Strike Eagle

Chapter 19

They had left the rice paddies far behind and were on the final leg to the plantation. The road was crowned in glorious green, and everywhere Cervante looked it seemed like he was being applauded for the ultimate coup. The rain — on the road, falling in the jungle, splashing up onto the side of the jeepney — all seemed to symbolize a washing away of the old, something never to be seen again. It was glorious. Cervante saw it as a validation of the very things he had so dearly believed in and fought for.

Every so often he had to sneak a look to the back, to see if the figure of Robert E. Adleman, vice president of the United States of America, was still there, still moaning and quivering, still waiting to be used to free the Filipinos.

And from the most powerful nation on earth!

A half a mile behind, the truck trailed Cervante, bringing the high-power microwave weapon and the girl.

At this point, Cervante couldn’t have cared less about either of them. Only about Adleman. And what the vice president could do for Cervante, dead or alive.

Bruce rapped on the door. He couldn’t understand why no one was home on the day Pompano and Yolanda were to sell the store.

“Yolanda?” Bruce walked around back, trying to peek into the tiny windows set high off the ground. Broken glass, cemented into the window sill, lined the windows.

Bruce looked around the back and moved to the back door, trying to remain under the overhang. He pounded on the door before noticing a brownish-red splotch. He knelt and ran a finger across it. Bruce’s heart began to palpitate.

He straightened. “Yolanda!” He fumbled with the doorknob, and it swung open …

A smear of bloody tracks led into the back room. Bruce’s breathing quickened. He entered the store, almost afraid that something was going to jump out at him, or that someone would come in through the back and start yelling, accusing him of—

Three bodies were stacked in the side room. Blood still oozed from wounds on their heads, their shoulders — a fetid smell filled the room. Urine and feces, body waste purged from their colons relaxing.

Bruce yelled: “Yolanda! Are you here? Yolanda?!” He peeked into the front room and he spotted Yolanda’s father tied to a chair.

Bruce didn’t know his name. He untied the man’s gag. “Where’s Yolanda?”

“Arat aka booto!” His face was swollen, bruised. One side of his head oozed blood. Bruce straightened and looked around. The back room. He spotted the tiny bathroom and wet some towels hanging on a towel rack. They were tiny, pink towels with hearts sewn in them — probably Yolanda’s, something she had made for her father. Bruce used the towels to dab the old man’s wound.

“Cervante.…” His eyes widened. “Yolanda?” He coughed. The man made a small motion with his hands near his mouth. “Drink … water.”

Bruce moved one of the wet towels next to the man’s lips. “Here. Don’t take it too fast.” He squeezed water into the old man’s mouth.

The man closed his eyes and asked, “Yolanda. What … what did you do? Where is she?” He opened his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Yolanda.” He sounded firm.

“I don’t know where she is. What happened? Can I get you some help?” Bruce hesitated. “What’s your name?”

The man coughed. “Pompano.” Bruce tried to untie him but Pompano jerked away. “I do not need any help. I must find Yolanda.”

Bruce squatted in front of Pompano. “You’re in no condition to do anything. Especially to find your daughter.” He wet his lips. “Who are those men in the back room?”

“What men?” Pompano coughed. Blood mixed in with the spittle.

“Back there.” Bruce was growing impatient.

“My Yolanda … my little one. If Cervante has taken her, I will hunt him. I will find her!”

Bruce helped Pompano to his feet. The two staggered into the back room. When Pompano saw the three men, he released his hold on Bruce’s shoulder and dropped to a knee. He crossed himself. “Holy Mother Maria.…”

“You know them?”

Pompano simply nodded. His chest started to heave. Bruce held onto the man and moved him away from the bodies. Pompano vomited in a corner.

Bruce wiped spittle from Pompano’s lips. “What’s going on? How is Yolanda wrapped up in this?”

Pompano waved an arm toward a chair propped against the back wall. Bruce helped him to it, easing the old man into the Spartan seat.

