Strike Eagle

Chapter 9

Bruce popped a piece of gum into his mouth. The sergeant standing in front of him reminded him of his vision of Air Force Academy upperclassmen on his first day: large, intimidating, and illiterate.

Sixteen men and women sat in a two-layered semicircle around the sergeant. The eight officers of Maddog Flight were in the back and eight enlisted troops were in the front. The briefing room was small, and curtains muffled any sounds. Other than the chairs they sat on, an exit sign above the door on the front right was the only fixture in the room.

Dressed in a white T-shirt, “BDUs”—camouflaged Battle Dress Uniforms — spit-shined boots and a baseball cap, the sergeant strode up and down in front of the group. White hair stuck out from beneath the cap, a deep tan covered his arms, and there was no sign of fat on his belly.

He didn’t look happy.

“All right, listen up. I’m Chief Master Sergeant Grune. This is my survival school. I’ve been running it for the past fifteen years and we haven’t lost anybody yet. So if you ladies and gentlemen out there”—he nodded to the officers sitting in the back row—“will kindly pay attention along with the enlisted men, we’ll get down to business.”

“This course is designed to familiarize you with the fine art of surviving in the jungle.” He paused. “Has anyone here not attended Fairchild or the Academy?” The references were to the Air Force survival school at Fairchild AFB, Washington, and the Air Force Academy’s school. No raised hands.

“Good. Every once in a while those bozos in personnel send me some young virgin who’s never been out in the woods. Since all of you are experts in eating bugs and surviving in the cold, let me tell you that the coldest it gets in the jungle is seventy-five degrees — if you’re lucky. You’re going to forget what you’ve learned and relearn new techniques. If you pay attention and demonstrate proficiency at your skills, the process will be easy. If you don’t,” he grinned wickedly, “We’ll give you some extra instruction.

“I will now introduce you to the backbone of our course and our head instructor. You will do what this man says.” He added softly, “And General Simone has assured me that our officers will comply also.”

Chief Master Sergeant Grune whirled and motioned to the exit. A body pushed through the curtains. Bruce envisioned some sort of Filipino Paul Bunyan, a real woodsman — leathery, large features, and not one to put up with any nonsense.

Out stepped a barefoot black man, not five feet tall.

He carried a long stick with feathers on one end that was almost as tall as he was. In his other hand he carried a cloth bag, which apparently contained a live creature. The front of his chest was decorated with some sort of white markings — soot? — and he appeared to have tiny stitches running up his side. It looked as though sequins had been laced into his body.

Thick, black, wooly hair stood out from his head. His eyes looked sad, and he stood quietly. The room seemed to be in shock.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Abuj Qyantrolo. He is a member of the Negrito tribe, and an expert in jungle survival. For the next two weeks you will do as he says.” Chief Grune looked thoughtful. “If there are any questions, I will be available during your break — sometime after your lunch, which Abuj is holding in his bag. Good day.” Grune strode from the room.

Catman leaned over and whispered, “I bet we’re going to wish we had bugs and grubs to eat.”

The Negrito blinked at the men. The room was dead quiet. Bruce could hear Charlie breathing next to him. Finally Abuj spoke.

“How do you do? Today, we learn the most important lesson in jungle: always drink water.” He paused. “Second most important lesson is always eat.” He rummaged in his bag. “First I show you, then you try.”

“Arrgg.” Robin screwed up his face. “I hate snakes.”

Bruce reached over and patted the bags of sugar he had sewed into his flight suit lining. It was going to be a long week.

Pompano stepped back and observed the television and the two radios set up outside the plantation house. An electrical wire ran from the equipment to the back of the house where the diesel generators were located. The Huks stood around the high-power microwave weapon in a semicircle. Cervante had insisted on testing the device, even before burying the bodies.

Pompano called to Barguyo: “Start the diesel engine.” He told the others to step back. The Huks shuffled behind the HPM device, slinging their rifles over their shoulders. A loud noise and a puff of smoke came from behind the house when Barguyo started the generator. Music warbled from the radios.

When all men had cleared the area, Pompano turned to Cervante and called, “I am ready.”

Cervante nodded.

