Strike Eagle (16 page)

Chapter 13

Thursday, 21 June

Clark AB

Bruce waited in the car as Charlie got out to get Nanette. Brilliant red-and-yellow flowers dotted the side of the yard, meticulously kept by the yard boy. Lush trees masked the house from direct sunlight. The house was one of thirty on “Senior Officers’ Row,” the private loop that housed all of Clark’s senior ranking officers. A sign by the door read: col bolte.

Bruce slouched in his seat and pulled his sunglasses down on his face. He scanned the house, but no one appeared. He knew it was crazy to try and hide— Colonel Bolte was most likely at Wing Headquarters—but the initial chewing out that Bruce had gotten the day they first arrived at Clark still stuck in his mind.

Charlie disappeared inside, and moments later came out with a slender blond. Her white shorts accented tanned legs. Bruce watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying not to appear interested.

He felt happy for his backseater. The poor guy had been searching for years for the right woman, never finding anyone with the right combination of looks and brains to satisfy him. He hoped this worked out for Charlie.

Bruce made a mental note to be on his best behavior. And with Yolanda coming along, that should not prove to be difficult.

Bruce twisted around as they got into the backseat. “Hi. I’m Bruce Steele.”

“Nanette,” she said, firmly returning his shake.

Bruce started the engine. “Charlie tells me we’ve already met.” He watched her through the rearview mirror.

She threw a glance at Charlie and smiled. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“I don’t; that’s why Charlie had to tell me.”

“A catcall across a swimming pool doesn’t qualify as a formal introduction, so I guess we really haven’t met.”

Bruce dug out a pack of gum. He held it up to the backseat. “Gum?”

“No thanks.”

He popped a piece in his mouth and concentrated on getting to the main gate. Traffic on base was not bad.

It had been a while since he had actually driven. His car had not yet arrived on the boat from the States—a corvette, his “cadet car,” that he had had at the USAF Academy. The rental car he was driving didn’t have nearly the pickup that he was used to. But it beat the heck out of waiting for taxis and riding the bus, especially for a double date.

As they approached the main gate, Bruce pulled over to the side. Parking the car, he said, “Be back in a moment.” He entered the base’s Visitors’ Center and applied for a visitor’s pass, using his identification card as credentials. After the airman pushed the pass to him, Bruce strode back to the car.

“What was that all about?” asked Charlie.

Bruce held up the visitor’s pass as he pulled back into traffic. “I don’t want Yolanda to have to go jumping through hoops if things work out and she wants to get on base.”

Once outside the main gate, he steeled himself for automotive culture shock. Jeepneys screeched precariously near, and pedestrians darted in and out of traffic. He kept one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. Blended with the traffic came a cacophony of noise and smells: honking horns, people yelling curses, odors of urine and stale beer, and the sound of music blaring from the bars outside the base. He rolled up his window.

“I’m going to air conditioning.”

Charlie and Nanette rolled up their windows, and all of a sudden they seemed to be in a different world.

Bruce directed his voice to the back without turning around. “I hate air conditioners. It’s like giving into the environment.”

“It kills Bruce even to go to oxygen when we’re flying,” said Charlie.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” retorted Bruce. “After all those cold winters in Colorado, I can’t get enough of warm weather. And resorting to air conditioning seems to be the wimp’s way out.”

Nanette thought for a moment. “Man against Nature, the most basic conflict and the lowest rung in Maslow’s hierarchy. Applying that to Bruce’s reluctance for air conditioning sounds like a good thesis topic, Charlie.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. Looking through the rear-view mirror, he couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. Maybe Charlie
had
found his match.

Bruce concentrated on finding the downtown open-air market and tuned Nanette and Charlie out. As far as he could tell, they were still discussing micro-evolution in action when he turned onto Yolanda’s street. He drove slowly past the market, avoiding the people that spilled out into the street. With the air conditioner on, it was if he were viewing the scene from inside a room, with pictures of the Filipino culture racing across the windows, projected in from some hidden movie camera.

He pulled up next to the sari-sari store and stopped. “Be right back.” He left the engine running, air conditioner on. Stepping from the car, the heat hit him full blast.
That’s another reason for using the air conditioner,
he thought.

