Strike Eagle

Chapter 8

His father’s girlfriend looked pretty. Or maybe Bruce’s mind was forcing her to be pretty, seeking a reason for his father’s behavior toward his Mom.

Bruce knew the answer — the practice was openly condoned overseas. It kept the men out of the bars and out of trouble, and put some sort of routine back into their lives.

No one had ever taken UCMJ action against those who did it, even though the Uniformed Code of Military Justice specifically prohibited the behavior. Very few of the men took their girlfriends back to the States.

The woman extended her hand and smiled. “I am Tanla.”

“Hi.” Bruce quickly shook her hand and looked around for his seat, not wishing to show his embarrassment.

“She has to go to work,” said his father, gruffly. He, too, seemed embarrassed.

Tanla nodded and slipped from the room. Bruce remained quiet; he stared at one of the anchors holding up a flower pot. Tanla appeared a minute later, smiled at Bruce, then said to his father, “You stop by later?”

“Sure.” Joe Steele dismissed the woman, who left through the front door.

Bruce’s father lounged back in his chair and took a pull on his beer. He hesitated before speaking.

“It’s the only way to keep from going crazy, Son.”

“Don’t make apologies on my account,” said Bruce. “You never have.”

His father put down his drink. “Now don’t start that up again.” A moment passed, then, “Okay … okay. Bruce, I want you to listen to me.”

“I am.”

“I love your mother very much. If I didn’t have Tanla here, I’d probably have killed myself. She keeps me honest, sober enough to go to work, and we have sex much less frequently than you’d ever think.”

“Then why does she shack up with you?”

Joe answered softly. “Security, Son. It’s her way of ensuring she’s always fed, always has a roof over her head. She’s lived with men like me for probably ten years now … and as long as there are crusty ole Bosun’s mates out there, she’ll always have a place.” He scooted to the front of his chair and placed his elbows on his knees. “She doesn’t mean a thing to me, Son — I’ll be gone next year, and someone else will take my place. It’s purely for convenience.”

Bruce continued to stare, away from his father. He felt confused.

“I’m not asking you to approve, Bruce. Just accept what I’m doing.”

Funny, thought Bruce. You never accepted what I was doing. It seemed so absurd to Bruce: The times that his father had been at home when he was younger, it had been all putdown and competition. And now, when things were upside-down, he felt closer to his father than he ever had.

Bruce whispered, “I’ll try to come back after things settle down.”

His father simply nodded and leaned back in his chair.

The ride back to Clark was a fog of memories, contradictions, and reminiscences. It would take time to sort out, to put the pieces together so that it all made sense.

A lifetime of put-downs can’t be healed overnight.

The trip took a little longer than two hours. They were stopped once by a roadblock. Men wearing colorful barongs and wide smiles waved them down and boarded the bus. The Filipino driver interpreted the rapid-fire Tagalog that the men spat at him: they were collecting for the barrio fiesta and wanted to know if anyone on the bus would care to donate.

A look outside the window revealed that the bus was surrounded by men carrying rifles and semiautomatic weapons. They didn’t aim the guns at the bus, yet they made no effort to conceal them.

Everyone on the bus donated at least a dollar.

The man backed off the bus, bowing and smiling while all the time repeating “Salamat po.”

As the bus drove along the two-lane road, the rice paddies became dotted with activity. Houses began to appear, and before long they entered Angeles City. The traffic grew thick, and soon the background noise seemed to consist of one long melee of honking.

Bruce watched out the window, still sorting things out in his mind. Suddenly, he spotted a sign outside the bus: fire empire, the strip place he had left … Friday night? Only four days ago.

He remembered the girl he had met that night … Was it really that she had been so beautiful, or had he still been on that adrenaline high from arriving at Clark, starting a new life?

“Driver!” Bruce moved to the front of the bus. “Can you let me out here?”

The driver looked puzzled. “Traffic no move.”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t care — can you let me out?”

The driver shrugged, then started to open the door. He spotted the Fire Empire, then grinned widely. “Okay, have fun, G. I.”

“Right.”

Once off the bus the heat hit him full in the face; the sky looked like it was going to rain. Bruce darted around the jeepneys and cars, finally reaching the front of the striptease club.

