by Doug Beason
Down the ramp and around the corner from Base Operations, a fleet of six MC-130H Combat Talon II aircraft from the First Special Operations Squadron started their engines. Four Allison T56-A-15 turbo-props rumbled alive on each of the airplanes; black smoke kicked out behind the MC-130s and swirled up and out of sight into the falling rain.
Specially equipped with sixth-generation terrain-following radar, precision navigation, a Fulton STAR midair recovery unit, and myriad self-protection systems, the black-snouted Combat Talons looked inherently evil to Richard Head. The MC-130s were used to flying into areas best left unmentioned, close to the deck and completely unobserved. They had so many bells and whistles hanging off the airframe that Richard Head suspected they could fly into China, take out most of the electronics in the country, and get the hell out without ever being seen.
The Special Ops boys kept mostly to themselves. Commanded by Colonel Ben Lutler, a quiet, steely-eyed veteran of nearly thirty years, the First Special Operations Squadron told no one what they were doing.
Today, Special Ops was pulling out all the stops. Head knew that they would be combing the jungles, searching for any sign of the vice president.
The MC-130s rumbled past, sending out gusts of wind that swept through the drizzle. Head could feel the Black Hawk helicopter rock as the squat planes roared by.
Head turned to Gould. “Looks like we’re the only ones not up in the air today.”
Gould lounged back in the copilot seat with one foot up on the instrument panel. He picked at his teeth. “Give them an hour and we’ll be back up. They’ll want us to have Zaz hanging out the door, swooping through the trees looking for Adleman.”
A voice came from the rear of the helicopter. “What? You guys bad-mouthin’ me again?”
Gould pointed out the crew bus coming through the drizzle. “It’s eating time. Let’s get something down before they send us out.”
“Rog.” Head turned to the back. “Zaz—one hour. You comin’ with us?”
“Naw, maintenance is bringing out some bang-bang. Bring me back a sandwich, would you?”
“Yeah.”
Head lifted an eyebrow at Gould. “Bang-bang? Somebody thinks we’re going to be shot at.”
“They don’t give us live ammo for nothing, Dick. Kind of makes you feel like ole Barney. You remember, no real bullets for the deputy sheriff of Mayberry?”
“Yeah. And don’t call me Dick.”
Fifteen minutes. Bruce fidgeted, waiting for Major General Simone to come out with Pompano.
He called the hospital and spoke with Nanette—Charlie had stabilized, but they wouldn’t know about his eyes until later. The ophthalmologist was driving down from Bagio and wasn’t due back to Clark for another few hours.
Nanette assured Bruce that there was nothing more he could do. She promised to keep him informed.
A small army of colonels and their assistants waited in the foyer with Bruce.
Major Stephanie Hendhold entered the room and crossed into Simone’s office. The young major carried a handful of sheets, pictures, and maps. The door closed behind her.
Bruce was acutely aware that he was by far the youngest and lowest-ranking officer in the room. And on top of that his flight suit was still dirty, smelly, and smeared with blood. Bruce didn’t exactly look like the quintessential wonder boy, but there was nothing he could do. He decided to ignore the colonels and keep to himself.
A burly security policeman entered the office. His uniform was soaked with water and he looked worried. He carried a manila envelope as though it held something precious. He sought out Simone’s secretary, Juanita.
“I need to speak with General Simone.”
“You and every other person on the base.”
“It’s urgent. It has to do with the vice president.”
Juanita pressed her tips together and picked up the telephone. She dialed a number. “Major Hendhold, someone here needs to talk with you.”
The security policeman grabbed the phone, turned his back to the crowd, and spoke quietly.
“Bruce?”
“Yes, sir?” Bruce stood and became instantly alert.
Simone stood at the door, holding on to the handle. “Come on in.” Bruce walked briskly past the other officers.
Pompano sat in a chair at the far end of the office. Major Hendhold was on the phone, talking quietly with her back turned to them.
