Strike Eagle

Chapter 3

Bruce watched the floor show for as long as he could stomach it. Without Ashley to go back to, he should have been enjoying it, if for no other reason than because of his freedom.

His gum grew stale; tired of popping it, he slipped it into an empty beer bottle that littered the table top.

Set in a smoky, low-ceilinged bar, the show oozed sleaze. Tables were pushed up around an elevated runway. On the bed in the middle of the stage a naked Filipino woman gyrated her hips to music. Bruce couldn’t tell how old she was — it was difficult, since the Filipinos looked so much younger than he.

Technorock, driven by a throbbing bass and incessant drum, blared throughout the bar. The songs were old, from a different era than the one in which Bruce had grown up — not hard rock, but something more commercial, like the soundtrack to a cheap porno movie. It added to Bruce’s discomfort. He pushed his chair back. There must have been twenty beer bottles on the table in front of him.

“Hey, where you going, Assassin?”

“Fresh air.”

“You don’t look too good. Too much to drink?”

Bruce paused. “Yeah.”

Catman turned back to watch the act; he spoke loud enough so everyone could hear him. “Don’t wimp out on us.”

Right, thought Bruce. Talk about a wimp.

He remembered when Catman had finally soloed in the F-15—or rather he remembered the party afterward. They had stumbled into a bar during happy hour, and within a short time they were all drunk as skunks. Catman made a pass at the waitress, only to get sick and toss his cookies all over the table. He then promptly passed out and slumped head-first into his vomit. Thrown out of the bar, the boys had had to push Catman around in a shopping cart until they found their car.

ACC solo. Catman’s first solo flight in an Air Combat Command fighter … a bonding experience known to only a few. Bruce’s thoughts drifted to his own first solo, high above the desert, outside of Luke AFB in Arizona.…

“Heads up, Assassin.”

“Rog.” Bruce craned his neck around the cockpit. At eighteen thousand feet, the view was breathtaking: cloudless blue sky above him, rugged red-brown terrain below. He felt one with the ancient F-15A fighter. He rocked the wings. The craft responded instantly.

What the hell? he thought. He slammed the stick to the right, and the fighter instantly rolled around. He saw brown-blue brown-blue as he spun. He jerked the stick to the neutral position and immediately flew level. “Holy shit.”

“Say again, Assassin.” His instructor pilot’s voice from back at the training squadron on the ground came over his headphones.

“Ah, getting good response,” paraphrased Bruce. “This bird is pretty agile.” He had forgotten that his mike was “hot,” the transmitter left on an open channel during this first solo.

“Copy that,” came back his instructor, dryly. “You’ve got ten minutes before heading back. Go ahead and wring it out.”

“Roger that.” Bruce squinted out of the cockpit. Luke lay off the horizon to his left; directly below were mountains; on the other side, a long fissure wound its way through the Arizona desert. “Request permission to descend through two thousand.”

“Affirmative — but watch those mountains. We won’t be able to paint you on the scope.”

“Rog,” said Bruce. That’s the whole idea.

He pushed the stick forward and to the right. The F-15 broke out of its level flight and began to descend. Bruce flicked his eyes from the altimeter to the airspeed indicator to his radar.

The fissure lay before him. The walls seemed far enough apart to safely bring the craft. He spotted the rugged cliffs that opened up like a yawning mouth. A thin ribbon of water lay at the bottom of the fissure. It must have taken hundreds of thousands of years for the river to create the fissure.

“Five minutes, Assassin. Time to head back.”

“Rog.” But not before I take a look-see. Bruce shoved the stick forward; the craft screamed to the ground. The numbers on the altimeter dropped like a rock.

Bruce’s whole attention was outside the aircraft. The F-15 descended into the fissure. Rocky cliff walls rose up on either side. As on the desert floor, the fissure showed no sign of vegetation, only red-brown earth of a gravel-like texture. The sharp edges of slanted geological zones, painting the walls in weird striped patterns, zoomed by. The walls were treeless. He inched the craft even lower.

The cliff walls closed to within a hundred feet of the wing tips. He lost radio contact in the canyon. As he flew closer to the water, he slowed the craft by pulling back on the throttles. The F-15E bounced slightly from the thermals.