“Hey, Joe — special show! Good seats for you!” A burly man waved him in.

Bruce ignored the hawker and strode up to a row of jeepneys waiting just outside the door. He tried to remember the driver and the paint scheme of the vehicle that had taken him and Charlie around. No two jeepneys were alike, but he still couldn’t tell one from another.

One of the drivers gave his cigarette to his friend and called out to Bruce. “Hey, Joe — go to Clark?”

“No, the market.”

“Market?” The driver grinned and threw a sideways glance at his friend. The other driver had finished off the cigarette down to the butt. “Which one?”

“Uh, one that’s part indoor and outdoor. It spills into the street, high buildings all around?”

“Oh, yes — I know.” The driver hopped into his jeepney and patted the seat. “Get in, Joe — I take you.”

Bruce approached warily. “How much?”

The driver eyed Bruce and started to name a price. One of the men jabbered at him in Tagalog, and the driver stopped and seemed to think things over. “You been there before, Joe?”

Bruce hesitated. He wondered if the guys were about to fleece him, or if they figured that if Bruce had been there before then he would have a good notion of what the fare was. Bruce answered, “Sure.”

“Okay, twenty-five peso.”

Bruce climbed in back to show his approval.

Just as Bruce suspected, the man took off down one of the side streets. They wove a complicated path through the city, never quite stopping at the myriad stop signs but not racing through them either. Shortly, the high buildings that marked where the market had been appeared. The driver slowed to a stop. Bruce paid, then stepped out.

Here he was back at the sari-sari store. Three children, all dressed in white shirts and dark pants, sat giggling around a table outside the tiny store. He was too far away to make out the sounds, but he could see that they all drank Pepsi. I’ve still got the eagle eyes, he thought.

As he approached, the store was less exotic in the daytime. It looked like an old county store — the type that would sell anything from individual nails to a piece of fried chicken. The long, low counter stretched completely across the back. And as before, a soprano voice trilled along with a popular song playing over the radio. The girl entered the room.

Bruce blinked and drew in a breath. She was beautiful.

She didn’t have the features, or the relative short height, that were typical of the Filipino. If Bruce had seen her back in the States he would have been mystified as to her background. The long black hair and deep brown eyes combined with her soft, full features to give her an exotic air.…

She lowered her eyes. “May I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. I was here the other night — Friday?” No response. “I got some gum, and well, I guess I ate it all and don’t have any more.…” he finished lamely.

She turned to the shelf behind her and spoke with her back to him. “The same type?”

“Sure.”

She turned and pushed two packs across the counter, brushing back a strand of hair. “Two peso.”

Bruce dug out two bills. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome.” She flicked her eyes up at him, then lowered them, but this time shyly.

Bruce opened the pack and held it out to her. “Care for a piece?”

Silence. Then, “Thank you.”

They chewed in silence for a moment. He tried to make conversation. “Do you get much business, next to the market?”

“Some.”

“Many Americans?”

“No.”

“I guess this is pretty much out of the way for most of them.”

“Yes.”

This is crazy, thought Bruce. The women here either try to drag you into bed or they won’t talk to you. He ran a hand through the back of his hair. She seemed willing to talk, but things just weren’t going anywhere. And he desperately wanted for her to raise her head so he could see her face.

Bruce leaned against the counter. “I arrived in the Philippines last week.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Flew in right over Angeles. It took most of two straight days to get here.”

“How do you like my country?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Oh? How did you find out so quickly?”

“My father lives at Subic — I, ah, visited him today, and drove through the countryside.”

She brightened. “Did you get a chance to stop in any of the barrios?”

Bruce remembered the roadblocks and the men asking for “donations.” “Yeah, but not for long.”

“The barrios can be so beautiful. My father says they used to be better. Where do you come from in America?”

Bruce was surprised to find himself droning on, expounding on the various places he had lived as a Navy brat — Virginia Beach, San Diego — and all the bases he had lived on after entering the Air Force. She seemed fascinated by his knowledge of geography, and never once raised the issue of what he did now.

When customers entered the store, she ignored Bruce until they left, then resumed the conversation quickly.

He tried to peg an age on her and kept coming up with twenty — more mature than a teenager, but without the cynicism of someone older.

