As he approached, the store was less exotic in the daytime. It looked like an old county store — the type that would sell anything from individual nails to a piece of fried chicken. The long, low counter stretched completely across the back. And as before, a soprano voice trilled along with a popular song playing over the radio. The girl entered the room.
Bruce blinked and drew in a breath. She was beautiful.
She didn’t have the features, or the relative short height, that were typical of the Filipino. If Bruce had seen her back in the States he would have been mystified as to her background. The long black hair and deep brown eyes combined with her soft, full features to give her an exotic air.…
She lowered her eyes. “May I help you?”
“Uh, yeah. I was here the other night — Friday?” No response. “I got some gum, and well, I guess I ate it all and don’t have any more.…” he finished lamely.
She turned to the shelf behind her and spoke with her back to him. “The same type?”
“Sure.”
She turned and pushed two packs across the counter, brushing back a strand of hair. “Two peso.”
Bruce dug out two bills. “Thanks.”
“You are welcome.” She flicked her eyes up at him, then lowered them, but this time shyly.
Bruce opened the pack and held it out to her. “Care for a piece?”
Silence. Then, “Thank you.”
They chewed in silence for a moment. He tried to make conversation. “Do you get much business, next to the market?”
“Some.”
“Many Americans?”
“No.”
“I guess this is pretty much out of the way for most of them.”
“Yes.”
This is crazy, thought Bruce. The women here either try to drag you into bed or they won’t talk to you. He ran a hand through the back of his hair. She seemed willing to talk, but things just weren’t going anywhere. And he desperately wanted for her to raise her head so he could see her face.
Bruce leaned against the counter. “I arrived in the Philippines last week.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Flew in right over Angeles. It took most of two straight days to get here.”
“How do you like my country?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Oh? How did you find out so quickly?”
“My father lives at Subic — I, ah, visited him today, and drove through the countryside.”
She brightened. “Did you get a chance to stop in any of the barrios?”
Bruce remembered the roadblocks and the men asking for “donations.” “Yeah, but not for long.”
“The barrios can be so beautiful. My father says they used to be better. Where do you come from in America?”
Bruce was surprised to find himself droning on, expounding on the various places he had lived as a Navy brat — Virginia Beach, San Diego — and all the bases he had lived on after entering the Air Force. She seemed fascinated by his knowledge of geography, and never once raised the issue of what he did now.
When customers entered the store, she ignored Bruce until they left, then resumed the conversation quickly.
He tried to peg an age on her and kept coming up with twenty — more mature than a teenager, but without the cynicism of someone older.
Bruce opened another stick of gum. “I’m sorry — I never introduced myself. I’m Bruce Steele.”
“Yolanda Sicat.” She didn’t offer her hand, but half bowed her head. Bruce followed suit.
He rubbed a hand across his face. The thickness of his five-o’clock shadow surprised him. “Say, Yolanda — I really need to get back to the base. I have to attend a survival course during the next two weeks.” He softened his voice. “Is there any way I could interest you in having dinner tonight?”
She smiled. “I am sorry. I must stay and watch the store.” Bruce must have looked crestfallen, for she said quickly, “Maybe after you return, Bruce Steele.”
Bruce smiled wanly. “You won’t forget?”
She laughed. “The gum-buying American? Oh, no.”
He said gently, “Two weeks, Yolanda Sicat — I shall return,” and turned to leave.
The sky drizzled a light rain, never quite breaking to a heavy downpour. The weather was well worth the trouble — certainly it would have been harder to obtain the weapons, ammunition, and that high-power microwave weapon if the day had been clear and dry; in bad weather people tended to think of themselves, and to move away from external irritations.
Today, Cervante hoped that the trouble of getting drenched would yield them yet another prize.
They stood at the edge of a clearing in the jungle. Cervante had directed the men to abandon the jeepneys and truck, hiding the vehicles in the dense foliage a full two miles from the clearing; unnatural sounds travel far in the jungle.
Two and a half hours of travel through the undergrowth had brought the cadre of Huks to the clearing.
Unlike the ambush of the Philippine Constabulary convoy, where the Huks had to get away as fast as they could, Cervante fully meant to stay and use the remote plantation as a base. He had reconnoitered the location in detail, but he still didn’t have a clear picture of the house’s defenses.
The large, airy house sat a quarter mile away in the center of the clearing. They were almost directly behind the house, a hundred and eighty degrees from where the road came out of the jungle. Elevated off the ground by several pillars of thick red bricks, the plantation house had plenty of room for air to circulate underneath. It reminded Cervante of a barn.
Several Nipa huts sat around the house, all showing few signs of use. A children’s playground sat next to the house. Clotheslines crossed the play area, and a large dirt region the size of a soccer field ran out to the jungle. To Cervante it looked like it had once served as a holding area for crops.
Cervante motioned to the man beside him, making a large circle with his hand. The man nodded, then crept off through the jungle to the front of the house. The minutes passed. No one came out of the house, but Cervante saw shadows sweeping by windows and heard random sounds.
The sky grew dark. Cervante began to feel impatient; he knew that it would be a lot easier to take the house during the day. The drizzle kept up, soaking the already waterlogged men.
Cervante caught a glimpse of movement from the other side of the house. The Huks had reached the front. Cervante knew that the rest of the men would be watching his position, waiting for his cue. He didn’t use an animal call to notify them. Instead, he moved to the perimeter of the clearing. Nothing came from the house.
Cervante fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a revolver; he pushed the gun firmly under his belt, crouched, and sprinted toward the nearest storage hut. He crossed the wet grass without effort, carrying his rifle in one hand. Still nothing from the house.
He waved his men to follow. Six Huks ran from the jungle, appearing from nowhere in the late afternoon drizzle. The other two-thirds remained in the jungle, covering their movement and allowing a path for escape in case something went wrong. The tactics had been gleaned from Kawnlo’s teachings, but retailored for the jungle instead of the brown North Korean hills. Cervante caught the smell of hot food wafting from the house.
He crept forward in a crouch and shifted the rifle so that he held it in both hands, the safety off and ready to fire.
A loud snap caused him to twirl. One of the Huks moved off to the left and pointed to a branch on the ground. Cervante angrily motioned for the man to keep it quiet, then sped to the corner of the house, keeping clear of the windows. Moments later his men joined him, breathing quietly through their noses. Cervante quickly checked them over — he made sure their safeties were off, their spare ammunition ready.