by Doug Beason
“Okay.” Charlie handed over the compass with a sigh. “Ten to one we’ll wind up in Rangoon.”
Angeles City
Pompano entered the sari-sari store. He nodded at the two boys sitting outside. One of them drank a Pepsi, the other sipped on a San Miguel.
The one trying to drink the beer looked slightly green around the jowls. Pompano repressed a laugh. Everyone needed a chance to grow up, experience life. Better that the boys be experimenting at his store than trying it while hawking one of their sisters to the Americans.
The Americans. If it weren’t for them, he would never have had his store.
The grant monies had poured in from the American base nearly forty years ago, the last result of blackmail by the Marcos regime. The base had tried to win over the hearts and minds of the local people by giving out grants to needy families. Pressured by the Marcos government, the Americans had participated in the flow of money.
Only when it was found that most of the money had been diverted into the wrong hands had the grants stopped. But not before Pompano Sicat had gotten enough seed money to start his store. It had even allowed him to amass enough money so that twenty years later, when his newly-wed wife has passed away giving birth to a baby daughter, he had enough money to care for the young girl.
Yes, Pompano, he thought. How ironic that the very Americans you hate so much should be the ones responsible for your success.
And here he was again, searching for American goods. Looking to the black market for the sensors that would help protect the Huk encampment.
Yolanda came from behind the counter. “Father! You are back!”
“Little one!” Pompano laughed and gave his daughter a squeeze. She towered over him by a good five inches. “How are the sales?”
“Very good. Fireworks are starting to move fast with the Fourth of July coming up.”
“Good, good.” He started to duck under the counter, but a sharp pain ran through his back.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Just my back acting up. Too much lifting for an old man.”
Yolanda raised the counter for him. Pompano pushed through.
“Are you finished with your memorial, Father?”
Pompano entered the back of the store. A mattress and bed spring sat along one side of the wall, out of view from the front of the store. A small stove, a half refrigerator, and a cupboard made of scrap wood filled another wall.
Off to the side were a toilet and shower. A curtain drawn across one end of the room demarcated Yolanda’s side from his.
Yolanda had grown up in this small one-room building, done her homework while sitting on the bed, watched after the store when Pompano had been sick.…Pompano bit his lip. There must be a better life for his daughter.
But his frugality had paid off. When classes started in the fall down at the University of the Philippines in Quezon City, Yolanda would be there. It was quite fortuitous that she was able to help watch the store this summer while he was up in the mountains—“building a memorial” for the supporters of Aquino. At least she hadn’t questioned the lie. Pompano smiled at his daughter.
“No, little one. I have some more material to pick up, and must go back to the mountains.”
“When will you return?” There was a look of concern on her face.
“Soon. But do not worry—this will be the last time for a while that I will be away. But tell me what has happened. You said the sales were good—do I need to reorder before I return?”
Yolanda screwed up her face as if in thought. “Probably only on the fireworks. Oh, and gum.”
“Gum? I thought we just reordered!”
She grew red. “Someone came in and bought it all.”
Pompano smiled to himself: he knew the habit of Filipinos to buy only what they needed, one item at a time. To have someone come in and completely wipe out his stock—that meant only one thing.
“Was this a young man, little one?”
“Yes, Father.” She looked down, avoiding his eyes.
“What is he like?”
“I do not know him very well.”
Pompano reached out and stroked his daughter’s hair. Long and black, it had natural body.
How beautiful his daughter was. She had her mother’s hair, and her mother’s eyes.
A pain stabbed through him—
For that was all the features from Lucila that she carried, as beautiful as she was.
Her angular features, her tallness … even the crook of her fingers, long and dexterous. Pompano tried to keep in the rage, subdue the feelings that had nearly consumed him some nineteen years earlier.
Lucila and he were newly married, he much older than she but just starting out in life, when they had strolled the streets of Angeles. The gang of American youths, perhaps G.I.s … The gang rape had been fast, brutal. Pompano had been forced to watch it, all the time swearing at the attackers. The devastating blow had been Lucila’s death on giving birth, birth to a baby whose father was probably half a world away. Pompano had nearly taken his life at that time, but had somehow managed to pull himself through.
His involvement with the Huks, and with this New People’s Army faction, had sustained him through the years. Striking back at the Americans while smiling and accepting their money. It was a way to get at the heart of the problem.
And now with this Huk encampment, his dreams would finally be realized.
Pompano looked up at his daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whoever this young man may be, I am sure he will be good to you. I must go back to the mountains in the next few days. When will I get a chance to meet him?”
Yolanda looked up. “After you return, Father. I will invite him over.”
Charlie plus twenty-five thousand, over Taiwan
“Charlie” used to be translated as sixty thousand feet; today that number is classified and is much, much higher.
The SR-73 Blackbird III pilots used the “Charlie plus” designation to identify a “base” altitude when they didn’t want their real altitude broadcast to the world, especially when they were speaking over unsecured channels.
At this altitude—eighty-five thousand feet, when Charlie was 60K—the Blackbird III was over three times as high as a normal plane might fly. And traveling over four times as fast.
