Strike Eagle

by Doug Beason

  Merke’s voice came back. “Hold on, sir. I’ll be right there.” Adleman heard scraping against the chamber wall. He imagined a jumble of objects crammed up against the door, trapping him in.

  Adleman fell back, relieved. They might have crashed, but now they were all right.

  The men stumbled upon the plane. The jumbo jet lay nestled in the thick jungle, trees pressed up against the fuselage and tiny fires flickering around the metal body. The rain seemed to have prevented the plane from bursting into flames.

  Rifles at ready, they fanned out around the craft. A hole in the jet’s back allowed half of the eight-man group to enter; the other four entered in the front. They didn’t know how much resistance to expect, but they prepared themselves for the worst.

  Adleman lay back on his couch and rested. He thought about getting out of the plane, lowering himself down to the ground, but at least inside he remained dry.

  Minutes before, Merke and McCluney had freed him from the desk, and now the two were checking the rest of the plane. Adleman had urged them to go, for the sobs and cries coming from the front of the plane had begun to subside.

  Merke had a long cut on her face. Adleman had wanted to join the two in their expedition to the front of the craft, but McCluney firmly pushed him to the couch. None of the emergency radios worked, so Adleman decided he would remain back here.

  Longmire resurfaced in his mind. What happens now? Adleman felt ashamed that he should be thinking of succeeding the President, but it had to be on the top of his mind. That was what his position was all about.

  Something moved in the back of the plane.

  Adleman struggled to an elbow. It sounded like a twig had popped, as if someone had been walking just outside of the jet. But that was crazy.…

  “Merke? McCluney?”

  Gunshots came from all around. Adleman heard the sound of bullets ricocheting throughout the cabin. Screams …

  “Merke!” Adleman sat up. A sound came from the back of the plane, where the hole in the tail section was. Adleman’s breathing quickened. His mouth felt dry, cottony.

  Two men appeared from the back. Adleman couldn’t make out their features, but he saw that they carried rifles. Sporadic gunshots came from the front. One of the men spoke.

  “Adleman?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Adleman started to stand up. He threw a glance to the front of the plane. “What’s going on? The gunshots.…”

  Lieutenant Colonel Merke came sprawling into the chamber, followed by McCluney. They stayed on the floor as three men stepped into view. The man who had asked Adleman his name pointed at the vice president and said something in a foreign language.

  Adleman took an angry step forward. “What’s going on here? What are you doing?”

  The man lifted his rifle. Adleman drew in a breath. The man swung the rifle down to Merke and McCluney, then calmly shot a bullet through each of their foreheads. He put the rifle down and said a single word.

  “Come.”

  He turned and disappeared in the back. Another man grabbed Adleman’s elbow and shoved him roughly forward. As they moved for the hole in the back of the plane, the last thing Adleman saw them pick up was the “football,” the briefcase that Lieutenant Colonel Merke had carried and which contained the authorizations for starting a nuclear war.

  Clark AB

  Bruce felt completely wrung out. The intelligence team in charge of debriefing had reconstructed his flight from takeoff to landing.

  Angles of approach, radio frequencies, parameter settings, wing loadings … everything that Bruce could possibly remember was squeezed out of him during the interview.

  With the interviews behind him Bruce felt at a loss as to what to do, so he wandered the halls aimlessly.

  Thirteenth Air Force Headquarters served as the Command Post for rescue operations. There were so many colonels moving in and out of the Headquarters building that a bomb could have taken out ninety percent of the chain of command.

  “Lieutenant Steele?”

  Bruce turned wearily around, to find Major General Simone staring grimly at him.

  Bruce stuttered. “Excuse, me, sir—uh, General.…”

  “Bruce. Come over here. Come on.” Simone waved him to the side, away from the flow of traffic. Bruce walked stiffly with the General until they reached a cross hall. Simone looked Bruce up and down.

  “For crying out loud, man. Someone told me you were wandering around up here. Now just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Sir, there must be something I can do. If you wanted me to escort the—”

  “Shut up, dammit!”

