Strike Eagle (23 page)
Barguyo glanced at his watch. Five minutes had passed since he had fired off the weapon for the first time.
Barguyo listened intently for sounds other than the rain and wind, but could hear nothing. Cervante had directed that they continue to shoot at other airplanes, but he thought that it was time to show some prudence.
If there were no other planes in the area, Barguyo reasoned that the Americans might start looking for them by some other means.
And Cervante had indicated that it was important to bring the high-power microwave weapon back.
Barguyo motioned to the Huks.
“Aih.
Quickly—let us dismantle the dish.”
The State Department, Washington, D.C.
“Mr. Acht, General Newman.”
The Secretary of State raised an eyebrow and took the phone. After asking some basic questions, he hung up and turned to his aide. “Get me the National Security Advisor … and the Speaker of the House, while you’re at it.” He held up a finger. “And have the President’s press secretary hold off on that announcement.”
The aide looked puzzled. “Any problems?”
“Just do it.”
One half mile north of the Del Playo rice paddies
The rain covered their movements, hid the sound of the jeepneys. The rice paddies were easy enough to negotiate, but the jungle just north of them was another matter.
They left the jeepneys and struck out for the plane.
A half mile north.
Three men with machetes cleared the way. The men rotated the point position every few minutes to keep a fresh person in the lead. Normally, moving through the jungle was an arduous task, something that would not be attempted without much preparation. And for a very good reason.
Owning Pompano’s sari-sari store was a sufficient reason. For years Pompano had used the services of the black market network, and for years he had kept the profits a middle man accrued. Everyone knew that Pompano would soon be putting the store up for sale, but the chance to have it now was too appealing. It was more than a store, it was the entire infrastructure for black market operations.
They checked their weapons. With their firepower “confiscated” from American military police—Adleman should present no problem.
Cervante took the long way home, driving back to Pompano’s store to await the vice president.
Pompano’s black market contact should be scouring the countryside by now. The thought made him glow. He was the victor, no matter what happened.
If the Americans somehow found the high-power microwave weapon while it was being used, he would not be there. If the weapon worked but the Americans found their vice president first, he still would have succeeded in harassing the Americans, just as he had set out to do. If Pompano’s contacts somehow found the vice president, that would be the best of all worlds. Even if the worst occurred, the minimum goals would have been accomplished.
Yolanda lay on the floor of the jeepney, covered with a blanket, invisible to outsiders. Cervante smiled at the young girl, whose hands were tied.
Cervante pulled out a cigarette. It took four matches to light it in the damp weather. He blew out smoke and spoke quietly to Yolanda.
“I have a proposition for you, little one.” Yolanda struggled with her bonds at the use of her father’s pet name, but she quickly tired and stopped. Cervante smiled again. “I think you will find it amusing. You see, this store of your father’s is destined to help the Filipino people. Whatever money it is worth, I will soon trade it for the American vice president.” Yolanda stared back at him. “So all you have to do is to provide me with some papers,” He shrugged. “A note, a deed, whatever it takes, so that I can give it in exchange for the vice president.”
Yolanda jerked her head back and forth, signifying a “no.” Cervante chuckled.
He took another drag on his cigarette, then lightly tapped the ashes onto her face. Yolanda jerked her head away and tried to kick, but her legs just banged against the steel bottom of the jeepney.
Cervante moved closer to her. There was no one in the small alleyway. Even the sounds of the people in the market were muffled by the patter of rain on the mud and street.
Cervante brought his cigarette close to Yolanda’s shoulder. “It would be a pity to mar this beautiful flesh, wouldn’t it, little one? Your father is so proud of you, loves to show off his beautiful daughter. I wonder what he would do if his only child were covered with burn marks.…” He jabbed the glowing end of the cigarette into her flesh.
Yolanda’s scream came from deep within her, a cathartic purging of agony from her soul. The shriek seemed to go on forever, muffled only by the sock stuffed in her mouth. Tears dripped onto her cheeks as she sobbed.
Cervante pulled the cigarette away. He looked at it and took a thoughtful puff.
***
Chapter 18
Friday, 22 June
Kadena AFB, Okinawa
Colonel Alan Rader hated being a messenger boy.
As deputy Commander of the 313th Air Division at Kadena, he was on call to stand in for the boss. And since the order had come straight from General Newman himself, Rader didn’t ask the chief why—after thirty years in the Air Force, he knew how to follow directions.
Colonel Rader knew things weren’t going his way when he was refused permission to cross the runway. He grumbled to himself, but knew that even he couldn’t wave off the tankers that were taking off. A KC-10A roared down the runway, lifting off and barely clearing the trees at the end of the long, reinforced asphalt. Once in the air, the tanker would circle at some predesignated spot and rendezvous with the SR-73 that was about to take off.
As he rounded the bend, Rader spotted an old man pushing up a sign outside the base:
SEE THE AMERICAN SPY PLANE
SR-73 HABU
NEXT FLIGHT TIME:
1145
Already the tourists had started to line up, and they even had that damn taco vendor out there, selling refreshments like it was a carnival.
