Strike Eagle

Chapter 14

Major General Simone paced up and down his richly decorated office, scowling. For the first time since he had stopped smoking some ten years before, he literally ached for a cigarette. He didn’t crave any booze — which was a good thing, for he would have stopped drinking years ago if he had. But he would have killed for a good hit of nicotine.

He shouldn’t have gotten upset. He’d met politicians before, wined and dined them, but that had been when he was Commandant of Cadets, never when he was in an operational unit. Why can’t they just leave me the hell alone? he thought.

The Thirteenth Air Force had an established routine for dealing with political VIPs — usually congressmen, whose wives and staffers accompanied the politicians on their “fact-finding junkets.” More often than not the trips turned out to be nothing more than Air Force-funded spending sprees, underwritten by the taxpayers.

Simone had a staff whose job it was to accompany the groups, showing them where the best buys were and the places to avoid. Simone usually made a star appearance at the beginning and again at the end of each trip, profusely thanking the delegation for showing up — but making damned sure that his operation was not affected by the junket.

But this trip by the vice president, of all the useless people! The place would be crawling with Secret Service, FBI, DIA, OSI, and probably XYZ agents. Flying would stop, then be staged to provide a “demonstration” for the Veep. He’d have lunch with the troops in their cafeteria, tour the base — meaning the whole base would come to a standstill as everyone picked up trash and painted old buildings. The nightmare would go on and on.

He stopped in the center of the room and bit his lip. Okay, he thought, pissing time is over. Time to get down to business. Much as he hated swallowing frogs, his philosophy was that if he had to swallow, then swallow the biggest frog first.

He walked over to the intercom on his desk and slapped at it.

“Stephanie, get a hold of First Lieutenant Bruce Steele. Tell him”—he paused, then slowly grinned to himself—“tell him he and his backseater are to fly escort for a VIP coming into Clark tomorrow morning.”

As Pompano settled back in his chair, he spotted a red four-door car approach from the market. Pompano narrowed his eyes. Rich Filipinos did not make a habit of coming to the market themselves.

He spotted the American license plates.

A cold chill came over him, and a sudden vision of people taking him away, accusing him of stealing their HPM weapon, swept through his mind. But then it hit him that they would be coming in some sort of government car, a dark blue color so as not to draw attention.

The front door opened and a white man stepped out.…

Yolanda got out of the other side. Pompano’s breath quickened; his face grew warm. Yolanda? What have they done with her?!

Yolanda looked surprised when she saw him. “Father!” Pompano remained silent. “You read my note?”

“Aih.”

She smiled, as if she had dismissed his obvious anger, and instead turned to the American. As tall as Yolanda was, the man still towered a good six inches over her. Yolanda said proudly, “Father, I would like you to meet Bruce Steele.”

Pompano stiffly waved a hand. He glared at the young man and ignored his daughter. He spoke in Tagalog. “He is not welcome on my property. He will leave.”

Yolanda looked puzzled. “Father?”

“Did you not hear me?” He still avoided looking at Yolanda and bore his eyes into the man. The American shifted his weight from one foot to another. He looked puzzled.

“Yolanda, I had probably better leave.…”

“Father?!”

Pompano made a cutting motion with his hand and still spoke in Tagalog. “He is not welcome. Leave this store now, or I will call the PC.”

“But father, I must explain. This is the—”

“Yolanda, I’d better go.” The young man nodded slightly to Pompano’s daughter and turned to leave. “Please don’t take it out on your daughter, sir. It is entirely my fault. I can assure you—”

“Out!!” Pompano commanded in English.

The American shrugged and left, the screen door slamming behind him.

“Father!”

Pompano turned for the back room. “Shut the door, Yolanda; we will talk.”

“Yes, Father.”

Yolanda joined him moments later in the back. Pompano waited for her, sitting quietly in a chair. He waited until she sat. “Yolanda …”

“Father, Bruce Steele is a gentleman. You caused me to lose face, and you shamed him—”

“Quiet!” His daughter stopped talking and dropped her head. She folded her hands.

Pompano drew in a breath, trying to calm his pulse. It was the first time in a long time that he had had a run in with an American. He ignored the ones he passed on the streets. The few who entered his store were politely refused service. But now, one … accosting his daughter!

Pompano strained to stop the shaking. “Yolanda, you must stay away from the Americans. I have told you many times.”

She looked up, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “But why? What is so bad about going somewhere with a gentleman?”

“I told you.”

Yolanda stopped and dropped her head again.

Pompano started to continue, but stopped. He let out a breath, suddenly tired. “Yolanda … my little girl.”

“I am not little anymore, Father.”

“Yolanda, you must listen very carefully to me. There is a good reason why I do not want you near the Americans. We are proud to be Filipinos, and there are many things out of our control. We must stay together. The Americans will treat you as their little brown sister if you give in to their wishes.”

