Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Bruce concentrated on finding the downtown open-air market and tuned Nanette and Charlie out. As far as he could tell, they were still discussing micro-evolution in action when he turned onto Yolanda’s street. He drove slowly past the market, avoiding the people that spilled out into the street. With the air conditioner on, it was if he were viewing the scene from inside a room, with pictures of the Filipino culture racing across the windows, projected in from some hidden movie camera.

  He pulled up next to the sari-sari store and stopped. “Be right back.” He left the engine running, air conditioner on. Stepping from the car, the heat hit him full blast. That’s another reason for using the air conditioner, he thought.

  Chairs sat upside down on the tables, as if the store were closed. When Bruce tried the screen door, it was locked. He peered through the wire mesh. Nothing. “Yolanda? It’s Bruce.” Still nothing. Bruce tried the door again.

  Rattling the door, he heard the sound of water running from inside. “Yolanda?”

  “Bruce—wait, please.”

  He relaxed and let go of the door.

  Yolanda backed out of the sari-sari store and drew shut the inner door behind her, locking it. The screen slammed against the door frame.

  “Hello.” She turned, wearing a colorful blouse, long, dark skirt and sandals.

  “Hi,” said Bruce. He hesitated, then nodded to the car. “Ready?”

  She brushed her hair back and smiled. “Yes.” That single word embodied all the answer he was looking for, the innocence, the un-jaded anticipation of a new relationship. Bruce pushed aside his fears and smiled. He was finally ready to go, to introduce his father to his friends and start his life over again. He was ready for a fresh start.

  Steamboat Springs, Colorado

  The mountains were magnificent at this time of the year. Flowers sent their fragrant scent wafting down the grassy ski slopes; even in mid-summer, hidden pockets of snow still hid from winter’s last great freeze; and icy blue lakes seemed on the verge of freezing.

  General David Newman reveled in the mountains of his home state. Although he had always felt that summer was the best time to visit the mountains, he loved to ski, and usually brought his family back to Colorado at least once in the winter to race the downhill slopes. He put up with the crowds once a year to get his skiing fix, but it was the summers that revitalized him, gave him a new birth, and a new faith in being the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  The quiet and solitude that surrounded Steamboat Springs felt somewhat artificial, for all the beauty of soaring peaks and jutting mountains. Even that distant hawk, lazily circling on the thermals, perhaps had some sense of the technology bubbling all around it. As remote as General Newman was, he was still in near instant contact with the rest of the world. And although he tried to slow down on his “vacations,” he had learned two years ago that he could never really have a true vacation.

  A quietly efficient young man stepped up to the general. A wire ran from an earplug in his ear to a small radio fastened to his belt. He spoke in a low tone. “General, an urgent call on the STE.”

  Newman nodded and made for the lodge. Swept for bugs by the Air Force Office of Investigation not an hour before he had arrived for vacation, a small command post had been established one door down from Newman’s suite.

  The conversation went quickly. As he hung up the classified phone, Newman closed his eyes and shook his head. When it rains, it pours, he thought. He had not been told the reason, but that was not unusual—political decisions are presented to military men as faits accomplis, not explained.

  Vice President Adleman’s decision to change his plans and fly directly into Clark would require the scheduling of the entire Thirteenth Air Force’s operational readiness around a single plane, but that was only a small part of the picture. The Thirteenth was “Blackman” Simone’s outfit. Simone was a competent fighter pilot and could match any military man in a fight, but as far as being politically savvy … Simone would rather tell the vice president to go to hell than to have the Veep interfere with the launching of his jets. He had voiced his opinions in the past about the politicians wasting his time, and Newman was sure this scenario wouldn’t be any different.

  Newman decided to bypass Pacific Air Force Headquarters and go directly to the problem; he’d get back to PACAF later. He opened his eyes and said to his aide, “Get me Thirteenth Air Force on the line.”

  Moments later, he finished exchanging pleasantries with Major General Simone. “Blackman, I need a favor.”

  “Name it. Coming out here for a shopping trip?”

  “I’m serious. Remember I saved your butt from that Academy investigation.”