Bruce felt his breathing quicken. The world seemed to have gone crazy: dead men in the back room, the old man tied up, and Yolanda taken … where? His temper started ganging up on his fear, causing his glands to rev into high gear.

Bruce started pacing, both nervous and anxious to get to the bottom of it. “Yolanda! Where is she? You know something, but what aren’t you telling?”

Pompano only shook his head.

Bruce moved over to the old man. He drew back a hand, then looked at Pompano. God, help me! thought Bruce. He felt like he was going to pop apart. He grabbed Pompano by the collar. “Where is she?!”

“Cervante. It was him. He must have … succeeded.” Softly, as if he were defeated. “And he took Yolanda.”

“Where is she?!”

“You cannot get there.”

“The hell I can’t!”

Pompano glanced at Bruce, then looked away. “And you will die, along with her.” He paused. “Cervante is clever. He has taken her to the mountains. He has taken … precautions to ensure that no one approaches his place.”

Bruce knelt in front of Pompano. He saw a white-haired man with deep wrinkles and a defeated look in his eyes. “This Cervante. You said he succeeded. In what — taking Yolanda?”

Pompano slowly shook his head. “No. That is only part of it. A very small part of it.” He looked up. “If I am right, then he has your vice president. And if you try to go there, Yolanda and your vice president will die.”

“But you’ve got to help me. Where are they?”

“You do not understand. It does not matter how you try to approach Cervante. He will not reason with you. Cervante has worked hard, for too long, to accomplish this.”

Bruce slammed his hand against the wall.

“Dammit, Pompano. Cervante could not have known about the vice president coming to Clark. I didn’t know until this morning. Don’t tell me that he’s devoted his life to this.”

“It does not matter that this is your vice president, or even my daughter. Cervante has been waiting for an opportunity. Any opportunity. He has trained long and has prepared to grasp at any straw.” Pompano breathed deep. “And I know how fruitless it would be to try and hunt him down, because I have helped the man.”

Bruce turned at this revelation. “You helped?”

“Aih.”

“Then you can help me. You know where he is, how to get to him!”

Pompano merely shook his head.

“You’ve got to!”

“I cannot take the chance. As long as I keep away, Cervante might not harm my little one.”

“Might not? Get real, Pompano! He’s got the vice president of the United States there. Do you think he gives a damn about Yolanda?”

Pompano looked up coolly. “I do not care who else he has, especially if it is an American. My daughter is the only one who matters. I will not risk her life.”

Bruce’s breath quickened. He couldn’t believe the gall of the old man — the stubbornness. It just seemed plain friggin’ crazy that the guy wouldn’t want to jump up and do everything he could to save Yolanda — or the vice president. Bruce couldn’t put himself in the older man’s shoes, show any empathy at all.

With a sudden movement, Bruce reached down and jerked Pompano up out of the chair. He ignored the kicking, even the bite that Pompano tried to take out of his shoulder, and carried the old man out the door and through the rain to General Simone’s black Corvette.

After throwing Pompano in, Bruce held up a finger and growled, “Try to get out and I’ll tie you to the top.” He sloshed to the driver’s side and started the car.

Juan Salazar smoothed his jacket and adjusted his tie. The mirror reflected back a dark blue suit, white shirt, and his red “power” tie. It also showed what appeared to be a freshly scrubbed face. The bags around his eyes had been hidden by makeup, and Visine ensured that his eyes were not bloodshot.

On the outside, Salazar perfectly fit the part, that of a cool, highly competent spokesman for the United States government.

Inside, he was frightened to death that the press would scratch the surface of his coiffured image, and that the ensuing revelations would generate panic.

Two more minutes and he would be stepping before the cameras of the mainstream media, FOX, CNN, BBC, and a myriad of other networks. Another five minutes and he would be done.

Salazar studied the crib sheet in front of him. The announcement would express grave concern about the President’s chances, when in reality all that was keeping the Commander-in-Chief alive was the rhythmic chugging of the life-support system.

