Catman called from across the clearing; he sounded alarmed. “Hey, what’s going on? Robin, are you all right?”
Robin lifted a hand.
“Robin?!”
Robin’s fingers slowly spread out into a modified v — and then it hit Bruce that it was the Vulcan greeting sign, from the Star Trek series.
“Live long and prosper,” said Robin in a low, deadpan voice.
Bruce sputtered, then lost control. The men and women rolled on the ground, laughing.
“What the hell is going on?” Catman ran for the crowd.
As he wiped a tear from his eye, Bruce realized that Catman would never understand.
“How ya doin’, Son?” Major General Peter Simone slapped the squadron duty desk as he walked by.
It took Major Brad Dubois three seconds to realize that the two-star Commander of Thirteenth Air Force had just walked into the squadron area.
“Squadron, atten’ hut!”
“Down, sit down, Son.” Simone gazed around the room.
Major Dubois wavered slightly as he stood. “Uh, how do you do, sir. I mean General, sir.”
“Down, dammit. I said sit down, Son.” Simone waved the bald-headed man down. The general glanced at the desk: the major had a paperback book open, but other than that the long desk was absolutely uncluttered. Simone frowned. He had always believed that an empty desk denoted an empty mind. Either the man had too little to do or he was kissing things off.
Simone’s aide walked briskly into the room. “There you are, sir. I thought I lost you.”
Simone pointed at the whiteboard behind Dubois’s head. “Okay, where’s our firecracker, Stephanie? When’s the next time he’s going to rocket?”
Major Stephanie Hendhold squinted up at the board. Dubois started to open his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it and clamped it shut instead. Hendhold read slowly.
“Maddog Four, sir. The next sortie is scheduled for a week from tomorrow.”
“That long? Has Bolte got them out house-hunting or something?”
“Survival School, sir. Wing policy changed to have the men go through it the first week they’re on station — it acclimates them faster, and prepares them if they have to punch out when they first arrive.”
“I don’t know if I agree with that, but it’s Bolte’s Wing, not mine.” Simone placed an elbow on Major Dubois’s desk. “Can you arrange my flight, Son?”
“Sir?”
“What the hell do you think I came down here for, a party? Any problem with that?”
“No problem, sir!” Dubois didn’t have the faintest clue what he was to do.
“Good.” Simone slapped the desk. “I’m about to go stir-crazy cooped up at that desk. If I don’t get a flight in soon I’m going to pop.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll see Lieutenant Steele next week, then. Glad to meet you, Major. Catch you on the rebound.”
Cervante watched through a screen window as a last shovelful of dirt was thrown on the grave. Pompano had insisted that the graves be a full six feet deep and as far away from the house as possible.
Pompano was turning out to be very useful. Although he had not participated in the raid, the old man had not stepped away from lugging his share of the weapons and ammunition into the plantation. Besides directing the grave-digging, Pompano was proving to be very efficient in setting up a schedule for the work.
At first Cervante had been taken back by the older man’s efficiency, the attention to detail with which Pompano ran the encampment, but it was precisely that deed that brought Cervante to a sudden realization: The military maneuvers were completely distinct from the homemaking. Cervante was unequaled in the guerrilla warfare, yet he knew nothing of setting up schedules and the practical matter that it took to run a house — Pompano could draw on his many years of practical experience running a store.
So Cervante had appointed the old man to take charge of the basing aspects, which left him even more time to prepare the other raids.
Cervante inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. The men, having finished their work on the graves, walked back to the house, laughing and wiping their hands on their pants. The days were much cooler in the mountains. And although it rained more up here than down in the central valley, the humidity was more bearable.
He turned to a set of plans that Pompano had drawn up. Demonstrating his efficiency once again, the old man had taken a yardstick to every room in the plantation and put the measurements down on paper. The house measured over seven thousand square feet. The items Pompano had found in the bedrooms and throughout the house indicated that the people they had just buried were long-term inhabitants.
Pompano had uncovered a Christmas potpourri, along with some family heirlooms: old baby furniture and photo albums. The find had satisfied Cervante — he did not have to worry about the owners coming and taking the Huks by surprise. Whoever the people had been, they had intended to be here permanently.
The dirt road leading to the plantation wound over ten miles off the main highway from Tarlac. The road narrowed to one lane for most of the journey. Thick jungle started to encroach onto the compressed dirt, and a canopy of foliage covered the middle section.
Cervante discovered that the plantation had once been a small staging area for the harvest of the sugar cane crop that stretched up through the Tarlac region. Unlike the sprawling company-owned abodes that dotted the island of Luzon, this house had been privately owned and, it appeared, recently sold to the young couple.
Scores of young couples had moved out from the cities, out to the simpler lifestyle of the country. These people may well have been one of those. It was just unfortunate that they had chosen this particular spot, which had been too centrally located to pass up. But it would have been too easy for them to go to the authorities if they had been allowed to live.
The main matter was that Cervante’s Huk cell now had a permanent staging area, a base from which to operate. No longer would they have to ferry their weapons from one safe house to another. This base could very well become the dominant spot on this part of the island. With this revelation, Cervante decided to take advantage of Pompano’s common-sense approach. He met the men and singled out Pompano.
“I want to ensure that the road to the house is well protected.”
Pompano allowed the men to move on before answering. His clothes smelled of damp dirt.
“What do you mean well protected?”
“I want to be able to stop an ambush — or if that is not practical, to give us enough warning that we will have time to escape.”
Pompano leaned against his shovel. “So, you already have doubts about your assault-proof hiding place?”
Cervante narrowed his eyes.
“I do not have doubts — I am being practical. Even with a house full of supplies and no reason to leave, we will still have to send men out to get us food. If there is only one way into the plantation, then for a high enough fee, one of our freedom fighters might decide to sell out to the highest bidder.”
“You do not trust your own men?” Pompano seemed to be mocking him.
“No one can afford to trust anyone completely.” Cervante stared hard.
Pompano spoke softly. “There has to come a time when even you must depend on someone, my friend.”
“Until we bring about the new order, there can never be a time.” Cervante suddenly laughed. He reached down to his sock and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Pompano and the two lit up. “I am starting to sound like the PC — a threat behind every bush, so they must lock up all the people.”