When Rader reached the flight line, he was waved inside the double-partitioned hangar containing the SR-73. Noxious fumes filled the hangar. A red warning light rotated at the top of the ceiling, five stories up. He grabbed his briefcase and followed a young lieutenant, dressed in fatigues but responsible for the entire SR-73 maintenance, into the SR-73 pilot ready room.
Major Kathy Yulok turned as they entered. She was dressed in the silver pressure suit worn by the Habu pilots. Thick gloves, and white hose that ran from the suit to an air-conditioning unit, completed the outfit. She held her helmet in one hand. “What’s the holdup, Colonel?”
“Sign this.” He held out a paper.
Yulok raised an eyebrow. With her gloves on she clumsily scribbled her name on the classified receipt, and Rader handed her the briefcase in turn. “For your eyes only, Major.”
She moved to the far side of the room, placed the leather briefcase on a table, and waved the support personnel to the opposite corner.
As she opened the case and scanned the message, Rader felt like a damned idiot, babysitting the briefcase for a major. He himself wasn’t “cleared-for-weird,” since he didn’t have the sensitive intelligence security clearances needed to read the message that Major Yulok had, but he had been instructed by the Chief to see that Yulok personally read and understood the orders.
Yulok snapped the briefcase shut. Rader took it from her. “Any questions, Major?”
She set her mouth. “No, sir. Is anyone else aware of this?”
“Just what the hell do you think?”
“I hope not. Thanks.” She turned and jerked her head at the copilot, also dressed in a pressure suit. “Let’s go, Eddie.”
When they left, a team of support personnel followed, some carrying the air conditioner, others holding hoses out of the way so they wouldn’t get snagged.
Rader watched the parade. He didn’t let it show but he felt a pang of envy, a feeling that even though he was a bigwig on the totem pole, a person who commanded one hell of a lot of authority in the 313th Air Division, that woman would see all the action.
Whatever was going on, she was about to jump right in the center of all the attention.
It was a feeling that Rader knew wouldn’t pass. And what was worse, when he retired from the Air Force, he knew it wouldn’t get better with time.
Clark AB
They got to Charlie before helping Bruce down from the F-15. Bruce couldn’t see what was going on, so all he could do was to remain out of the way. The rain had changed to a hard drizzle, but Bruce tuned it out. There were too many emotions, too much sensory input, for anything to make sense: the strong smell of JP-4, the people crowding around the craft, the incessant jabber, sirens in the background.
Charlie screamed when they tried to move him. Bruce overheard a quick conference between the medics before they decided to sedate Charlie.
By the time the drugs took effect, they had Charlie out of the fighter and into an ambulance. The siren started up, lights rotated, and the ambulance peeled off.
Colonel Bolte joined Mooselips at the top of the fighter as Bruce slid out of the tight-fitting cockpit. “Charlie will be okay, Bruce.” The colonel reached out a hand to steady him. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Bruce started for his flight bag, but suddenly felt tired. He tossed his helmet back onto the seat. “I don’t know, sir. I can’t figure out what hit us.”
“You heard Tower wave you off. Why didn’t you do what they said?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t have time? There was a good sixty seconds before you got hit again—”
“I said, Colonel, I didn’t have any time,” interrupted Bruce. “From what I could tell, we were hit about the same time as Air Force Two. It just got them harder, and didn’t come back and get us until later …” He trailed off. “Hey, what
did
happen to Air Force Two?” Bruce suddenly shifted gears, his scope of cognizance broadening. He looked around the runway. “Did it taxi in already?”
“It’s down,” said Bolte.
“Down? Where?” Bruce was still confused. A few minutes earlier, he’d been flying for his life.
“I don’t know, Son. We’re trying to find out. That’s why I want to know what hit you. What can you remember?”
“Colonel.” A major in fatigues stepped out of a staff car at the bottom of the stairs. The back doors to the car opened and two men dressed in suits emerged to stand alongside the major. One of the men straightened his tie as he looked up at Bruce. “Colonel, we’re ready for the debrief.”
“Right.” Bolte clasped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Good flying, Son. I’m glad someone learned a lesson from Khe Sahn.”
The rain ran down Bruce’s face, but it tasted salty to him as he wet his lips.
Salty?
He realized he must have been sweating in the F-15. Then as he raised a hand to wipe his brow, he saw a smear of blood on his fingers. He touched his forehead and winced.
But what was Bolte talking about? “Khe Sahn, sir?”
Bolte took off his sunglasses. He narrowed his eyes at Bruce. “You didn’t study that maneuver in fighter lead-in?”
“What maneuver, Colonel?”
Bolte looked at Bruce strangely, then put his sunglasses back on. He muttered, “What in the hell…?” then said to Bruce, “Clouds were so low back in ‘Nam that F-105s had to come in upside down, spot where their target was, then roll over to pickle them off.”
