Wave of Death

by Charlie Vogel

  “Hell no. We got some souvenir shit to pick up for General Parsens. His wife went shopping in Manila. That’s why we tore out the seats. We had flight orders to leave two hours ago, but because of your hush-hush business, we waited for you. We’ll be taking off in about one minute, so buckle up.”

  After a bouncy take off, the Airman delivered more coffee. I removed my jacket and started to fold it. Looking up, I didn’t see an overhead compartment. The Airman provided a wire hanger. After placing the garment over it, I took out a book from a side pocket. The Airman hung the jacket in a closet behind the pantry.

  The view out the port hole placed the sea into small pockets of blue surrounded by a mist of white haze. The plane gained altitude, piercing a mountain of white cloud foam. A moment of gray filled the cabin and suddenly the sun’s rays lit the chrome wings with fire. Turning my head away from the burning glare of the setting sun, I glanced at my watch. 1900 hours. I would be in the Philippines at about 2300 hours. Since the International Date Line sliced the world into two separate days, it would be Tuesday night instead of Sunday when the plane touched ground. I opened my novel by Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged.

  Four chapters, two box lunches, and a long nap later, the C-135 descended over the mountains near Clark Air Force Base. The runway lights flashed by the window as the wheels touched the strip. The plane stopped on a taxiway, beyond walking distance from the terminal.

  A navigator I hadn’t met stepped into the cabin. “Just got the word that a jeep will pick you up and take you over to officer’s quarters.”

  I took the jacket off the hanger and slipped it on as the Airman opened the door, admitting a blast of humid night air. Adjusting my hat and hefting my own bag, I faced the foul tropical odor of rotten bananas, burnt diesel, and sewage. At the bottom of the universal steps, I stopped to wave my thanks at the crew. The olive green painted Willey stood a few feet away. I threw the bag in back, and settled into the stiff passenger seat, the envelope in my lap. An uncommunicative Air Force Sergeant drove.

  Inside the glass doors of the Transit Officer’s Barracks, I placed a copy of my orders on the counter. Another Air Force Sergeant with a sleeve full of strips stamped my original.

  “When’s the next bus to Subic?” I asked him.

  “Sorry, Sir. It’s just about midnight. The shuttle operates from 0500 to 2300 hours. I have a room ready for you. If you want something to eat, the Officer’s Club is right across the street.”

  “What other transportation is available?”

  “None, Sir. Military personnel are not allowed outside a five mile radius after hours. You’ll have to wait until morning, Sir.”

  Thinking of the five hundred dollars the Admiral had given me for expenses, I decided a steak dinner sounded good. I took the room keys and hurried up the stairs. Having never been inside an officer’s barracks, I hoped I wouldn’t screw up something. Suddenly, I wondered if I would be expected to make my bed in the morning, or would an enlisted man come in and do it for me? I threw the suitcase onto the Army-style cot, and quickly changed into tropical dress whites. My mouth watered at the thought of the top quality steak dinner waiting across the street.

  The following morning, I awoke a few minutes before 0600 and quickly dressed in my khakis. A Subic Base Instruction posted on the bulletin board at the check-in window indicated full dress khakis as accepted travel uniform between the two bases.

  At the Officer’s Mess occupying one end of the barrack’s ground floor, I ate a light breakfast. Shortly after, I checked out with the Desk Sergeant’s directions to the shuttle bus. By 0730, I sat in the rear of an Air Force blue school bus.

  The narrow, part-paved but mostly dirt road circled around mountains and dipped into valleys. I stared out the window, engrossed in the beauty of the lush, green jungle. The pineapple and sugar cane fields blended into the wild vegetation. Half naked children followed their mothers to the fields. The bus stopped once to let a poor farmer lead his ox across the road. Almost two hours after leaving the barracks, the Marine guards at the gate of Subic Bay Navy Base waved the bus through.

