He looked down and saw a huge yellow stain on his shirt. I must have puked all over myself. A closer inspection of the seat confirmed his suspicion. No wonder no one is sitting near me!
But how did he get here? Out of a flight suit and into these clothes — Charlie had something to do with it. But on a bus to Subic?
Then he remembered the conversations with Charlie about his dad. The boys didn’t know about it, but that wouldn’t stop Charlie — or would it? But whatever their motivation, this was Charlie’s way of forcing him to meet his dad. His breathing quickened, his nostrils widened at the thought.
All he had to do was get a taxi back to Clark.…
He felt his back pocket — and panicked. His wallet was missing! He patted his other pockets. Feeling around the seat, he could not find his wallet. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read:
Assassin: This was the only way, dude. Your wallet and $$$ are safe with us, so don’t worry about getting rolled. Say hi to your Dad for us. v/r — Catman
The only way.
The boys had him figured out to a tee. He slumped back and looked out the window, trying to figure out how he was going to make it back to Clark. Without seeing his dad.
His instructors at the Academy had labeled him an overachiever. Top stick at Undergraduate Pilot Training, winning the Risner Trophy … he was a true role model, a hero to anyone.
Except to his father.
No matter how hard Bruce tried, Joe Steele displayed no emotion, gave no encouragement.
The memories of the constant putdowns still gave him pain. Long ago, Bruce had tried to understand his father’s feelings: Bruce had been born while his father was at sea — the family had a long, proud history of serving as enlisted sailors. Joe Steele had not seen his son until the boy was nearly a year old, and then the first flare of jealousy arose when the young boy garnered more attention than his world-traveling father.
Bruce’s lack of interest in the sea threw up a wall between the two. Bruce had gravitated toward athletics, and looked forward to attending college. Instead of encouraging the young man to pursue these interests, Joe Steele had heaped scorn and ridicule upon Bruce. “You think you’re too fucking good for this family? None of your relatives have gone to college, and we’ve turned out fine. Look at all you’ve got, all you’ve had. Are you ashamed of us?”
The appointment to the United States Air Force Academy had been Bruce’s only way out of the situation, something that he could do on his own. But the appointment only threw fuel on the fire, intensified the one-sided competition. Bruce’s letters home went unanswered, and his efforts to make his father proud of him elicited no response.
When his younger brother Fred had enlisted in the Navy, the parties and hoopla surrounding the occasion quickly outstripped any show of pride that had been bestowed upon Bruce.
Then, when Joe Steele refused to show up at Bruce’s graduation from pilot training, it was the final straw.
He intended to look up his father, but he wanted to do it on his own time scale. Bruce tried to settle back in his seat, but he was too worked up to relax.
The nipa huts and roadside shacks turned to row after row of corrugated aluminum-topped shanties. Dogs yipped as the bus roared past; unclothed children, some playing in mud in front of the huts and others sitting dully on wooden stoops, all watched the bus.
The traffic increased; jeepneys darted in and out of their path. The bus slowed as it started over a long bridge. Bruce saw a brown river below them. Long canoes were being poled by men wearing Saipan-style hats. Women on the bank dumped baskets of clothes into the water, then washed them out. Upstream, an old man urinated into the water.
The bus whined, then came the crunch of grinding gears. Minutes later it slowed to a stop before a large gate.
U.S. and Filipino military men shared the building. Guards wore khaki uniforms, holstered side arms, and silver helmets. Their hair was cut buzz-short and they all stood erect, even when they walked. Marines. By the gate a sign read:
SUBIC BAY NAVAL STATION
UNITED STATES NAVY
WARNING!
PERSONNEL ON THIS FACILITY
CONSENT TO SEARCH AT ANY TIME
BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDER
The Marines guarding Subic took no nonsense, and probably wouldn’t give him the time of day. No ID card, smelling to high heaven — bets were they’d just as soon lock him in the brig as try to check out his story.
You’re a fighter pilot?
Yeah, right.
The driver opened the bus door. A marine, wearing his helmet, stepped inside and looked down the aisle. Bruce slid down in his seat and looked out the window, trying to be nonchalant, invisible.
After signing a chit held out by the driver, the guard turned to go.
They started onto the base, passing seamen and local workers. A turn gave him a view of the bay — seven large ships were moored at various locations. He picked out two frigates and a destroyer. The unmistakable conning tower and lines of an aircraft carrier were visible at the opposite end of the bay.
Years ago the US Navy had been thrown out of the P. I. when the US Air Force left Clark. And just like the Air Force had returned to Clark, now they were back at Subic.
Today it looked like the fleet must be in town. And so would his dad.
The Filipino driver spoke over a microphone. “Welcome to Subic. We are parked at the main exchange complex. The bus will be back here at 1530 hours and will leave at 1600. Do not leave any valuables on the bus. Salamat po.”
Bruce sat low in his seat and waited until the bus cleared. When the kids from the back started hauling out their rock gear, Bruce moved slowly to the front. The driver spotted him; the grin on the driver’s face melted to a scowl. The Filipino leaned over and spat into a can that he kept at the front of the bus. He shooed Bruce out.
“Off. Okay, you. Get off.”
“Wait. Can I get a ride back to Clark…?”
“Off, you get. Hurry, ziggy now.”
Bruce stepped backward off the bus. The heat hit him like a sledgehammer as he left the air-conditioned coolness of the bus. “Hey, wait a minute!” He balled his fists.
Standing on the step of the bus, the driver towered over him. The Filipino dug in his pocket and waved a dingy sheet of paper. “You see this? Aih? This my rules. You must obey. It signed by base commander.” He pointed to a paragraph. “If G.I. disorderly I stop bus, throw him out.”
“I wasn’t disorderly!”
The driver stopped and spat. He looked Bruce up and down. “You get sick twenty miles outside Angeles — dirty all over. You very lucky, Joe. I want to throw you off bus. Ladies make me change my mind. I could have done it — but they no let me.” He spat again.
Everyone he approached ignored him. Bruce couldn’t decide if it was the smell or the sight that turned them away.
He ducked into the men’s bathroom outside the Base Exchange. He groaned at his image in the mirror. He quickly debated the best way to clean up, then decided to hell with it — he couldn’t make himself look much worse than he already did. He stripped off his shirt and used wet paper towels to scrub himself clean. A quick rinse in the sink cleaned his shirt. Within ten minutes he looked as though he had stood in a shower with his clothes on, but at least he smelled halfway decent.
Bruce ignored the sideways looks that people gave him as he left the bathroom.
A map was posted outside of the building, protected from the weather by a plastic case. Bruce ran his fingers down the listing of facilities. His finger stopped at the notation chapel. He wet his lips. The last time he’d been in church was at the Academy; he and Ashley had been married there, only hours after he had graduated. It couldn’t hurt to try.