Pompano and Barguyo joined the men, away from the house. Pompano boosted himself into the operator’s seat and waved Barguyo up to join him, so that the young man could learn how to operate the weapon. He could barely hear the music coming from the radio. The three-meter-diameter dish was pointed directly at the electrical equipment, a hundred meters away.

Pompano switched on the HPM’s generator. He watched the dials as the weapon’s capacitors charged full of energy. After a half minute he turned to Barguyo. “It is very simple. After starting the generator, make sure the antenna is aimed at the target. Then push this button.”

Barguyo flipped open the cover and jabbed at the button. Pop! Pompano jerked his head up and squinted at the plantation house. Smoke curled up from the TV and radios.

Pompano glanced at Cervante. The Huk leader nodded quietly to himself.

The sixteen men and women gathered around the small Negrito. Dressed in only a loincloth, Abuj looked like he was the only comfortable person in the jungle.

The thick foliage formed a canopy around them. If Bruce hadn’t known that they were just outside the fence of Clark, he would have thought they were a thousand miles from civilization. He couldn’t see more than ten feet through the surrounding jungle.

The ground was covered with a bouncy mat of mulch. To their right a path led from the clearing. The open area was at least twenty yards across, and from the worn spots on the ground it looked as though the place had been used many times before.

A small calf bellowed at them, its tether short enough that it could not reach any of the plants to munch on. Abuj stood by the calf, which came up to his shoulder. It reminded Bruce of the “Little Britches,” rodeo when the kids would try to bulldog a calf.

Abuj spoke quietly, and the others listened intently.

“In jungle, you eat anything. It simple choice: You die or something else die. I already show you how to eat bugs and snakes. Now, you learn big.”

He grasped the calf’s chin and held it up high, so that the throat was exposed. “Like your enemy, you must strike fast, hard. You do this for the animal, as yourself.”

He nodded at Catman, who was standing just behind Bruce. “Here. You hold.”

Catman wiped his hands on his flight suit and moved forward. The half circle of men and women widened to allow him to pass. The Negrito held the calf’s neck up. Catman moved in behind the man and took the calf’s chin in his hand. The animal tried to get away, and Catman had to struggle to keep it still. His face grew as red as the shock of hair on top of his head. A drool of saliva dribbled down his hand.

Abuj removed a machete from his belt. The blade looked coarse, not like the shiny, mass-produced instrument Bruce had seen displayed in stores. Abuj ran the edge along his finger. He spoke to the men.

“You must respect the animal. To kill it and not respect it is very, very bad.” He shivered slightly. “The animal will thank you for making its death come quickly. It will help you, nourish you.” He turned and looked upon the men. They had all participated in similar training either at Fairchild AFB or at the Air Force Academy during their survival course, but it had always been in groups of up to a hundred, and sometimes as many as four hundred. This was much more personal, something they couldn’t watch from afar.

Abuj nodded to Charlie. He held out the blade. “I feel … you can know the animal.”

Charlie barely hesitated. He avoided looking at anyone and stepped up to take the blade. He turned it over and ran his finger lightly along the edge. He flipped the machete back over, satisfied he had found the sharpest edge.

The calf snorted; Catman tightened his grip. “Come on, Foggy — I don’t have all day.”

Charlie stepped up to the opposite side of the calf and brought the blade near.

“Quick,” whispered Abuj.

Charlie set his mouth. In a sudden swipe he sliced the calf s throat and brought the machete up high, nearly severing the head.

The calf bucked, straining against the tether, and Catman yelped, “Crap!” The calf ceased moving.

Catman and Charlie laid the animal down. Blood spurted from the wound, covering the ground in a bright red liquid. Abuj moved close. He placed his ear on the calf’s body, listened for a moment, then moved over to the spot where the blood still flowed. He put his mouth to the wound and drank.

Bruce watched, his eyes open wide. Abuj stood and spoke, blood dripping in a tiny rivulet from his mouth. “What was once the animal is now yours. Nourishment is full of vitamin, protein. Drink … but respect.” He turned and walked to the side. He sat cross-legged and watched the men.

No one spoke. Bruce breathed through his nose, unsure of what was happening.

A sudden movement.

Charlie knelt by the dead calf and placed a hand where the blood came from the animal. The flow had slowed to a fast ooze. He scooped up a handful of blood, brought it to his lips … and drank.