  I laid my fake orders on a Yeoman’s desk at the Base Commander’s Headquarters. A young man with a third class rating patch looked up. “Yes, Sir, Captain Harris is expecting you. His door’s straight across.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be working outside the gate. I didn’t know I’d be reporting to anyone.”

  “Sorry, Sir, but the Captain wants to see you.”

  Removing my cover, I stepped smartly to a closed door and knocked. A voice called from the other side. “Enter.”

  Standing at attention in front of a desk, I looked down at a lean-faced man in his mid-fifties. Four gold strips on each of his shoulder boards gave credence to his glare of “I’m-much- more-important-than-you.” He flicked the pen before precisely placing it into the brass holder on the center of his desk. The pen hand flourished toward a chair. “Please, sit down.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You are Lieutenant Matthew Fisher. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, there seems to be a problem. In the Officer’s Registry, I do not find your name. I even checked the latest promotion list. So now, Mister Fisher, tell me who you are.”

  “I’m sure if you contact Admiral Collins at CenPacFleet, your information will be corrected.”

  “Corrected? Tell me, Mister Fisher, what do you mean by that . . . exactly?”

  “Obviously there’s a mistake in the Registry. I’ve found mistakes in it before.” And as a Yeoman I had, but I wasn’t going to tell the arrogant bastard that.

  “Have you ever attempted to locate your name to check for your seniority?”

  “Not since I made Lieutenant.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Two years ago.”

  The Captain pressed the intercom button, “Yeoman, contact Admiral Collins at CenPacFleet, Pearl Harbor.”

  The Captain leaned back in the leather chair and stared directly at me from across his highly polished desk. I wondered if he used spit shine on it. Instead of asking that, I chose to break the silence with “You must have read the radio message about my arrival.”

  “Yes, I’m at my office at 0600 each morning. The first order of business is the night traffic. Your advance orders came in about 2200 hours last night. But, tell me, just to save a lot of embarrassment, who typed these phony high priority TAD’s and why are you dressed as a commissioned officer?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Sir.”

  “You’re not fooling anyone. I graduated in the top ten of my class in 1934 from the Naval Academy. With my years as an officer, I know by just looking at you, you have never attended the Academy. Is this correct?”

  “I graduated from OCS.”

  “Really. What year?”

  Sweat dripped under my arms. I adjusted my weight to relieve the pressure on my tail bone against the hard chair seat, my mind counting the years backwards to boot camp. OCS would have been six months to a year after basic training and then four years of school.

  The phone rang. The smart ass Captain answered, swiveling his chair away from me. “Yes, Admiral. Good morning, Sir. John Harris here. I really hated to call you on this and will only take a minute of your time. I have a Lieutenant here with a set of fraudulent orders. The TR number is fictitious and I can’t find his name anywhere in records. Yes, Sir, I do see your name on the orders and your signature. Yes, that’s the name he’s using.” Long pause. The chair creaked as the smart ass adjusted his position. “Oh, I see. I had no advance notice of this, Sir. Yes-Yes, Sir, I am aware of my position.” Another pause and more chair creaking. “I will certainly make sure the Lieutenant has everything he needs. Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Yes . . .”

  He turned his chair facing me once more and carefully replaced the receiver in its cradle. Clearing his throat, he looked up with “I will have to apologize to you for causing a delay in your investigation. You
could have told me that the Office of Navy Intelligence had given the Admiral authority to send you here. I have no idea of your true identity and was advised by the Admiral not to ask any more questions. All I will ask is that while in this area, would you please conduct yourself as a true officer and a gentleman?”

  “What do you mean, Sir . . . exactly?”

  “Advice. This is just advice. I first observed you outside my window, when you walked from the street. You walk like a duck. You are not wearing bell bottoms, and remember not to cup your hand like an enlisted man when you salute. I don’t have time to give you an OCS refresher course, but please try your best. You are dismissed. The Yeoman will arrange everything you need on base, and . . . ah, do have a pleasant stay.”