Bruce drew in a breath — the feeling was unfathomable: boulders as big as a house dashed by, a ripple of water lay below … it was almost a psychic experience, like that old scene in Star Wars.

A fuzzy dot ahead, just over the water, caught his attention. As he grew closer, he could make out two dots — two red balloons that hovered in the middle of the fissure. His eyes widened.

Yanking back on the stick, Bruce hit full afterburners. The F-15E jerked up and stood on its tail, accelerating upward while still moving forward. “Come on,” muttered Bruce. Sweat formed at his brow and ran into eyes. The craft seemed to claw upward as the acceleration pushed him back into his seat. He forced his head to the right and tried to find the balloons.

As the F-15E shot up from the fissure he spotted them below him. A thick strand of wire ran across the canyon, holding the balloons in place. The balloons warned low-flying planes that power lines crossed the fissure. If he had not pulled up when he did, his F-15E might have hit the wire and smashed into the rocky walls; a smoking pyre in testimony to his low-flying antics.…

“… can you read? I say again, Assassin. Can you read?”

Bruce tried to keep his voice steady as he kicked off the afterburners and nosed the F-15E back to Luke. “Rog. I … I was pulling out of a roll. I’ve got a vector back home.”

“Copy that.”

Minutes later, after the F-15E Eagle had rolled to a stop, Bruce climbed out of the cockpit. Buckets of cold water doused him, chilling the sweat that still covered his body. He held up a hand to his classmates, who were enthusiastically participating in the ritual: after a first solo, the pilot was drenched in water. Catman threw the last bucket on him. “Congrats, Assassin. With your reputation as a hot dog, we all thought you’d try something spectacular.”

Bruce only flashed a wan smile.…

The others kept watching the act. The woman lifted her hips high, arching her back and giving the audience an unobstructed view. From behind a set of curtains a man sauntered on stage to the music, also unclothed, carrying an assortment of items.

“Holy crap, look at the size of that!”

Bruce left the table.

“Make sure Foggy goes with you, Assassin,” called out Skipper. “You don’t want to be caught out in this area alone.”

Bruce wove his way around tables, mostly packed with young Americans. A few tables held Filipino men quietly smoking their cigarettes, but the place obviously catered to foreigners such as himself. When he reached the lobby the air was clear of smoke; more importantly, the lack of music now enabled him to think.

Charlie sat at the end of a long red bench, opposite the door, reading his book. Two bouncers chatted quietly just outside, ignoring what was going on. Charlie looked up; he folded the top right-hand corner of the page to mark his place.

“You guys through?”

“I am.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just ready to go.” Bruce pushed his way out the door. The heat and humidity hit him as he left the air-conditioned building. At least there was no smoke, but the heavy, humid air made up for it. It was just getting dark, with a little less than a half hour until night. The street outside the Fire Empire was still crazy with traffic, honking horns, and the cacophony of unfamiliar words. Charlie followed him outside. His paperback book bulged in his rear pocket.

A jeepney spotted the two and pulled a U-turn. The driver motioned with his head to climb in. “Back to base?”

Bruce remembered Skipper’s lesson. “How much?”

“Four peso.”

Charlie started to climb in the vehicle. “How much to take the long way?”

“Long way?” The driver looked puzzled.

Charlie swept his arm in a circle. “Yeah, the long way home — show us some of the city.”

“Ah, yes. A tour.” The driver nodded. “For you, forty peso each. I show you Angeles.”

Charlie snorted. “Ten peso.”

The driver shook his head. “Thirty, special for you.”

“Twenty-five.” Charlie wasn’t about to lose a centavo.

The man thought for a moment, then brightened. “Okay, twenty-five peso. Hop in, Joe.”

Charlie climbed in and waved Bruce on board. They roared off. The Filipino driver turned in his seat to half face the two Americans. He kept a lazy hand on the wheel while darting in between cars. “You see something and want to stop, tell me loudly.”

“Right, right.” Charlie waved for the man to turn around.

Bruce watched the exchange without emotion. A short time ago he had been looking forward to a new locale, a new beginning, but now, in-country only six hours, he already felt like going home. The noise, heat, humidity, and strange smells all overloaded his senses. There was nothing in the Islands to anchor to, nothing familiar. And what he had just seen in the bar was beyond erotic — it bordered on the clinical.