Chairs sat upside down on the tables, as if the store were closed. When Bruce tried the screen door, it was locked. He peered through the wire mesh. Nothing. “Yolanda? It’s Bruce.” Still nothing. Bruce tried the door again.

Rattling the door, he heard the sound of water running from inside. “Yolanda?”

“Bruce—wait, please.”

He relaxed and let go of the door.

Yolanda backed out of the sari-sari store and drew shut the inner door behind her, locking it. The screen slammed against the door frame.

“Hello.” She turned, wearing a colorful blouse, long, dark skirt and sandals.

“Hi,” said Bruce. He hesitated, then nodded to the car. “Ready?”

She brushed her hair back and smiled. “Yes.” That single word embodied all the answer he was looking for, the innocence, the un-jaded anticipation of a new relationship. Bruce pushed aside his fears and smiled. He was finally ready to go, to introduce his father to his friends and start his life over again. He was ready for a fresh start.

Steamboat Springs, Colorado

The mountains were magnificent at this time of the year. Flowers sent their fragrant scent wafting down the grassy ski slopes; even in mid-summer, hidden pockets of snow still hid from winter’s last great freeze; and icy blue lakes seemed on the verge of freezing.

General David Newman reveled in the mountains of his home state. Although he had always felt that summer was the best time to visit the mountains, he loved to ski, and usually brought his family back to Colorado at least once in the winter to race the downhill slopes. He put up with the crowds once a year to get his skiing fix, but it was the summers that revitalized him, gave him a new birth, and a new faith in being the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The quiet and solitude that surrounded Steamboat Springs felt somewhat artificial, for all the beauty of soaring peaks and jutting mountains. Even that distant hawk, lazily circling on the thermals, perhaps had some sense of the technology bubbling all around it. As remote as General Newman was, he was still in near instant contact with the rest of the world. And although he tried to slow down on his “vacations,” he had learned two years ago that he could never really have a true vacation.

A quietly efficient young man stepped up to the general. A wire ran from an earplug in his ear to a small radio fastened to his belt. He spoke in a low tone. “General, an urgent call on the STE.”

Newman nodded and made for the lodge. Swept for bugs by the Air Force Office of Investigation not an hour before he had arrived for vacation, a small command post had been established one door down from Newman’s suite.

The conversation went quickly. As he hung up the classified phone, Newman closed his eyes and shook his head.
When it rains, it pours,
he thought. He had not been told the reason, but that was not unusual—political decisions are presented to military men as
faits accomplis
, not explained.

Vice President Adleman’s decision to change his plans and fly directly into Clark would require the scheduling of the entire Thirteenth Air Force’s operational readiness around a single plane, but that was only a small part of the picture. The Thirteenth was “Blackman” Simone’s outfit. Simone was a competent fighter pilot and could match any military man in a fight, but as far as being politically savvy … Simone would rather tell the vice president to go to hell than to have the Veep interfere with the launching of his jets. He had voiced his opinions in the past about the politicians wasting his time, and Newman was sure this scenario wouldn’t be any different.

Newman decided to bypass Pacific Air Force Headquarters and go directly to the problem; he’d get back to PACAF later. He opened his eyes and said to his aide, “Get me Thirteenth Air Force on the line.”

Moments later, he finished exchanging pleasantries with Major General Simone. “Blackman, I need a favor.”

“Name it. Coming out here for a shopping trip?”

“I’m serious. Remember I saved your butt from that Academy investigation.”

“You say it, you got it, sir.”

Newman nodded to himself. “Good. This is important. I need somebody hot, one of your best boys or gals who will make a good impression and won’t screw up.”

“Pilot?”

“Of course.”

Silence, then, “I’ve got just the man for you—a shit-hot stick, too. Won the Risner Trophy as a butter bar.”

“Great. There’s a plane he needs to escort into Clark, and after they land he needs to stick like glue to this VIP. Be an escort officer, show the VIP around.”

“No problem. We normally use one of our hot young officers for this kind of duty; it impresses the hell out of VIPs to see someone that young be so sharp. What’s up?”

Newman took a deep breath and settled back in his chair. “Are you sitting down?”