“Bruce is not like that, Father!”

Pompano raised his voice slightly. “They are all like that. You must understand. These are lonely men, away from their homeland. And young, lonely men turn to the only thing that consoles them — women. It does not matter what these women look like, who they are. It is only the fact that the women give them company.…And when they bring these women back to their country, then they quickly see that the Filipino women are not like their own.”

“But this is different! Bruce Steele and I have never spoken of going to America. This is not the same!”

“It always is, little one.” Pompano squeezed the back of Yolanda’s neck, then moved to his chair and sat heavily. “You still do not understand, do you?” Yolanda looked up at him and shook her tear-streaked face. “And I cannot explain it to you any clearer?” Again, she shook her head.

Pompano sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I did not know when to tell you this, but this seems to be the time.” He smiled to himself, then grew serious. He knew he would not be able to keep it from her forever.

“This liberty battalion, the group of Filipinos I associate with to build memorials for our war heroes? The Aquino memorial?”

“Yes?”

Pompano leaned forward and took his daughter’s hand. He looked down at the floor and spoke forcefully. “The Liberty Battalion does not exist. I have been involved with a faction of the Huks, the New People’s Army.” Pompano looked up, and Yolanda’s eyes were wide. “To strike back at the Americans. Nothing more — I do not believe in what most of the Huks want, I do not think that they will be able to change our government. It is my only way to get back at the Americans, to make them pay in some way for what they have done.”

“But, Father … why?”

Pompano hesitated. “You must understand, little one. I do not condone the killing; I do not participate in any of the Huk raids. I only provide my services, my talent, when it means that the Americans will be affected.” He breathed deep. If there was any way to spare her feelings … but I cannot, he thought.

Yolanda looked at him intently. “How can you say that? If this is true, do you not accept some of the responsibility for the killing? What would make you strike out at the Americans this way?”

Pompano stroked her hand; his voice grew quiet. “I loved your mother very much, Yolanda. She was everything to me.”

Yolanda brushed back her hair. “You have told me that, Father.”

Pompano closed his eyes. “But what I have not told you is that nineteen years ago, before you were born, your mother was raped, brutalized by a gang of Americans. She never regained consciousness, and you were born nine months later.” He opened his eyes. Yolanda’s mouth was agape, her eyes wide.

Pompano nodded. “Yes, you are my daughter, little one, but only because I was married to your mother. I do not know who your father is — he was sent back to the United States, taken away before our judicial system could ever indict him.”

Yolanda put a hand to her mouth and stood. She knocked her chair over, but Pompano let it lie. She started sobbing, then turned for her small room.

Pompano struggled to his feet and he called after her, “The Huks were the only way I could strike back at them! I love you so much, Yolanda.…You are my only reason for living.” He hobbled over to her room. A red curtain separated her tiny cubicle from the rest of the back room. Pompano leaned up against the wall and spoke softly to his daughter, over the crying.

“Now you understand why I demand that you stay away from the Americans. To do otherwise would be to spit on your mother’s grave, no matter if you believe what I say will happen to you or not.” Pompano suddenly felt tired. His joints ached and he felt like giving up.

He placed a hand on the door frame and called out quietly. “Yolanda … Yolanda?” The sobbing sounds grew quiet. Pompano tightened his grip on the frame. “I … I was planning to sell this store and go to Manila when you went to school. Quezon City is not far, and you could have a place to come when things get too hectic for you. My work with the Huks here is finished.

“Instead of waiting until your school starts this fall, I will sell the store now. Move to Manila … this month.” He ran a hand up and down the wood frame. Pompano glanced around the little room, the place where he had raised his daughter for the past eighteen years. He remembered the laughter, the tears that this room had seen — her little friends visiting. Yolanda, finishing her homework in the small chair in the corner.…It would be hard to leave, for the memories it held could never be replaced.

But he knew those same memories would now hold nightmares for his daughter, and she would wake up in the middle of the night realizing that she didn’t have any blood family alive. Yet this was the only way it could be.

Pompano called out quietly, “What do you think, little one — would that make you happy? We could leave for Manila as soon as I sell the store.”

It took a long time for her to answer, but when she did her voice sounded somewhat surly. “Do not call me ‘little one’ anymore.”

Bruce slammed the door to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Catman and Robin had been waiting outside for him, but Bruce didn’t feel like talking. He stomped into the room, went to the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer.

A knock came at the door. “Assassin.”

“Get lost!” Bruce popped the top on the beer and took a swig.

“Assassin, come on, open up.” The rapping continued.

Bruce ignored the men and slouched down on a chair in the small room. He pulled at the beer, drinking until he had finished half of it. He fumed, pissed at the world in general.