They passed one place that seemed to provide a reminder of home — the sign was of a fried chicken fast-food place. But then Bruce saw carcasses hanging from the ceiling — the bodies of skinned dogs — with a sign “Dog-On-A-Log” displayed in English.

He felt a tap on his arm.

“Okay Bruce, what’s eating you? You haven’t talked since we landed.” Charlie paused, then added, “What did Colonel Bolte tell you?”

“Uh?” Bruce shook his head and switched gears. He had almost forgotten about what Colonel Bolte had said, the crack about his reputation preceding him. “That? Nothing.”

“Yeah. Think I believe it? Come on — he must have jabbed you pretty well.”

“That’s a rog.” Compared with everything else going on, Colonel Bolte’s remarks did seem ludicrous. “You know, when Bolte was going on about my reputation, I was sure he was alluding to the Risner Trophy we’d won.”

“You won. That was for being the best stick, not a team effort.”

Bruce shrugged Charlie’s observation off. “We did it; it wasn’t just me. Anyway, that’s not the point.” He looked away. Ashley, thought Bruce. That’s the real reason I’m down, isn’t it? But Charlie would never understand.…They expect you to bounce right back, act as if divorce were no big deal.

Charlie let the matter be.

Bruce tapped a finger on the railing that ran the length of the jeepney. Cloth decorated in psychedelic patterns covered the jeepney’s top. Little cloth balls hung from the sides, running along the entire top. Large linked chains made up the steering wheel; in place of the rearview mirror there sat a black velvet painting of Jesus, which looked back at the passenger compartment and down on the driver.

The traffic thinned. The houses and stores were still packed together, but the crowds and noise had abated. Charlie finally spoke, as if he had been thinking.

“When will you try to see your father?”

“Dad?” It was Bruce’s turn to be quiet. He nodded slowly. “He knows I’m here — or at least that I’ll be coming soon. My mom spoke with him last week, and he’s expecting me. I guess I’ll wait until I’m settled a little more before I give him a call.”

“He lives in Subic?”

“Olongapo.” Bruce looked around the dingy streets as they sped through the city. “It’s right outside Subic.”

“We all have some adjusting to do, Bruce. This has been a big change. Skipper’s family won’t be able to get over here for at least six months; Catman left a fiancée behind.”

Bruce snorted.

“Okay,” said Charlie, backing off. “So Catman has three or four fiancées. But look at it this way — you’re a new man now: single, on flight pay, no kids, no alimony, and you’ve got your health. What more could you ask for?”

“Right.” The “no alimony” pierced him. Divorced … He thought it would never happen to him — but no use dwelling on it. Charlie was right, they all had adjustments to make.

Bruce leaned to the front of the jeepney; he tried to speak over the onrushing air so that the driver could hear him. “Excuse me.”

“Aih?” Again the driver turned, smiling back at Bruce.

“Are there any stores that sell gum?”

“Cigarettes? You want Blue Seal?”

“No, gum. You know chewing gum?” Bruce pantomimed putting a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing.

“Aih, gum! Yes, yes, the market! One minute.”

The man turned back to the front and gunned the jeepney. He pulled off the main street and slid between long rows of buildings. As they slowed, they passed what appeared to be an open market. It was a cross between an outdoor and indoor shopping center: merchants spilled out into the street hawking animals, complete meals, fabrics, stereo equipment, books, plants, furniture, fresh vegetables, mounds of rice three feet tall, chickens — anything imaginable. The selling extended far into a tin-covered, single-story building. Buildings in the neighborhood resembled warehouses more than offices.

The driver stopped in front of the market. An incoherent jabber of foreign language surrounded the jeepney. The driver nodded happily. “Here, you find gum.”

Bruce turned to Charlie. “What do you think?”

“Whatever.”

Now Bruce concentrated on the time. “Skipper cautioned us to stay together, and it’s getting late. What do you say we skip it this time and head back to the Club — for dinner.”

“That’s a rog, Assassin.”

Bruce waved the driver on. “Thanks, but we’ll pass.”

“No market?” The driver looked disappointed.

“It will take too long. We’ll try another time.”

The driver suddenly brightened. “Okay. Maybe I help you.”

The jeepney shot off down the street, and had not had much time to accelerate before it screeched to a halt. It stopped before a low-slung building.

“Here. Sari-sari store. Run in fast. Ziggy now.” The driver tried to shoo Bruce into the tiny building.

“Uh?” Bruce looked bewildered. “What’s going on?”

“He wants you to go in there,” said Charlie.

“Master of the obvious. Maybe it’s their equivalent of a 7-11.” Bruce hopped out of the jeepney and started for the store. “Stay with this guy. I don’t want to have to walk back.”

“If we can even find our way back,” muttered Charlie.

Six tiny tables were pushed to the side of the store, making it look like an Asian version of a Paris cafe. The screen door had a tiny bell attached to it. Inside, a long counter ran the entire length of one wall. Music came from an open door to the back; someone was singing “Obla-dee, obla-da” along with the Beatles.

The singing stopped as a girl walked into the room from the back. All Bruce could see was dark hair that extended halfway to the floor. When she swung her hair around and looked up, Bruce was floored, unable to talk. She was the most beautiful woman he’d seen in his life.

The girl lowered her eyes. She spoke in halting English. “May I … help you?”

Bruce stuttered, trying to talk coherently. “Uh, yeah. Do you have any gum?”

“Gun?” The girl looked up, puzzled.

“No, gum. You know, chewing gum? Chew, chew.” Bruce pantomimed putting a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing. He felt suddenly foolish at his Pidgin English.

She still avoided his eyes. “Gum. Yes we have.” The girl turned and stretched, reaching to the top shelf, and brought down several packs of Wrigley’s gum, some of them open. She held them out to Bruce. “How many sticks?”

The girl finally looked at him, and he felt lost in her deep brown eyes. Her skin was flawless; she looked so innocent he couldn’t tell her age. It took Bruce a moment to figure out what she was asking.

“How many sticks? Oh, you mean I can buy just a stick of gum, rather than a pack?”

“Yes.” The girl seemed amused now.

“Well, then … here.” Bruce dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of pesos. He shoved the money to the girl. “I’ll take all the gum. Is this enough money?” The foreign currency seemed more like play money — Monopoly bills — than hard cash.

The girl carefully counted out the money and held out the remainder to Bruce. As she counted, her long black hair fell over her shoulder, giving it the appearance of a waterfall. She pushed eleven packs of gum across the counter to him, then swung her hair back over her shoulder and lowered her eyes.

Bruce backed out of the tiny store. The screen door swung shut, cutting off his view of the young woman. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but Charlie’s voice seemed to pierce through a fog that enveloped him.

“Hey, Bruce! Would you get back in here? The O’Club is going to close.”

Bruce turned and headed for the jeepney. Reaching out to grab the railing, he realized that he still tightly held the packs of gum. He shoved them into a pocket.

Charlie eyed his frontseater as the jeepney started off. “Get enough gum?”

“Umm? Yeah … sure.” Bruce turned back to watch the traffic. He kept to himself the rest of the trip.

The Commander of the Thirteenth Air Force reported directly to the Commander of the Pacific Air Forces, which was headquartered at Hickam AFB, Hawaii. Pacific Air Forces were responsible for the security of an area nearly four times the breadth of the United States — twelve thousand miles — a region that spanned seventeen time zones including the Philippine Islands. And with the reopening of Clark, fueled by national strategy change of “pivot to the East,” Thirteenth Air Force was reactivated, and its operational units were augmented by squadrons rotated in from Seymour Johnson, Elmendorf, Eglin and Langley.

As such, Major General Peter Simone, Commander of the Thirteenth Air Force, was literally on his own. With the exception of a three-star general at Yokota AFB, Japan, and another one at Osan AFB, Korea, Simone was the highest-ranking officer for a thousand miles.

Discounting fleet operations at the newly reopened Subic Naval Base, just fifty miles down the road.

But that was Navy, and therefore didn’t matter.

Simone had short, wirelike hair, dark ebony features, a solid build, and he always had a gleam in his eye and something up his sleeve. As long as you told him the truth and kept him informed, he would support you to the hilt. And that was the secret of his success. His hell-raising instinct was tempered by his charisma. The other generals regarded Simone as their alter ego, the person whom they’d like to be — let down their hair and go crazy. He was the stereotypical, old-school fighter pilot, and he played it for all he could.

Major General Simone reveled in his autonomy. He ran the base with an iron fist and didn’t put up with anyone’s crap. There was a base commander on Clark, a colonel who served more as a housekeeper than anything else, but he didn’t slow Simone’s stride. Everyone knew who ran the base, who was the most important person on Clark, and everyone knew that if it weren’t for his fighters — his boys and girls out there who strapped themselves into screaming tons of metal — Clark would not have a purpose.

It was a perfect match. Simone’s last assignment had been as Commandant of Cadets at the Air Force Academy. He had served the shortest time of any Commandant in history — five months — when the usual tour was two years; the impression he had made on the cadets had gotten him booted upstairs to where he couldn’t influence such naive, pliable minds.

It wasn’t an isolated incident that had led to his “promotion.” It was a combination of events. One time, he had gotten rip-roaring drunk with the senior class and puked at their graduation Dining-In — a formal dinner that was celebrated Air Force-wide; another time he had flown his F-35 over the Academy the day he was supposed to report in — and somehow the afterburners had kicked in and he’d passed Mach 1, sending a sonic boom thundering across the aluminum-and-glass campus, knocking out half the windows. Rather than blame Simone, they had taken the F-35 apart three times before finding a faulty wire to blame for the incident.

But the final straw was the food fight he had started in Mitchell Hall, the cadet mess hall. The scene had made the papers, and Simone was reassigned to Clark the very next week, with the addition of another star.

He’d like to think he’d gotten booted upstairs because of his competence and not because of his race, but he didn’t dare question General Newman’s decision on that one.

So Major General Peter Simone was having his last hurrah, and Clark vibrated with his presence, his aura.

When a visiting general came, the base straightened up and performed like clockwork. After the general left, the partying went on as before.

He kept an eye on his boys and girls, just to make sure they didn’t take things too far. His concept of “too far” was activated when they had to fly — there were no compromises in the air. But if the kids wanted to raise a little hell, drink a little beer, and didn’t hurt anyone — well, Simone knew that it would be best in the long run. A happy crew would follow him to hell and back.

In his headquarters’ office, Simone rocked back and studied the memo given him by his aide, Major Stephanie Hendhold, who waited outside the door.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes, sir?” Hendhold appeared at the door.

“Has anybody else seen this?”

“Not that I know of, General. Colonel Bolte delivered it to me himself.”

Simone nodded. “What about the flight line? Did anyone else report this, or see what the hell happened?”

“Nothing, sir. In fact, Colonel Bolte would not have seen it himself if he hadn’t been waiting for the flight. He wanted to greet every new pilot that ferried in on the planes. He was out on the flight line, watching the ’15s do an overhead when he spotted Maddog Four.” Hendhold shrugged. “Some people on the ground may have spotted it, but there was no way for them to know that it wasn’t an approved pattern.”

“Approved pattern! Flying a ‘break-in’ upside down?” Simone snorted, then slowly broke into a smile. He squinted at the memo. His eyes had been slowly getting worse for the past few years, but pride prevented him from getting glasses. Especially the black model prescribed by Air Force doctors—“B.C.” glasses, his cadets had called them, for “birth control” glasses: a girl wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of you with them on. A true fighter pilot, Simone classed wire-rimmed flight glasses in the same category.

Major General Simone made out the pilot’s name. “Bruce Steele. Bring his record … and his backseater’s, too, Charles Fargassa. I want to know something about these clowns before I meet them.”

“Very well, sir.”

As Major Hendhold turned to leave, Simone called out, “And knock off after you get them, Stephanie. It’s too late for a young major to be hanging around here.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Simone rocked back in his chair when his aide had left. Inverted overhead, he thought. These young guys must have brass for balls. He hadn’t seen this much esprit since the Gulf.

He wasn’t going to intervene at this time—“Lightning” Bolte had done the right thing by disciplining the kid on the spot, and not drawing it out. But it was refreshing to know that there was some untamed spunk out there. As long as it was nurtured, hope remained.

Major Hendhold laid the personnel folders on her boss’s desk.

Simone scanned the document. “Steele … So he’s a zoomie, call sign ‘Assassin.’” He looked up. “Do you know this guy?”

Hendhold narrowed her eyes. The young Major was also a zoomie — an Air Force Academy graduate — and usually had the scuttle on other grads in the area. “Yes, sir. Football player, and one of the better defensive backs the Academy’s ever seen. He has a reputation for being a killer — he put more than one receiver into the hospital — but he’s a hot dog too. Some say Air Force lost that big Notre Dame game three years ago because Steele was trying to beat the all-time interception record.”

