Strike Eagle (20 page)

Pompano waved a feeble hand. “Go on, Cervante. The damage is done. But leave me out of it. Leave
us
out of it.” Pompano’s shoulder’s drooped. “I am through with you. By the time you are back up in the mountains, I will be in Manila, lost in the crowds.”

Cervante’s breathing seemed out of control. He could not believe the stupidity of the old man. The rage took a hold of him, blinding him and focusing his energy on the arrogance of Pompano.

Cervante slipped underneath the counter. Yolanda grasped her father by the shoulders and tried to draw back.

Cervante reached down and yanked the girl away from her father. She careened off the floor and skidded to the wall, striking her head. Cervante lifted Pompano up, but could not pull him off the ground. Pompano outweighed Cervante by at least thirty pounds.

“You will not hurt us again.” Cervante slammed Pompano against the wall. Pompano slid down to the floor, letting out a barely audible “Ooof.”

Cervante drew a leg back and kicked at Pompano. The old man grunted and held up a hand, trying to fend off the blows. Again and again the kicks came, until Pompano began to bleed. When the old man did not move, Cervante tapped him with a toe; Pompano moaned. Cervante drew back his foot and aimed his next kick at Pompano’s temple, but he held it there as he at last gained control of his emotions.

Cervante breathed deeply, feeling the adrenaline racing through his veins. An excitement filled his blood, making him feel flush with power.

The vice president of the United States!

A sudden noise made him turn. Yolanda was lying on the floor, holding her hands to her mouth and sobbing. Cervante could not see her face as she cried, only her long black hair.

He smiled to himself and felt something stir deep inside him. If there was ever a way to completely get back at Pompano, Yolanda was the key. But there was something else, something about the vice president’s plane.

If the HPM weapon caused the plane to crash, then the vice president’s death would only heighten the American frustration. But suppose the vice president survived! People sometimes live through plane crashes … Then there was a chance of capturing the vice president.

The thought caused Cervante to breathe deeply. His face felt flush. The vice president! The man would make a perfect bargaining chip … but how to find him, after the plane crashes?

A thought struck him: With her father dead, Yolanda would have complete ownership of the sari-sari store. It would be a good way of getting more manpower.

He glanced at Pompano.
No, better to have the old man live. Pompano’s black market contacts would be useful. And with the girl as a hostage, Pompano would do as he was told.
A plan began to form in Cervante’s mind.

He tied Pompano up, lashing him to a chair; a rag in the old man’s mouth ensured that he would not be heard. Cervante then slipped into the back room and dialed the number on the paper that Pompano had given him. A man answered. A few minutes of dickering convinced the man that Cervante was sincere.

“That is right. Pompano and his daughter are ready to sell their store, and I am serving as their agent. You know how much merchandise moves through here, how important it is to the Huks. Now, they offer the sari-sari store in exchange for your immediate help.”

“Where is Pompano?”

“Does it matter? I have the documents.”

The man was impressed. “The store could bring a large sum of money. What kind of help do you need?”

Cervante watched the girl and smiled. “A plane could crash in the next hour, somewhere near the American base. There is a very important occupant inside that plane. If you can deliver him here, a simple trade will take place—that person for the store.”

Hesitation. “That will take a lot of men.”

“Whatever you think the store is worth.”

“Just a minute.” The man came back a minute later. “The store includes exclusive rights to deal with the Huks?”

“Of course.”

Another pause. “You will have him.”

Cervante hung up, filled with anticipation. One thing remained to be done. But when you’re working with fate on your side, it’s something you don’t have to worry about.

The girl followed him outside, unresisting but still in tears. He moved out the back door to Pompano’s truck. Rain splashed around him, cutting visibility.

Even with traffic, it would take him less than half an hour to get to the high-power microwave weapon. Plenty of time before the vice president’s plane arrived.

Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

Ensign Julia Clounch watched the monitors. It never occurred to her that the triple backup systems could almost always be counted on to work.

When President Longmire started gagging, Julia hit the “Stat” button and, at the same moment, a computerized alarm went off throughout the hospital. Within seconds, the President’s hospital room was full of doctors and medical personnel.

When a quick attempt to clear Longmire’s throat failed, a tracheotomy was performed.

Julia Clounch continued to keep track of the diagnostics, even though her job was over. She hadn’t noticed Captain (Doctor) Barnett, Commander of the Hospital, enter the room. Barnett cleared his throat.

“Nurse?”

Julia jumped in her chair. “Yes, sir?”

Barnett squinted at the diagnostic monitors, still showing the President’s vitals. After studying the monitors, Barnett sighed. His voice sounded tired. “I’ll need that open line to the White House.”

East China Sea

“Assassin … ah, got a little problem here.”

“Go ahead, Skipper.”

“I’m losing oil. Pressure’s dropping.”

Bruce glanced at his heads-up display. They were still fifteen minutes from meeting the vice president’s plane. He clicked his mike. “Can you hold on to intercept?”

“Negatory. But if we turn back now I’ll be okay.”

Bruce started to abort the mission, call back to Clark and inform them that Air Force Two would have to make it “in-country” without an escort. Single-ship formations were frowned upon; all missions demanded a two-plane minimum. It wasn’t a rule to screw with.