Five miles outside of Olongapo

Bruce had gotten lost only once on the trip down from Clark. They had intended to stop in a barrio housing some of Yolanda’s distant relatives, but in the years since she had last visited them Yolanda had forgotten her directions.

Instead of visiting the barrio the foursome stopped by a roadside shack and splurged on
lumpia,
topped off with what seemed to be a gallon of pop. They groaned all the way to the outskirts of Olongapo.

Yolanda opened up and joined in the conversation. As he drove, Bruce studied her out of the corner of his eye. Her shy smiles turned to laughter, and she held her hand over her mouth as her sparkling, dark eyes took in the banter.

Bruce consulted a sheet of paper and turned down a long row of apartments. The city of Olongapo straddled the barrio, both of which surrounded Subic. The base traffic had tapered off when they turned for the barrio, and with the absence of the American military presence there seemed to be a remarkable increase in affluence and a decrease in the seediness. Bruce kept quiet about the observation, not wanting to embarrass Yolanda.

He stopped at a corner and scanned both directions.

Charlie leaned forward in his seat. “Have a problem?”

“No, I just wanted to make sure I was on the right street.” The apartment complex looked vaguely familiar … but then again, Bruce had been emerging from a hangover when his father had taken him here.

Bruce decided he was going the right way and moved slowly down the street. He spotted a red Geo parked in one of the stalls and stopped. “This is it.” Backing up, he pulled into the driveway.

Bruce knocked on the door. Yolanda, Nanette, and Charlie stood behind him. Joe Steele answered, dressed in a T-shirt, navy bell bottoms, and bare feet. He looked surprised.

“We didn’t wake you up, did we?” asked Bruce, somewhat hesitantly.

“Bruce! Hell, no! Come on in, kids.” He turned and shouted, “Tanla, ziggy now—Bruce is here, and he’s brought some friends!” He opened the door wide.

“The girls have to work tomorrow. This was the only day we were all able to get off,” explained Bruce as they entered the small apartment. The room was covered with wood carvings and stereo equipment.

“Well, shit, have a seat. I should have known you pilots never have to work. You kids drove all the way from Clark; you must be tired. Can I fix you a drink? Beer? Any hard stuff?”

They found a place in the living room. Charlie sat on the couch in between Nanette and Yolanda; Bruce sprawled on the floor on an overstuffed pillow. “None for me. I’ve got to drive back.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before, has it, Bruce?” Joe Steele roared and winked broadly at Nanette. “They haven’t been calling my boy Assassin just for the hell of it, have they? Has he told you that was for being a woman killer, or for playing football?” He guffawed.

Nanette smiled demurely. “This is a nice place you have, Mr. Steele. It seems quite cozy.”

“Joe. Call me Joe. Are you sure I can’t fix you something?”

“No, thank you.”

Joe turned and opened a small refrigerator sitting by his easy chair. He pulled out a San Miguel. “I don’t go on duty until eight tonight, so you’ll just have to put up with me.” He laughed. “How about lunch? Have you eaten yet?”

“We’re fine, dad,” said Bruce, quietly. “I just came over to introduce you to some of my friends.”

Steele half bowed from his chair. “Glad to know you.” He nodded to the girls. “Nanette, Yolanda.”

Bruce looked around. “Did we miss Tanla? I thought she didn’t leave for work until later.”

Joe took a sudden drink of beer. “She’ll be out,” he said, stiffly.

Bruce saw Charlie raise an eyebrow, but the inflection otherwise went unnoticed.

Yolanda sat primly, her legs together and hands folded in her lap. She wore a smile, but Bruce could tell that she felt uncomfortable. Bruce nodded to Yolanda.

“Dad, Yolanda is planning to go to the University of the Philippines this fall. She wants to study music.”

“PU, eh?” smirked Joe Steele.

“That is correct,” said Yolanda, quietly.

“And Nanette is at Stanford,” continued Bruce.

Bruce’s father ignored the observation and shot out on another tangent. “Hey, did Bruce tell you that I didn’t know that he was on the rock until I got a phone call from him one morning?”

“That’s okay, Dad.”

“Yeah, called up his old man right out of the blue. I started up the old Toyota and found him down at the chaplain’s office—of all places, my son in a chapel! And what a sight!”