A null reading on the Alpha wave scan had showed no brain activity for the past two hours. Technically the President was still alive — as cognizant as a vegetable perhaps, but still alive. Salazar was prepared to explain that no contact could be made with the vice president because he was out on a tour. The plan was to keep the vice president’s crash under wraps until the Speaker of the House could be located.

Summertime on the Appalachian Trail had served too much of a temptation, and the man who was next in line for the Presidency after Adleman had taken off, with little advance warning, on a hike.

An hour and a half! thought Salazar. Who would ever have thought that things would turn around so fast? Even the special arrangements for bringing sophisticated communications gear along with the Speaker on his yearly vacation had not covered this unanticipated, spur-of-the-moment nature walk.

If they could just keep the press at bay until the Speaker was found.…

The road to the plantation was muddy and difficult to negotiate. Cervante left the jeepney twice to get the truck out of swamps. He stood by the side of the road in front of the truck, yelling and motioning with his arm for Barguyo to rock the truck back and forth.

The canopy of foliage over the road protected them from most of the rainfall. Water pooled on the road, adding to the mud and muck that made the going so difficult. They finally broke into the clearing where the plantation was located. Cervante was convinced that no one would be able to sneak up on them. With the sensors he had planted along with the mire on the road, he could hold off an army. Or at least give him enough time to bolt through the jungle.

Four men appeared in the clearing after Cervante drove in, stepping from their hidden positions in the jungle. They wore ponchos and carried their automatic weapons by the barrel. Cervante waved through the windshield at them, then motioned back at the truck that was just coming into view. The men moved to help the truck back up against the house.

Once satisfied that the high-power microwave weapon was in a position to be rapidly deployed, Cervante waved the men back to their posts.

As the vice president and the girl were taken inside, the men whistled at Yolanda. They nudged each other and talked among themselves, hoping that this time Cervante would offer them the girl.

Cervante quelled the jocularity with a stern look. “Whatever happens, leave the girl alone.” Cervante caught a few words about “having her all for himself,” but he ignored the muttering.

He left it unsaid that Yolanda would serve as additional insurance in case they were detected. The Americans had vowed that they would not negotiate with terrorists. Cervante knew that they stood steadfast on this policy. But he also knew about the power of graphic newscasts: They could sway even the most hardened politician. Certainly, the execution of a beautiful young girl on live television, with the promise that the vice president of the United States would be next, would cause even Solomon to capitulate.

Cervante had decided to demand the immediate evacuation of all the U.S. military bases. The treaty would never be signed.

He scowled at the Huks who were herding Yolanda away to the large master bedroom. A few days earlier he had met with Pompano in that bedroom and finalized the plans concerning the high-power microwave weapon.

“Once the girl is locked up, bring the vice president to the kitchen.”

Adleman was still unconscious. Diffuse light filtered into the room; Cervante still insisted on keeping the electric generators silent. The rain and low clouds made the kitchen appear gloomy, but it was still the best-lit place in the house.

Adleman slumped across a table, his head lolling to one side. Spittle ran from his mouth. Cervante studied the man. Next to him was the briefcase that the black marketeers had left. Although it was locked, it looked important.

The vice president wore a light-colored short-sleeve shirt that was torn in the back and splattered with mud. Black, mud-caked shoes and dress pants made up the remainder of his apparel. He seemed to be the same age as Cervante, but Cervante knew that the vice president was fifteen years older. Lying on the wooden table, Adleman looked the absolute antithesis of a respected world leader — helpless and beaten.

Cervante ran his hands over Adleman’s slacks. There was nothing more in his pockets than what Pompano’s friends had given Cervante. He pulled out Adleman’s driver’s license from his wallet. About half of the Huk contingent had gathered around. Barguyo stood quietly next to him.

Cervante said to the boy, “Get me paper, something to write with.”

When Barguyo brought Cervante the requested pen and paper, Cervante sat at the table next to Adleman and composed a letter, addressed to the President of the United States. He started to write a deadline by which the reply should be made, but he leaned back, thoughts racing through his head.

