If there were no other planes in the area, Barguyo reasoned that the Americans might start looking for them by some other means.
And Cervante had indicated that it was important to bring the high-power microwave weapon back.
Barguyo motioned to the Huks. “Aih. Quickly — let us dismantle the dish.”
“Mr. Acht, General Newman.”
The Secretary of State raised an eyebrow and took the phone. After asking some basic questions, he hung up and turned to his aide. “Get me the National Security Advisor … and the Speaker of the House, while you’re at it.” He held up a finger. “And have the President’s press secretary hold off on that announcement.”
The aide looked puzzled. “Any problems?”
“Just do it.”
The rain covered their movements, hid the sound of the jeepneys. The rice paddies were easy enough to negotiate, but the jungle just north of them was another matter.
They left the jeepneys and struck out for the plane. A half mile north. Three men with machetes cleared the way. The men rotated the point position every few minutes to keep a fresh person in the lead. Normally, moving through the jungle was an arduous task, something that would not be attempted without much preparation. And for a very good reason.
Owning Pompano’s sari-sari store was a sufficient reason. For years Pompano had used the services of the black market network, and for years he had kept the profits a middle man accrued. Everyone knew that Pompano would soon be putting the store up for sale, but the chance to have it now was too appealing. It was more than a store, it was the entire infrastructure for black market operations.
They checked their weapons. With their firepower “confiscated” from American military police — Adleman should present no problem.
Cervante took the long way home, driving back to Pompano’s store to await the vice president.
Pompano’s black market contact should be scouring the countryside by now. The thought made him glow. He was the victor, no matter what happened.
If the Americans somehow found the high-power microwave weapon while it was being used, he would not be there. If the weapon worked but the Americans found their vice president first, he still would have succeeded in harassing the Americans, just as he had set out to do. If Pompano’s contacts somehow found the vice president, that would be the best of all worlds. Even if the worst occurred, the minimum goals would have been accomplished.
Yolanda lay on the floor of the jeepney, covered with a blanket, invisible to outsiders. Cervante smiled at the young girl, whose hands were tied.
Cervante pulled out a cigarette. It took four matches to light it in the damp weather. He blew out smoke and spoke quietly to Yolanda.
“I have a proposition for you, little one.” Yolanda struggled with her bonds at the use of her father’s pet name, but she quickly tired and stopped. Cervante smiled again. “I think you will find it amusing. You see, this store of your father’s is destined to help the Filipino people. Whatever money it is worth, I will soon trade it for the American vice president.” Yolanda stared back at him. “So all you have to do is to provide me with some papers,” He shrugged. “A note, a deed, whatever it takes, so that I can give it in exchange for the vice president.”
Yolanda jerked her head back and forth, signifying a “no.” Cervante chuckled.
He took another drag on his cigarette, then lightly tapped the ashes onto her face. Yolanda jerked her head away and tried to kick, but her legs just banged against the steel bottom of the jeepney.
Cervante moved closer to her. There was no one in the small alleyway. Even the sounds of the people in the market were muffled by the patter of rain on the mud and street.
Cervante brought his cigarette close to Yolanda’s shoulder. “It would be a pity to mar this beautiful flesh, wouldn’t it, little one? Your father is so proud of you, loves to show off his beautiful daughter. I wonder what he would do if his only child were covered with burn marks.…” He jabbed the glowing end of the cigarette into her flesh.
Yolanda’s scream came from deep within her, a cathartic purging of agony from her soul. The shriek seemed to go on forever, muffled only by the sock stuffed in her mouth. Tears dripped onto her cheeks as she sobbed.
Cervante pulled the cigarette away. He looked at it and took a thoughtful puff.
Chapter 18
Colonel Alan Rader hated being a messenger boy.
As deputy Commander of the 313th Air Division at Kadena, he was on call to stand in for the boss. And since the order had come straight from General Newman himself, Rader didn’t ask the chief why — after thirty years in the Air Force, he knew how to follow directions.
Colonel Rader knew things weren’t going his way when he was refused permission to cross the runway. He grumbled to himself, but knew that even he couldn’t wave off the tankers that were taking off. A KC-10A roared down the runway, lifting off and barely clearing the trees at the end of the long, reinforced asphalt. Once in the air, the tanker would circle at some predesignated spot and rendezvous with the SR-73 that was about to take off.
As he rounded the bend, Rader spotted an old man pushing up a sign outside the base:
SEE THE AMERICAN SPY PLANE
SR-73 HABU
NEXT FLIGHT TIME: 1145
Already the tourists had started to line up, and they even had that damn taco vendor out there, selling refreshments like it was a carnival.
When Rader reached the flight line, he was waved inside the double-partitioned hangar containing the SR-73. Noxious fumes filled the hangar. A red warning light rotated at the top of the ceiling, five stories up. He grabbed his briefcase and followed a young lieutenant, dressed in fatigues but responsible for the entire SR-73 maintenance, into the SR-73 pilot ready room.
Major Kathy Yulok turned as they entered. She was dressed in the silver pressure suit worn by the Habu pilots. Thick gloves, and white hose that ran from the suit to an air-conditioning unit, completed the outfit. She held her helmet in one hand. “What’s the holdup, Colonel?”
“Sign this.” He held out a paper.
Yulok raised an eyebrow. With her gloves on she clumsily scribbled her name on the classified receipt, and Rader handed her the briefcase in turn. “For your eyes only, Major.”
She moved to the far side of the room, placed the leather briefcase on a table, and waved the support personnel to the opposite corner.
As she opened the case and scanned the message, Rader felt like a damned idiot, babysitting the briefcase for a major. He himself wasn’t “cleared-for-weird,” since he didn’t have the sensitive intelligence security clearances needed to read the message that Major Yulok had, but he had been instructed by the Chief to see that Yulok personally read and understood the orders.
Yulok snapped the briefcase shut. Rader took it from her. “Any questions, Major?”
She set her mouth. “No, sir. Is anyone else aware of this?”
“Just what the hell do you think?”
“I hope not. Thanks.” She turned and jerked her head at the copilot, also dressed in a pressure suit. “Let’s go, Eddie.”
When they left, a team of support personnel followed, some carrying the air conditioner, others holding hoses out of the way so they wouldn’t get snagged.
Rader watched the parade. He didn’t let it show but he felt a pang of envy, a feeling that even though he was a bigwig on the totem pole, a person who commanded one hell of a lot of authority in the 313th Air Division, that woman would see all the action.