Once finished, he sat beside the Negrito. Panther stepped up and drank next, then took her spot sitting next to Charlie. Revlon followed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Catman snickered and moved back to where Bruce stood. He spoke in a stage whisper. “Hey, man — this is too weird. Reminds me of The Night of the Living Dead. Next thing you know we’ll be going after Skipper, cutting him open and drinking his blood.”

Skipper turned and glared.

One of the enlisted men knelt beside the calf and then sat next to Revlon. One by one the men and women lined up; the officers in Maddog slowly joined them until Robin, Catman, and Bruce stood by themselves.

Catman chattered nervously. “What the hell is going on? What do they think this is, some sort of initiation rite?” He started to sound angry.

Robin nudged him. “Come on.”

Bruce looked over at Charlie. His backseater stared straight ahead, ignoring his inquisitive look. Bruce muttered, “I’m going to drink it just to snap those guys out of it.” He strode to the calf and knelt. Bruce put his hand down. The blood still came, but Bruce needed to push against the carcass to cause enough to fill his cupped hand.

He brought the blood quickly to his mouth and pulled some in. It tasted salty and warm, thick. He quickly swallowed before he gagged. Bruce joined the others.

Catman argued with Robin at the opposite end of the clearing. They were the only two who had not partaken in the “ceremony.” And the argument was one-sided — Robin was halfway to the calf while Catman admonished him to return.

“Come on! For crying out loud, what the hell do you think this is — voodoo land? Some superstitious, munchkin mumbling, a bunch of mumbo jumbo. If I ever have to drink it to survive, then I’ll do it. You’re crazy if you think that cow is going to help you. I can see it now — terror of darkness, the Cow From Hell! No matter where you are, it’s going to hunt you down and hose you with its deadly milk.”

Robin knelt and drank.

Catman had backed up to the edge of the clearing. He waved a hand at his backseater. “Well, what the hell. Do you feel better now? Are you going to save us because you are now one with the cow? Give me a break, give me a friggin’ break.”

Robin stood slowly and made his way to where the men sat. His face was expressionless.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. The experience had not been a revelation, but more one of bonding with the men in the course. His mouth still tasted bitter, and certainly no religious experience had occurred. He was sure that the other men felt the same way. Yet there was something about Robin’s face as he approached … When he was ten feet from the men, he suddenly stopped.

Catman called from across the clearing; he sounded alarmed. “Hey, what’s going on? Robin, are you all right?”

Robin lifted a hand.

“Robin?!”

Robin’s fingers slowly spread out into a modified v — and then it hit Bruce that it was the Vulcan greeting sign, from the Star Trek series.

“Live long and prosper,” said Robin in a low, deadpan voice.

Bruce sputtered, then lost control. The men and women rolled on the ground, laughing.

“What the hell is going on?” Catman ran for the crowd.

As he wiped a tear from his eye, Bruce realized that Catman would never understand.

“How ya doin’, Son?” Major General Peter Simone slapped the squadron duty desk as he walked by.

It took Major Brad Dubois three seconds to realize that the two-star Commander of Thirteenth Air Force had just walked into the squadron area.

“Squadron, atten’ hut!”

“Down, sit down, Son.” Simone gazed around the room.

Major Dubois wavered slightly as he stood. “Uh, how do you do, sir. I mean General, sir.”

“Down, dammit. I said sit down, Son.” Simone waved the bald-headed man down. The general glanced at the desk: the major had a paperback book open, but other than that the long desk was absolutely uncluttered. Simone frowned. He had always believed that an empty desk denoted an empty mind. Either the man had too little to do or he was kissing things off.

Simone’s aide walked briskly into the room. “There you are, sir. I thought I lost you.”

Simone pointed at the whiteboard behind Dubois’s head. “Okay, where’s our firecracker, Stephanie? When’s the next time he’s going to rocket?”

Major Stephanie Hendhold squinted up at the board. Dubois started to open his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it and clamped it shut instead. Hendhold read slowly.

“Maddog Four, sir. The next sortie is scheduled for a week from tomorrow.”

“That long? Has Bolte got them out house-hunting or something?”

“Survival School, sir. Wing policy changed to have the men go through it the first week they’re on station — it acclimates them faster, and prepares them if they have to punch out when they first arrive.”

