“I was there myself when Bruce Steele flew out to meet him. He said that within two hours the vice president’s plane will land. But that is no matter to me. We are through, Father.”
Cervante grew excited. This information was much more valuable than anything he had ever dreamed of obtaining from Pompano. The old man had come through after all! This was a chance to disrupt the vice president’s plane! Or if they were lucky, maybe even cause the plane to crash!
He looked to Pompano; the old man’s head was down. Yolanda noticed her father’s condition and moved to him. She put an arm around his shoulder.
Pompano whispered, “You took a chance going out to the American base, little one. Did the young man get angry at you?”
Cervante gently interrupted; he had to garner some more information from the girl before he left.
“Yolanda … did this Bruce Steele say anything more about the vice president?”
She shook her head, then turned to her father. “I explained why I had to leave, Father. I … I assured … I assured him that it was not him, that there were many factors — my school, selling the sari-sari store, you and the Huks.”
“What?!” Cervante took deep breaths. What had the girl said? He said tightly, “You … told … this … American that your father was connected with the Huks?”
Yolanda looked puzzled. “Everyone knows they only operate in the mountains. Father even said so himself.”
Cervante slammed a hand on the counter. The “smack” reverberated throughout the tiny store. His breath quickened as he narrowed his eyes at Pompano. “Do you know that the Americans can now connect me with you, old man? If they know the Huks are in Angeles and that you are their point of contact, then it is simply a matter of time before their intelligence service makes the connection. This … this could very well be the end of the Huks, the New People’s Army!”
Pompano waved a feeble hand. “Go on, Cervante. The damage is done. But leave me out of it. Leave us out of it.” Pompano’s shoulder’s drooped. “I am through with you. By the time you are back up in the mountains, I will be in Manila, lost in the crowds.”
Cervante’s breathing seemed out of control. He could not believe the stupidity of the old man. The rage took a hold of him, blinding him and focusing his energy on the arrogance of Pompano.
Cervante slipped underneath the counter. Yolanda grasped her father by the shoulders and tried to draw back.
Cervante reached down and yanked the girl away from her father. She careened off the floor and skidded to the wall, striking her head. Cervante lifted Pompano up, but could not pull him off the ground. Pompano outweighed Cervante by at least thirty pounds.
“You will not hurt us again.” Cervante slammed Pompano against the wall. Pompano slid down to the floor, letting out a barely audible “Ooof.”
Cervante drew a leg back and kicked at Pompano. The old man grunted and held up a hand, trying to fend off the blows. Again and again the kicks came, until Pompano began to bleed. When the old man did not move, Cervante tapped him with a toe; Pompano moaned. Cervante drew back his foot and aimed his next kick at Pompano’s temple, but he held it there as he at last gained control of his emotions.
Cervante breathed deeply, feeling the adrenaline racing through his veins. An excitement filled his blood, making him feel flush with power.
The vice president of the United States!
A sudden noise made him turn. Yolanda was lying on the floor, holding her hands to her mouth and sobbing. Cervante could not see her face as she cried, only her long black hair.
He smiled to himself and felt something stir deep inside him. If there was ever a way to completely get back at Pompano, Yolanda was the key. But there was something else, something about the vice president’s plane.
If the HPM weapon caused the plane to crash, then the vice president’s death would only heighten the American frustration. But suppose the vice president survived! People sometimes live through plane crashes … Then there was a chance of capturing the vice president.
The thought caused Cervante to breathe deeply. His face felt flush. The vice president! The man would make a perfect bargaining chip … but how to find him, after the plane crashes?
A thought struck him: With her father dead, Yolanda would have complete ownership of the sari-sari store. It would be a good way of getting more manpower.
He glanced at Pompano. No, better to have the old man live. Pompano’s black market contacts would be useful. And with the girl as a hostage, Pompano would do as he was told. A plan began to form in Cervante’s mind.
He tied Pompano up, lashing him to a chair; a rag in the old man’s mouth ensured that he would not be heard. Cervante then slipped into the back room and dialed the number on the paper that Pompano had given him. A man answered. A few minutes of dickering convinced the man that Cervante was sincere.
“That is right. Pompano and his daughter are ready to sell their store, and I am serving as their agent. You know how much merchandise moves through here, how important it is to the Huks. Now, they offer the sari-sari store in exchange for your immediate help.”
“Where is Pompano?”
“Does it matter? I have the documents.”
The man was impressed. “The store could bring a large sum of money. What kind of help do you need?”
Cervante watched the girl and smiled. “A plane could crash in the next hour, somewhere near the American base. There is a very important occupant inside that plane. If you can deliver him here, a simple trade will take place — that person for the store.”
Hesitation. “That will take a lot of men.”
“Whatever you think the store is worth.”
“Just a minute.” The man came back a minute later. “The store includes exclusive rights to deal with the Huks?”
“Of course.”
Another pause. “You will have him.”
Cervante hung up, filled with anticipation. One thing remained to be done. But when you’re working with fate on your side, it’s something you don’t have to worry about.
The girl followed him outside, unresisting but still in tears. He moved out the back door to Pompano’s truck. Rain splashed around him, cutting visibility.
Even with traffic, it would take him less than half an hour to get to the high-power microwave weapon. Plenty of time before the vice president’s plane arrived.
Ensign Julia Clounch watched the monitors. It never occurred to her that the triple backup systems could almost always be counted on to work.
When President Longmire started gagging, Julia hit the “Stat” button and, at the same moment, a computerized alarm went off throughout the hospital. Within seconds, the President’s hospital room was full of doctors and medical personnel.
When a quick attempt to clear Longmire’s throat failed, a tracheotomy was performed.
Julia Clounch continued to keep track of the diagnostics, even though her job was over. She hadn’t noticed Captain (Doctor) Barnett, Commander of the Hospital, enter the room. Barnett cleared his throat.
“Nurse?”
Julia jumped in her chair. “Yes, sir?”
Barnett squinted at the diagnostic monitors, still showing the President’s vitals. After studying the monitors, Barnett sighed. His voice sounded tired. “I’ll need that open line to the White House.”
“Assassin … ah, got a little problem here.”
“Go ahead, Skipper.”
“I’m losing oil. Pressure’s dropping.”
Bruce glanced at his heads-up display. They were still fifteen minutes from meeting the vice president’s plane. He clicked his mike. “Can you hold on to intercept?”