Major Kathy Yulok managed to relax back in her seat, even through the layers of fabric and webbing that held her pressure suit together. Now, with the mission almost over, with the data collected and transmitted, flying the SR-73 back to Kadena seemed a breeze.
In thirty minutes she would make a low-altitude pass over the runway at Kadena and drop a small canister. The three-letter agencies already had access to the information she had collected, transmitted via satellite to a classified operating location. So the low-altitude flyby was pure “war-ready”—merely an exercise for war if communications were jammed—but it gave her an excuse to fly the bird down low and slow for a change. The film and data tapes would have been picked up and processed by the time she hangared the bird, or taxied the aircraft to the hangar.
The mission had been a milk run, not overflying any unfriendly territory but instead skirting as close to the international border as possible without sending up a missile.
Not that a missile would worry her—she had been shot at before, but the rockets had always flown too slow and were too far away to do any harm.
And as it turned out, flying next to another country’s border was practically as good as being directly overhead. With the advanced side-looking diagnostics, over a hundred thousand square miles of territory could be covered in less than an hour.
So, heading back from the South China Sea, Kathy was ready to bring her in and get some rest. Everything looked good; she couldn’t have asked for a better mission. That’s when she spotted the red lights.
She clicked her mike. “Eddie, you copy?”
Major Ed Prsybalwyki answered from the back seat. “That’s a rog. Engine fla
meout on one and two.”
“That’s what I’ve got.” Great, she thought. Both engines are out. She reached down and toggled a switch, trying to kick the scramjets back on. No luck. She stretched to look out the window. There was still land below them, but the coastline was heading up fast. “Eddie, you have a fix on our position?”
“Just leaving Taiwan. What do you think?”
She pondered it for a moment. Even though the SR-73 had been in commission for over ten years, most of the technology on the plane was still classified. Landing in a foreign country without copious prior preparation was frowned upon. And that was even when the nation was friendly to the U.S.
Kathy gnawed on her lip. They hadn’t lost much altitude yet, but they were definitely going down. “I’ll keep trying to turn over the engines. They may not catch unless we get back some velocity.”
“So do we circle, cry for help, or what?”
She made up her mind. “Head on home. We’ll be able to take her in if we don’t hit any downdrafts.”
Ed was silent for a moment. “You’re the boss.”
Kathy keyed her mike, switching from intercom to outside radio. With the change in altitude, she had to notify the international air control. “Ah, control, this is Stella Two-Niner at Charlie plus twenty-five thousand. We’ve flamed out and are descending.”
The radio came back instantly; the young man sounded like he was in a panic. “Stella Two-Niner, Taiwan center. Taipei International has a runway over ten thousand feet. Are you declaring an emergency?”
Kathy’s eyebrows rose. Declare an emergency?
Then she remembered—Charlie plus twenty-five.
She tried to hold back a chuckle as she clicked the mike; the poor guy thought that she was sixty-thousand feet lower than she was. “Ah, negative, Control. We’re heading for Kadena and will try to kick our engines over en route.”
Silence. For a long time. Then, “Roger, Stella two-niner. You are cleared for Kadena, altitude your choice.…Ah, please report at intervals.”
“Rog, Control.” Kathy clicked off her mike.
“Ho, ho, ho,” came Eddie, dryly.
“No problem. If you didn’t want excitement in your life, you should have joined the Navy.”
“Very funny. Just keep us out of the water.”
A half hour later they glided safely onto Kadena.
Yokota AFB, Japan
Vice President Adleman pressed his lips together. He bowed slightly at the waist and nodded to the Japanese trade minister, who was still across the room.
He really shouldn’t feel slighted—having the trade minister receive him was very well within the protocol demanded by a Vice-Head of State, especially with the dominance of the Japanese economy and the overwhelming debt that the United States seemed to be unable to shake.
But Vice President Adleman still felt slighted. He had always admired the Japanese culture and felt no animosity over its aggressive fiscal behavior—he only wished the U.S. had the foresight to put some of the practices in use for itself. But Adleman knew that the U.S. could never shake the “Harvard MBA bottom line”: throwing out long-term investments for short-term profits.
The minister’s entourage surrounded the vice president, smiling, bowing and nodding.
A “garden” just outside the receiving room was made up of thousands of rocks, all groomed and set in flowing designs. A slight smell of incense burned in the background; Adleman was impressed by the facilities, especially considering the fact that it was on an American Air Force base.
He accepted a warm cup of sake and put it to his lips.
“Mr. Vice President?” The trade minister steered him away from the crowd without touching his arm. They were left alone.
“Mr. Ieyasu, it is very kind of you to receive me.”
Ieyasu bowed slightly at the waist, but kept eye contact with Adleman; the vice president followed the minister’s lead.
“Mr. Vice President, I am sorry that we do not have very much time together. There are certain, uh, obligations, that I must fulfill before the day is out.”
Adleman raised his cup of sake. “I understand, Mr. Minister. My agenda is quite full, I assure you. In the next two days I am scheduled to participate in more functions that I normally do in a week in the United States.”
“It is not often that we are graced with such a distinguished presence.”
“This visit is distinguished only by my hosts.”
Ieyasu bowed slightly. “If I may speak frankly?”
“By all means.”
“Mr. Vice President, it is no secret that this visit is not the most important aspect of your trip.”
So, he’s interested in the Philippine agreement, thought Adleman. But I’ll play this out, to make sure I understand what he really wants. “An astute observation, Mr. Minister.” Nice, neutral response. Your turn.
“The question of the Philippine lease is a touchy one, and I want to assure you that our country will stand by any decision reached by your country.” He leaned forward and seemed to listen intently.
“I appreciate your concern,” said Adleman. “And I also appreciate your support—I will elicit your advice if there ever should be any to give. The United States has learned, sometimes the hard way, that we do not have a corner on common sense. Or making the right decisions.” Adleman smiled and drank the rest of his sake.
Ieyasu’s eyes widened. “And I, too, appreciate your candor. It is a true mark of maturity, intelligence; and I must compliment you.” He nodded to the rock gardener, tending to the trove of stones. “That seasoned old gardener loves his job so much that he would gladly accept a word of advice on how to improve his art, the way his rocks pour out their message. I am happy to hear that you, too, will not be offended.”
“Not at all. So if I may beg your opinion…?” Adleman left the question hanging, placing the ball in Ieyasu’s court. The man would now not be offended by his request for help.
A change seemed to come over the minister. He spoke in a low voice. “The Philippines represent more of an economic power to us than a military buffer, Mr. Vice President. With the changing winds of politics blowing across Asia, the loss of American bases does not concern us for the old reasons—there are plenty of other areas that you may stage your defensive forces from.”
“We are aware of that. It is the sunk costs that concern us. There is a lot of money wrapped up in the Filipino infrastructure.”
“Sunk costs should never be considered when making an economic decision, Mr. Vice President.” The trade minister smiled up at him. “Demming, one of your management specialists, made that axiom very clear to us.”
Adleman forced a smile. “Please continue.”
Ieyasu half bowed. “I repeat, it is not the military implications that disturb us. It is the economic impact that would send shock waves out from Manila. Today, the Philippine economy is kept at bay, supplying the needs of your military bases, ministering to the need of their own poor countrymen. We are concerned that without an American presence, the Philippines might go the way of an unbridled Korea—a mass dumping of cheap labor onto the world economy. The profits that would be obtained by even a modest effort could only free up more labor.
“This would be disastrous. It would be disastrous for those Filipinos who would not benefit from this unbridled growth, and it would undercut the economy of the Pacific Basin.”
Adleman played with his sake glass. “It is very generous of you to take such interest in another country’s economic welfare, Mr. Minister.”
Ieyasu bowed stiffly, not missing the jab at Japan’s cool concern over the U.S. economy. “It is in our interest, Mr. Vice President. Both your country and mine.”
“Then I do appreciate your advice.”
Ieyasu nodded and bowed deeply. “And I thank you for your time. Please, the next time you come to Tokyo, we must plan some time together.”
“I look forward to it.”
An aide appeared at the tra
de minister’s elbow. Seconds later, after much bowing and nodding, Adleman was once again surrounded by his own staff.
Even though Adleman had been met “only” by the trade minister, he suddenly realized the soaring importance of the event. Adleman might be tapped as President at any moment, depending on what happened to Longmire, and the man responsible for the economic condition of what was now the fourth wealthiest nation on earth had recognized this, as well as the far-reaching implications of his trip.
The gardener looked much more important now than he had an hour earlier.
***
Chapter 11
Wednesday, 20 June
Clark AB
The row of MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopters looked out of place across the ramp from the row of F-15E fighters. The Air Force had acquired the long, low, and sleek Army Black Hawk helicopters after urgings from a particularly cognizant colonel who had come up through the ranks flying choppers—a feat unusual in itself. The HH-3E Jolly Green Giants, the Air Force’s aging but prime rescue helicopters—were growing old and falling apart. The new procurement for the ATH—the Advanced Technology Helicopter—was still years behind schedule.
The MH-60s had only been meant as stopgap, a bridge to the ATH, but as so often happens, they had become the mainstay of the 31st Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron on Clark.
The sky showed the typical June on-off, on-off rain pattern that characterized the island during the monsoon season. As the crew bus approached the flight line, pungent smells of JP-4, the highly flammable jet fuel, washed into the bus. Captain Richard Head grumbled to his copilot, Captain Bob Gould, about the weather as they stepped from the crew bus.
Gould had other things on his mind. “What I don’t understand is that when I decided to go for choppers, all I caught was crap from everybody I knew. I felt like flying helicopters had made me a second-class citizen. People wouldn’t treat me like a ‘real’ pilot. But now I haven’t had to buy a drink since I’ve been here. I’m walking on water, and everyone wants to be my best friend. I know that fixed-wingers view helicopters different from themselves, but I’ve been here a week and I feel like the most popular guy in town.”