“I don’t know if I agree with that, but it’s Bolte’s Wing, not mine.” Simone placed an elbow on Major Dubois’s desk. “Can you arrange my flight, Son?”

“Sir?”

“What the hell do you think I came down here for, a party? Any problem with that?”

“No problem, sir!” Dubois didn’t have the faintest clue what he was to do.

“Good.” Simone slapped the desk. “I’m about to go stir-crazy cooped up at that desk. If I don’t get a flight in soon I’m going to pop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see Lieutenant Steele next week, then. Glad to meet you, Major. Catch you on the rebound.”

Cervante watched through a screen window as a last shovelful of dirt was thrown on the grave. Pompano had insisted that the graves be a full six feet deep and as far away from the house as possible.

Pompano was turning out to be very useful. Although he had not participated in the raid, the old man had not stepped away from lugging his share of the weapons and ammunition into the plantation. Besides directing the grave-digging, Pompano was proving to be very efficient in setting up a schedule for the work.

At first Cervante had been taken back by the older man’s efficiency, the attention to detail with which Pompano ran the encampment, but it was precisely that deed that brought Cervante to a sudden realization: The military maneuvers were completely distinct from the homemaking. Cervante was unequaled in the guerrilla warfare, yet he knew nothing of setting up schedules and the practical matter that it took to run a house — Pompano could draw on his many years of practical experience running a store.

So Cervante had appointed the old man to take charge of the basing aspects, which left him even more time to prepare the other raids.

Cervante inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. The men, having finished their work on the graves, walked back to the house, laughing and wiping their hands on their pants. The days were much cooler in the mountains. And although it rained more up here than down in the central valley, the humidity was more bearable.

He turned to a set of plans that Pompano had drawn up. Demonstrating his efficiency once again, the old man had taken a yardstick to every room in the plantation and put the measurements down on paper. The house measured over seven thousand square feet. The items Pompano had found in the bedrooms and throughout the house indicated that the people they had just buried were long-term inhabitants.

Pompano had uncovered a Christmas potpourri, along with some family heirlooms: old baby furniture and photo albums. The find had satisfied Cervante — he did not have to worry about the owners coming and taking the Huks by surprise. Whoever the people had been, they had intended to be here permanently.

The dirt road leading to the plantation wound over ten miles off the main highway from Tarlac. The road narrowed to one lane for most of the journey. Thick jungle started to encroach onto the compressed dirt, and a canopy of foliage covered the middle section.

Cervante discovered that the plantation had once been a small staging area for the harvest of the sugar cane crop that stretched up through the Tarlac region. Unlike the sprawling company-owned abodes that dotted the island of Luzon, this house had been privately owned and, it appeared, recently sold to the young couple.

Scores of young couples had moved out from the cities, out to the simpler lifestyle of the country. These people may well have been one of those. It was just unfortunate that they had chosen this particular spot, which had been too centrally located to pass up. But it would have been too easy for them to go to the authorities if they had been allowed to live.

The main matter was that Cervante’s Huk cell now had a permanent staging area, a base from which to operate. No longer would they have to ferry their weapons from one safe house to another. This base could very well become the dominant spot on this part of the island. With this revelation, Cervante decided to take advantage of Pompano’s common-sense approach. He met the men and singled out Pompano.

“I want to ensure that the road to the house is well protected.”

Pompano allowed the men to move on before answering. His clothes smelled of damp dirt.

“What do you mean well protected?”

“I want to be able to stop an ambush — or if that is not practical, to give us enough warning that we will have time to escape.”

Pompano leaned against his shovel. “So, you already have doubts about your assault-proof hiding place?”

Cervante narrowed his eyes.

“I do not have doubts — I am being practical. Even with a house full of supplies and no reason to leave, we will still have to send men out to get us food. If there is only one way into the plantation, then for a high enough fee, one of our freedom fighters might decide to sell out to the highest bidder.”

“You do not trust your own men?” Pompano seemed to be mocking him.

“No one can afford to trust anyone completely.” Cervante stared hard.

Pompano spoke softly. “There has to come a time when even you must depend on someone, my friend.”

“Until we bring about the new order, there can never be a time.” Cervante suddenly laughed. He reached down to his sock and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Pompano and the two lit up. “I am starting to sound like the PC — a threat behind every bush, so they must lock up all the people.”

