The donuts and sugary coffee that the chapel staff fixed for him gave him a sugar high. Three aspirins, and a chance to step into a quick shower, almost made him feel human again.
Chaplain White warmly shook his hand as an old, red Toyota turned around the corner. The Chaplain searched Bruce’s eyes. “Feel free to come back and talk, Bruce — especially if things don’t work out with your father.”
“Eh?” Bruce glanced at the aging Commander. “I didn’t know it showed.”
White smiled. “Sometimes a child has to tell his parents to go to hell before he can completely sever ties with the past.” He held up a hand. “I don’t mean you should do the same — that was more for shock effect than anything else.”
The Toyota pulled to a stop and a man stepped out. Bruce recognized the beer gut and tattoos immediately.
The Boeing 747-200B sat at the end of the runway. The oversized cockpit looked like a graceful serpent’s head, rising out of the sleek airliner’s nose. To the untrained eye, and from a distance, the 747 looked like any jet transport. But the white-and-blue paint scheme, bearing the words united states of America, gave away the fact that the plane was an official aircraft.
The military designation “VC-25A” was assigned to the plane, a specially equipped airframe that sported a Bendix Aerospace EFIS-10 electronic flight instrument system and state-of-the-art communications gear. The jet was crammed with defensive gear, navigation aids, and electronic countermeasures. The public knew the plane as “Air Force One,” although it was actually one of two aircraft; but today the plane bore the call sign “Air Force Two” in honor of the vice president’s presence on board.
Vice president Robert E. Adleman knew the significance of flying in the 747, rather than the old C-137Cs that were still kept as backups: President Longmire was too ill to travel, and his staff was certain that the President wouldn’t need the plane.
A crew of twenty-three Air Force personnel and Navy stewards filled the plane, ranging from the pilot to the officer who carried a back-up “football.” With Long-mire’s illness, the woman who carried the “football” was effectively ensuring that if anything happened to the President a smooth transition of power would occur, and Adleman would have instant access to the top-secret nuclear-keying materials in the briefcase.
The presence of that young officer gave Robert Adleman a nagging sense of doubt. Lieutenant Colonel Merke was pretty enough — short-cropped red hair, striking green eyes, and a figure that wouldn’t quit — but her serious nature underscored the seriousness of the trip.
A ream of papers covered the table in front of his plush seat; Dubois, one of the Secret Service men, scooped the documents up, keeping the papers in a semblance of order.
Once the table was free of clutter and Adleman could see the tabletop, the engraved Presidential seal seemed to beckon out to him. There were changes coming to his life, and he’d have to make some adjustments. Adleman leaned back and closed his eyes. Things are going to change.
It was so early that the bar girls were not in the streets. A few merchants shuffled under loads of fresh food, brought in from the countryside for the markets; cleaning crews left the all-night bowery; and a few store owners catered to the early-morning crowd. Even the jeepneys were sparse on the street.
Cervante pulled into a parking lot at the rear of a small motel. The jeepney he drove did not seem out of place — a wild paint scheme, fuzzy balls hanging from the top. But a closer look inside the elongated jeep would have revealed several boxes lashed to the front part of the passenger compartment. If anyone tried to board the vehicle, Cervante was prepared to politely, but firmly, turn them away.
Where were they? He had been explicit in setting the time. Then he spotted three people walking toward him. They stepped over a pile of trash and moved quietly to the jeepney. Another came around from the front, as if he had been waiting separate from the others. Cervante made out Pompano’s features as those of the lone man.
Cervante started the vehicle and waited until the men were seated before he turned out of the parking lot. With the sparse traffic, they were leaving Angeles within minutes. The buildings grew fewer and were replaced with huts made of mud and straw. The road narrowed to two lanes; soon they passed rice paddies and saw no people at all. Cervante slowed and half turned in his seat so that he could speak while driving.
“We will be meeting the rest of the cell shortly. From there we will travel to our new base.”
Pompano leaned forward. “How long will that take?”
“Not more than a few hours. I have identified two old plantations that will serve us well — they are both isolated from the general population, yet centrally located with respect to the province. Either one will do much better than camping out in the mountains.”
Cervante glanced up at his rearview mirror; they appeared to be the only ones on the road. Soon, he knew, a steady stream of people from the outlying barrios would start their trek into the city, mostly laborers who worked on the U.S. base. By that time the Huks would be far away.
Rice paddies melted into the thickening jungle. A hand-painted sign advertising fresh fruit stood inconspicuously by the side of the road. Cervante slowed and marked off three-tenths of a mile on the odometer. He slowed to a crawl. Just visible on the right, through the thick foliage, were the bare markings of a dirt road.
Cervante turned onto the road and crept through the jungle for a mile. He tapped on the horn twice, then twice more before breaking into a clearing. Once he had stopped, a band of men quickly surrounded the jeepney. Cervante made a quick head count.
“Everyone is here. Quickly now — I want us to be in place to strike before nightfall. Make sure that your weapons are well hidden, underneath the seats and covered. You two”—he pointed the men out—“drive ahead of the truck. The rest of you follow. If PCs stop us, make sure none survive. Hurry. Ziggy now.” He turned to Pompano. “I want you to drive the truck, my friend. The others will ensure that you are well covered.”
Pompano walked with Cervante toward the jungle. As they drew close, the outline of a two-and-a-half-ton truck appeared. Pompano narrowed his eyes at Cervante.
“You wanted me to come with you simply to drive this truck?”
Cervante placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “If you are stopped by the PC, they will hesitate before bothering you. That hesitation will give us the edge to attack and destroy them — a younger man would only draw their attention to him. Or would you rather ride with the others and have to do the killing?”
Pompano breathed through his nose and stared at the ground.
Cervante knew that he had struck a nerve. The older man had always shown a dislike for violence, while actively supporting the Huk’s goals.
Pompano spoke in a low voice. “We are wasting time. I will drive.”
“First Lieutenant Edward Holstrom?”
“Call me ‘Catman’—my call sign. I haven’t gone by ‘Ed’ for a long time.” Catman plopped down in the chair offered him and looked around the office. Robin was waiting outside, ready to blast off for downtown. Catman glanced at his watch, feeling his time was being wasted. He sat in a typical government office — barf-brown paint on the walls, broken up by lime-green lines used for decorations. He never could understand why the non-rated pukes — non-pilots — would go to such lengths to exhibit their poor taste.