“Merke!” Adleman sat up. A sound came from the back of the plane, where the hole in the tail section was. Adleman’s breathing quickened. His mouth felt dry, cottony.
Two men appeared from the back. Adleman couldn’t make out their features, but he saw that they carried rifles. Sporadic gunshots came from the front. One of the men spoke.
“Adleman?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Adleman started to stand up. He threw a glance to the front of the plane. “What’s going on? The gunshots.…”
Lieutenant Colonel Merke came sprawling into the chamber, followed by McCluney. They stayed on the floor as three men stepped into view. The man who had asked Adleman his name pointed at the vice president and said something in a foreign language.
Adleman took an angry step forward. “What’s going on here? What are you doing?”
The man lifted his rifle. Adleman drew in a breath. The man swung the rifle down to Merke and McCluney, then calmly shot a bullet through each of their foreheads. He put the rifle down and said a single word.
“Come.”
He turned and disappeared in the back. Another man grabbed Adleman’s elbow and shoved him roughly forward. As they moved for the hole in the back of the plane, the last thing Adleman saw them pick up was the “football,” the briefcase that Lieutenant Colonel Merke had carried and which contained the authorizations for starting a nuclear war.
Bruce felt completely wrung out. The intelligence team in charge of debriefing had reconstructed his flight from takeoff to landing.
Angles of approach, radio frequencies, parameter settings, wing loadings … everything that Bruce could possibly remember was squeezed out of him during the interview.
With the interviews behind him Bruce felt at a loss as to what to do, so he wandered the halls aimlessly.
Thirteenth Air Force Headquarters served as the Command Post for rescue operations. There were so many colonels moving in and out of the Headquarters building that a bomb could have taken out ninety percent of the chain of command.
“Lieutenant Steele?”
Bruce turned wearily around, to find Major General Simone staring grimly at him.
Bruce stuttered. “Excuse, me, sir — uh, General.…”
“Bruce. Come over here. Come on.” Simone waved him to the side, away from the flow of traffic. Bruce walked stiffly with the General until they reached a cross hall. Simone looked Bruce up and down.
“For crying out loud, man. Someone told me you were wandering around up here. Now just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Sir, there must be something I can do. If you wanted me to escort the—”
“Shut up, dammit!”
Simone paused a full ten seconds before speaking. “Bruce, you did one fine job. A hell of a good job getting your backseater and that plane back in one piece. It was shit-hot flying, and I seriously doubt that anyone else on this base could have done it. Including me.
“Now if that was all there was to this, if Air Force Two weren’t burning out there in some field, or maybe sticking into the side of Huk hill, then I’d throw a parade down MacArthur Avenue for you. Trot out all the young filles, get good and blasted with the boys.” Simone’s voice grew low. “But it’s not. You’ve done all you can, Son, and as good as you are, you can’t do everything. Right now you’re only getting in the way.
“Why don’t you get your car and head home. I’d get someone to drive you, but I’ve got everyone hopping. Have a beer. We’ll call you when we need you.”
“I don’t have a car, sir.”
“I tell you what.” Simone dug in his pockets and fished out a pair of car keys. He tossed them to Bruce. “Here. Take my car — you can’t miss it, it’s in my slot.”
Bruce tried to return the keys. “Thanks, anyway, sir.”
“Go ahead. Go see your backseater, get a good dinner, get some sleep. Just don’t wreck my car.” Simone turned back for his office.
When you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, be sure to conduct your business in public.
Cervante did not always adhere to Kawnlo’s axiom, but he did so now.
The rear of Pompano’s sari-sari store was set against an alley. At the far end of the alley, the two-and-a-half-ton truck looked like any other truck with a tarpaulin protecting its cargo.
Cervante sat on a chair in front of the small sari-sari store. He smoothed the bundle of papers before him and turned them over on the table.
Down the street the market was prospering even in the bad weather. All along the street, business was growing — and Cervante could now see why Pompano’s store would bring a high price. Pompano still sat tied up in the store, ready to be a scapegoat for what Cervante had planned next.
As Cervante flipped the bundle of papers over, his thoughts turned to Yolanda. She had fainted after the first cigarette burn, and afterward it had been easy to convince her to turn over the deed. The papers had been hidden in a steel box, buried in the back yard, underneath a pile of brick and wood scraps.
And it had been what Cervante had suspected: Pompano had signed the property over to the girl years ago. Cervante was sure that the date on the deed coincided with Pompano’s first contact with the Huks. Insurance that if Pompano was found out, his daughter would retain the property rights.
But now Yolanda’s signature on the back forfeited her ownership.
As Cervante waited, he ran through the possibilities in his head. Plans within plans, contingencies within contingencies — the possibilities were limitless. He strove to keep as many doors open as he could.
A car came slowly down the street and then stopped. A man stepped out “Cervante.”
“Aih. Around the back.” The man waited for Cervante to lead.
Cervante moved the deed from hand to hand. As the car pulled around to the back, Cervante spotted a muzzle aimed at him from the backseat.
The man looked up and down the alley before nodding to the car. The driver got out and went around to the trunk, leaving one person still covering Cervante from the rear. Opening the trunk, the driver reached in and pulled up a body. The driver grunted, then pulled the body out of the truck with a jerk. He dragged the body to where Cervante stood and propped the man up. Blood from the back of the man’s head oozed down the door. The driver returned and placed a briefcase by the unconscious man.
Cervante squatted and peered at the man. He certainly looked familiar, but that did not mean that it was the vice president. He patted the man’s suit coat and pants, but found nothing. Cervante looked up. “How do I know it is him?”
“Aih.” The first man motioned with his head to the driver of the car. The driver pulled out a wallet, flipped it open and shoved it at Cervante. A driver’s license read: Robert e. adleman.
Cervante straightened. “What about the others on the plane?”
The man merely blinked at Cervante, ignoring the question. The driver stepped back into the rain toward the car and scanned the area from side to side.
Cervante slowly handed over the deed. “You will find all the papers in order.”
The man flipped through the papers. “Pompano has signed them. It says his daughter sold it to you.” He sounded surprised.
“You did not think it would be so?”
The man glanced up at Cervante. “I have dealt with Pompano for years. This store, this location, is extremely valuable.”
Cervante shrugged. “He was anxious to sell it, and I gave his daughter a good price.” He bent down to the American captive. The vice president’s head lolled to one side, leaving a smear of blood on the door. Cervante put his arms around the American’s chest, grunted, and lifted him. The men just watched him. Cervante dragged Adleman through the mud and rain to the back of the jeepney.