Pompano was silent for a long while. “Do you want the men to know about all the warning devices?”

Cervante looked up, struck by Pompano’s observation. “No. The men should be aware of some of them, whether explosives or some sort of sensor we can obtain. But no one is to know all of them …”

Pompano blew smoke at Cervante. “You do not trust me? Even though I do not complain about the lack of Blue Seal cigarettes?”

Cervante smiled. “Especially because of that.”

For half a mile the road out of the plantation was wide enough for two vehicles to pass, then it narrowed and turned sharply to the right. An army of flowers covered the path, blooming at the start of the rainy season. A parabolic mirror was nestled high above the ground, so a car coming from either direction could see around the corner.

Cervante motioned for Pompano to stop the truck. He hopped down and inspected the curve. “This will be a good place for a trip wire. Whoever is coming down the road will be more concerned with the upcoming curve and will not notice the wire.”

“The men will remember?”

Cervante pondered the question. He could not babysit the men all of the time, otherwise he would do nothing but ferry them from the plantation to the highway.

“They should all know.” Cervante nodded. “It is imperative that we obtain sensors. The location of the sensors will remain hidden”—he glanced up at Pompano—“and that will be my insurance policy.”

“With enough money I’m sure I can find sensors in the black market in Angeles. I go back, get what I can, and return.”

Cervante remembered the cases of Blue Seal cigarettes in the old man’s sari-sari store, stolen from Clark Air Base. “Do you think you can get what I want?”

Pompano shrugged. “I do not see why not. For a price, anything can be obtained at the base.”

“Good. Then we will use the American sensors to warn us, and we will use their microwaves to drive them away.” Cervante nodded to himself. He knew that once the Americans had left, the New People’s Army would have no real obstacle in spreading their presence. For it was mainly the American anti-Communist paranoia that had kept the fires fueled against the Huks in the first place.

For the first time in a long time, Cervante felt good.

“We have a lead on Kawnlo’s John Doe.”

Roger Epstein lifted his brows. If it was true, it would be the best news he had heard in over a month. It would even make the heat bearable.

Sabine Aquinette pushed a folder across the Agency station chief’s desk. Epstein caught it and withdrew a photograph.

The picture was digitally reconstructed, shaded in false colors to highlight the man’s features. Behind the photo was the one taken last week of Kawnlo and the “John Doe.”

Epstein rocked back in his chair and held the two up. The Kawnlo picture was coarse, tiny blocks of digitized elements standing out and giving the unknown man a blocklike appearance.

But comparing the pictures, there was no doubt in Roger Epstein’s mind that the two men were one man. He tossed the picture on the desk and wiped his forehead of perspiration.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Manila. Sunday night.”

“Philippines? And hanging around with Kawnlo? That doesn’t make sense.” Sabine merely shrugged at the observation. “Any idea who he is?”

“No. That’s what took so long for the ID. We asked Langley to run a comparison of the original picture on all international ports. Without a name or an alias to go by, every international passenger was tagged once we got their picture. Three lookalikes popped out of the computer scan, and I was able to throw two of those out.”

“What about his destination? Did he stay in Manila?”

“I don’t know. If he didn’t, then he bypassed the cameras, which is unlikely. So unless he left the country by boat, he’s probably still there.”

Epstein drummed his fingers on the table. “You’ve checked the passenger manifests.” The question came as a statement.

“We have seventeen flights to choose from, over a twenty-four-hour period — about four thousand names. None of them have any terrorist connections, but—”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Epstein finished for her. He picked up the lone picture. The man had a serious, no-joking look. There were few details other than the facial features: pockmarked skin, the hint of a half-grown mustache.

Sabine spoke quietly. “Well, what do you think? Was it a random meeting with Kawnlo, or is there something to this guy?”

“Nothing Kawnlo does is random. Whoever this John Doe is he’s working in Manila, or somewhere in the Philippines.” He thought quickly; he didn’t like to pass the buck, but until this character surfaced in South Korea, someone else might have a better chance at him.

“Contact the Manila office and send them what we’ve got. Have them ship this guy’s picture to the military bases there — Clark, Subic, and whatever else there is — no telling what he’s up to. But if he’s connected to Kawnlo, then it’s got to be sour.”