It had been bad enough for his dad to act like a jerk, but then to get thrown out of the sari-sari store by that old Filipino. What the hell was going on?

That morning he had been on top of the world, his future looking so bright that he almost felt like wearing shades.

And now — crap.

A sound in the kitchen caused him to whirl. Catman peeked out from the door. “Hey, Assassin.”

“How the hell did you get in?!”

Charlie’s voice came from the kitchen, out of sight. “It’s my kitchen, too, Bruce.”

Bruce glared and turned away. He pulled on his beer.

Catman called out, “Assassin, I just came over to tell you that our house is ready. We can move in next Monday. Charlie has lined up a housemaid, and she’s coming over tomorrow morning so we can interview her.”

“Party time, bros! This is one excellent arrangement!” Robin’s voice interrupted Catman. He took one quick look in the room, saw the expression on Bruce’s face, said, “Uh-oh,” and backed up, out of sight.

Catman waited a moment before continuing. “So what’s happening?” The phone started to ring.

“Nothing.” Bruce shot back.

Charlie pulled the two officers back into his section of the BOQ complex. Bruce heard quiet whispering, then a “No shit!” Silence, then, “Hey, Assassin, uh, we’re sorry, man. We’ll check back with you later.”

The phone kept ringing, but Bruce ignored it. Catman and Robin left.

Charlie called out, “Gonna answer that?” When Bruce didn’t reply, Charlie slipped into Bruce’s room and picked up the phone.

“Hello? No, ma’am — but I’ll put him on.” Charlie held the phone up. “It’s Major Hendhold.”

“What else could happen now — ship me out to Greenland?” Bruce took a last swig of beer and grabbed at the phone. Charlie backed out of the room. “Lieutenant Steele.”

“Bruce, Major Hendhold. General Simone has a flight for you and your backseater tomorrow morning — you’re to escort a VIP into Clark.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wouldn’t you know it, Bruce thought. Probably the worst day in my life, and I can’t even get tanked to blow off steam. And so it goes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to clear up some of the rumors floating around, so if you will refrain from asking questions, I’ll read the official press release.”

Juan Salazar, the White House press secretary, set his mouth and surveyed the crowd of reporters. It was four-fifteen in the morning, but he had a good turnout. Most of the press were red-eyed, still sleepy from being pulled from their beds forty-five minutes ago, but they were all attentive.

Ten years ago Juan could never have imagined himself in front of the national press corps. His gas station in East L.A. had never brought in much money, but Juan had involved himself in local politics ever since graduating from the College of the Canyons, a community college up north. Getting involved in the fight for water rights, then in national issues, Juan soon found himself leading the election efforts of the Hispanic community for President Longmire.

News of good work travels fast. Once Longmire had been elected into office, and the deciding factor was revealed to have been the Hispanic swing vote, Juan was offered the highly visible job of press secretary for the new administration.

Juan took the job seriously and never withheld information. If something broke, Juan took it upon himself to accurately broadcast the information to the press. It was his job to be the intermediary, and he let his supervisors worry about what news they would give him.

So when Juan Salazar had sleepily answered the call from Secretary of State Acht an hour ago, he arranged the press briefing within fifteen minutes of the call.

“At two-nineteen yesterday morning, President Longmire was admitted into Bethesda Naval Hospital for a type of surgery known as a thoracotomy. The president has been suffering from acute adenocarcinoma, lung cancer, and has been undergoing chemotherapy for the past six months. The public will be informed as soon as a prognosis is made.”

Juan looked up. “I have time for just a few questions. Patti?” He pointed to an older woman dressed in a bright red dress.

“Juan, is the vice president planning to cut short his trip to the Far East?”

Juan shook his head. “The final negotiations with the Philippine government will continue. The treaty should be signed on Saturday, and Vice President Adleman is scheduled to deliver it to the Senate Monday morning.”

“A follow-up, Juan …”

“Go ahead.”

The woman shifted her weight, as if she found it difficult to stand. “Thank you. What are the contingency plans, in the event that something should happen to the President? If the worst should happen, will Mr. Adleman be called back in spite of the treaty’s delicate nature?”

Juan cleared his throat. He had always been one to say a glass was half-full instead of half-empty. “Vice President Adleman is aware of the President’s condition, and is also aware of his constitutional obligations. That is all I can say for now.” Juan set his mouth and looked around the room for the next question. “George?”

A young man dressed in a smart suit stood and read from a notebook. “If the President was admitted to Bethesda yesterday, why wasn’t the press notified? Is this an attempt at a cover-up, and who has been running the government during President Longmire’s incapacitation?”

Juan rolled his eyes. Mother Maria, he prayed to himself, please help me get through this without punching anyone out!