“Okay. Tell that other driver he’s not needed.”
Soon, all five officers and the driver were barreling down Mitchell Highway toward Friendship Gate.
The group hadn’t even begun to drink, but from the yelling and laughing it sounded as if all the passengers had been soused for a week.
When they stopped, the taxi driver bowed several times at the waist, grinning as he collected his fare and tip. The men were deposited at the gate, the portal to Angeles City, since the American-owned taxis were forbidden to leave the base. And for a very good reason. More often than not, the taxi would keep heading out into the country after the party had been dropped off, only to wind up in some barrio or have its parts stripped in Manila.
Bruce followed Skipper to the pedestrian gate. Cars streamed in and out of the base through the four-lane road next to them. It sounded like a carnival outside the gate — laughing, children jabbering. Skipper turned to the group and held up his wallet.
“First lesson, gentlemen, is to keep your wallet in your front pocket at all times. You’re going to be bumped every which way but loose out here.”
As they entered Angeles City they were swarmed by a sea of brown bodies. Bruce was put off at first — something was missing, and he couldn’t quite tell what it was. The five plowed through the crowd toward a string of gaily painted jeeps. They moved like icebreakers, pushing aside the flow of people.
And then it hit Bruce what was wrong.
All five of the officers stood a good six inches to a full foot above the crowd. And the crowd were men and women, not children for the most part, all clamoring for their attention: “Say, Joe — my sister a virgin, short time, no?”
“Ten pesos will blow you away, Joe!”
“Blue Seal Special, you sell, Joe?”
“Here down the street — long time, short time, just what you need!”
No one grabbed at his wallet, but there was a constant pushing that crowded the bodies against him.
Skipper reached the jeeps first. The one he picked was elongated, painted in wild day-Day-Glo colors. The back was open and had long seats running down both sides. Skipper bartered with the driver.
“Fire Empire — two peso?”
The Filipino held up five fingers. Skipper started off for the next jeep. The Filipino called out, “Wait, Joe — four peso.”
“Three. No more.” A second passed.
The driver motioned with his head to climb in. “Okay. Ziggy now.”
Skipper turned to the group. “Let’s go, gang. Get ready for the ride of your life.” The men scrambled aboard and hung on wherever they could find purchase.
The jeep started off through the crowd before all were seated. It shot across the traffic, causing several cars to squeal their tires. The streets were brightly lit and crowded. It reminded Bruce of New Orleans on steroids, a constant party.
Skipper called out over the noise, “Lesson number two: what we’re in is called a jeepney. Never set foot inside one until you’ve bartered the price and exact destination. Otherwise you’ll be driving around the city for the rest of the night and owe a hundred bucks. The PCs — that’s short for the Philippine Constabulary, their local police and military — will back the driver up and throw you in jail.” He handed out a wad of bills to each man. “The exchange rate changes daily, so I can’t tell you what the peso is worth, but it’s in our favor now. I got a hundred bucks apiece for everyone at the club — pay me back later.”
Catman let out a laugh. “Where you taking us, Skipper?”
“Don’t ask. You are going to see the most amazing floor show this side of Paris. The last time I went to the Empire, there was this girl who smoked a cigarette in the damnedest way.…”
Throughout the last twenty years, Robert E. Lee Adleman had lived in many places, many climates, but the one thing he could not get used to was the sopping wet Washington, D.C, heat.
Adleman rocked back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Ninety-five percent humidity, you say?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” the young project officer from the State Department confirmed. “The Philippines stays that high. Will that affect your plans?”
Adleman shook his head. A sudden vision raced through his mind of a summer he had spent in Mississippi, traipsing through the swamps. “No, that’s fine.”
“Any more questions, sir?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Kelt.”
The man nodded and left the room, leaving Adleman alone with Jerry Weinstein. The National Democratic Party Chairman had been silent throughout the briefing on the Philippine Islands. Weinstein had insisted on speaking to the vice president before the next Cabinet meeting, and this had been the only time that Adleman had not been fully committed.
Weinstein leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. This looked ridiculous, because the former NBA basketball star’s kneecaps were at least a foot higher than the chair seat. Coming from a poverty-stricken background, Weinstein’s exposure to opulence as a high six-figure basketball player had made him appreciate the inequities of the American dream.
“Robert … ah, Bob.…”
“Umm?” Adleman turned his attention away from the upcoming trip and focused on Weinstein.
“I wanted to spend some time with you before the next meeting between the President and his Cabinet.”
“Okay, what’s up? We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“This trip.” Weinstein nodded with his head to all the information the State Department had left — briefing booklets, statistics, analysis of trends. “It’s critical for your political future. In fact, it might be the nail that drives in the lid on your election.”
Adleman looked puzzled. “I missed something. Run that past me again.”
Weinstein sat up. “Bob — Mr. Vice President. We both know you’re the unspoken leader for the next election. You have Longmire’s backing, you have the experience and background, no skeletons in the closest.…”
You said it, thought Adleman.
The FBI special investigation background check had been nothing compared to the scrutiny of the Democratic party. The Democrats hadn’t had a viable Presidential contender since Clinton — including Obama, who Adleman was convinced had been a fluke, a backlash against the Bush era. So they were going to make sure their candidates were squeaky-clean.
Weinstein had personally examined Adleman’s record: as a magna cum laude Princeton grad with his sights set on Congress, and armed with a law degree from Berkeley, Adleman hadn’t made the same mistake as the last vice president: he had put in his time on active duty with the Army for a four-year-stint, serving as a staff judge advocate. The generals he had impressed were also the ones who introduced him to their congressional liaisons.
After leaving the Army, Adleman served on several congressional staffs, making a name for himself as a hard-charging fact-finder, turning out policy prose in a coherent fashion. Senator Longmire had fingered the young blond staffer as an up-and-coming force, and helped him to rise through the ranks of various political appointments.
Finally deciding to try his hand at political office, Adleman won his district in Albuquerque by a landslide. And then as a mere second-term Congressman, at forty, Robert E. Lee Adleman was chosen to run for vice president of the United States.
“… but now you need to show that you can pull off an international agreement, something that could affect the security of an entire hemisphere.”
Adleman nodded to himself. “Sounds like what Francis Acht was pushing. Except that he had the economic security, not necessarily our defensive security, in mind.”