“Would you have him as your wing man?”

Hendhold didn’t hesitate. “Give me five minutes with him and I’ll let you know, sir.”

“Okay, thanks, Steph.” He dismissed her with a wave. “Get lost, and have fun.”

“Good night, General.”

Simone glanced through the record: Risner Trophy, Top Stick out of Willie, recommend upgrade to Stan Eval — the prestigious Standardization and Evaluation crew, the cream of the crop. He nodded to himself.

As a general officer, Simone was forbidden from flying the F-15E by himself — he needed an instructor pilot to accompany him. So far he’d flown the pants off the instructor pilots who went up with him. But now there just might be someone who could handle him.

He thought he was going to like this Bruce Steele.

Cervante waited for Kawnlo to speak. The student did not interrupt the teacher, as a journeyman does not hurry a master.

They had met twice since Cervante’s initial training — each time in a crowded airport to avoid drawing attention.

They sat in a small coffee shop, just outside of security. With his small stature, sparse hair, and black glasses, Kawnlo looked far from formidable. He looked to be in his late sixties and seemed quite frail, not at all a dangerous freedom fighter. His fingernails were stylishly long — stylish for a Korean — extending out and curling up and over, at least ten centimeters if they could be stretched unbroken. He carefully smoked a filterless cigarette, allowing the smoke to corkscrew up into his nostrils as he inhaled.

The airport was jammed with people, all chattering away; dogs barked in the background — it seemed as if an outdoor market had been rolled up and stuffed into the building. Cervante glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until check-in for his flight back to Manila. He had only been with Kawnlo for half an hour, and once Cervante had related the details of the latest Huk raid the older man had simply grown quiet, as if he were deep in thought.

Cervante ground out his own cigarette as Kawnlo finally spoke.

“This high-power microwave weapon is very interesting.” Kawnlo spoke low so that Cervante had to strain to hear him.

Cervante leaned forward and said, “But from the manuals I do not see much use for it. Clearing mine fields, disrupting communications — the only reason I can think the Americans gave the device to the Philippine Constabulary was that its uses are limited. The Americans are even stingy to their own allies,” he said bitterly. “At least the extra supplies will enable us to equip more men. The resistance in the countryside will grow.”

Kawnlo drew in a lungful of smoke. “Sometimes the obvious answer is the hardest to see.” He stared straight at Cervante.

Cervante glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. The next flight to Manila was not until tomorrow. He began to grow irritated. “Teacher, you speak the truth, but I do not have the time for games. Is there something I must take back to my people? Are you not pleased with the way I am running the resistance movement?”

“I am very pleased. You have excelled as a student, and you are ahead of your goals in helping the New People’s Army establish a foothold throughout the countryside.” He nodded. “Yes, you have made considerable progress and have fared well after your training. But the obvious point is what you should do next. There is a time to reconsider your goals, the purpose in what you set out to do. And if the goals change, then you must grasp the moment — seize the day.” He smiled slightly, as if bemused.

Cervante shivered, thinking of the cold training camp Kawnlo had headed up. “So I must reconsider my goals? Freeing the Filipino people from their shackles to the rich, the government — am I not succeeding?”

“But now you have the chance to leap ahead. The ammunition and supplies you captured: Instead of enlisting more people, more children to randomly attack your constabulary, why not use what assets you have? Now you are like angry bees attacking a lumbering elephant. This high-power microwave weapon can make you a tiger.

“Use the supplies to fortify yourself, and use the microwave device to directly attack the Satan that fuels your hatred.”

“The Americans…?”

Kawnlo stood. “I am sure that you can think of the appropriate measures to take. Doing so will elevate the stakes, and you must determine if it is worth it.” He smiled. “A teacher can only point the way — it is the student who must climb the mountain.”

Cervante followed him out of the coffee shop. They were immediately swept along with the crowd. Just before reaching security, they stopped.

“Six months from this day. Singapore.”

Cervante nodded as Kawnlo turned away. Cervante trailed behind him, pushing toward security.

As Cervante followed Kawnlo through the metal-detector, he ignored the bank of video cameras that scanned the crowd.