But he remembered Simone’s comments about using his judgment … and escorting the vice president seemed a hell of a lot more important than holding Skipper’s hand.

“Skipper.”

“Rog.”

“Break for Clark. We’re going on.”

Silence. Then, “You sure, Assassin?”

“That’s a rog. Now get back.”

Bruce almost thought he could hear Skipper shrug. “It’s your flight.”

Bruce tensed up. Skipper’s fighter broke off to the right; Bruce lost sight of him as he left.
Damn,
thought Bruce. He hoped he hadn’t stepped on it. This wasn’t the time to make the wrong decision, but it
was
up to him.…

Skipper’s voice came over the radio. “Good call, Assassin. See you on deck.”

“We’re starting the descent, Mr. Vice President.”

Adleman sat with his head in his hands. He had just hung up the phone with Acht.
Any time now,
he had said.
We’re going to need an immediate, overt transition.
And the plane could immediately head back to Washington once they’d refueled.

“Mr. Vice President, we’re starting to descend through the cloud layer, and we’ll need you buckled in, just in case there’s any turbulence.”

He didn’t want to think about it, being sworn in as President, waiting for the final call informing him of Longmire’s death. But the plane was committed now, so they’d have to make the transition on the ground. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes.

Bruce paced the giant 747 as it lumbered across the sky. He kept the F-15 a hundred yards away, a
long
way since he was used to flying wing tip to wing tip.

That was probably the reason General Simone had chosen him in the first place. The general would have known that Bruce was sensitized to safety, especially after flying with the Thirteenth Air Force Commander. Besides, Bruce knew he was the best.

When the 747 began its descent into Clark, Bruce moved a mile behind it. The jumbo jet seemed to move slowly against the backdrop of clouds. The 747’s cruising speed was actually not that much less than the F-15’s, but the transport’s huge size made it appear much slower.

Bruce followed the same flight path and rate of descent. When the clouds enveloped the cockpit, blocking out the blue sky that surrounded them, Bruce fixed his eyes to the avionics.

Now, until Air Force Two and the F-15 had landed, their survival depended solely upon the intricate solid-state circuitry of the flight instruments. The two planes were packed with all the newest high-tech bells and whistles the government could buy. Even in the thick cloud layer, Bruce knew that he was a hundred times safer up here than he would be driving his car on the ground.

Bruce clicked his mike. “Keep me honest, Foggy. I don’t want to step on the big one in front of the brass.”

“That hasn’t stopped you yet.”

Bruce clicked his mike twice. “Let’s make it a first.”

Angeles City

The drive took less than half an hour. There was virtually no traffic in the heavy downpour. Even the jeepneys kept off the road. Once in a while Cervante had to jam on the brakes of Pompano’s truck, to avoid hitting a pedestrian scurrying across the street.

That would be all he needed—right at the moment when his wildest dream was about to come true.

Yolanda lay on the floor beside him. Gagged and tied with twine, she had stopped struggling ten minutes ago.

Cervante couldn’t allow her to tell the authorities about him. It would have been easy to finish her off—or would it? At any rate, she would prove to be an excellent hostage if something went wrong.

Cervante slowed as he approached the road outside of Clark. No planes flew overhead, but the missing roar of jet engines had been replaced by the sound of a deluge. The turnoff was muddy, and once off the main road Cervante stopped the truck.

A moment later, a figure wearing dark rain gear and holding a rifle appeared at the side of the road. The figure waved Cervante on.

Cervante nodded to himself.
At least the cell remains at its post.

He drove the truck to the opposite side of a clearing. A person appeared at the truck’s door as Cervante stopped. The figure stuck his head up close to the window. It was the boy, Barguyo.

Cervante rolled down the window. Rain splashed in. Cervante peered up, but could see only darkness where the hole in the trees should be.

The boy said, “Cervante, is it time?”

“Yes.” Cervante shot a glance at the girl; she moaned slightly and moved her legs, but she was well bound. Cervante opened the door and joined the boy, oblivious to the rain. “We need to prepare the weapon, charge it, and shoot it off when we hear planes.”

“You have a flight schedule?”

“Yes. If we are lucky a plane will fly overhead. I need you to set off the weapon.”

Barguyo shouldered his rifle. “That is easy. Which plane do you want me to hit?”

“There will be at least two planes. Strike against both of them. Then load the weapon in the truck and meet us back at Pompano’s sari-sari store. Do you know where it is?”

“I can find it.” Barguyo thought for a moment, rain streaming down his young face. “The weapon is not much longer than the back of your truck. Why can’t we load it on the truck now, set the weapon off, and simply drive away when we are done? We should save much time that way.”

Cervante looked astonished, then proud. Barguyo would surely play an important part in the future of the New People’s Army. He clasped the boy’s shoulder. “Very well. Instruct the men. After the weapon is on the truck, pick two men to stay with you. The others will come with me.”

Barguyo responded by grinning. He turned and headed for the weapon. Cervante heard a shrill whistle, then, “Quickly—it is time!”

A group of men appeared from the jungle, where they had been waiting underneath a shelter. Cervante stepped back into the truck. Water ran off his clothes onto the seat. The rain swept a fresh smell into the truck.
An
—
an omen, a fresh start,
he thought.

Everything was in place.