Bruce opened another stick of gum. “I’m sorry — I never introduced myself. I’m Bruce Steele.”

“Yolanda Sicat.” She didn’t offer her hand, but half bowed her head. Bruce followed suit.

He rubbed a hand across his face. The thickness of his five-o’clock shadow surprised him. “Say, Yolanda — I really need to get back to the base. I have to attend a survival course during the next two weeks.” He softened his voice. “Is there any way I could interest you in having dinner tonight?”

She smiled. “I am sorry. I must stay and watch the store.” Bruce must have looked crestfallen, for she said quickly, “Maybe after you return, Bruce Steele.”

Bruce smiled wanly. “You won’t forget?”

She laughed. “The gum-buying American? Oh, no.”

He said gently, “Two weeks, Yolanda Sicat — I shall return,” and turned to leave.

The sky drizzled a light rain, never quite breaking to a heavy downpour. The weather was well worth the trouble — certainly it would have been harder to obtain the weapons, ammunition, and that high-power microwave weapon if the day had been clear and dry; in bad weather people tended to think of themselves, and to move away from external irritations.

Today, Cervante hoped that the trouble of getting drenched would yield them yet another prize.

They stood at the edge of a clearing in the jungle. Cervante had directed the men to abandon the jeepneys and truck, hiding the vehicles in the dense foliage a full two miles from the clearing; unnatural sounds travel far in the jungle.

Two and a half hours of travel through the undergrowth had brought the cadre of Huks to the clearing.

Unlike the ambush of the Philippine Constabulary convoy, where the Huks had to get away as fast as they could, Cervante fully meant to stay and use the remote plantation as a base. He had reconnoitered the location in detail, but he still didn’t have a clear picture of the house’s defenses.

The large, airy house sat a quarter mile away in the center of the clearing. They were almost directly behind the house, a hundred and eighty degrees from where the road came out of the jungle. Elevated off the ground by several pillars of thick red bricks, the plantation house had plenty of room for air to circulate underneath. It reminded Cervante of a barn.

Several Nipa huts sat around the house, all showing few signs of use. A children’s playground sat next to the house. Clotheslines crossed the play area, and a large dirt region the size of a soccer field ran out to the jungle. To Cervante it looked like it had once served as a holding area for crops.

Cervante motioned to the man beside him, making a large circle with his hand. The man nodded, then crept off through the jungle to the front of the house. The minutes passed. No one came out of the house, but Cervante saw shadows sweeping by windows and heard random sounds.

The sky grew dark. Cervante began to feel impatient; he knew that it would be a lot easier to take the house during the day. The drizzle kept up, soaking the already waterlogged men.

Cervante caught a glimpse of movement from the other side of the house. The Huks had reached the front. Cervante knew that the rest of the men would be watching his position, waiting for his cue. He didn’t use an animal call to notify them. Instead, he moved to the perimeter of the clearing. Nothing came from the house.

Cervante fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a revolver; he pushed the gun firmly under his belt, crouched, and sprinted toward the nearest storage hut. He crossed the wet grass without effort, carrying his rifle in one hand. Still nothing from the house.

He waved his men to follow. Six Huks ran from the jungle, appearing from nowhere in the late afternoon drizzle. The other two-thirds remained in the jungle, covering their movement and allowing a path for escape in case something went wrong. The tactics had been gleaned from Kawnlo’s teachings, but retailored for the jungle instead of the brown North Korean hills. Cervante caught the smell of hot food wafting from the house.

He crept forward in a crouch and shifted the rifle so that he held it in both hands, the safety off and ready to fire.

A loud snap caused him to twirl. One of the Huks moved off to the left and pointed to a branch on the ground. Cervante angrily motioned for the man to keep it quiet, then sped to the corner of the house, keeping clear of the windows. Moments later his men joined him, breathing quietly through their noses. Cervante quickly checked them over — he made sure their safeties were off, their spare ammunition ready.

He pointed to Barguyo, the youngest of the Huks. Tasked with detonating the explosives during the convoy raid, Barguyo had been part of the New People’s Army since he was fourteen. He had been recruited easily enough, as a youngster in a government-run orphanage, Barguyo had been raised by a wealthy family, the dream of every waif.