  Simone paused a full ten seconds before speaking. “Bruce, you did one fine job. A hell of a good job getting your backseater and that plane back in one piece. It was shit-hot flying, and I seriously doubt that anyone else on this base could have done it. Including me.

  “Now if that was all there was to this, if Air Force Two weren’t burning out there in some field, or maybe sticking into the side of Huk hill, then I’d throw a parade down MacArthur Avenue for you. Trot out all the young filles, get good and blasted with the boys.” Simone’s voice grew low. “But it’s not. You’ve done all you can, Son, and as good as you are, you can’t do everything. Right now you’re only getting in the way.

  “Why don’t you get your car and head home. I’d get someone to drive you, but I’ve got everyone hopping. Have a beer. We’ll call you when we need you.”

  “I don’t have a car, sir.”

  “I tell you what.” Simone dug in his pockets and fished out a pair of car keys. He tossed them to Bruce. “Here. Take my car—you can’t miss it, it’s in my slot.”

  Bruce tried to return the keys. “Thanks, anyway, sir.”

  “Go ahead. Go see your backseater, get a good dinner, get some sleep. Just don’t wreck my car.” Simone turned back for his office.

  Angeles City

  When you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, be sure to conduct your business in public.

  Cervante did not always adhere to Kawnlo’s axiom, but he did so now.

  The rear of Pompano’s sari-sari store was set against an alley. At the far end of the alley, the two-and-a-half-ton truck looked like any other truck with a tarpaulin protecting its cargo.

  Cervante sat on a chair in front of the small sari-sari store. He smoothed the bundle of papers before him and turned them over on the table.

  Down the street the market was prospering even in the bad weather. All along the street, business was growing—and Cervante could now see why Pompano’s store would bring a high price. Pompano still sat tied up in the store, ready to be a scapegoat for what Cervante had planned next.

  As Cervante flipped the bundle of papers over, his thoughts turned to Yolanda. She had fainted after the first cigarette burn, and afterward it had been easy to convince her to turn over the deed. The papers had been hidden in a steel box, buried in the back yard, underneath a pile of brick and wood scraps.

  And it had been what Cervante had suspected: Pompano had signed the property over to the girl years ago. Cervante was sure that the date on the deed coincided with Pompano’s first contact with the Huks. Insurance that if Pompano was found out, his daughter would retain the property rights.

  But now Yolanda’s signature on the back forfeited her ownership.

  As Cervante waited, he ran through the possibilities in his head. Plans within plans, contingencies within contingencies—the possibilities were limitless. He strove to keep as many doors open as he could.

  A car came slowly down the street and then stopped. A man stepped out “Cervante.”

  “Aih. Around the back.” The man waited for Cervante to lead.

  Cervante moved the deed from hand to hand. As the car pulled around to the back, Cervante spotted a muzzle aimed at him from the backseat.

  The man looked up and down the alley before nodding to the car. The driver got out and went around to the trunk, leaving one
person still covering Cervante from the rear. Opening the trunk, the driver reached in and pulled up a body. The driver grunted, then pulled the body out of the truck with a jerk. He dragged the body to where Cervante stood and propped the man up. Blood from the back of the man’s head oozed down the door. The driver returned and placed a briefcase by the unconscious man.

  Cervante squatted and peered at the man. He certainly looked familiar, but that did not mean that it was the vice president. He patted the man’s suit coat and pants, but found nothing. Cervante looked up. “How do I know it is him?”

  “Aih.” The first man motioned with his head to the driver of the car. The driver pulled out a wallet, flipped it open and shoved it at Cervante. A driver’s license read: Robert e. adleman.

  Cervante straightened. “What about the others on the plane?”

  The man merely blinked at Cervante, ignoring the question. The driver stepped back into the rain toward the car and scanned the area from side to side.

  Cervante slowly handed over the deed. “You will find all the papers in order.”

  The man flipped through the papers. “Pompano has signed them. It says his daughter sold it to you.” He sounded surprised.

  “You did not think it would be so?”

  The man glanced up at Cervante. “I have dealt with Pompano for years. This store, this location, is extremely valuable.”

  Cervante shrugged. “He was anxious to sell it, and I gave his daughter a good price.” He bent down to the American captive. The vice president’s head lolled to one side, leaving a smear of blood on the door. Cervante put his arms around the American’s chest, grunted, and lifted him. The men just watched him. Cervante dragged Adleman through the mud and rain to the back of the jeepney.

  The man who had been covering Cervante raised his rifle and started toward the jeepney. The first man grinned and called through the rain.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Cervante, but we have changed our minds! You see, now that we have the store, Adleman is even more valuable to us!” He nodded to the man with the rifle. “Kill Cervante.” He turned to the sari-sari store.…

  Suddenly, from inside the house, a volley of shots rang out, muffled in the downpour of water. The black marketers jerked in spasmodic actions, falling at crazy angles to the ground. Cervante heard the sound of bullets shattering bone.

  Barguyo stepped from inside the house, holding an M-16. Cervante merely nodded at the boy as he picked up the briefcase. Pompano would be left with the dead bodies, but he would never talk, especially with Yolanda held hostage.

  As Cervante drove off, Barguyo and the two Huks with him dragged the bloody bodies into the house, shut the door, and walked through the summer rain to their truck.

  Charlie plus five thousand over Clark AB

  Major Kathy Yulok couldn’t see her target, but the sensors on the instrument panel glowed a bright green. Below her, cloud cover stretched as far as she could see. From this attitude, the horizon seemed to be just over the SR-73’s nose. They were flying relatively low this sortie, but it was the highest pass she was going to make.

  It was really a job for the SR-73’s high-flying cousin, the TR-1, but the closest plane would have taken over five hours to get to Clark.

  Yulok toggled her mike and spoke directly with Thirteenth Air Force Headquarters. “Blackcave, Shakedown One. Cameras are rolling.”

  “Rog, Shakedown. Waiting your pictures.”

  The cameras on the SR-73 were a far cry from the original chemical film that the old SR-71 Habu used to carry, thirty years ago when the aircraft was first commissioned. Now, ultrasensitive charged-coupled diodes, integrated with adaptive optics, fed their digitized pictures directly to a satellite link located in the SR-73’s long, flared nose. The digitized images were bounced from satellite to satellite until they were was finally downlinked to an Air Force ground station—a fifty-foot satellite dish located at a classified operating location known only as Tango Whiskey Three.

  A high-performance parallel supercomputer at NSA unscrambled the coded imagery and integrated the pictures with sophisticated three-dimensional algorithms, false colors, and blink technology to produce ultra-clear pictures. The resulting pictures were scrambled again and faxed to Clark.

  Thirty seconds after Major Yulok had announced that cameras were rolling, Major General Simone looked over the shoulder of an intelligence officer as the young captain poured over the high-resolution photograph.

  “Bingo.” She drew a circle around what appeared to be a long gash in a jungle of trees. “This has got to be it. If Shakedown can get a closer picture, we can confirm it.”

  Simone straightened. “Get a chopper out there.”

  “Shakedown One can get us a close-up in five minutes, General.”

  “And if that’s Air Force Two, we’ll get there five minutes faster. Move it.”

  He didn’t have to repeat himself.

  “Bring it in, bring it in! Hold it steady now!” Staff Sergeant Zazbrewski stood halfway out of the MH-60 helicopter hatch, leaning over the side, a hand on the crane. The line played out nearly a hundred and fifty feet before it hit the ground.

  Zazbrewski saw the para-rescue specialists—PJs, in the jargon of the rescue folk—leave the harness and fan out to investigate the crash site.

  “Hurry up, dammit!” Captain Richard Head turned his head and motioned impatiently for Zazbrewski to give them the sign to pull up. Holding any helicopter motionless was a herculean feat.

  Zaz waved an arm at the helicopter pilot. “They’re off.”

  “Thank goodness.” Captain Head pulled the MH-60 Black Hawk up as Zazbrewski reeled in the line. They would circle the crash site until the PJs radioed for them to drop a stretcher. If one was needed.

  Head surveyed the debacle as he brought the helicopter up another hundred feet, keeping a good fifty feet or so below the cloud cover. Head hated flying in this weather—he had a fear that something would suddenly swoop out of the heavy clouds and hit his helicopter.

  A gash ran through the forest. The jungle hadn’t burned, since rain had soaked the trees and underlying foliage, but he saw some singeing alongside the craft’s silver body. The wings had torn off a good half-mile away, and the fuselage looked intact. It was a wonder the thing wasn’t in a million pieces.

  Clark Command Post came over the radio: “Fox One, Blackcave. Have you located any survivors?”

  Head keyed his mike. “Blackcave, Fox One. That’s a negatory. We’ll keep you posted.”

  The 747’s fuselage was nestled down in the gash, virtually invisible unless one had watched the plane go down.

  Within minutes HH-3s and CH-53s from Subic had joined Head, Gould, and Zazbrewski. After dropping their teams of Navy SEALs, the other helicopters flew in a coordinated circle, waiting for word from the rescue teams below. Head kept his Black Hawk moving in a continuous bank.

  Head’s radio cackled. “Fox One, PJ. We’ve got no survivors here.”

  Head wet his lips. “PJ, Fox One. Come again?”

  “You heard it, Fox.” The PJ’s voice sounded bitter over the radio. “No survivors. Nada. Inform Blackcave they’d better get some OSI out here, ASAP.”

  The Air Force Office of Special Investigation? As soon as possible? Head keyed the mike. “Say again, PJ.”

  “You bastards listening up there? It ain’t pretty down here. This is something the OSI needs to jump on, pronto.”

  “How’s that?”

  There was a long pause. “Everyone’s dead—no survivors. Whoever didn’t die in the crash has been killed—throats slit, bullets through the head. The only person we couldn’t find is the vice president. Comprehend? Lonestar is not here.”

  ***

  Chapter 19

  Friday, 22 June

  On the road to Tarlac

  They had left the rice paddies far behind and were on the final leg to the plantation. The road was crowned in glorious green, and everywhere Cervante looked it seemed like he was bei
ng applauded for the ultimate coup. The rain—on the road, falling in the jungle, splashing up onto the side of the jeepney—all seemed to symbolize a washing away of the old, something never to be seen again. It was glorious. Cervante saw it as a validation of the very things he had so dearly believed in and fought for.

  Every so often he had to sneak a look to the back, to see if the figure of Robert E. Adleman, vice president of the United States of America, was still there, still moaning and quivering, still waiting to be used to free the Filipinos.

  And from the most powerful nation on earth!

  A half a mile behind, the truck trailed Cervante, bringing the high-power microwave weapon and the girl.

  At this point, Cervante couldn’t have cared less about either of them. Only about Adleman. And what the vice president could do for Cervante, dead or alive.

  Angeles City

  Bruce rapped on the door. He couldn’t understand why no one was home on the day Pompano and Yolanda were to sell the store.

  “Yolanda?” Bruce walked around back, trying to peek into the tiny windows set high off the ground. Broken glass, cemented into the window sill, lined the windows.

  Bruce looked around the back and moved to the back door, trying to remain under the overhang. He pounded on the door before noticing a brownish-red splotch. He knelt and ran a finger across it. Bruce’s heart began to palpitate.

  He straightened. “Yolanda!” He fumbled with the doorknob, and it swung open …

  A smear of bloody tracks led into the back room. Bruce’s breathing quickened. He entered the store, almost afraid that something was going to jump out at him, or that someone would come in through the back and start yelling, accusing him of—

  Three bodies were stacked in the side room. Blood still oozed from wounds on their heads, their shoulders—a fetid smell filled the room. Urine and feces, body waste purged from their colons relaxing.

  Bruce yelled: “Yolanda! Are you here? Yolanda?!” He peeked into the front room and he spotted Yolanda’s father tied to a chair.

  Bruce didn’t know his name. He untied the man’s gag. “Where’s Yolanda?”