“Gain? Oh, Mr. Vice President. You do not understand. That is not the point. Having killed the vice president of the United States of America, having proved that we are capable of shooting your jets down at will, your own people will insist you get out of the Philippines. We win, no matter what happens. We are merely talking about time scales now, about when these events are going to occur. If you live, the bases will be vacated immediately. And if you die”—Cervante shrugged—“it will take a little longer, but you will still pull out.” He thought for a moment. “This is yours?” He nodded to the briefcase.
“Yes.” Adleman wet his lips.
Cervante started to have Adleman open it, but decided to wait. They would have time later. He nodded to Barguyo. “The girl has served her purpose. Take her. You and the others do with her what you want. In ten hours, she will leave for Clark with that camera.”
A tight smile came across Barguyo’s face. He walked toward the couch, grabbed Yolanda by the arm, and yanked her up.
“Wait!” Adleman struggled to the edge of the couch. His voice sounded gravelly. “Leave her alone. She does not—”
“You have no place in this,” said Cervante, with an edge to his voice.
“You will not … touch her. Or I swear I will have you.”
Cervante raised an eyebrow at Adleman. “You are in no position to threaten us, Mr. Vice President.”
“Leave … her … alone!”
“I see.” He motioned with his arm. “Barguyo, take her. As for you, Mr. Adleman, you have not learned your lesson. You think that somehow you are going to walk out of here, safe and sound. Since raping the girl does not convince you who has the upper hand, we need to give you another lesson.”
Barguyo held Yolanda’s arm behind her back. She struggled, and even though she towered over the boy, she could not break his grip.
Cervante stood. “Now, Mr. Vice President, we return to the kitchen. Let us see if, once your other index finger is removed, you will finally show some civility.” As he approached the couch, a Huk came running into the room.
“Cervante — we just heard the news!”
“What?”
The Huk motioned with his eyes to Adleman. “The President of the United States has died. Once the vice president is sworn in, he will become their President!”
Cervante clenched his fists in excitement. “So! Things have changed for the better!” He turned to Adleman and gave a mock bow. “Well, Mr. President. You are now in control; you can make the decision to leave the Philippines! I think it is time to deliver another note to Clark, telling them of your decision — with your index finger to personalize the message, of course.”
Chapter 21
Sloughing through the jungle, Bruce had no time to think about the pain. For the first few minutes his ankle had hurt. Now the tingling had gone away and all that remained was a tight feeling. If only the swelling would stay down for a few more hours …
The rain had ceased to be a factor. It seemed as if he had been hiking for all his life in the wetness. Squishy shoes, chafing clothes … and constant rivulets of water ran down his face. It just didn’t matter anymore.
Pompano trooped ahead, never looking behind him and moving through the jungle like a machine. Every once in a while he stopped to look at his compass, but there were no rest breaks or pep talks. Just straight ahead to his destination.
It had been three hours, and Bruce had lost track of how far they had gone. After the first steep climb, they had encountered no other hill. The jungle had no outstanding landmarks. They could have been traveling in circles, for all that Bruce could tell. There were about five feet between the trees; low brush filled the intervening space. Often the sight of a banana plants would break up the monotony, but it was like living in an infinite world of trees and brush.
And rain.
He almost bumped into Pompano when the old man suddenly stopped. Bruce spoke in a whisper. “Are we there?”
Pompano shook his head. He consulted his watch. “Another half hour.”
Bruce broke out a canteen and drank deeply. He offered it to the old man. Pompano hesitated, then took a drink.
Bruce shifted his weight; his ankle yelped at him. “Where are we going?”
Pompano blinked. He studied Bruce for a moment. “We are going to a clearing, about a half mile wide, with a house in the center. I had the helicopter place us four miles away, on the other side of a ridge.”
“That was the hill we climbed about two hours ago.”
Pompano looked at Bruce. “It is time to start listening for … the others. There are some guards, but they are concentrated by the road and just outside of the clearing. There should be one sensor not far away. I doubt whether Cervante planted any on his own away from the road, but I cannot be sure.”
Bruce wet his lips. The stop had given his legs a rest, but feeling now returned to his ankle. “What’s the plan? You said we could get in without being seen.”
“Once it is dark we can slip up to the house. Cervante is a man of habit, and I think he will keep your vice president, and Yolanda …” Pompano hesitated, then spoke hurriedly, “in the side bedrooms. The house is not alarmed, and we can take our time getting them out.”
Bruce shook his head. The plan didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. You just don’t waltz into a place and leave unnoticed! “I don’t know.…”
“Cervante has guarded the entrance to the plantation. He is sure that no one could get in without being detected.”
Bruce knelt down and itched at his leg. His pistol slapped at his side. He tightened the holster and ran his hand over the long silencer. Just in case, he thought. His ankle felt worse and worse. He straightened. “Let’s get going.”
Pompano turned, consulted his compass, and took off.
As Bruce followed, he felt inwardly relieved. It was the first civil conversation he had had with the man.
Thirty-seven thousand feet above the ground the cloud layer broke into crystal-clear sky. Maddog Flight orbited a good five hundred feet above the top of the clouds.
Catman kept in a loose trail, bringing up the rear of the three-ship formation. The F-15Es were in a near constant bank. They didn’t want to be far from the action when the call came.
The clouds seemed to extend forever. Twenty miles away, a KC-10A tanker pulled in and started its own orbit. If the fighters needed fuel, they had their very own gas station.
Catman flipped on the intercom. “Robin — you still awake?”
“Negatory, Catman. You woke me right in the middle of a dream.”
“What do you think is going on down there?”
Silence. Then “Besides the rain?”
“Rog.”
“Beats me. You think Assassin is having fun?”
“Get real.”
Robin was silent for a minute. “Look on the bright side. He’s got a hell of a lot of trees to hide behind.”
“Yeah. Just like jungle survival.”
Catman glanced at the LANTIRN interface on the heads-up display. The tiny pod fixed underneath the left air inlet was the key to eventual success. The infrared optics were cued by the F-15’s GPS and inertial navigation system, and they granted the pilots enough precision to lay their weapons down in the crappy weather.
Just roll into the clear, following the LANTIRN, and trusting in the electronics all the way. They’d even have to pull up while still in the clouds.…
Catman hoped that the Special Ops boys would feed them the right data for the flight profile. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if something went wrong. Three hundred feet above ground level — where the clouds broke — was not a long distance to react, even if they did go in on a shallow angle.