“I’ll let my friends do that — it’s not my style.”
“Obviously.”
He smiled. “I still don’t know who you are.”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” Charlie hesitated. “Unless you’re married.”
She sputtered. “No, no, no!”
“Okay, then. Tell me something about yourself. Uh, where you went to school.”
“I’m a senior at Stanford. My major is history, with a minor in music. I’m visiting my parents while on summer break, and I work part time at the Nipa Import Hut. I’m half-French, and I love the outdoors.” She stopped and popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “That’s it for now. Your turn.”
So that explains it, thought Charlie. “Well, I majored in history, too, but Auburn was some time ago. My father was a college professor, so I’ve always hung around that type of crowd. Like I said yesterday, I’m not a pilot — I’m a weapons systems officer in an F-15 Eagle and have been at Clark since Friday.”
“That’s pretty succinct.”
Charlie grinned. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
“So what’s a guy like you staying around in the Air Force for? I thought they had a hard time keeping WSO’s around, especially good ones.”
“They do.” From the way she used the Weapons Systems Officer abbreviation, Charlie knew that someone in her family had to be knowledgeable as to what WSOs do.
“Don’t you want to go to pilot training?”
Charlie was quiet for a moment. “I did once. But when I joined the Air Force they were restricting the number of pilot slots. I was told that if I became a WSO, I’d have a chance to go to pilot training.”
“So what happened?”
“If you’re good, people are reluctant to move you. One day, when I’d finally had enough and tried to force the Air Force’s hand, I was told I was too old to go to pilot training.”
Nanette lifted an eyebrow. “You?”
“Twenty-eight is the limit — and I turn the big three-oh this December. Does it shock you, now that you know I’m an old man?”
“Twenty nine’s not old.”
“Thanks.” He took another bite of bread and a moment passed. He leaned back on an elbow and studied her. “You know, I’ve never caught your whole name.”
She smiled slyly. “Too much information can burn you out — sensory overload.”
“If I want to give you a call?”
“Nanette at the Nipa Hut will do.”
“Then Charlie at the 3rd TFW for me.” The stadium lights went off just as a low rumble was emitted from the speakers — the opening strains to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
As they stood, Charlie could have sworn that Nanette’s lips had drawn tight at the mention of the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing.
Chapter 9
Bruce popped a piece of gum into his mouth. The sergeant standing in front of him reminded him of his vision of Air Force Academy upperclassmen on his first day: large, intimidating, and illiterate.
Sixteen men and women sat in a two-layered semicircle around the sergeant. The eight officers of Maddog Flight were in the back and eight enlisted troops were in the front. The briefing room was small, and curtains muffled any sounds. Other than the chairs they sat on, an exit sign above the door on the front right was the only fixture in the room.
Dressed in a white T-shirt, “BDUs”—camouflaged Battle Dress Uniforms — spit-shined boots and a baseball cap, the sergeant strode up and down in front of the group. White hair stuck out from beneath the cap, a deep tan covered his arms, and there was no sign of fat on his belly.
He didn’t look happy.
“All right, listen up. I’m Chief Master Sergeant Grune. This is my survival school. I’ve been running it for the past fifteen years and we haven’t lost anybody yet. So if you ladies and gentlemen out there”—he nodded to the officers sitting in the back row—“will kindly pay attention along with the enlisted men, we’ll get down to business.”
“This course is designed to familiarize you with the fine art of surviving in the jungle.” He paused. “Has anyone here not attended Fairchild or the Academy?” The references were to the Air Force survival school at Fairchild AFB, Washington, and the Air Force Academy’s school. No raised hands.
“Good. Every once in a while those bozos in personnel send me some young virgin who’s never been out in the woods. Since all of you are experts in eating bugs and surviving in the cold, let me tell you that the coldest it gets in the jungle is seventy-five degrees — if you’re lucky. You’re going to forget what you’ve learned and relearn new techniques. If you pay attention and demonstrate proficiency at your skills, the process will be easy. If you don’t,” he grinned wickedly, “We’ll give you some extra instruction.
“I will now introduce you to the backbone of our course and our head instructor. You will do what this man says.” He added softly, “And General Simone has assured me that our officers will comply also.”
Chief Master Sergeant Grune whirled and motioned to the exit. A body pushed through the curtains. Bruce envisioned some sort of Filipino Paul Bunyan, a real woodsman — leathery, large features, and not one to put up with any nonsense.
Out stepped a barefoot black man, not five feet tall.
He carried a long stick with feathers on one end that was almost as tall as he was. In his other hand he carried a cloth bag, which apparently contained a live creature. The front of his chest was decorated with some sort of white markings — soot? — and he appeared to have tiny stitches running up his side. It looked as though sequins had been laced into his body.
Thick, black, wooly hair stood out from his head. His eyes looked sad, and he stood quietly. The room seemed to be in shock.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Abuj Qyantrolo. He is a member of the Negrito tribe, and an expert in jungle survival. For the next two weeks you will do as he says.” Chief Grune looked thoughtful. “If there are any questions, I will be available during your break — sometime after your lunch, which Abuj is holding in his bag. Good day.” Grune strode from the room.
Catman leaned over and whispered, “I bet we’re going to wish we had bugs and grubs to eat.”
The Negrito blinked at the men. The room was dead quiet. Bruce could hear Charlie breathing next to him. Finally Abuj spoke.
“How do you do? Today, we learn the most important lesson in jungle: always drink water.” He paused. “Second most important lesson is always eat.” He rummaged in his bag. “First I show you, then you try.”
“Arrgg.” Robin screwed up his face. “I hate snakes.”
Bruce reached over and patted the bags of sugar he had sewed into his flight suit lining. It was going to be a long week.
Pompano stepped back and observed the television and the two radios set up outside the plantation house. An electrical wire ran from the equipment to the back of the house where the diesel generators were located. The Huks stood around the high-power microwave weapon in a semicircle. Cervante had insisted on testing the device, even before burying the bodies.
Pompano called to Barguyo: “Start the diesel engine.” He told the others to step back. The Huks shuffled behind the HPM device, slinging their rifles over their shoulders. A loud noise and a puff of smoke came from behind the house when Barguyo started the generator. Music warbled from the radios.