  I raised to attention and said, “Thank you, Sir.”

  “One more thing. If you have to leave the base, please have the guards call me to authorize it. Olongapo is off limits today because of a mayor’s election. These people have a tendency to shoot at each other while the polls are open. I suggest you wear civilian clothes off base.”

  “More good advice. I do appreciate your, ah, help . . . thank you, Sir.”

  * * *

  After a shower, I dressed in the tropical civilian wear I had purchased at the Navy Exchange. Feeling much more comfortable in the polo shirt, shorts, and sandals, I set off for town. The Marine guard gave back my I.D. after hanging up the phone, and with a smart salute, he waved me through the gate.

  I followed the sidewalk to the bridge crossing the sewage canal. A naked young boy stood on the rail. As I neared him, he asked for a quarter. I flipped it into the air, but he let it fly past. The next moment he jumped into the murky water and surfaced shortly with the quarter held between his front teeth. I shivered in disgust, blocking a wave of sadness for the kid. The numbers of his kind in that part of the world could give a man nightmares if he dwelled on it. I had other concerns at the moment.

  Due to canceled liberty, the main drag of Olongapo resembled an Old West ghost town. I followed the sidewalk along the dusty, partly paved street. Stain circles of either urine or booze covered the walkway. Large rats sat up in the corners of doorways to the many bars, nibbling on food and ignoring humanity. The sun hovered overhead indicating it was close to noon. I checked my watch, wishing I had eaten before leaving the base.

  Looking over the rats into the open doors of the drinking establishments, I noticed empty bar stools everywhere. A half dozen girls or more at each place looked out the windows. They giggled and talked in low voices as I passed by. In front of the “Sinking Ship,” one of them stepped out and begged, “Hey, Sailor, come back.”

  I actually turned around. Her black hair had been combed into a low pony tail held in place by a large red ribbon that looked like something Shirley Temple would have worn. Her figure was lost under a loose blouse and a pair of dark, shapeless slacks. She looked at me with soulful eyes and spoke in broken English, “Why you just walking round, sailor boy?”

  “I’m looking for Chung’s Import.”

  “It’s down the street couple blocks. You want drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  I looked into her dark brown eyes. What did this young girl want from me, besides money for sex?

  She glanced through the bar door she had stepped from then raised her eyebrows, clamped her jaw and glared as if delivering some deliberate message I was too dumb to understand.

  “I don’t care. It’s your city,” I said.

  She scurried to my side and placed a possessive hand inside my elbow. We walked in the direction she had indicated.

  After a moment, she said, “You buy me drink, I give you good time.”

  “What would be the good time?”

  “I go all the way for twenty pesos. A short time ten pesos.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I don’t believe you’re that old. Which bar do you work at?”

  “I work three. The Sinking Ship, Black Rose, and the Mutiny. Which place you want to go?”

  I smiled and replied, “It’s too early for a drink. I haven’t eaten. I want to shop for something at Chung’s Import.”

  “You buy me sandwich, we go short time for five pesos.”

  “What do you mean by short time?”

  “Blow job?”

  “No thanks. Is there a good place to eat here? I’m talking about food that hasn’t been eaten before.”

  “By market, fancy place called the Seven Seas. Very expensive.”

  “Good, I’ll eat there. Where’s the market?”

  “Long ways down street. Ten blocks maybe. I can’t go there. They don’t let me.”

  “Sorry. I think I see Chung’s anyway. You coming inside with me?”

  “No. The store don’t open until after election. Chung running for mayor. We can go across street to Black Rose. You buy me drink. And you can have food that place.”

  “When will the election be over?”

  “Couple hours maybe. I don’t know, I don’t vote.”

  I checked the import store’s front entrance and found the steel gate lowered and locked. Inside I could see a short woman placing items onto shelves. The young girl’s voice interrupted my concentration. “Maybe they open soon.”

