“The raid we accomplished — we performed very well.”
“Of course. You obtained ammunition, rifles.”
“Yes, that and more.” Cervante lowered his voice. “The PC convoy had a new weapon — a high-power microwave device.”
“Microwave?” Pompano snorted. “What do you propose we do with this American microwave? Cook all the meat on their base?”
“A high-power microwave. I have read the manual. And I have looked up the implication of this weapon on the Internet. It is astounding what you can glean from the American press.
“The microwave device is not an end in itself. If we use it, we should be able to force them out quicker.”
“Not an end in itself. Now you are speaking foolishly, Cervante. Of what use is a weapon that will merely frustrate? The ammunition and supplies you have recovered should enable our people to accomplish great things.”
Cervante waved a hand. His cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. He took one last drag before flicking it away. “You do not understand. A small group, a tiny fraction of our manpower, can use this high-power microwave device to disrupt American flight activities. If we can get close enough, the microwaves will disrupt circuitry, causing the flight controls on their aircraft to stop working. They will not even know what is happening!
“Put yourself in the Americans’ position. They are now negotiating with our country a plan to stay at Clark forever. If we can frustrate the Americans in their day-to-day activities, make them know that the Filipinos do not want them here, they will be more likely to leave the P.I. The high-power microwave weapon is one aspect of our campaign to harass them; it will annoy the hell out of them!”
“We will be far enough away from Clark to avoid complete burnout of their electronics, but we will still succeed in disrupting their equipment.”
“Why don’t we simply get a missile and fire it at them, if that is what you want?”
“Because that would give the Americans a target, something tangible to rally around — and may force them to stay. And they will eventually ferret us out. But this high-power microwave weapon … it is just the device that could help make them leave.”
He paused.
“We will acquire a new base camp — a safe house to which we can flee. We are leaving tomorrow. I am in need of another driver. Can I count on your joining us?”
“How long will we be gone?”
“No longer than a week.”
“That is short notice.”
“Invitations are not sent out for revolutions.”
Pompano was silent for a moment. “I will join you.”
Charlie pulled Catman aside. At the bar, Bruce swept up his hands in a fighter pilot’s rendition of an inverted roll. His newfound friends watched in amusement.
Charlie leaned into Catman’s ear, holding him upright.
“What do you guys have planned for tomorrow?”
Catman bleared back at him; his eyes looked nearly as red as his hair. “Rejoin the living.”
“Look: we don’t have to report to the Jungle Survival School until the day after tomorrow. I thought we’d be able to take in some of the sights.”
Catman closed one eye. Now Charlie knew he was drunk. Catman didn’t resort to that maneuver unless he started seeing double.
“Okay, Foggy — what’s up?” The words slurred together. “Going alone has never stopped you before.”
Charlie hesitated. Bruce’s sudden divorce had seemed to bowl his friend over. Whatever had happened between Ashley and him was top-secret material. There had to be something the guys could do to pop the building pressure.
“Okay, swear you never heard this from me — Bruce’s dad is stationed at Subic.”
Catman lifted his eyebrows; his closed eye popped open. “I thought he lived in Texas.”
“He did — with Bruce’s mom. You know that he’s in the Navy?” Catman nodded. “But he was transferred to Subic three months ago; went remote so he could get back home faster, wouldn’t have to have the family move again.”
“Why didn’t Assassin tell anyone?”
Charlie looked pained. “Three months ago?”
Catman frowned, then slowly nodded as the memory of Bruce’s quick divorce hit him. “Oh, yeah.…”
Charlie wet his lips. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to get Bruce down to Subic tomorrow to see his dad? Before we go through Survival School?”
Catman smiled.
Chapter 7
Bruce’s eyes flew open. It seemed as if he had suddenly been transported into another world. His mouth felt dry, cottony; his tongue was caked with something vile.
Somewhere in front of him a radio softly played a song; people spoke in low tones.
Bruce tried to sit up. He was slumped against a window in a high-backed seat.
A bus. He looked around. A sharp pain jolted down his body from his head to his shoulder. He winced and brought up a hand to massage his neck.
No one sat next to him. The two seats on the opposite side of the aisle were empty as well. What the hell is going on? he thought.
He wore loose-fitting white trousers, sandals, and a colorful shirt. A hazy memory of Charlie goading him out of his flight suit came back to him. He remembered the Officers’ Club, something about a fight.…He touched his mouth, but felt no pain, no injuries.
The image of a helicopter flitted near the corner of his mind, but he couldn’t put anything together.
He struggled to his feet. The movement caused a wave of nausea to wash over him. He placed a hand on the top of the seat and edged into the aisle.
The bus was filled with women, at least thirty ladies between the ages of twenty-five and fifty.
He swayed in the aisle, grasping the seat backs to keep steady. At the back of the bus were four long-haired kids, guitar cases and a drum set packed in with them. A hand-stenciled sign on the bass drum read the other end; They sure the heck looked like it. They shared a cigarette and glanced his way but otherwise ignored him.
He leaned over. A middle-aged woman, dressed in a long sarong, blinked back at him.
“Excuse me.” Bruce’s voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Uh, ma’am. I’m sorry to—”
The woman looked away. He started to say something to the lady next to her, but she also turned her head.
He turned to the front. The laughter quieted to a low murmuring. He tapped the sleeve of the woman sitting in the seat in front of him. “Ma’am … Excuse me, but could you tell me where we’re going? I guess I fell asleep and sort of forgot.…” he finished lamely.
The woman ran her eyes up and down his body. She crinkled her nose. “Subic.” She turned to look out the window.
“Subic!” Bruce was stunned. “What in the world—”
No one listened to him. Stepford Wives, he thought. This has got to be a bus to hell, and it’s straight out of The Stepford Wives.
He flopped back down in his seat and stared out the window. The radio in front of the bus blared music. It brought back memories, something that he had heard before. His head started to throb; he winced, but was unable to do anything about the headache.
Then he remembered — that sari-sari store he had visited. The girl there was singing along to the same songs. This was a step back in time, back to the age when this music was popular.
The music had that same sickly sweet, freshly scrubbed innocence, and thus sharply contrasted with the rest of the seemingly seamy Filipino culture.