  “You say it, you got it, sir.”

  Newman nodded to himself. “Good. This is important. I need somebody hot, one of your best boys or gals who will make a good impression and won’t screw up.”

  “Pilot?”

  “Of course.”

  Silence, then, “I’ve got just the man for you—a shit-hot stick, too. Won the Risner Trophy as a butter bar.”

  “Great. There’s a plane he needs to escort into Clark, and after they land he needs to stick like glue to this VIP. Be an escort officer, show the VIP around.”

  “No problem. We normally use one of our hot young officers for this kind of duty; it impresses the hell out of VIPs to see someone that young be so sharp. What’s up?”

  Newman took a deep breath and settled back in his chair. “Are you sitting down?”

  Five miles outside of Olongapo

  Bruce had gotten lost only once on the trip down from Clark. They had intended to stop in a barrio housing some of Yolanda’s distant relatives, but in the years since she had last visited them Yolanda had forgotten her directions.

  Instead of visiting the barrio the foursome stopped by a roadside shack and splurged on lumpia, topped off with what seemed to be a gallon of pop. They groaned all the way to the outskirts of Olongapo.

  Yolanda opened up and joined in the conversation. As he drove, Bruce studied her out of the corner of his eye. Her shy smiles turned to laughter, and she held her hand over her mouth as her sparkling, dark eyes took in the banter.

  Bruce consulted a sheet of paper and turned down a long row of apartments. The city of Olongapo straddled the barrio, both of which surrounded Subic. The base traffic had tapered off when they turned for the barrio, and with the absence of the American military presence there seemed to be a remarkable increase in affluence and a decrease in the seediness. Bruce kept quiet about the observation, not wanting to embarrass Yolanda.

  He stopped at a corner and scanned both directions.

  Charlie leaned forward in his seat. “Have a problem?”

  “No, I just wanted to make sure I was on the right street.” The apartment complex looked vaguely familiar … but then again, Bruce had been emerging from a hangover when his father had taken him here.

  Bruce decided he was going the right way and moved slowly down the street. He spotted a red Geo parked in one of the stalls and stopped. “This is it.” Backing up, he pulled into the driveway.

  Bruce knocked on the door. Yolanda, Nanette, and Charlie stood behind him. Joe Steele answered, dressed in a T-shirt, navy bell bottoms, and bare feet. He looked surprised.

  “We didn’t wake you up, did we?” asked Bruce, somewhat hesitantly.

  “Bruce! Hell, no! Come on in, kids.” He turned and shouted, “Tanla, ziggy now—Bruce is here, and he’s brought some friends!” He opened the door wide.

  “The girls have to work tomorrow. This was the only day we were all able to get off,” explained Bruce as they entered the small apartment. The room was covered with wood carvings and stereo equipment.

  “Well, shit, have a seat. I should have known you pilots never have to work. You kids drove all the way from Clark; you must be tired. Can I fix you a drink? Beer? Any hard stuff?”

  They found a place in the living room. Charlie sat on the couch in between Nanet
te and Yolanda; Bruce sprawled on the floor on an overstuffed pillow. “None for me. I’ve got to drive back.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you before, has it, Bruce?” Joe Steele roared and winked broadly at Nanette. “They haven’t been calling my boy Assassin just for the hell of it, have they? Has he told you that was for being a woman killer, or for playing football?” He guffawed.

  Nanette smiled demurely. “This is a nice place you have, Mr. Steele. It seems quite cozy.”

  “Joe. Call me Joe. Are you sure I can’t fix you something?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Joe turned and opened a small refrigerator sitting by his easy chair. He pulled out a San Miguel. “I don’t go on duty until eight tonight, so you’ll just have to put up with me.” He laughed. “How about lunch? Have you eaten yet?”

  “We’re fine, dad,” said Bruce, quietly. “I just came over to introduce you to some of my friends.”

  Steele half bowed from his chair. “Glad to know you.” He nodded to the girls. “Nanette, Yolanda.”

  Bruce looked around. “Did we miss Tanla? I thought she didn’t leave for work until later.”

