Strike Eagle

Chapter 7

Bruce’s eyes flew open. It seemed as if he had suddenly been transported into another world. His mouth felt dry, cottony; his tongue was caked with something vile.

Somewhere in front of him a radio softly played a song; people spoke in low tones.

Bruce tried to sit up. He was slumped against a window in a high-backed seat.

A bus. He looked around. A sharp pain jolted down his body from his head to his shoulder. He winced and brought up a hand to massage his neck.

No one sat next to him. The two seats on the opposite side of the aisle were empty as well. What the hell is going on? he thought.

He wore loose-fitting white trousers, sandals, and a colorful shirt. A hazy memory of Charlie goading him out of his flight suit came back to him. He remembered the Officers’ Club, something about a fight.…He touched his mouth, but felt no pain, no injuries.

The image of a helicopter flitted near the corner of his mind, but he couldn’t put anything together.

He struggled to his feet. The movement caused a wave of nausea to wash over him. He placed a hand on the top of the seat and edged into the aisle.

The bus was filled with women, at least thirty ladies between the ages of twenty-five and fifty.

He swayed in the aisle, grasping the seat backs to keep steady. At the back of the bus were four long-haired kids, guitar cases and a drum set packed in with them. A hand-stenciled sign on the bass drum read the other end; They sure the heck looked like it. They shared a cigarette and glanced his way but otherwise ignored him.

He leaned over. A middle-aged woman, dressed in a long sarong, blinked back at him.

“Excuse me.” Bruce’s voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Uh, ma’am. I’m sorry to—”

The woman looked away. He started to say something to the lady next to her, but she also turned her head.

He turned to the front. The laughter quieted to a low murmuring. He tapped the sleeve of the woman sitting in the seat in front of him. “Ma’am … Excuse me, but could you tell me where we’re going? I guess I fell asleep and sort of forgot.…” he finished lamely.

The woman ran her eyes up and down his body. She crinkled her nose. “Subic.” She turned to look out the window.

“Subic!” Bruce was stunned. “What in the world—”

No one listened to him. Stepford Wives, he thought. This has got to be a bus to hell, and it’s straight out of The Stepford Wives.

He flopped back down in his seat and stared out the window. The radio in front of the bus blared music. It brought back memories, something that he had heard before. His head started to throb; he winced, but was unable to do anything about the headache.

Then he remembered — that sari-sari store he had visited. The girl there was singing along to the same songs. This was a step back in time, back to the age when this music was popular.

The music had that same sickly sweet, freshly scrubbed innocence, and thus sharply contrasted with the rest of the seemingly seamy Filipino culture.

He looked down and saw a huge yellow stain on his shirt. I must have puked all over myself. A closer inspection of the seat confirmed his suspicion. No wonder no one is sitting near me!

But how did he get here? Out of a flight suit and into these clothes — Charlie had something to do with it. But on a bus to Subic?

Then he remembered the conversations with Charlie about his dad. The boys didn’t know about it, but that wouldn’t stop Charlie — or would it? But whatever their motivation, this was Charlie’s way of forcing him to meet his dad. His breathing quickened, his nostrils widened at the thought.

All he had to do was get a taxi back to Clark.…

He felt his back pocket — and panicked. His wallet was missing! He patted his other pockets. Feeling around the seat, he could not find his wallet. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read:

The only way.

The boys had him figured out to a tee. He slumped back and looked out the window, trying to figure out how he was going to make it back to Clark. Without seeing his dad.

His instructors at the Academy had labeled him an overachiever. Top stick at Undergraduate Pilot Training, winning the Risner Trophy … he was a true role model, a hero to anyone.

Except to his father.

No matter how hard Bruce tried, Joe Steele displayed no emotion, gave no encouragement.

The memories of the constant putdowns still gave him pain. Long ago, Bruce had tried to understand his father’s feelings: Bruce had been born while his father was at sea — the family had a long, proud history of serving as enlisted sailors. Joe Steele had not seen his son until the boy was nearly a year old, and then the first flare of jealousy arose when the young boy garnered more attention than his world-traveling father.

Bruce’s lack of interest in the sea threw up a wall between the two. Bruce had gravitated toward athletics, and looked forward to attending college. Instead of encouraging the young man to pursue these interests, Joe Steele had heaped scorn and ridicule upon Bruce. “You think you’re too fucking good for this family? None of your relatives have gone to college, and we’ve turned out fine. Look at all you’ve got, all you’ve had. Are you ashamed of us?”