But years of sexual abuse by the rich merchant had instilled a deep hatred for those with extravagant material possessions. Cervante had recruited the boy off the streets when the youngster had attempted to go underground, accused of murdering his foster parents. He had turned out to be the most dependable of the recruits, as one motivated by vengeance rather than ideals — which caused Cervante to post Barguyo for the most dangerous assignments, yet keep an eye on the boy in case he should get out of hand.

Back at the University of the Philippines, the economic analogy was high risk, high yield.

Cervante instructed Barguyo to circle the house and storm the opposite end. Barguyo nodded and slipped off with two of his compatriots. Cervante knelt and followed his progress from underneath the house. He saw the boy’s legs move swiftly around the corner. When Barguyo was in position, Cervante nodded for the rest of the men to follow him. He pulled out the revolver and slung the rifle around his front — he didn’t want to be slowed in close quarters. Cervante swung up around the corner and lifted himself onto the porch. He didn’t wait for the others as he moved quietly toward the door.

Two, three steps brought him to the screen — Barguyo mirrored his movements at the opposite end of the sprawling porch. Cervante swept open the door and bolted inside. Nothing. He spotted a piano, wicker chairs, and a rug covering a waxed wooden floor. Cervante peeled off to the left, his men covering the right.

They moved as if they were still in the jungle— stealthily, stepping carefully. Cervante raced through a side bedroom and into the back kitchen. A toddler in a high chair banged on a plate; his older sister shrilled. The children’s mother dropped a pot of water, splashing it over the floor. A scream. The woman knelt to pick up her child while keeping her eyes glued on Cervante.

Someone bellowed outside the room; a single shot silenced the commotion.

Barguyo huffed into the kitchen from the opposite side of the house.

“Only one man.”

The woman shrilled, “No, no, no!”

“Silence!” shouted Cervante. He wanted time to think, tried to remember how much traffic he had observed coming up the long stretch of road into the jungle. At this time of year, plantations were dormant. More people were therefore not to be expected.

The woman gathered her two children around her, sobbing.

What to do with her? he thought. She was young enough to keep the men occupied.

Cervante swung around and took in the men’s faces; already some were smiling in anticipation. It might be wise to have a little entertainment … but one woman in a pack of men would soon start to sow dissension, plant the seeds of distrust and doubt, cause the formation of cliques and eventually turn the men against one another.

They had much more important work to attend to — to set in motion the wheels that would eventually save the Filipino people. He turned. The woman narrowed her eyes at him and drew her young children close.

Too bad that a few had to suffer in the interim.

Cervante drew up his pistol and pumped two bullets into the woman’s head. She sprawled backward from the momentum of the bullets; both children started screaming.

Barguyo put down his rifle and smiled at the children. He looked quizzically up at Cervante. The look was forlorn, detached.

Cervante didn’t hesitate — they had much more important work to attend to.

A bullet each took care of the children.

It seemed crazy to Charlie, waiting in front of a football stadium to go to a movie. The sign over the entrance read bamboo bowl, but the stadium wasn’t made of bamboo nor was it shaped like a bowl — but it was the only stadium on base, so he waited.

Charlie glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The sun was just setting and the clouds were bathed in a soft red glow. It looked like it was raining in the mountains. In the distance the roar of a jet taking off washed over the base. A string of people shuffled into the stadium. Charlie looked out over the crowd and wondered if Nanette would really show.

When they had departed from the pool yesterday afternoon, the “date” had come about because of an impromptu comment. Nanette had remarked that the classic movie 2001: A Space Odyssey was playing tonight at the Bamboo Bowl, leaving it tentatively open that they would meet.

Darkness quickly fell. People were still walking in from the parking lot. Charlie had just begun to think that she wasn’t going to show when he heard his name being called. He turned and saw her. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up; her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Even in the dusk Nanette’s face looked radiant, freshly scrubbed. She huffed up, carrying a blanket and a paper sack with two long pieces of bread sticking from it.

“I couldn’t get free from the Nipa Hut.” At his puzzled look she laughed and tossed her golden hair over her shoulder. “You are new here, aren’t you? That’s the duty-free shop.”

