Pompano shrugged. “Of course.”
Cervante threw down his newly lit cigarette. The prospect of finally having this tool so close to the American base excited him. He felt like cranking the dish straight up, pointing toward the hole in the jungle above.
The distant sound of a jet only intensified the feeling.
It seemed as though the dream he had had over the past years was coming to a head, culminating, frothing to a finish. And all it required was “charging and pointing.” It almost seemed too easy.…
And it was.
Cervante realized that if he were to rush, hurry and set off the weapon, he might be tracked. The device would have to be used selectively — only against those targets that would produce the maximum effect.
Gaining access to a list of incoming aircraft should not prove difficult. Cervante smiled amicably at the old man in front of him.
“Perhaps we should not rush with this device. Can your sources obtain a list of incoming flights to the American base? Flights that, if irradiated, would give us maximum political leverage?”
Pompano looked surprised. “I do not see why not.”
“Good. Tomorrow afternoon will be a good time to return here.”
Pompano held up a hand. “I do not know if I can obtain anything for you by then.”
“But at least you should know if the information is forthcoming.” Cervante paused; he had allowed the man to keep his source, and now that Pompano played such an integral role the old man would be sure to come through. “Why don’t we test the device, to make sure it still works after the trip?” He looked around the clearing. Besides the high-power microwave weapon, two jeepneys and one truck were in the clearing. “Aim the device at the truck; it is the most expendable.”
Pompano shrugged and headed for the weapon. Cervante waved for the men to move the two jeepneys out of the way.
Moments later Pompano called out, “Ready!”
Cervante crossed his arms and nodded. The men were lined up behind the dish, now pointing almost horizontal, straight at the battered truck.
Pompano pushed a button. A sharp “pop” ricocheted throughout the clearing. Cervante frowned. Unlike the last test there had been no smoke, no explosion. The truck looked unscathed.
Cervante strode toward the truck. Looking inside, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pushed into the front seat and turned the ignition. Nothing. The engine didn’t even crank.
Pompano pushed his face up to the window. “Well?”
“It does not turn over.”
“What else did you expect?”
Cervante’s brows went up. “Is this it?”
“This is it.” Pompano was silent for a moment. He nodded to Cervante’s watch. “Have you checked that?”
Cervante glanced at his wristwatch. The electronic timepiece was completely blank. There was no sign that the liquid crystal display had ever worked.
And he had been standing behind the weapon.
Cervante smiled.
“What?!” Staff Sergeant Evette Whiltree pushed back her chair in the control tower. The wheeled chair slid across the waxed floor. She had an unobstructed view of the outside — four major runways, F-15s, F-22s, C-5s, C-130s, MH-60s, HH-3s, support vehicles, and almost anything else that the air base had to offer.
The control tower should have afforded her no surprises.
But the blip that appeared on her radar screen seemed to defy all those precautions.
It was as if someone had turned all the power off, then back on again within the blink of an eye.
And if that had happened — an abrupt power failure, for example — then her computerized systems would have undergone an immediate re-initialization sequence.
But whatever had happened, it wasn’t a power failure.
The rest of the control tower acted as if nothing had happened. Evette glanced around — no one else had noticed.
She glanced at her computerized screen. Nothing unusual.
She thought hard. She’d been on the rock now for nearly eighteen months. Another six months and she’d be heading back to the States, back to Travis AFB where she had been guaranteed an assignment. Northern California had it all over the P.I.
And she didn’t really want to jeopardize it by bringing up a questionable incident.
The longer she thought about it, the more it made sense. It had been her imagination.
She pushed back to her screen and donned her headphones.
Chapter 13
Bruce waited in the car as Charlie got out to get Nanette. Brilliant red-and-yellow flowers dotted the side of the yard, meticulously kept by the yard boy. Lush trees masked the house from direct sunlight. The house was one of thirty on “Senior Officers’ Row,” the private loop that housed all of Clark’s senior ranking officers. A sign by the door read: col bolte.
Bruce slouched in his seat and pulled his sunglasses down on his face. He scanned the house, but no one appeared. He knew it was crazy to try and hide— Colonel Bolte was most likely at Wing Headquarters — but the initial chewing out that Bruce had gotten the day they first arrived at Clark still stuck in his mind.
Charlie disappeared inside, and moments later came out with a slender blond. Her white shorts accented tanned legs. Bruce watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying not to appear interested.
He felt happy for his backseater. The poor guy had been searching for years for the right woman, never finding anyone with the right combination of looks and brains to satisfy him. He hoped this worked out for Charlie.
Bruce made a mental note to be on his best behavior. And with Yolanda coming along, that should not prove to be difficult.
Bruce twisted around as they got into the backseat. “Hi. I’m Bruce Steele.”
“Nanette,” she said, firmly returning his shake.
Bruce started the engine. “Charlie tells me we’ve already met.” He watched her through the rearview mirror.
She threw a glance at Charlie and smiled. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“I don’t; that’s why Charlie had to tell me.”
“A catcall across a swimming pool doesn’t qualify as a formal introduction, so I guess we really haven’t met.”
Bruce dug out a pack of gum. He held it up to the backseat. “Gum?”
“No thanks.”
He popped a piece in his mouth and concentrated on getting to the main gate. Traffic on base was not bad.
It had been a while since he had actually driven. His car had not yet arrived on the boat from the States — a corvette, his “cadet car,” that he had had at the USAF Academy. The rental car he was driving didn’t have nearly the pickup that he was used to. But it beat the heck out of waiting for taxis and riding the bus, especially for a double date.
As they approached the main gate, Bruce pulled over to the side. Parking the car, he said, “Be back in a moment.” He entered the base’s Visitors’ Center and applied for a visitor’s pass, using his identification card as credentials. After the airman pushed the pass to him, Bruce strode back to the car.
“What was that all about?” asked Charlie.
Bruce held up the visitor’s pass as he pulled back into traffic. “I don’t want Yolanda to have to go jumping through hoops if things work out and she wants to get on base.”
Once outside the main gate, he steeled himself for automotive culture shock. Jeepneys screeched precariously near, and pedestrians darted in and out of traffic. He kept one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. Blended with the traffic came a cacophony of noise and smells: honking horns, people yelling curses, odors of urine and stale beer, and the sound of music blaring from the bars outside the base. He rolled up his window.