming from either direction could see around the corner.

  Cervante motioned for Pompano to stop the truck. He hopped down and inspected the curve. “This will be a good place for a trip wire. Whoever is coming down the road will be more concerned with the upcoming curve and will not notice the wire.”

  “The men will remember?”

  Cervante pondered the question. He could not babysit the men all of the time, otherwise he would do nothing but ferry them from the plantation to the highway.

  “They should all know.” Cervante nodded. “It is imperative that we obtain sensors. The location of the sensors will remain hidden”—he glanced up at Pompano—“and that will be my insurance policy.”

  “With enough money I’m sure I can find sensors in the black market in Angeles. I go back, get what I can, and return.”

  Cervante remembered the cases of Blue Seal cigarettes in the old man’s sari-sari store, stolen from Clark Air Base. “Do you think you can get what I want?”

  Pompano shrugged. “I do not see why not. For a price, anything can be obtained at the base.”

  “Good. Then we will use the American sensors to warn us, and we will use their microwaves to drive them away.” Cervante nodded to himself. He knew that once the Americans had left, the New People’s Army would have no real obstacle in spreading their presence. For it was mainly the American anti-Communist paranoia that had kept the fires fueled against the Huks in the first place.

  For the first time in a long time, Cervante felt good.

  Seoul, South Korea

  “We have a lead on Kawnlo’s John Doe.”

  Roger Epstein lifted his brows. If it was true, it would be the best news he had heard in over a month. It would even make the heat bearable.

  Sabine Aquinette pushed a folder across the Agency station chief’s desk. Epstein caught it and withdrew a photograph.

  The picture was digitally reconstructed, shaded in false colors to highlight the man’s features. Behind the photo was the one taken last week of Kawnlo and the “John Doe.”

  Epstein rocked back in his chair and held the two up. The Kawnlo picture was coarse, tiny blocks of digitized elements standing out and giving the unknown man a blocklike appearance.

 
But comparing the pictures, there was no doubt in Roger Epstein’s mind that the two men were one man. He tossed the picture on the desk and wiped his forehead of perspiration.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Manila. Sunday night.”

  “Philippines? And hanging around with Kawnlo? That doesn’t make sense.” Sabine merely shrugged at the observation. “Any idea who he is?”

  “No. That’s what took so long for the ID. We asked Langley to run a comparison of the original picture on all international ports. Without a name or an alias to go by, every international passenger was tagged once we got their picture. Three lookalikes popped out of the computer scan, and I was able to throw two of those out.”

  “What about his destination? Did he stay in Manila?”

  “I don’t know. If he didn’t, then he bypassed the cameras, which is unlikely. So unless he left the country by boat, he’s probably still there.”

  Epstein drummed his fingers on the table. “You’ve checked the passenger manifests.” The question came as a statement.

  “We have seventeen flights to choose from, over a twenty-four-hour period—about four thousand names. None of them have any terrorist connections, but—”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Epstein finished for her. He picked up the lone picture. The man had a serious, no-joking look. There were few details other than the facial features: pockmarked skin, the hint of a half-grown mustache.

  Sabine spoke quietly. “Well, what do you think? Was it a random meeting with Kawnlo, or is there something to this guy?”

  “Nothing Kawnlo does is random. Whoever this John Doe is he’s working in Manila, or somewhere in the Philippines.” He thought quickly; he didn’t like to pass the buck, but until this character surfaced in South Korea, someone else might have a better chance at him.

  “Contact the Manila office and send them what we’ve got. Have them ship this guy’s picture to the military bases there—Clark, Subic, and whatever else there is—no telling what he’s up to. But if he’s connected to Kawnlo, then it’s got to be sour.”

  ***

  Chapter 10

  Monday, 18 June

  Clark AB

  It began to rain on Bruce and Charlie.

  Of course, it had never really stopped raining the last two days—the P.I. were in the beginning of their Monsoon season. Seconds ago the fine mist had turned into a downpour.

  They had lost track of Catman and Robin earlier in the day. Since yesterday the four had been out in the jungle practicing Escape and Evasion tactics—E & E. The Negrito Abuj Qyantrolo had purportedly been tracking them, but Bruce had seen no sign of the little black man.

  And in addition to the E & E, they were also practicing other survival aspects as well: no food, or rather no food except for what they found they could eat. They had two days to go before this part of the training was done.

  “Find anything?” Charlie looked up hopefully.

  “No.” He squatted down by Charlie and stuck a long piece of grass in his mouth. Water plopped around them. Bruce chewed slowly on the stem. “Have you figured out where we are?”

  Charlie pointed to a green plastic map of the area; water beaded on the surface. “The next checkpoint should be right over this hill.”

  “Hill?” Bruce glanced up at the slope just visible through the foliage and rain. “That looks like Mount Everest.”

  Charlie ignored his comment. “If Catman and Robin catch up with us, it will be at this checkpoint.”

  Bruce snorted. “The ‘Woods’ brothers? They’ve probably been captured and are back in the O’Club bar, laughing at us right now.”

  Bruce stood and surveyed their position. It didn’t matter where they were in the jungle—none of the trees shielded them from the downpour. The leaves were saturated with water and just dumped the rainfall down on them.

  It would have been so much easier if they’d had GPS, but even their smart phones had been confiscated from them. Besides, they’d been told that the tall, thick foliage making up “triple canopy” would shield GPS signals; Bruce sourly thought he’d rather risk it by having any type of receiver than depending on old-fashioned compasses.