  Joe took a sudden drink of beer. “She’ll be out,” he said, stiffly.

  Bruce saw Charlie raise an eyebrow, but the inflection otherwise went unnoticed.

  Yolanda sat primly, her legs together and hands folded in her lap. She wore a smile, but Bruce could tell that she felt uncomfortable. Bruce nodded to Yolanda.

  “Dad, Yolanda is planning to go to the University of the Philippines this fall. She wants to study music.”

  “PU, eh?” smirked Joe Steele.

  “That is correct,” said Yolanda, quietly.

  “And Nanette is at Stanford,” continued Bruce.

  Bruce’s father ignored the observation and shot out on another tangent. “Hey, did Bruce tell you that I didn’t know that he was on the rock until I got a phone call from him one morning?”

  “That’s okay, Dad.”

  “Yeah, called up his old man right out of the blue. I started up the old Toyota and found him down at the chaplain’s office—of all places, my son in a chapel! And what a sight!”

  “Okay, Dad,” said Bruce, with an edge to his voice.

  Joe took another swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Bruce winced as his father’s T-shirt came up over his belly, revealing a lurid tattoo.

  “You know, the Steeles have a long history of serving in the Navy. My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all enlisted men. We’re mighty proud of that line. Yep. Once in a while though you get an upstart in the family, someone who thinks he’s too good for the rest of them, but I’ve kept that line going for years.” The rest of the room was quiet. Bruce felt his ears grow warm as his father continued. “When Bruce applied for the Air Force Academy, I thought for sure he was one of those upstarts. Until I saw him at the chaplain’s office.”

  He snickered as if it were a huge joke. “When I saw my boy covered with up-chuck, not a dime to his name, and having a hangover to beat it all, I knew he wasn’t a yuppie—he was just continuing the Steele name in a slightly different manner.”

  Bruce smiled wanly. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Joe belched and reached for another beer, the sarcasm lost on him. “You know, Son, we were sad to hear about Ashley.”

  Bruce hesitated, then whispered to Yolanda, “My first wife—it’s a long story.” Yolanda’s eyes widened.

  Joe swallowed a few gulps and nodded to the couch, “But Nanette, I can assure you that Ashley was nowhere as good-looking as you. And that’s coming from someone who’s seen girls all over the world, from London to Sydney, Singapore to Rio. My boy may look like an officer, but I assure you he’s an enlisted man deep to the core. He’ll take care of you, Nanette. I wouldn’t have believed it until two weeks ago, but he’s a son a father can be proud of.”

  The room was shocked into silence. Joe leaned back and pulled on his beer, obviously proud of having offered such a moving testimony.

  Bruce waited a minute before speaking. “Dad …”

  “No use to thank me, Son. I know it’s been a long time coming, but you’ve deserved it.”

  “Dad,” interrupted Bruce firmly, “Nanette is Charlie’s date. Yolanda is with me.”

  Joe Steele’s eyes grew wide. He opened his mouth to say something, but Tanla suddenly entered the room. She smiled tightly. Her eyes seemed shaded, as if they were welling with tears. Heavy makeup covered several dark blue spots on her face.

  Bruce studied Tanla. One of her eyes was black, and there were bruises on her face. She caught him staring and forced a smile. She brought up a hand to her face.

  “I … I fell this morning.”

  Bruce swung his attention to his father. Joe belched and drew his chin up in the air. “Well, are you going to get high and mighty on me, Son? After what I said about you?”

  Bruce clamped his mouth shut. No one spoke, and the tension in the room rose like a ticking clock.

  After eliciting no comments with his query, Joe’s voice rose minutely as he continued: “And let me warn you about something, while I’m at it. Be careful with these Filipinos, Bruce. Tanla knows she’ll never get back to the States—I’m spoken for. But there are plenty others out there ready to hop in the sack with you, do anything to get you to marry them and take them to America. Just remember: For every nice Filipino there’s a beak—a year from now she could be whoring around the massage parlors, outside of Eglin Air Force Base, while you’re up flying your fighter. It’s like the difference between a Negro and a nigger, Son—you can live next to ’em but you can never trust ’em.