The Americans would drag their feet, no matter what the stakes, unless they had proof that the vice president was about to be executed. Putting pressure on the American government to respond, would increase their chances of success.

One day. They would have twenty-four hours to respond.

Cervante finished the letter, folded the paper, and presented it to Barguyo. “The commanding officer at Clark will take this. You are to deliver it to one of the guards at their gate.”

Barguyo took the message and flipped it over in his hand. He looked skeptical. “This is it? They will give up their bases because of this letter?”

Cervante smiled. The boy continued to amaze Cervante with his insight, his quick grasping of subtlety. Cervante placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No. This letter is meaningless without some proof that we will follow through with our threat.” He handed Adleman’s driver’s license to the boy. “This is to validate that we have their vice president. You will give this to the gate guard with the letter. But there is something else you must give them.”

Cervante motioned with his head to one of the Huks standing by the kitchen sink. “Throw some water on the American.”

They rolled the vice president onto his back and splashed a pot full of cold water into his face. Adleman coughed, sputtered as the water roused him.

Cervante moved close to the vice president’s face, smiling down at the man. “Welcome to the Philippine Islands, Mr. vice president. I am afraid that this treaty you seek is not a very good idea. And there is something I must do to ensure your people know that we are quite serious about it.”

Adleman continued to cough. “Who … are … you?”

Cervante nodded to four of the Huks. “Hold him.”

“Hey!” Adleman moved his head from side to side.

The four Huks pinned Adleman to the table, one man on each of his arms and legs. Cervante rummaged through the kitchen drawer and pulled out a strand of fine wire. Wrapping his hand with two potholders, Cervante wound the wire tightly around his fists. “This will hurt more if you struggle, Mr. vice president. And you have to allow us time to stop the bleeding.”

Cervante barked to Barguyo. “Hold his index finger.”

The boy looked puzzled, but moved around to the vice president’s right arm. He pried open Adleman’s fist.

“Oh, God — no! Wait … wait!”

Cervante tuned out Adleman’s voice; the vice president’s body strained against the four Huks. “Pull the finger.”

Barguyo extended the index finger and pulled as hard as he could. Adleman’s knuckle popped. The finger moved away from the joint, leaving a small depression at the knuckle. Cervante quickly wrapped the wire around the finger.

“As I said, the driver’s license will validate our claim that we have the vice president.” Cervante jerked on the wire, pulling it as hard as he could.

Adleman screamed.… The yelling, sobbing seemed to go on forever.

Cervante picked up Adleman’s bloody finger, white cartilage showing at the cut. Adleman cradled his fist in his arm; he curled up in a fetal position, moaning.

Cervante gave the digit to Barguyo. “And this will ensure that they know we are serious.”

The door to Simone’s office flew open. Major Stephanie Hendhold grimly motioned with her head.

Bruce stood. Pompano remained seated.

“Lieutenant Steele — you’ve got five minutes.”

The young major looked like she had aged years. Her uniform was sharp but her eyes were red, puffy. From conversations overheard between various colonels, Bruce had caught on that Hendhold was coordinating the different search agencies.

Bruce nudged Pompano, “Let’s go.” When Pompano sat mute, Bruce reached down and yanked Pompano up by the elbow. “I said let’s go.”

Hendhold raised an eyebrow at Bruce but remained tight-lipped. Simone’s secretary watched wide-eyed as they strode past.

Simone’s office was plastered in royal blue and seemed to spread out to cover an acre. A podium stood at one end of the room, and a chest-high table was covered with maps, ops plans, and message sheets. General Simone did not look up when they entered, but he called out, “Come on in, Bruce. What’cha got? Juanita said it was important.”

He didn’t offer a chair or even a handshake. Simone held up several photographs and squinted at them, as if he were comparing a series of overhead photography. When they reached the table, Simone seemed to notice Pompano for the first time. He nodded to the older man but spoke to Bruce.

“You’ve found something?”

“General, this is Pompano Sicat. I think he knows where the vice president has been taken.”