  Bruce motioned for Charlie to follow him underneath a towering tree. As they approached, Bruce was overwhelmed with the smell of perfume. He looked around and spotted an array of red flowers. They looked out of place among the dark green plants. “Hey, it’s not so bad here.” He stepped up to the tree and stood on a twisted root. “Come on, this is partially sheltered.”

  The two kept quiet for some time, listening to the rain hit the ground. The plip-plopping sound still came from all around, but soon it lulled them into a mellow mood. The place looked serene. If the situation had been any different, Bruce might even have enjoyed himself. He thought he would have to make an effort to return to the jungle one of these days.

  Charlie broke the silence. “I met this girl the other day.”

  “What?”

  “A girl. I met this girl.”

  Bruce wiggled back against the bark. “The one at the pool?”

  Charlie leaned up and frowned. “I thought you guys were too drunk to notice.”

  Bruce looked astonished. “Not notice a looker like that?” He leaned his head back and recited, “Blond, a little over five feet tall, probably, oh, an even hundred pounds ... Age...?” He turned his head. “How old is she?”

  “About twenty. A college student.”

  “Jail bait. Watch out, comrade. That means her old man is here on Clark and will be gunning for you—you dirty old man. What’s her name?”

  “Nanette.”

  “Does she have a last name?”

  Charlie shrugged; his face grew red. “She didn’t tell me.” At Bruce’s stare, he amended himself. “Okay, okay. She wouldn’t tell me. Why, I don’t know. Maybe she just wants to play coy.”

  “I don’t know. You sure she’s single?”

  “What the heck do you—”

  “All right, just asking.” It was one thing to razz a guy about robbing the cradle, but to accuse Charlie of adultery.…

  Bruce mused for a moment. That’s cool, he thought. It’s about time Charlie found something other than those damned books to stick his nose into. He’s been moping too long about not getting into pilot training.

  “Hey, Charlie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I … Well, hell, I met a girl too.”

  Charlie turned to him. “You’re bagging me.”

  “No, really. That night we went to the Fire Empire …”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me—you fell in love with the girl in the floor show.”

  “No, honest.” Bruce’s voice grew quiet. He remembered the narrow street, the crowds of people.…“We toured the city—remember that jeepney ride? I stopped for some gum.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, there was this girl in that sari-sari store.” He drew in a breath. Man, she was beautiful, he thought.

  Charlie frowned. “I didn’t see any Americans around there.”

  “She’s not American.” Bruce turned to his friend. “Yolanda Sicat. She’s a Filipino.”

  Charlie looked at Bruce hard. “You’re not joking.”

  “No. Why would I?”

  Charlie relaxed back. “I can think of several reasons.”

  Bruce chewed on his lip and caught himself; it had actually started to taste good. “Hey, uh, what do you say we get together, go out on a double date—you know, something nice for the girls, where they don’t have to worry about us putting the moves on them.”

  “Us?”

  Bruce set his mouth. He felt that Charlie’s insinuations were starting to get a little out of hand. Sure, I might have a rep as a hell-raiser, but give me a break, I’m only human! “Come on!”

  Charlie held up his hands. “Sorry. Uh, sure—let’s make a double date when we get back.”

  Something whistled past Bruce’s ear. Two more sounds cracked
through the air.

  Bruce and Charlie threw themselves down and sprawled on the ground. Bruce’s face was smeared with leaves and mud. A pungent odor of decaying plants filled his nose.

  Silence. Bruce looked up cautiously. Nothing.

  He swung his eyes to the tree that he had sat under—buried into the bark, four feet above the ground in a tight symmetric pattern, quivered three long darts. Steel, needle-thin tips came out of each dart’s head.

  Bruce nudged Charlie. “Look behind you.”

  Charlie’s eyes widened at the sight of the darts. He whispered, “Where did they come from?”

  “Guess.” Bruce turned back and squinted into the jungle. He thought he saw something, but couldn’t make out the form in the dense growth. Dark green blended with brown, black.

  And then he could see as if it were clear as day.

  Abuj stood just outside the clearing. The Negrito had a batch of colored sticks stuck in his thick, woolly hair; his body was painted a ripple of green and brown. He held a long, thin pole—a blowgun. He held Bruce’s gaze.

  Bruce slowly nudged Charlie. They watched the Negrito for what seemed to be minutes, no one speaking.

  Then just as suddenly as he had appeared, Abuj was gone.

  “Wow.” Charlie let out his breath.

  Bruce scrambled to his feet and turned for the darts. One by one he pulled them out of the tree. He turned them over in his hand. A foot long and as thin as a pencil, each had tiny feathers in the back and a sharp steel needle in the front. “Take a look at this.”

  Bruce turned and surveyed the jungle. He had not heard Abuj approach or leave. He had just been … there. Bruce shivered. “That guy’s like a ghost. If he had wanted to hit us, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  “What do you think he’s doing?”

  Bruce touched the tip of the dart, then jammed all three back into the tree. “He’s trying to teach us something—or warn us. If he can get that close without us hearing him, he’s one guy I’d like to have on our side.”

  “That’s a rog.”

  Bruce recalled the Negrito’s stare, as if he had been telegraphing him something—maybe about his responsibilities. And if that were so, then it started with his carrying his weight and helping Charlie out. He reached for the plastic topographical map, shook water from it, and located the next checkpoint. “I’ll navigate this time.”