  Bruce stood, his face white. He breathed deeply through his nose. “We’re leaving.”

  “What’s the matter?” Joe shot a glance at Yolanda; her head was down, her eyes hidden. “Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t talking about Yoli, here! I was just giving you some good fatherly advice, Son.” He sounded genuinely apologetic.

  “And next you’ll be telling me to slap her around when she gives me grief.”

  “Now, wait a damned minute.” Joe stood and wavered. “That’s got nothin’ to do with you. That’s my private life, and I don’t care who you are, you don’t have a right to tell me what to do—so keep the hell out of my life!”

  “I sure as hell will.” Bruce turned to the couch. “Charlie, let’s get out of here.”

  Charlie led Nanette and Yolanda from the room. Joe sat back down in the chair and pulled at his beer. He turned his head and saw Bruce still standing there.

  “Go on—get the hell out!” He turned back to the front and muttered, “I don’t care who the fuck you think you are, what you’ve done—you’re still not half the man your brother ever was.”

  Bruce drew in a deep breath and clenched his hand, jamming his fingernails into his skin. He started to retort, when it hit him that no matter what he did, no matter what he said, there would be no reaction from his father except for rage.

  Bruce turned. Tanla grasped his arm. “Bruce … do not take it out on him. He treats me well.”

  Bruce forced a smile and patted her hand.

  “Son …” Joe stood, his hands open in a shrug. Bruce set his mouth and headed out to the car, where Yolanda waited with Charlie and Nanette.

  Angeles City

  Pompano reached the sari-sari store shortly after noon. As usual the market was crowded, and it pleased him to think that he would be getting some of the overflow. He felt grimy after setting up the high-power microwave weapon, and looked forward to cleaning up and having Yolanda fix him one of his favorite meals.

  As he approached the store, he noticed the chairs sitting on top of the tables. He frowned. Maybe Yolanda was sick and could not attend to the counter.

  He jiggled the door and it was locked; he didn’t want to disturb his daughter if she was sick. Moving to the back of the tiny store, he found the back door locked as well. He hobbled over to a pile of bricks and wood. Pompano carefull
y overturned a concrete block several layers down from the top of the pile. He wiped away dirt and pulled out a small box. Inside the box were several plastic containers holding papers, deeds, old pictures. A key was at the bottom of the container. It had been two years since he had had to use this key.

  Pompano unlocked the door and quietly entered. The store was empty.

  He furrowed his brows. Yolanda was not one to leave the store unattended without good reason. Looking around the room, he spotted a white sheet of paper taped to his chair. He recognized Yolanda’s writing:

  Father, The young man I told you about has invited me to Olongapo for the afternoon. This was the only time he could get off work, so I thought it might be best for me to go. If you get back, I will introduce you to him early this evening. Y.

  He smiled to himself. His little girl was growing up faster than he had wanted.

  Outskirts of Olongapo

  The car was quiet. Bruce was immersed in his thoughts as he drove, mostly on “auto-pilot,” as he didn’t pay attention to where he was going or what he was doing—he let his reflexes do the driving.

  He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Charlie had his arm around Nanette; she leaned back on his shoulder, looking outside the car. From the corner of his eye he saw Yolanda stare listlessly at her hands. Bruce set his mouth.

  “I’m … sorry that my dad came over that way, Yolanda. He, well, he’s pretty opinionated and doesn’t think things through before he opens his mouth. He’s got some real problems …” he trailed off.

  Charlie spoke from the back. “You don’t have to apologize. He said what he said, and you aren’t responsible for any of it. I think it’s best if we just forget about it.”

  Charlie caught his eye in the mirror; he nodded toward Yolanda. She still sat with her head down.

  Bruce slid his arm over the seat and took her hand. She held onto him tightly. There was nothing to say for a long time, but she seemed to hold onto him as if he were a lifeline, a buoy. He could just imagine the shame she felt, the humiliation.

  He knew she had other goals, other aspirations, and coming back to the United States with Bruce was probably something she had never even considered.