  I scanned the street. When I looked back at her, the girl’s expression flashed from worry to artificial cheerfulness. She was too young and inexperienced to keep up the act all the time. The sadness I had felt for the kid at the sewage canal threatened. I sighed.

  “Okay, let’s go to the Black Rose to eat. We can wait there as well as here.”

  The waitress placed a tall neck bottle of San Miguel in front of me and a small drink in front of my guest, which I knew would be a mixture of tea and cola. I chose to face the large window so I could see Chung’s Imports and would know exactly when the gates opened.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the girl.

  “Kim. What’s yours?”

  “Pencils.”

  “What ship you from?”

  “I’m not. I’m here on business.”

  She smiled. “You look like sailor, walk like sailor. Let me see I. D.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if you in Navy.”

  “No point and not important. Tell me Kim, why do you work the bars?”

  “Make money. Why you think?”

  “No, I’m serious. I’m being honest. I’m not taking you to bed or doing anything else with you. Let’s just sit here and have a good talk until Chung’s opens. Food, drink, talk. Nothing else. Okay?”

  “Twenty pesos?”

  “For what?”

  “I a working woman. I told you. I need money.”

  I sighed and gave in. “Okay, here’s twenty pesos. But don’t think I will sleep with you anyway. I won’t.”

  “Thank you!” The perky girl-child resurfaced in her voice. “Now what you want know?”

  “I want the truth. Why are you here, doing . . . this?”

  She stared at me for a long moment. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Chung come to my home two years ago. He give my mother money. Now I have to work until all paid back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Don’t know. Couple years maybe.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Zamboanga”“

  “How old are you . . . really?”

  “I be sixteen in couple months, maybe.”

  “I said the truth.”

  “How old you think I be?”

  “With all that shit on your face, you could be in your twenties, but the rest of you doesn’t match.”

  She threw her shoulders back and raised her chin with childishly pouting lips. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Sorry, Kim. I didn’t want to make you mad. I’m concerned you’re not old enough to be working the bars. There are laws to protect you from
this, from Chung doing this to you.”

  Chin trembling, she jumped from her stool and hurriedly unbuttoned her blouse. I held a hand up to stop her, but she backed away and pulled down her bra. “Look, smart-ass sailor boy! See? I have tits.”

  Only glancing at the small, developing mounds, I softly ordered “Please, get dressed. Little girls don’t do things like that in public.”

  Ignoring my discomfort, she determinedly slid down the front of her slacks. “Look! I got hair.”

  “Okay, okay. You’re all there. Now put yourself together and sit down. I’ll buy you another drink.”

  She buttoned her blouse before climbing back on her stool. “You seen me, now you pay me for good time?”

  I groaned. “No. Why can’t you just sit here and talk to me?”

  “I have to get money.”

  “I just paid you twenty pesos!”

  “You paid to look at my body,” she stated archly.

  “No. You volunteered to show it to me. If you don’t wish to have a conversation, just go about your business.” At least I gave her a chance to save face.

  She gulped her drink, then studied me again. “You funny man, Pencils, but I like you. I stay. Buy me another?”

  “Yes, I will.” I raised my hand and circled a finger ordering another round from the waitress.

  “They have good sandwich here. You want one?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes, I need to eat . . . to keep my body good.”

  “You mean healthy?”

  “That too, but good for the sailors who want . . . what you don’t.”

  I rolled my eyes and she giggled.

  Thirty minutes later, Kim swallowed the last bite of her hamburger. I looked out the window as a figure in front of Chung’s unlocked and lifted the gate. Leaving the half bottle of warm beer, I stood and pushed my chair back.

  Kim looked around. “You leave now?”

  “Yes, the store is opening.”

  “Wait! I go with you.”

  “I thought you needed to work.”

  “Wait! Wait, Pencils!” Her expression looked strained and hopeful at the same time. “I-I want to ask something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sit down, please.” When I did she took my hand in her two small ones. “I know you must like me . . . to want just talk. Can you pay Mr. Chung money and send me to America?”