Simone narrowed his eyes at Pompano while Bruce filled the general in. When he had finished Bruce said, “I’m not absolutely certain that he does know, General. I can’t get anything out of him, and didn’t know who else to go to.”

Simone folded his arms and looked Pompano up and down. Bruce stood silent and watched the two — in a way, they were very much alike, both physically and in terms of personality. Both were dark and squat, even with Simone standing a good six inches over Pompano. And neither of them put up with crap.

Pompano remained mute.

Simone said, “You helped bring the vice president’s plane down?”

“No. But I set up the high-power microwave weapon.”

Simone’s eyes widened. “An HPM weapon? Where the hell did you get one of those?”

Pompano shrugged. “From the PC, one of your military aid shipments.”

“But HPMs aren’t any good unless you’re less than a thousand yards away from the target. What did you do, get right up to the runway?”

Pompano didn’t speak.

Simone continued to stare at Pompano. He said slowly, “Bruce, you and Stephanie leave Mr. Sicat and me alone for a couple of minutes. I want to have a talk with him.”

“Yes, sir.” Bruce backed away and left the two standing there. Major Hendhold closed the door after they had left the office.

Bruce looked quizzically at Hendhold. “What’s up, ma’am?”

Hendhold shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe the general is going to Indian-wrestle him. Either that or shoot the poor bastard.”

Bruce smiled feebly at Hendhold’s attempt at humor. He thought of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.

Both runways hummed with activity. The clouds still hung a precarious three hundred feet above the ground and the rain continued to fall. Captain Richard Head stayed inside the MH-60 Black Hawk with Bob Gould, and waited for the crew bus.

Down the ramp and around the corner from Base Operations, a fleet of six MC-130H Combat Talon II aircraft from the First Special Operations Squadron started their engines. Four Allison T56-A-15 turbo-props rumbled alive on each of the airplanes; black smoke kicked out behind the MC-130s and swirled up and out of sight into the falling rain.

Specially equipped with sixth-generation terrain-following radar, precision navigation, a Fulton STAR midair recovery unit, and myriad self-protection systems, the black-snouted Combat Talons looked inherently evil to Richard Head. The MC-130s were used to flying into areas best left unmentioned, close to the deck and completely unobserved. They had so many bells and whistles hanging off the airframe that Richard Head suspected they could fly into China, take out most of the electronics in the country, and get the hell out without ever being seen.

The Special Ops boys kept mostly to themselves. Commanded by Colonel Ben Lutler, a quiet, steely-eyed veteran of nearly thirty years, the First Special Operations Squadron told no one what they were doing.

Today, Special Ops was pulling out all the stops. Head knew that they would be combing the jungles, searching for any sign of the vice president.

The MC-130s rumbled past, sending out gusts of wind that swept through the drizzle. Head could feel the Black Hawk helicopter rock as the squat planes roared by.

Head turned to Gould. “Looks like we’re the only ones not up in the air today.”

Gould lounged back in the copilot seat with one foot up on the instrument panel. He picked at his teeth. “Give them an hour and we’ll be back up. They’ll want us to have Zaz hanging out the door, swooping through the trees looking for Adleman.”

A voice came from the rear of the helicopter. “What? You guys bad-mouthin’ me again?”

Gould pointed out the crew bus coming through the drizzle. “It’s eating time. Let’s get something down before they send us out.”

“Rog.” Head turned to the back. “Zaz — one hour. You comin’ with us?”

“Naw, maintenance is bringing out some bang-bang. Bring me back a sandwich, would you?”

“Yeah.”

Head lifted an eyebrow at Gould. “Bang-bang? Somebody thinks we’re going to be shot at.”

“They don’t give us live ammo for nothing, Dick. Kind of makes you feel like ole Barney. You remember, no real bullets for the deputy sheriff of Mayberry?”

“Yeah. And don’t call me Dick.”

Fifteen minutes. Bruce fidgeted, waiting for Major General Simone to come out with Pompano.

He called the hospital and spoke with Nanette — Charlie had stabilized, but they wouldn’t know about his eyes until later. The ophthalmologist was driving down from Bagio and wasn’t due back to Clark for another few hours.

Nanette assured Bruce that there was nothing more he could do. She promised to keep him informed.

A small army of colonels and their assistants waited in the foyer with Bruce.

Major Stephanie Hendhold entered the room and crossed into Simone’s office. The young major carried a handful of sheets, pictures, and maps. The door closed behind her.

Bruce was acutely aware that he was by far the youngest and lowest-ranking officer in the room. And on top of that his flight suit was still dirty, smelly, and smeared with blood. Bruce didn’t exactly look like the quintessential wonder boy, but there was nothing he could do. He decided to ignore the colonels and keep to himself.

A burly security policeman entered the office. His uniform was soaked with water and he looked worried. He carried a manila envelope as though it held something precious. He sought out Simone’s secretary, Juanita.

“I need to speak with General Simone.”

“You and every other person on the base.”

“It’s urgent. It has to do with the vice president.”

Juanita pressed her tips together and picked up the telephone. She dialed a number. “Major Hendhold, someone here needs to talk with you.”

The security policeman grabbed the phone, turned his back to the crowd, and spoke quietly.

“Bruce?”

“Yes, sir?” Bruce stood and became instantly alert.

Simone stood at the door, holding on to the handle. “Come on in.” Bruce walked briskly past the other officers.

Pompano sat in a chair at the far end of the office. Major Hendhold was on the phone, talking quietly with her back turned to them.

Simone looked irritable. “Let me make this quick. I’ve assured Mr. Sicat that no attribution will take place if he helps us locate the vice president. So that leaves us with one final issue to settle. And frankly, I’m not happy with it — Mr. Sicat refuses to budge.”

Bruce set his mouth.

“The upshot is this: Mr. Sicat does not want any harm to come to his daughter. He refuses to allow anyone to help him rescue her. He’s afraid that this Cervante character, or whoever the hell masterminded this act, will kill her at the first sign of a raid. Going in there to rescue his daughter and the vice president is non-negotiable. Am I correct?” Simone looked down at Pompano. The old man nodded stiffly.

Bruce looked puzzled. “I don’t get it, sir. What do I have to do with this?”

Pompano stood. He blinked but otherwise looked impassive; he spoke in halting English. “You are responsible for Cervante kidnapping Yolanda.”

“Hey, wait one damn minute.…”

Simone held up a hand. “Hear him out, Lieutenant.”

Pompano’s nostril’s flared slightly. “Yolanda would not have been kidnapped if you had kept away from her. Cervante has taken her to a well-hidden place. There are too many safeguards; no one can get close to it without being detected. There are … sensors … mines.” Pompano shook his head. “It is too dangerous. If only you had left her alone.…”

Simone persisted. “But if you tell us where it is, we could help you.”

“No.” Pompano stared back at the feisty general. Bruce almost thought that they were going to go at it, toe-to-toe.

Major Hendhold interrupted, her hand over the phone. “General, there’s an urgent message for you.”

Simone waved her away. “Later, Stephanie.”

“General …”

“Dammit, Major. What the—”

“Now, General! Tech Sergeant. Merkowitz is in the foyer. It has to do with the vice president.” Hendhold spoke quickly into the receiver. “Send him in.”

Simone growled to himself and headed for the door. Tech Sergeant Merkowitz entered and snapped a salute. Simone bore into him.

“All right. What ‘cha got?”

“It’s for you, General. Some Filipino kid delivered it to the gate, not ten minutes ago. I thought it was a joke … until I looked in the envelope.”

Simone glanced at a handwritten note taped to the manila envelope. He read through it before he looked up. “Well, your information corroborates with this Cervante character, Mr. Sicat. He claims to have the vice president.” He handed the note back to the security policeman. He opened the envelope.

He stared hard and drew in a breath. “Oh, my God.” He reached in carefully and withdrew a small plastic card.