Charlie nodded and took the blanket from her. “No problem. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it.” Over my dead body! he thought. He looked around. “So how does this work?”

“Come on.” She took his arm and led him to the entrance; she just came up to his shoulder.

At the ticket booth Nanette insisted on paying her own way. They walked through the main corridor, passing by locker rooms labeled home and visitor and into a long tunnel. The tunnel opened up into the stadium. They were a third of the way up the stairs, looking out onto a football field. In the center of the field, a metal scaffolding held up a large screen four stories high. Wheels were positioned on either side of the support structure and a long, worn path in the playing field grass showed where the screen was moved when the field was in use.

“Want to sit in the grass?”

“Sure.”

They positioned the blanket away from the other people, mostly couples their age. Nanette rummaged through her paper bag and pulled out the two thin loaves of French bread, an immense hunk of cheese, and two bottles of sparkling water. Charlie’s eyes widened.

“I could have picked something up.…”

Nanette handed him a loaf and tore off a piece of bread. “We had some leftovers. It’s no big deal.”

Charlie opened his bottle of water. He didn’t miss the reference to we—which made Nanette seem even more mysterious.

He chewed off a piece of the bread; it was hard, almost crusty, unlike the large loaves of French bread he was used to eating. “You’re lucky I didn’t have my leftovers — otherwise we’d be eating cold chicken and bean dip.”

She made a face. “Bean dip?”

“Sure. It’s one of the seven basic food groups: bean dip, nachos, brownies, ice cream ….” She was laughing before he’d finished the list. Charlie chewed on the bread for a moment. “So, tell me about yourself.”

Nanette sliced off a hunk of cheese and lounged back on the blanket. She propped a knee up and leaned toward him. “What do you want to know?”

“Who you are, what you do. Why you met me here.”

“That’s not hard. To answer your last question first, I guess you seemed more intelligent than the usual guys I run into. There’s something to be said for not trying to impress a girl with fighter talk and guzzling beer.”

“I’ll let my friends do that — it’s not my style.”

“Obviously.”

He smiled. “I still don’t know who you are.”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Charlie hesitated. “Unless you’re married.”

She sputtered. “No, no, no!”

“Okay, then. Tell me something about yourself. Uh, where you went to school.”

“I’m a senior at Stanford. My major is history, with a minor in music. I’m visiting my parents while on summer break, and I work part time at the Nipa Import Hut. I’m half-French, and I love the outdoors.” She stopped and popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “That’s it for now. Your turn.”

So that explains it, thought Charlie. “Well, I majored in history, too, but Auburn was some time ago. My father was a college professor, so I’ve always hung around that type of crowd. Like I said yesterday, I’m not a pilot — I’m a weapons systems officer in an F-15 Eagle and have been at Clark since Friday.”

“That’s pretty succinct.”

Charlie grinned. “Oui, mademoiselle.”

“So what’s a guy like you staying around in the Air Force for? I thought they had a hard time keeping WSO’s around, especially good ones.”

“They do.” From the way she used the Weapons Systems Officer abbreviation, Charlie knew that someone in her family had to be knowledgeable as to what WSOs do.

“Don’t you want to go to pilot training?”

Charlie was quiet for a moment. “I did once. But when I joined the Air Force they were restricting the number of pilot slots. I was told that if I became a WSO, I’d have a chance to go to pilot training.”

“So what happened?”

“If you’re good, people are reluctant to move you. One day, when I’d finally had enough and tried to force the Air Force’s hand, I was told I was too old to go to pilot training.”

Nanette lifted an eyebrow. “You?”

“Twenty-eight is the limit — and I turn the big three-oh this December. Does it shock you, now that you know I’m an old man?”

“Twenty nine’s not old.”

“Thanks.” He took another bite of bread and a moment passed. He leaned back on an elbow and studied her. “You know, I’ve never caught your whole name.”

She smiled slyly. “Too much information can burn you out — sensory overload.”

“If I want to give you a call?”

“Nanette at the Nipa Hut will do.”

“Then Charlie at the 3rd TFW for me.” The stadium lights went off just as a low rumble was emitted from the speakers — the opening strains to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

As they stood, Charlie could have sworn that Nanette’s lips had drawn tight at the mention of the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing.