“I’m going to air conditioning.”
Charlie and Nanette rolled up their windows, and all of a sudden they seemed to be in a different world.
Bruce directed his voice to the back without turning around. “I hate air conditioners. It’s like giving into the environment.”
“It kills Bruce even to go to oxygen when we’re flying,” said Charlie.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” retorted Bruce. “After all those cold winters in Colorado, I can’t get enough of warm weather. And resorting to air conditioning seems to be the wimp’s way out.”
Nanette thought for a moment. “Man against Nature, the most basic conflict and the lowest rung in Maslow’s hierarchy. Applying that to Bruce’s reluctance for air conditioning sounds like a good thesis topic, Charlie.”
Bruce’s eyes widened. Looking through the rear-view mirror, he couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. Maybe Charlie had found his match.
Bruce concentrated on finding the downtown open-air market and tuned Nanette and Charlie out. As far as he could tell, they were still discussing micro-evolution in action when he turned onto Yolanda’s street. He drove slowly past the market, avoiding the people that spilled out into the street. With the air conditioner on, it was if he were viewing the scene from inside a room, with pictures of the Filipino culture racing across the windows, projected in from some hidden movie camera.
He pulled up next to the sari-sari store and stopped. “Be right back.” He left the engine running, air conditioner on. Stepping from the car, the heat hit him full blast. That’s another reason for using the air conditioner, he thought.
Chairs sat upside down on the tables, as if the store were closed. When Bruce tried the screen door, it was locked. He peered through the wire mesh. Nothing. “Yolanda? It’s Bruce.” Still nothing. Bruce tried the door again.
Rattling the door, he heard the sound of water running from inside. “Yolanda?”
“Bruce — wait, please.”
He relaxed and let go of the door.
Yolanda backed out of the sari-sari store and drew shut the inner door behind her, locking it. The screen slammed against the door frame.
“Hello.” She turned, wearing a colorful blouse, long, dark skirt and sandals.
“Hi,” said Bruce. He hesitated, then nodded to the car. “Ready?”
She brushed her hair back and smiled. “Yes.” That single word embodied all the answer he was looking for, the innocence, the un-jaded anticipation of a new relationship. Bruce pushed aside his fears and smiled. He was finally ready to go, to introduce his father to his friends and start his life over again. He was ready for a fresh start.
The mountains were magnificent at this time of the year. Flowers sent their fragrant scent wafting down the grassy ski slopes; even in mid-summer, hidden pockets of snow still hid from winter’s last great freeze; and icy blue lakes seemed on the verge of freezing.
General David Newman reveled in the mountains of his home state. Although he had always felt that summer was the best time to visit the mountains, he loved to ski, and usually brought his family back to Colorado at least once in the winter to race the downhill slopes. He put up with the crowds once a year to get his skiing fix, but it was the summers that revitalized him, gave him a new birth, and a new faith in being the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The quiet and solitude that surrounded Steamboat Springs felt somewhat artificial, for all the beauty of soaring peaks and jutting mountains. Even that distant hawk, lazily circling on the thermals, perhaps had some sense of the technology bubbling all around it. As remote as General Newman was, he was still in near instant contact with the rest of the world. And although he tried to slow down on his “vacations,” he had learned two years ago that he could never really have a true vacation.
A quietly efficient young man stepped up to the general. A wire ran from an earplug in his ear to a small radio fastened to his belt. He spoke in a low tone. “General, an urgent call on the STE.”
Newman nodded and made for the lodge. Swept for bugs by the Air Force Office of Investigation not an hour before he had arrived for vacation, a small command post had been established one door down from Newman’s suite.
The conversation went quickly. As he hung up the classified phone, Newman closed his eyes and shook his head. When it rains, it pours, he thought. He had not been told the reason, but that was not unusual — political decisions are presented to military men as faits accomplis, not explained.
Vice President Adleman’s decision to change his plans and fly directly into Clark would require the scheduling of the entire Thirteenth Air Force’s operational readiness around a single plane, but that was only a small part of the picture. The Thirteenth was “Blackman” Simone’s outfit. Simone was a competent fighter pilot and could match any military man in a fight, but as far as being politically savvy … Simone would rather tell the vice president to go to hell than to have the Veep interfere with the launching of his jets. He had voiced his opinions in the past about the politicians wasting his time, and Newman was sure this scenario wouldn’t be any different.
Newman decided to bypass Pacific Air Force Headquarters and go directly to the problem; he’d get back to PACAF later. He opened his eyes and said to his aide, “Get me Thirteenth Air Force on the line.”
Moments later, he finished exchanging pleasantries with Major General Simone. “Blackman, I need a favor.”
“Name it. Coming out here for a shopping trip?”
“I’m serious. Remember I saved your butt from that Academy investigation.”
“You say it, you got it, sir.”
Newman nodded to himself. “Good. This is important. I need somebody hot, one of your best boys or gals who will make a good impression and won’t screw up.”
“Pilot?”
“Of course.”
Silence, then, “I’ve got just the man for you — a shit-hot stick, too. Won the Risner Trophy as a butter bar.”
“Great. There’s a plane he needs to escort into Clark, and after they land he needs to stick like glue to this VIP. Be an escort officer, show the VIP around.”
“No problem. We normally use one of our hot young officers for this kind of duty; it impresses the hell out of VIPs to see someone that young be so sharp. What’s up?”
Newman took a deep breath and settled back in his chair. “Are you sitting down?”
Bruce had gotten lost only once on the trip down from Clark. They had intended to stop in a barrio housing some of Yolanda’s distant relatives, but in the years since she had last visited them Yolanda had forgotten her directions.
Instead of visiting the barrio the foursome stopped by a roadside shack and splurged on lumpia, topped off with what seemed to be a gallon of pop. They groaned all the way to the outskirts of Olongapo.
Yolanda opened up and joined in the conversation. As he drove, Bruce studied her out of the corner of his eye. Her shy smiles turned to laughter, and she held her hand over her mouth as her sparkling, dark eyes took in the banter.
Bruce consulted a sheet of paper and turned down a long row of apartments. The city of Olongapo straddled the barrio, both of which surrounded Subic. The base traffic had tapered off when they turned for the barrio, and with the absence of the American military presence there seemed to be a remarkable increase in affluence and a decrease in the seediness. Bruce kept quiet about the observation, not wanting to embarrass Yolanda.
He stopped at a corner and scanned both directions.