Ground control cleared them directly for the runway. Although Air Force Two wasn’t due into Clark for another hour, the place was already closing out flight windows and giving the vice president’s plane “clear skies.”
Bruce clicked his mike. “Tower, Escort One. Request permission to take off.”
“Permission granted, Escort One. Skies are clear to thirty thousand.”
“Rog. Got that Skipper?”
Two clicks affirmed that Skipper was primed.
Bruce didn’t ask Charlie if he was ready — he simply slammed the throttles to full forward. The F-15E Strike Eagle seemed to leap forward as the afterburners lit — over fifty thousand pounds of thrust generated by the Pratt & Whitney engines.
They rolled down the slick runway, gaining speed every second.
Bruce watched the airspeed indicator, counting to himself as they passed through one hundred knots, one twenty-five, one fifty. The plane felt like it wanted to reach up and claw into the sky. Bruce kept the nose down.
Charlie’s voice came over the intercom. “Ah, rotate, Assassin.”
Bruce still kept the stick forward. As Charlie started to speak again, Bruce yanked back on the stick.
The F-15 slipped into the air. Bruce kept the nose rotating back until they were pointed straight up. If Blackman can get away with it, there’s nothing stopping me, thought Bruce.
“Yowwee!” Charlie zinged out. “It’s going to be one of those days, Assassin.”
They quickly disappeared into the clouds. Bruce kept his eyes glued to the attitude indicator, ensuring that they kept climbing. Charlie reported the altitude in clipped tones.
As they continued to climb, the sky grew brighter.
Within seconds they broke through the heavy cloud layer. Bruce eased the nose over. The clouds extended to the horizon, fluffy, thick, and pure white. Bruce craned his neck around the cockpit. Seconds later Skipper popped up behind him. Bruce clicked his mike.
“Loose trail, two.”
“Rog.”
Bruce flipped down the shades on his helmet so that the polarized lens cut out most of the glare. They continued to climb, but at a more gradual rate.
The two fighters were alone, nothing around for a hundred miles.
Bruce clicked his mike. “Got me a heading for intercept?”
Charlie came back immediately. “Air Traffic Control confirms heading three-two, five hundred miles out.”
“Let’s greet the Veep.”
“Rog.”
Bruce slammed a quick roll to the right, rotating the F-15 quickly around its axis. Now he was starting to feel human again.
Cervante threw a half-smoked cigarette at the floor. “Booto! At least give me the name of your black market contact!”
It took a full minute for Pompano to slowly scribble a name on a sheet of paper.
Cervante ground out the cigarette and grabbed at the paper. “This is the phone number?”
“Yes.”
Cervante pocketed the paper and paced up and down the length of the sari-sari store. Moments before he had locked the door, shielding them from any potential customers.
Cervante tried to hold in his rage, but did not succeed. Even Pompano’s gesture of supplying him with the black market contact did nothing to defuse his anger.
To control his emotions, direct his anger, and thus bridle his energy, was a basic axiom of Kawnlo’s. But the wrath that Cervante felt could not be contained. Not when this, this … old man sitting across the counter could be so blasé, so indifferent about quitting.
Cervante turned to Pompano. Maybe he could reason with the fool. “When do you plan to leave?”
“I have already put the sari-sari store up for sale. Today we are packing. On Monday, we will drive to Manila and find a place to stay.”
“What if you do not sell the store?”
Pompano shrugged. “Someone will buy it, if not as a store, then for storage space.”
Cervante stopped pacing. He leaned against the counter and stared at Pompano. “But why are you quitting? We have done so much — the plantation is a secure base, the high-power microwave weapon is working … we are just beginning to do all that we planned. Why pull out now?”
Pompano sighed and slowly rose from his stool. He shuffled over to a shelf and picked up a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and offered it to Cervante; the Huk refused. “I told you, I am old, tired. You just said that you have succeeded in doing everything you set out to do.”
“Except drive out the Americans, start a new beginning!”
“Yes, yes.” Pompano waved smoke away from his face and sat down stiffly.
“I cannot believe this! There must be another reason.” Cervante thought for a moment. “What has your daughter done to make this happen so fast?”
Pompano looked puzzled. “What?”
“Your daughter. Everything you do revolves around her — and you tell me that because you are tired you want to move? What about your dreams?”
“Those are for the young men, Cervante, not for me.” Pompano drew on his cigarette and was silent for a moment. “I have accomplished all I set out to do by laying the foundation for harassing the Americans. But now my daughter has reached a new plateau in her life, and I must move to help her.” He stopped at a noise from the back room.
“Father?”
Cervante scowled. He threw out an arm. “Your little one is calling, old man. Run to her.” He crossed his arms.
“Father, why is the front door locked?” Yolanda appeared in the doorway. She drew a hand up to her mouth at the sight of Cervante. “Oh.” She lowered her eyes. “I am sorry.” She turned to leave, but Cervante called out.
“Wait, little one,” he said sarcastically.
“Father?” Yolanda glanced at Pompano, then narrowed her eyes at Cervante.
“Go to the back,” said Pompano harshly.
“No, wait.” Cervante slammed a hand on the counter. Pompano tightened his mouth. Cervante lowered his voice. “Yolanda, your father wants to sell the sari-sari store. What do you know about this?”
“I … I …” she glanced at her father. Pompano nodded stiffly. Yolanda continued. “We are moving to Manila. We will get a very good price for this store. That is all. Why do you want to know?”
Cervante’s brows went up. The girl seemed forward, impudent. Cervante forced a smile. He relaxed and spoke soothingly. “This move seems so sudden. I want to know why your father made such a hasty decision.”
Pompano interrupted. “You do not have to answer, Yolanda. Quickly, go back and—”
Cervante held up a hand. “No. Wait.”
Yolanda looked at her father, then drew herself up. “I know about your organization, Cervante. My father explained it all to me. I know about the Huks.”
Cervante looked alarmed. “You told her?!”
Pompano answered wearily. “Let her finish.”
Yolanda’s chin jutted out defiantly. “If my father chose to help the Huks, then he has to answer to no one. But that is not the reason why we are leaving.” She turned to the old man. Her face was flushed, as if she was proud of what she was about to say. “Father, this morning I told Bruce Steele that we are leaving. He is now out of my life. I will never see him again.”
Cervante narrowed his eyes; he spoke slowly. “Who is this Bruce Steele — an American?”
“Yes. A pilot, and a very important man. He was picked to escort the vice president of the United States onto the base this morning.”
Cervante’s eyes grew wide. “The vice president? The news said that he was flying into Manila.”