The appointment to the United States Air Force Academy had been Bruce’s only way out of the situation, something that he could do on his own. But the appointment only threw fuel on the fire, intensified the one-sided competition. Bruce’s letters home went unanswered, and his efforts to make his father proud of him elicited no response.

When his younger brother Fred had enlisted in the Navy, the parties and hoopla surrounding the occasion quickly outstripped any show of pride that had been bestowed upon Bruce.

Then, when Joe Steele refused to show up at Bruce’s graduation from pilot training, it was the final straw.

He intended to look up his father, but he wanted to do it on his own time scale. Bruce tried to settle back in his seat, but he was too worked up to relax.

The nipa huts and roadside shacks turned to row after row of corrugated aluminum-topped shanties. Dogs yipped as the bus roared past; unclothed children, some playing in mud in front of the huts and others sitting dully on wooden stoops, all watched the bus.

The traffic increased; jeepneys darted in and out of their path. The bus slowed as it started over a long bridge. Bruce saw a brown river below them. Long canoes were being poled by men wearing Saipan-style hats. Women on the bank dumped baskets of clothes into the water, then washed them out. Upstream, an old man urinated into the water.

The bus whined, then came the crunch of grinding gears. Minutes later it slowed to a stop before a large gate.

U.S. and Filipino military men shared the building. Guards wore khaki uniforms, holstered side arms, and silver helmets. Their hair was cut buzz-short and they all stood erect, even when they walked. Marines. By the gate a sign read:

The Marines guarding Subic took no nonsense, and probably wouldn’t give him the time of day. No ID card, smelling to high heaven — bets were they’d just as soon lock him in the brig as try to check out his story.

You’re a fighter pilot?

Yeah, right.

The driver opened the bus door. A marine, wearing his helmet, stepped inside and looked down the aisle. Bruce slid down in his seat and looked out the window, trying to be nonchalant, invisible.

After signing a chit held out by the driver, the guard turned to go.

They started onto the base, passing seamen and local workers. A turn gave him a view of the bay — seven large ships were moored at various locations. He picked out two frigates and a destroyer. The unmistakable conning tower and lines of an aircraft carrier were visible at the opposite end of the bay.

Years ago the US Navy had been thrown out of the P. I. when the US Air Force left Clark. And just like the Air Force had returned to Clark, now they were back at Subic.

Today it looked like the fleet must be in town. And so would his dad.

The Filipino driver spoke over a microphone. “Welcome to Subic. We are parked at the main exchange complex. The bus will be back here at 1530 hours and will leave at 1600. Do not leave any valuables on the bus. Salamat po.”

Bruce sat low in his seat and waited until the bus cleared. When the kids from the back started hauling out their rock gear, Bruce moved slowly to the front. The driver spotted him; the grin on the driver’s face melted to a scowl. The Filipino leaned over and spat into a can that he kept at the front of the bus. He shooed Bruce out.

“Off. Okay, you. Get off.”

“Wait. Can I get a ride back to Clark…?”

“Off, you get. Hurry, ziggy now.”

Bruce stepped backward off the bus. The heat hit him like a sledgehammer as he left the air-conditioned coolness of the bus. “Hey, wait a minute!” He balled his fists.

Standing on the step of the bus, the driver towered over him. The Filipino dug in his pocket and waved a dingy sheet of paper. “You see this? Aih? This my rules. You must obey. It signed by base commander.” He pointed to a paragraph. “If G.I. disorderly I stop bus, throw him out.”

“I wasn’t disorderly!”

The driver stopped and spat. He looked Bruce up and down. “You get sick twenty miles outside Angeles — dirty all over. You very lucky, Joe. I want to throw you off bus. Ladies make me change my mind. I could have done it — but they no let me.” He spat again.

Everyone he approached ignored him. Bruce couldn’t decide if it was the smell or the sight that turned them away.

He ducked into the men’s bathroom outside the Base Exchange. He groaned at his image in the mirror. He quickly debated the best way to clean up, then decided to hell with it — he couldn’t make himself look much worse than he already did. He stripped off his shirt and used wet paper towels to scrub himself clean. A quick rinse in the sink cleaned his shirt. Within ten minutes he looked as though he had stood in a shower with his clothes on, but at least he smelled halfway decent.

Bruce ignored the sideways looks that people gave him as he left the bathroom.

A map was posted outside of the building, protected from the weather by a plastic case. Bruce ran his fingers down the listing of facilities. His finger stopped at the notation chapel. He wet his lips. The last time he’d been in church was at the Academy; he and Ashley had been married there, only hours after he had graduated. It couldn’t hurt to try.

The donuts and sugary coffee that the chapel staff fixed for him gave him a sugar high. Three aspirins, and a chance to step into a quick shower, almost made him feel human again.

Chaplain White warmly shook his hand as an old, red Toyota turned around the corner. The Chaplain searched Bruce’s eyes. “Feel free to come back and talk, Bruce — especially if things don’t work out with your father.”

“Eh?” Bruce glanced at the aging Commander. “I didn’t know it showed.”

White smiled. “Sometimes a child has to tell his parents to go to hell before he can completely sever ties with the past.” He held up a hand. “I don’t mean you should do the same — that was more for shock effect than anything else.”

The Toyota pulled to a stop and a man stepped out. Bruce recognized the beer gut and tattoos immediately.

The Boeing 747-200B sat at the end of the runway. The oversized cockpit looked like a graceful serpent’s head, rising out of the sleek airliner’s nose. To the untrained eye, and from a distance, the 747 looked like any jet transport. But the white-and-blue paint scheme, bearing the words united states of America, gave away the fact that the plane was an official aircraft.

The military designation “VC-25A” was assigned to the plane, a specially equipped airframe that sported a Bendix Aerospace EFIS-10 electronic flight instrument system and state-of-the-art communications gear. The jet was crammed with defensive gear, navigation aids, and electronic countermeasures. The public knew the plane as “Air Force One,” although it was actually one of two aircraft; but today the plane bore the call sign “Air Force Two” in honor of the vice president’s presence on board.

Vice president Robert E. Adleman knew the significance of flying in the 747, rather than the old C-137Cs that were still kept as backups: President Longmire was too ill to travel, and his staff was certain that the President wouldn’t need the plane.

A crew of twenty-three Air Force personnel and Navy stewards filled the plane, ranging from the pilot to the officer who carried a back-up “football.” With Long-mire’s illness, the woman who carried the “football” was effectively ensuring that if anything happened to the President a smooth transition of power would occur, and Adleman would have instant access to the top-secret nuclear-keying materials in the briefcase.

The presence of that young officer gave Robert Adleman a nagging sense of doubt. Lieutenant Colonel Merke was pretty enough — short-cropped red hair, striking green eyes, and a figure that wouldn’t quit — but her serious nature underscored the seriousness of the trip.

A ream of papers covered the table in front of his plush seat; Dubois, one of the Secret Service men, scooped the documents up, keeping the papers in a semblance of order.

Once the table was free of clutter and Adleman could see the tabletop, the engraved Presidential seal seemed to beckon out to him. There were changes coming to his life, and he’d have to make some adjustments. Adleman leaned back and closed his eyes. Things are going to change.

It was so early that the bar girls were not in the streets. A few merchants shuffled under loads of fresh food, brought in from the countryside for the markets; cleaning crews left the all-night bowery; and a few store owners catered to the early-morning crowd. Even the jeepneys were sparse on the street.

Cervante pulled into a parking lot at the rear of a small motel. The jeepney he drove did not seem out of place — a wild paint scheme, fuzzy balls hanging from the top. But a closer look inside the elongated jeep would have revealed several boxes lashed to the front part of the passenger compartment. If anyone tried to board the vehicle, Cervante was prepared to politely, but firmly, turn them away.

Where were they? He had been explicit in setting the time. Then he spotted three people walking toward him. They stepped over a pile of trash and moved quietly to the jeepney. Another came around from the front, as if he had been waiting separate from the others. Cervante made out Pompano’s features as those of the lone man.

Cervante started the vehicle and waited until the men were seated before he turned out of the parking lot. With the sparse traffic, they were leaving Angeles within minutes. The buildings grew fewer and were replaced with huts made of mud and straw. The road narrowed to two lanes; soon they passed rice paddies and saw no people at all. Cervante slowed and half turned in his seat so that he could speak while driving.

“We will be meeting the rest of the cell shortly. From there we will travel to our new base.”

Pompano leaned forward. “How long will that take?”

“Not more than a few hours. I have identified two old plantations that will serve us well — they are both isolated from the general population, yet centrally located with respect to the province. Either one will do much better than camping out in the mountains.”

Cervante glanced up at his rearview mirror; they appeared to be the only ones on the road. Soon, he knew, a steady stream of people from the outlying barrios would start their trek into the city, mostly laborers who worked on the U.S. base. By that time the Huks would be far away.

Rice paddies melted into the thickening jungle. A hand-painted sign advertising fresh fruit stood inconspicuously by the side of the road. Cervante slowed and marked off three-tenths of a mile on the odometer. He slowed to a crawl. Just visible on the right, through the thick foliage, were the bare markings of a dirt road.