Simone looked irritable. “Let me make this quick. I’ve assured Mr. Sicat that no attribution will take place if he helps us locate the vice president. So that leaves us with one final issue to settle. And frankly, I’m not happy with it—Mr. Sicat refuses to budge.”
Bruce set his mouth.
“The upshot is this: Mr. Sicat does not want any harm to come to his daughter. He refuses to allow anyone to help him rescue her. He’s afraid that this Cervante character, or whoever the hell masterminded this act, will kill her at the first sign of a raid. Going in there to rescue his daughter and the vice president is non-negotiable. Am I correct?” Simone looked down at Pompano. The old man nodded stiffly.
Bruce looked puzzled. “I don’t get it, sir. What do I have to do with this?”
Pompano stood. He blinked but otherwise looked impassive; he spoke in halting English. “You are responsible for Cervante kidnapping Yolanda.”
“Hey, wait one damn minute.…”
Simone held up a hand. “Hear him out, Lieutenant.”
Pompano’s nostril’s flared slightly. “Yolanda would not have been kidnapped if you had kept away from her. Cervante has taken her to a well-hidden place. There are too many safeguards; no one can get close to it without being detected. There are … sensors … mines.” Pompano shook his head. “It is too dangerous. If only you had left her alone.…”
Simone persisted. “But if you tell us where it is, we could help you.”
“No.” Pompano stared back at the feisty general. Bruce almost thought that they were going to go at it, toe-to-toe.
Major Hendhold interrupted, her hand over the phone. “General, there’s an urgent message for you.”
Simone waved her away. “Later, Stephanie.”
“General …”
“Dammit, Major. What the—”
“Now, General! Tech Sergeant. Merkowitz is in the foyer. It has to do with the vice president.” Hendhold spoke quickly into the receiver. “Send him in.”
Simone growled to himself and headed for the door. Tech Sergeant Merkowitz entered and snapped a salute. Simone bore into him.
“All right. What ‘cha got?”
“It’s for you, General. Some Filipino kid delivered it to the gate, not ten minutes ago. I thought it was a joke … until I looked in the envelope.”
Simone glanced at a handwritten note taped to the manila envelope. He read through it before he looked up. “Well, your information corroborates with this Cervante character, Mr. Sicat. He claims to have the vice president.” He handed the note back to the security policeman. He opened the envelope.
He stared hard and drew in a breath. “Oh, my God.” He reached in carefully and withdrew a small plastic card.
He turned it over in his hand and read from it. “It’s Adleman all right.” He glanced back inside the envelope and set his mouth. “And they’ve got him.”
Bruce took an uncertain step to Simone. “Sir, you still don’t have proof.”
Simone ignored him and spoke instead to Merkowitz. “Who else knows about this?”
“You’re it, sir. I thought I’d better get over here right away.”
“Good, man. Keep it quiet—tell no one.” He nodded to the door. “And keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, sir. Afternoon, General.” Merkowitz started to bring his hand up in a salute but seemed to think better of it, and instead just backed out of the office.
His head down, Simone walked slowly to the podium.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Sir, I was just pointing out that—”
S
imone looked up and stopped Bruce with a bland stare. “Lieutenant, take a look.” He shoved the envelope under Bruce’s nose.
Bruce’s stomach flipped at the site of a severed finger. Blood covered the bottom of the envelope. Thick, brown stains were smeared across the finger.
Simone threw the envelope on the table. The finger rolled out. “There you go, Mr. Sicat. There’s your answer. Do you really think that someone who could do this to the vice president of the United States would hesitate to harm your daughter? And for what reason—because I don’t reply fast enough to his demands?”
Simone shook the handwritten sheet of paper. “What do you think is going to happen when I get this to Washington? That they will trust some damned crazy fool hiding God-knows-where in the jungle to keep the vice president alive? And in exchange, move the entire American military presence out of the Philippines? In one day? Well? What the hell do you think, Mr. Sicat? Come on! Do you really think that this Cervante bastard is going to sit by and let your daughter live?!”