He turned it over in his hand and read from it. “It’s Adleman all right.” He glanced back inside the envelope and set his mouth. “And they’ve got him.”

Bruce took an uncertain step to Simone. “Sir, you still don’t have proof.”

Simone ignored him and spoke instead to Merkowitz. “Who else knows about this?”

“You’re it, sir. I thought I’d better get over here right away.”

“Good, man. Keep it quiet — tell no one.” He nodded to the door. “And keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, sir. Afternoon, General.” Merkowitz started to bring his hand up in a salute but seemed to think better of it, and instead just backed out of the office.

His head down, Simone walked slowly to the podium.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Sir, I was just pointing out that—”

Simone looked up and stopped Bruce with a bland stare. “Lieutenant, take a look.” He shoved the envelope under Bruce’s nose.

Bruce’s stomach flipped at the site of a severed finger. Blood covered the bottom of the envelope. Thick, brown stains were smeared across the finger.

Simone threw the envelope on the table. The finger rolled out. “There you go, Mr. Sicat. There’s your answer. Do you really think that someone who could do this to the vice president of the United States would hesitate to harm your daughter? And for what reason — because I don’t reply fast enough to his demands?”

Simone shook the handwritten sheet of paper. “What do you think is going to happen when I get this to Washington? That they will trust some damned crazy fool hiding God-knows-where in the jungle to keep the vice president alive? And in exchange, move the entire American military presence out of the Philippines? In one day? Well? What the hell do you think, Mr. Sicat? Come on! Do you really think that this Cervante bastard is going to sit by and let your daughter live?!”

Simone breathed deeply. He now stood a mere six inches from Pompano’s face. The Filipino stood rigidly, unblinking. He seemed to take in all of Simone’s ire.

As Simone continued to stare down at the old man, Pompano’s eyes flickered away from the general. He lowered his gaze. Bruce watched the old man steal a glance at the table, then finally rest his sight on the severed finger.

Simone cocked an eye at Pompano. “Well?”

“The place … it is too well defended. And Cervante has probably deployed the HPM.”

“But you’ve got to let us try!”

Pompano shook his head. His eyes started to fill with tears. “My daughter.…”

“She’s dead if you don’t help us.”

“No,” whispered Pompano. “I … can’t.”

Simone stared at Pompano. “Get him the hell out of here and have him interrogated. It’s time to stop screwing around.”

Bruce nudged Pompano. “Come on.” He felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the old man. He didn’t know why he felt that way but then again, he had never had a child, never been in this situation. He didn’t know what he would do if it were his daughter.

As Bruce was leaving, the phone rang. Hendhold answered it. “General, it’s Pacific Air Command.”

Simone didn’t look up from the maps. He growled, “Take a damn message.”

Hendhold spoke quietly, then looked up. “Sir … President Longmire died at eight-twelve in the morning, Washington time. And until the vice president is found, they can’t officially swear in a new President.” Hendhold hesitated. “They want him found. Now. No more excuses.”

Simone glanced up at Bruce and Pompano. His face was gaunt and drawn tight, so that his ebony features stood out. “Well?”

“Your … President … is dead?” Simone simply nodded. “And if the vice president is rescued … he would become.…”

“Our President, Mr. Sicat. That’s the way we work.”

“If Cervante found this out, he would never give up the vice president.” Pompano wet his lips. He seemed to be thinking something over. He stepped back and glanced at Bruce. “Too many people would be noticed. Cervante would kill both Yolanda and your vice president if he had any warning. Yet …”

Simone approached them. His interest was clearly piqued by Pompano’s suddenly willingness to at least communicate. “What are you thinking?”

“I know where the sensors are located. I can get through the jungle.”

“A small special operations team can accompany you — stay behind you,” Simone interjected. “We’ve got SEALs at Subic who can help.”

“No. Too many people.”

“What the hell do you want?” exploded Simone. “Name it! How many — who? When?”

“One person beside myself.” Pompano turned to Bruce. “You are responsible for Yolanda being there — you will come with me.”