Cervante turned onto the road and crept through the jungle for a mile. He tapped on the horn twice, then twice more before breaking into a clearing. Once he had stopped, a band of men quickly surrounded the jeepney. Cervante made a quick head count.

“Everyone is here. Quickly now — I want us to be in place to strike before nightfall. Make sure that your weapons are well hidden, underneath the seats and covered. You two”—he pointed the men out—“drive ahead of the truck. The rest of you follow. If PCs stop us, make sure none survive. Hurry. Ziggy now.” He turned to Pompano. “I want you to drive the truck, my friend. The others will ensure that you are well covered.”

Pompano walked with Cervante toward the jungle. As they drew close, the outline of a two-and-a-half-ton truck appeared. Pompano narrowed his eyes at Cervante.

“You wanted me to come with you simply to drive this truck?”

Cervante placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “If you are stopped by the PC, they will hesitate before bothering you. That hesitation will give us the edge to attack and destroy them — a younger man would only draw their attention to him. Or would you rather ride with the others and have to do the killing?”

Pompano breathed through his nose and stared at the ground.

Cervante knew that he had struck a nerve. The older man had always shown a dislike for violence, while actively supporting the Huk’s goals.

Pompano spoke in a low voice. “We are wasting time. I will drive.”

“First Lieutenant Edward Holstrom?”

“Call me ‘Catman’—my call sign. I haven’t gone by ‘Ed’ for a long time.” Catman plopped down in the chair offered him and looked around the office. Robin was waiting outside, ready to blast off for downtown. Catman glanced at his watch, feeling his time was being wasted. He sat in a typical government office — barf-brown paint on the walls, broken up by lime-green lines used for decorations. He never could understand why the non-rated pukes — non-pilots — would go to such lengths to exhibit their poor taste.

The man sitting across the table from Catman pushed his glasses up on his nose. He withdrew a wallet and flashed an official looking identification card that read defense investigation service and had the man’s picture on the bottom.

“Lieutenant Holstrom …”

“Catman.”

The man pressed his lips together. “All right. Catman. I’m conducting interviews to upgrade the security clearance for First Lieutenant Bruce Steele. You have been listed as a reference on his information sheet. Do you know him?”

“Sure.”

“Very well, how long have you known Lieutenant Steele?”

Catman stole another glance at his watch. “Assassin? Two years.”

“Assassin?” The man hesitated.

“Yeah.”

The investigator scribbled on his sheet.

“Now, Catman, have you ever known Lieutenant Steele to drink to excess?”

Catman thought for a moment. “Nope.” As the man started to write, Catman continued, “I’ve always passed out before he got drunk.”

The investigator’s mouth dropped open.

Catman smiled.

Chief Bosun’s Mate Joe Steele stood waiting by the car. Bruce felt as if his feet were embedded in cement, incapable of movement. Bruce had not spoken to his father for the last two years.

Until half an hour ago in the Chaplain’s office.

And now, not ten feet away, the man waited.

There was nothing he could do to avoid the confrontation. Years ago he had sworn that he would never display the same self-centered habits, never drink himself senseless almost every night of the year like his father. Bruce glanced down at his shirt and grimaced — the faint yellow stains of vomit still decorated his clothes. The sins of the father.…The very things he had abhorred had gotten him in this trouble. His face grew red; so much for learning a lesson.

Bruce swallowed and walked straight ahead to the car.

Joe Steele stuck out a hand and said gruffly, “Son.”

Bruce shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

His father looked him over. “Some party.”

“Yeah.” Bruce was clearly ready to get going.

“So what happened?”

Bruce shrugged. “I got a little wild. Woke up this morning on a bus — didn’t know where I was, no wallet. Kind of a nightmare.”

“Was the party worth it?”

Bruce had a dim memory of the night before, but his father expected another answer. Bruce felt himself slipping back to the past.

“It was okay.”

His father roared and slapped Bruce on the back. “I knew those Air Force pilots had balls. That’s my boy.” He jerked his head to the car. “Come on. I was going to drop you off at the bus station and lend you a couple of bucks. But if you have time, I’ll take you by my place and show you around before you go.”

“Sure.” Bruce climbed into the Toyota. Even though the car was old, it was immaculate inside. Another memory rolled over Bruce, that of being jerked out of his bed as a teenager every Saturday morning to fulfill his father’s fetish of cleaning everything in sight — the car, the yard.