Simone breathed deeply. He now stood a mere six inches from Pompano’s face. The Filipino stood rigidly, unblinking. He seemed to take in all of Simone’s ire.
As Simone continued to stare down at the old man, Pompano’s eyes flickered away from the general. He lowered his gaze. Bruce watched the old man steal a glance at the table, then finally rest his sight on the severed finger.
Simone cocked an eye at Pompano. “Well?”
“The place … it is too well defended. And Cervante has probably deployed the HPM.”
“But you’ve got to let us try!”
Pompano shook his head. His eyes started to fill with tears. “My daughter.…”
“She’s dead if you don’t help us.”
“No,” whispered Pompano. “I … can’t.”
Simone stared at Pompano. “Get him the hell out of here and have him interrogated. It’s time to stop screwing around.”
Bruce nudged Pompano. “Come on.” He felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the old man. He didn’t know why he felt that way but then again, he had never had a child, never been in this situation. He didn’t know what he would do if it were his daughter.
As Bruce was leaving, the phone rang. Hendhold answered it. “General, it’s Pacific Air Command.”
Simone didn’t look up from the maps. He growled, “Take a damn message.”
Hendhold spoke quietly, then looked up. “Sir … President Longmire died at eight-twelve in the morning, Washington time. And until the vice president is found, they can’t officially swear in a new President.” Hendhold hesitated. “They want him found. Now. No more excuses.”
Simone glanced up at Bruce and Pompano. His face was gaunt and drawn tight, so that his ebony features stood out. “Well?”
“Your … President … is dead?” Simone simply nodded. “And if the vice president is rescued … he would become.…”
“Our President, Mr. Sicat. That’s the way we work.”
“If Cervante found this out, he would never give up the vice president.” Pompano wet his lips. He seemed to be thinking something over. He stepped back and glanced at Bruce. “Too many people would be noticed. Cervante would kill both Yolanda and your vice president if he had any warning. Yet …”
Simone approached them. His interest was clearly piqued by Pompano’s suddenly willingness to at least communicate. “What are you thinking?”
“I know where the sensors are located. I can get through the jungle.”
“A small special operations team can accompany you—stay behind you,” Simone interjected. “We’ve got SEALs at Subic who can help.”
“No. Too many people.”
“What the hell do you want?” exploded Simone. “Name it! How many—who? When?”
“One person beside myself.” Pompano turned to Bruce. “You are responsible for Yolanda being there—you will come with me.”
Simone held up a hand. “Wait a minute. He’s a fighter pilot, not a Jungle Joe.”
“Two people can slip through the jungle unseen. I can get us through to the … hiding place. I know how Cervante stakes his guards, and it will be a simple matter to rescue Yolanda and your vice president, then move back out to the jungle.”
“If it’s so damned simple, then why can’t you let some trained people go with you? People who know what the hell they’re doing?!”
Pompano shook his head. “I cannot oversee more than one person. I will not allow my daughter to die because of some American’s enthusiasm when rescuing your vice president. And since Cervante has the HPM weapon, you cannot fly in. I know the area.”
Bruce jumped into the foray. “Pompano is right, General. I’ve been through jungle survival, I can handle it. A chopper can drop us off near the hiding place. A few of the air-to-ground guys can give us air support once we rescue the vice president.”
Simone turned to Bruce, astonished. “What in the hell are you talking about, Lieutenant? This isn’t some party you’re going to! It’s rescuing the President of the United States! What are you going to do, waltz in there and ask them for Mr. Adleman? You’re not a Rambo; you don’t even have combat experience!”
“It’s our only chance, General,” interrupted Bruce. He felt a sense of justification. Here was a chance to cleanse the error he had made in allowing the vice president’s plane to have been taken down in the first place. He had been personally responsible for escorting and protecting the plane … and he had failed. He couldn’t speak fast enough to get all the feelings out: that Yolanda would never have been abducted if it hadn’t been for his persistence in seeing her … in going around Pompano’s back during the last few days of their relationship.…
“All right!” Simone held up a hand. Bruce fell silent, words still stuck in the back of his throat. Simone studied Bruce and Pompano; his shoulders slumped. “All right, all right. Do it.”
Simone shot a glance at his aide. “Get a Black Hawk ready to take Lieutenant Steele and Mr. Sicat in-country. Scramble Bolte’s wing and have them ready to lay down enough metal to sink this island once Bruce gets Mr. Adleman out.” He was silent for a second. “And get Lutler from Special Ops on the line—have one of his MC-130s get the Fulton system ready.”
Simone turned back to Bruce. “All right—twenty minutes. Get Mr. Sicat out to the flight line; swing by Special Ops for combat vests.” He hesitated. “And Bruce.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The second you get back into the jungle with Adleman—get on the radio. We’re getting him the hell out of there, either with a Fulton pickup or a Black Hawk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major General Simone watched the door slam. His eyes were focused on the ornate wooden door, carved out of monkey wood from the jungles outside of Mactan, at the tiny Air Force station in the southern Islands; but Simone saw nothing. Nothing but the lives of four people hanging on a thin thread of hope.
“General?”
Hendhold was standing by the phone. Hell, that was all the major had been doing the past few hours. Standing by the phone and relaying bad news.
“What is it?”
“Admiral Gresham’s office at Subic. They’re pretty upset at being left out of the Search and Rescue planning.”
“Stall them. Tell ’em we’re trying to pull the Navy planners in on this as soon as we can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simone’s thoughts drifted back to Bruce and Pompano. His mind shifted into high gear. As soon as the Black Hawk let the two down into the jungle, he’d have another reconnaissance run made of the area. The vice president wouldn’t be far away.
Once Simone had the hiding place pinpointed, he knew he could mount his own rescue mission, a real mission, with troops who were trained for this type of stuff—SEALs, PJs—and and not just an old man and a fighter pilot. They’d be able to watch the place from a distance, keep an eye on Bruce’s progress—even take out the HPM weapon, if it had been deployed. For if something did happen, Simone swore tha
t he would be right on top of it.
“General? Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Subic isn’t buying it. Even though Admiral Greshan is out with the Fleet, he’s demanding an answer. And sir, he is a four-star.”
Simone pulled in a breath. “I’ll take it.” Time for Hendhold to get some rest—Simone knew that he couldn’t dodge all the crap coming his way.
***
Chapter 20
Friday, 22 June
Clark AFB
Thop thop thop thop. Helicopter city. Squat, heavy, big ones with camouflage green; medium-sized ones with cold, sleek features; and baby ones with tiny rotors, ones that didn’t even belong to the Americans but existed solely for the Philippine Constabulary.
Everywhere helicopters. They bubbled out of the ground, growing from the black asphalt and multiplying in the rain.
Bruce checked over the pistol and M-16 that had been given to him by the Special Ops Squadron. He was not very proficient in either, knowing only that the gun was a .38-caliber with a silencer. He had shot the M-16 once at the Academy, and again during Jungle Survival School. Bruce was a fair shot, but he knew that if it ever came down to using the weapons, they were in deep trouble.
They gathered their weapons together. Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in the front mirror. Blackened face, camouflaged fatigues, and jungle boots. He had never cared for playing army.
As they walked toward the helicopter, a familiar face appeared at the hatch. “What’s the matter—you like the rain? Hurry up so we can get out of here.”
Bruce brightened at the sight of Captain Head. “Cripes, I couldn’t have asked for a better crew.”
“Come on, Steele, get your ass on board.” Head stayed out of the rain and motioned for the two to hurry.
Bruce swung up into the chopper. He turned to give Pompano a helping hand, but the older man shrugged him off.
Head glanced at the old Filipino. Pompano drew himself up and stared blandly at the helicopter pilot. Head said, “It’s going to be tough navigating in this weather.” He made a motion with his hands. “You understand? The clouds are low, and we can’t see very well. Especially if we get up into the mountains.”