“Yes. And mine.”
He was silent. “Yours…?”
“And mine,” said Yolanda firmly.
“Are you sure about this? Is this what you really want?” Yolanda nodded stiffly. Bruce grasped her lightly by the shoulders. “Yolanda, look at me — tell me this is what you want.”
She hesitated. “This is what I want.”
“And us?”
“With us, it cannot be.”
Bruce dropped his eyes and smiled bleakly. He rubbed her shoulders, halfheartedly it seemed. “If you’re sure that’s what you want. I just can’t believe that you would change your mind so fast. And … what about your father forcing you? He seemed so hostile, it’s hard for me to believe this decision is what you want.”
Yolanda bit her lip. Bruce was right, but she knew it was her decision — she could go against her father if she wished, but there were too many dreams, too much time invested in what she really wanted.
For if she went against her lifelong desires and kept on with Bruce, would she not, as Bruce’s father had implied, be following Bruce only to get back to the United States?
“Hey, Assassin!”
“Just a minute!” Bruce returned hotly. Then to her, “I’ve got to get going.” He sounded defeated.
Yolanda spoke softly. “My … my father is not angry at you, Bruce Steele. He does not even know you.” She was at a loss for words. “My father is a member of an, an anti-American group, the Huks, an organization of … patriots. It is not important why this is so.” She closed her eyes, remembering Pompano’s hushed voice as he told about her mother’s being brutally raped. “But his anger is against all Americans, not you in particular. You are a fine man, Bruce Steele, and I do not want to hurt you.
“Your friend, Ed Holstrom, thinks very highly of you. He told me that you were personally chosen to escort the vice president of your country. You have many such friends. And what I have seen, and from what you have told me about your way of life, it truly is amazing … but, it is not for me.”
Bruce stood silent, his mouth set.
A voice came from outside the room. “Assassin—get your ass out here!”
Yolanda put a hand on Bruce’s chest. “I wish you the best, Bruce Steele.”
Bruce smiled tightly. When he spoke, his voice just about cracked. “Time to kick the tires and light the fires, then.” He reached out and lightly touched her cheek. “Thanks …. I guess.” He strode away.
Yolanda turned and watched him move to the table in the center of the room.
A bald, bullet-headed man stuck his head into the room. He growled at Bruce. “It’s about time, Romeo. Charlie’s out there keeping the van warm for you. Get a move on.”
Bruce lifted a dark brown bag and swung it over his shoulder. When he reached the door he hesitated, then walked quickly out of sight without looking back.
Chapter 16
“Mr. Vice President, we’re a little more than an hour and a half from Clark. Just to let you know, there’s severe weather at the base. Visibility is down to less than a quarter mile, and the cloud ceiling has descended to less than three hundred feet.”
Robert Adleman leaned forward to the intercom on his desk. He was rarely interrupted for a weather report in-flight, unless conditions were really bad. From what Colonel Wingate, the pilot of the modified 747, was saying, it didn’t sound good.
Adleman spoke into the intercom. “You’re the expert, James. What’s your call — divert?”
“No, sir. Clark’s got the best all-weather capability, as well as micro-burst diagnostics. From what tower says, it’s just a heavy rainfall with extremely low visibility. If we’re heading for the Philippines, Clark is where we want to go.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Colonel Wingate came right back. “The weather is right at the edge of our allowable limits. It’ll be rough going in, but I just thought I’d let you know what you’d be landing in.”
Adleman drummed on the desk. Spread out in front of him were the latest agreements and negotiation points on the P.I. Treaty, e-mailed via secure channels to Air Force Two not fifteen minutes before. From what Adleman had deciphered, a treaty for all the American bases was imminent. The only holdup was a Filipino request to immediately release back to the Filipinos John Hay Air Station, a “resort” base high in the Philippine mountains. The base was innocuous, nothing to be lost if it were decommissioned — and it would be a huge public relations benefit if it were turned over. Still, the American team was insisting that it was part of the entire base structure.
Adleman didn’t see anything wrong with the Filipinos’ request. This was what President Longmire had wanted him to do — break the stalemate, complete the treaty, show that he was capable of international politicking.
Adleman lounged back in his chair. “How soon before the weather breaks?”
Colonel Wingate said, “Can’t say. At least twenty-four hours.”
Twenty four hours I can’t afford, thought Adleman. Not with Longmire’s condition the way it is. “Okay, let’s get to Clark. I’ve ridden in thunderstorms before.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Vice President.”
Adleman studied the papers strewn out on the desk in front of him. Just what Longmire wanted to happen, he thought. A sudden thought hit him — what if this stalemate had been dreamed up by Secretary of State Acht, a preprogrammed path Acht was leading him down to ensure a smooth transition by the public? It smacked of something artificial, and Adleman didn’t like the behind-the-scenes implications.
Adleman brushed the thought aside. No matter, for if push came to shove that’s one nice prerogative of any President — he decides who his cabinet members will be.
Bruce was livid on the way out to the flight line. Charlie kept quiet, not speaking — and it was a good thing. Bruce just might have torn off Charlie’s head.
The weather looked about as bright as his life right now. Which gave him even more of an incentive to rise above the clouds, high above the earth, where the sun would lighten things up. Skipper and Panther kept to themselves.
A figure came into view, sloughing through the water. The man wore an olive-green poncho and looked like a creature that had crawled from a swamp. He stomped up to the van and poked his head inside.
“Assassin?”
Mooselips looked like an entirely different person without his white T-shirt.
“Yeah.”
“She’s ready to go. Had a small problem with the avionics, but we got that replaced an hour ago. Anytime you ladies and gentlemen are ready, we’re standing by for you to crank up the auxiliary power units.”
“Let’s do it.” Bruce grabbed his flight bag. Skipper stood. Bruce said to the driver of the van, “Any way to get us closer to the aircraft?”
The Filipino driver slapped his knee and grinned. “Sorry — you know rules.”
“Yeah,” muttered Charlie, “written by a bunch of staff weenies who never had to fly in weather.”
Bruce clicked the mike. “Ready?”
“Check complete.”
“Crank it.” Bruce pointed at Mooselips, just visible through the rain. The crew chief cupped his hands and yelled something to the man kneeling by the plane. Seconds later, a whine came through the canopy.
“Pressure, good. Fuel, good. Differential GPS?”
“Up,” said Charlie.
“Let’s get out of here.” Bruce waved at Mooselips. He and the other enlisted man scrambled around to the front of the F-15E and removed the wheel blocks. When Mooselips appeared at the front of the craft, he snapped to attention and threw Bruce a salute. Bruce returned it and pushed forward on the throttles. Skipper’s fighter followed at his wing.