Bruce shrugged. He was starting to feel worn out. “Sorry, sir. Can’t say that I heard about it.”
“Too bad. What you did was a ringer for that maneuver.” He put an arm on Bruce’s back and motioned with his head to the bottom of the stairs. “These people need to debrief you. Try and remember everything that happened.”
“Who are they?”
“Secret Service and intelligence types. Just cooperate as much as you can—and remember, they’re on our side.”
“Thanks, sir.” Bruce climbed down the aluminum stairs. The men in suits moved aside for him.
“Bruce.” Colonel Bolte’s voice came from the top of the stairs. Bruce turned; rain kept him from seeing the colonel clearly. “Bruce … about Charlie. He’ll be all right. I’ve … got a daughter that has a stake in this too.”
Bruce nodded and turned back for the car. The men in suits motioned him into the back of the dark blue staff car. They were off as soon as the doors closed.
Air Force Two
The screaming had finally stopped and low moans now filled the plane.
Vice President Adleman tried to move, but couldn’t. It didn’t feel like he had broken anything—at least he didn’t feel any pain, the sharp twinge of bone grinding against bone.
Light diffused into the chamber from the rear of the plane. A hole must have been torn in the tail section. The sound of the dripping rain and the smell of spilt fuel overwhelmed his senses. A memory of the crash came back to him. He yelled hoarsely. “Is anybody there?”
“Mr. Adleman?”
Colonel Merke!
Her voice sounded weak; the sound came from just outside of the chamber.
“Merke … can you get in here?”
“Just a minute, sir.”
“Mr. Vice President, are you all right?” It was McCluney, the Secret Service agent.
Adleman tried once more to push up. Something seemed to be on his leg, pinning him down. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Reaching down, Adleman tried to push the object away—his desk had ripped free from its anchor in the plane’s floor and tumbled across the chamber, pinning him during the crash.
Adleman grunted as he tried to move the desk. “I need some help.”
Merke’s voice came back. “Hold on, sir. I’ll be right there.” Adleman heard scraping against the chamber wall. He imagined a jumble of objects crammed up against the door, trapping him in.
Adleman fell back, relieved. They might have crashed, but now they were all right.
The men stumbled upon the plane. The jumbo jet lay nestled in the thick jungle, trees pressed up against the fuselage and tiny fires flickering around the metal body. The rain seemed to have prevented the plane from bursting into flames.
Rifles at ready, they fanned out around the craft. A hole in the jet’s back allowed half of the eight-man group to enter; the other four entered in the front. They didn’t know how much resistance to expect, but they prepared themselves for the worst.
Adleman lay back on his couch and rested. He thought about getting out of the plane, lowering himself down to the ground, but at least inside he remained dry.
Minutes before, Merke and McCluney had freed him from the desk, and now the two were checking the rest of the plane. Adleman had urged them to go, for the sobs and cries coming from the front of the plane had begun to subside.
Merke had a long cut on her face. Adleman had wanted to join the two in their expedition to the front of the craft, but McCluney firmly pushed him to the couch. None of the emergency radios worked, so Adleman decided he would remain back here.
Longmire resurfaced in his mind.
What happens now?
Adleman felt ashamed that he should be thinking of succeeding the President, but it
had
to be on the top of his mind. That was what his position was all about.
Something moved in the back of the plane.
Adleman struggled to an elbow. It sounded like a twig had popped, as if someone had been walking just outside of the jet. But that was crazy.…
“Merke? McCluney?”
Gunshots came from all around. Adleman heard the sound of bullets ricocheting throughout the cabin. Screams …
“Merke!”
Adleman sat up. A sound came from the back of the plane, where the hole in the tail section was. Adleman’s breathing quickened. His mouth felt dry, cottony.
Two men appeared from the back. Adleman couldn’t make out their features, but he saw that they carried rifles. Sporadic gunshots came from the front. One of the men spoke.
“Adleman?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Adleman started to stand up. He threw a glance to the front of the plane. “What’s going on? The gunshots.…”
Lieutenant Colonel Merke came sprawling into the chamber, followed by McCluney. They stayed on the floor as three men stepped into view. The man who had asked Adleman his name pointed at the vice president and said something in a foreign language.
Adleman took an angry step forward. “What’s going on here? What are you doing?”
The man lifted his rifle. Adleman drew in a breath. The man swung the rifle down to Merke and McCluney, then calmly shot a bullet through each of their foreheads. He put the rifle down and said a single word.
“Come.”
He turned and disappeared in the back. Another man grabbed Adleman’s elbow and shoved him roughly forward. As they moved for the hole in the back of the plane, the last thing Adleman saw them pick up was the “football,” the briefcase that Lieutenant Colonel Merke had carried and which contained the authorizations for starting a nuclear war.
Clark AB
Bruce felt completely wrung out. The intelligence team in charge of debriefing had reconstructed his flight from takeoff to landing.