They remained quiet for much of the drive. Bruce looked out the window and spotted the fleet of ships out by Cubi Point, anchored away from the main part of Subic. They took a turn away from the base’s main road. Bruce frowned — they were headed off base. He spoke for the first time since entering the car.

“Where do you live?”

“The barrio.”

“I thought you had to live in the barracks.”

Joe hung his elbow out the window and drove with one hand. “Not enough room. That’s one of the perks of moving up in rank. Your old man is doing pretty good for himself, if you haven’t noticed.” He was quiet for a moment. “Have you heard from your mom lately?”

“Not since getting here.”

“When was that?”

“Last week. She’s looking forward to having you get home next year — eighteen months of remote duty is hard on her, but at least she knows it’s the last time.”

His father grunted. As they drove off base, they seemed to enter another world. The same seamy sights greeted Bruce, but along with the visual impact came a nauseating smell and incoherent sounds that had been masked by the air-conditioned bus.

His father waved a hand at the river below them. “That’s called the Shit River. The Beaks use it as a sewer.”

“Beaks?”

His father laughed. “You are new, aren’t you? Beaks, flips, Filipinos. Just another name.”

Just another name, thought Bruce. Black, colored, nigger. Like it doesn’t make a difference. He hadn’t changed a bit.

As they drove slowly down the street, scantily dressed girls walked up and tried to reach into the car. The girls laughed and waved as they drove on. Strange odors of burnt chicken and meat wafted through the window; loud music erupted, then diffused away as they drove past bars.

“Armpit of the world, Son,” said Joe, grinning. “But that’s the beauty of it — you can pick and choose whatever your taste. Like that — look at those tits!” He pointed out a buxom black woman.

Soon their surroundings grew more tranquil. They turned off the main drag and wove a path to a row of low-slung buildings. The streets were still paved, but potholes and pools of standing water dominated the black asphalt. Bruce’s father pulled up in front of one of the apartments.

“You said you need to get back to Clark by late afternoon?” Bruce responded with a nod. “The one o’clock bus will get you there by three — give you plenty of lead time. Come on in.”

The apartment was typical of his father — neat, though cluttered with tacky junk: miniature anchors, nautical rope, dozens of model boats, wispy ostrich feathers. His father seemed preoccupied, standing by the kitchen door.

“Bruce, ah …” Joe scowled and held a hand up to his bulging chin. Maybe that was another reason his father had never been able to acknowledge his athletic prowess; Bruce had been in tiptop physical shape since high school, never even a hint of a spare tire.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“Ah, shit. Sit down, Son.” He waved a hand at a wicker chair. “Beer?”

Bruce remembered last night, then answered slowly. “Sure.”

A minute later Bruce was sipping on a San Miguel while his father downed his own can. “You know, this really is going to be my last tour, Son. Too many times I’ve left your mother sitting back at home, all alone. You and Fred were the best things to happen to her. She loves you like crazy.”

They grew quiet at the mention of Fred’s name. Bruce didn’t know his younger brother well. He had been too involved in football to have spent much time with him … which made the pangs of guilt dig even deeper. Frail as a youth, Fred eventually filled out and took after his older brother by the time he was a senior in high school.

Fred differed from Bruce as much as Bruce differed from his father. But the younger brother had had a penchant to please, to be subservient to his father’s wishes. So much so that Fred had volunteered for the Navy fresh out of high school in the centuries-old Steele family tradition. As a junior at the Academy, Bruce had tried to talk his younger brother out of enlisting, but he’d been met with cold silence.

And the nail was firmly hammered in place during Fred’s going-away party, when their father had drunkenly presented Fred an ornately engraved plaque inscribed: IF YOU AIN’T A SAILOR, YOU AIN’T SHIT. Joe Steele had slurred through a speech that hinted that Bruce had been destined for the plaque, made twenty years before, but that it had taken a man like his youngest son to finally fulfill a father’s wish.

Fred’s death last year — washed overboard when a ninety-foot wave hit the U.S.S. Bella Wood — hit the family hard.

After Fred’s death, Joe Steele volunteered for a remote assignment — one without his family — at Subic, his last naval station.

Thirty-two years in the navy. One son dead, a martyr. The other seeming to do everything in his power to piss his dad off. A wife whose only purpose in life was to attend the noncommissioned officers’ wives’ bazaar.

His father stumbled over the words. “Now, you know I’d never do anything to hurt your mother. She and I’ve been married nearly twenty-six years now.” He hesitated. “Well, I’ve got someone to introduce to you.…”

Bruce didn’t bat an eye when Joe introduced him to his Filipino girlfriend.