Simone held up a hand. “Wait a minute. He’s a fighter pilot, not a Jungle Joe.”

“Two people can slip through the jungle unseen. I can get us through to the … hiding place. I know how Cervante stakes his guards, and it will be a simple matter to rescue Yolanda and your vice president, then move back out to the jungle.”

“If it’s so damned simple, then why can’t you let some trained people go with you? People who know what the hell they’re doing?!”

Pompano shook his head. “I cannot oversee more than one person. I will not allow my daughter to die because of some American’s enthusiasm when rescuing your vice president. And since Cervante has the HPM weapon, you cannot fly in. I know the area.”

Bruce jumped into the foray. “Pompano is right, General. I’ve been through jungle survival, I can handle it. A chopper can drop us off near the hiding place. A few of the air-to-ground guys can give us air support once we rescue the vice president.”

Simone turned to Bruce, astonished. “What in the hell are you talking about, Lieutenant? This isn’t some party you’re going to! It’s rescuing the President of the United States! What are you going to do, waltz in there and ask them for Mr. Adleman? You’re not a Rambo; you don’t even have combat experience!”

“It’s our only chance, General,” interrupted Bruce. He felt a sense of justification. Here was a chance to cleanse the error he had made in allowing the vice president’s plane to have been taken down in the first place. He had been personally responsible for escorting and protecting the plane … and he had failed. He couldn’t speak fast enough to get all the feelings out: that Yolanda would never have been abducted if it hadn’t been for his persistence in seeing her … in going around Pompano’s back during the last few days of their relationship.…

“All right!” Simone held up a hand. Bruce fell silent, words still stuck in the back of his throat. Simone studied Bruce and Pompano; his shoulders slumped. “All right, all right. Do it.”

Simone shot a glance at his aide. “Get a Black Hawk ready to take Lieutenant Steele and Mr. Sicat in-country. Scramble Bolte’s wing and have them ready to lay down enough metal to sink this island once Bruce gets Mr. Adleman out.” He was silent for a second. “And get Lutler from Special Ops on the line — have one of his MC-130s get the Fulton system ready.”

Simone turned back to Bruce. “All right — twenty minutes. Get Mr. Sicat out to the flight line; swing by Special Ops for combat vests.” He hesitated. “And Bruce.”

“Yes, sir?”

“The second you get back into the jungle with Adleman — get on the radio. We’re getting him the hell out of there, either with a Fulton pickup or a Black Hawk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Major General Simone watched the door slam. His eyes were focused on the ornate wooden door, carved out of monkey wood from the jungles outside of Mactan, at the tiny Air Force station in the southern Islands; but Simone saw nothing. Nothing but the lives of four people hanging on a thin thread of hope.

“General?”

Hendhold was standing by the phone. Hell, that was all the major had been doing the past few hours. Standing by the phone and relaying bad news.

“What is it?”

“Admiral Gresham’s office at Subic. They’re pretty upset at being left out of the Search and Rescue planning.”

“Stall them. Tell ’em we’re trying to pull the Navy planners in on this as soon as we can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Simone’s thoughts drifted back to Bruce and Pompano. His mind shifted into high gear. As soon as the Black Hawk let the two down into the jungle, he’d have another reconnaissance run made of the area. The vice president wouldn’t be far away.

Once Simone had the hiding place pinpointed, he knew he could mount his own rescue mission, a real mission, with troops who were trained for this type of stuff — SEALs, PJs — and and not just an old man and a fighter pilot. They’d be able to watch the place from a distance, keep an eye on Bruce’s progress — even take out the HPM weapon, if it had been deployed. For if something did happen, Simone swore that he would be right on top of it.

“General? Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Subic isn’t buying it. Even though Admiral Greshan is out with the Fleet, he’s demanding an answer. And sir, he is a four-star.”

Simone pulled in a breath. “I’ll take it.” Time for Hendhold to get some rest — Simone knew that he couldn’t dodge all the crap coming his way.