~~~~ Man's Hope By William Zellmann ~~~~
Text Copyright © 2012 William Zellmann All rights reserved
~~~~ With thanks to Steve for his special help ~~~~
Table of contents
Table of contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author . . .
Chapter 1
Colonel David Tarrant, U.S. Air Force, gazed out the window of the Jollibee fast food restaurant, munching on his odd-tasting hamburger and deciding that he liked the Philippines.
Oh, it was a third world country, with all the poverty that entailed, the hungry from the provinces escaping to the cities, where they became 'squatters', building scrap metal and wood shacks in any unused space and struggling to scrape up a few pesos to feed their families. If they were lucky, they might get jobs as domestic servants for those more prosperous, earning the equivalent of $70 per month. And there was the crowding, of course. The Philippines is comprised of over 7100 islands, but the total land mass is only slightly larger than Arizona, and is occupied by over 90 million people
However, there was none of the hopelessness, the grimness found in most third world countries. For the most part, Filipinos were cheerful, smiling people, friendly to strangers, especially the westerners they called "Kanos." The government billed the Philippines as the "third largest English-speaking country in the world," after the United States and Australia. The schools here taught in English, and it amused David to see how some Filipinos delighted in trotting out their English, while others, perhaps lacking confidence in their ability, refused to try to speak it at all. Even after only a few days, David could feel the vitality, the confidence, of the people.
But he gazed out the window because he was fascinated by the traffic. Someone had once described Manila traffic to David as "five lanes of traffic on a two-lane street"; and that was not far wrong, even here in Subic City. Lane markings on the streets, where they existed, were ignored. If a driver left so much as two feet between himself and the car ahead, a motorcycle or tricycle was certain to pull into it, or a taxi or jeepney to try to nose in. And if a stop light had all the lanes blocked, three or four cars, jeepneys, or even buses were certain to just swing out into the oncoming lanes, then try to squeeze back when the light changed. It was fascinating to watch.
Just as fascinating was the dizzying variety of vehicles; everything from bicycles, to the bicycles-cum-sidecar called "pedicycles", to the motorcycles, or "single motors", to the "tricycles", motorcycles mounting oversized sidecars. There seemed to be thousands of them that functioned as short-trip taxis. Then there were the usual cars including hundreds of taxicabs, the strange oversized replicas of old-model jeeps called "jeepneys" that functioned as small buses, trucks, of course, and huge buses, of the style used for tourism in the States. Here, they were used for local routes as well.
David was so engrossed in watching the amazing traffic dance that he did not notice the Philippine National Police Sergeant until he approached David's table. He looked up, surprised.
"May I see your passport please, sir?" the sergeant asked in fluent, if accented, English.
David nodded. "Of course, sergeant," he replied. He reached into his wallet and produced his military ID card and leave papers. Thanks to a Status of Forces agreement, active duty U.S. military personnel did not require a passport to visit the Philippines. David's ID card and leave papers were acceptable.
The sergeant examined the card and papers. Then he made a small hand signal, and a man David had not noticed before rose from a nearby table and approached. He was a middle-aged white man of medium height and weight, well dressed for the Philippines in cargo shorts, sandals, and a button-front shirt. The man also examined David's ID, and then he tossed it onto the table in front of David, and pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table. "Salamat po, Toro," the man said, "I think he's all right. Tell Marco he can go home. I'm sure Inday has work for him to do."
The sergeant chuckled. "I am certain she does, tito Frank." He sobered. "I could stick around for a while if you would like."
The man shook his head. "Thank you again, Toro, but I don't think that will be necessary." He pulled some folded bills from his pocket, and peeled off several of them. "Would you give these to Marco and the people that reported, please? Thanks."
The sergeant smiled. "As you wish, tito Frank." He walked away, and the white man turned to David.
David smiled. "Francis Weatherly, I presume?"
The man scowled. "All right, Colonel, the only interest the U. S. Government has in me is that I have almost as much money as they do, and they want it. So, why track me down, and how did you do it?" He shook his head. "I went to a great deal of trouble to make sure no one could find me. Now, I suppose I'll have to find another sanctuary."
David slid his ID and leave papers back into his wallet, and buttoned it into his back pocket. "I'm not here on government business, Mr. Weatherly. And you did a very good job of disappearing; I lost you for two weeks in Rome. Coming the long way around via Europe was very clever. Actually, I got lucky. I googled you and it reminded me that your wife was a Filipina. I was stationed at Clark Air Base for a while before they ran us out, and I remembered how strong the family is in the PI." He gestured toward the departed PNP sergeant. "I see it still is. I thought all the billionaires lived in palaces or penthouses with hundreds of guards all around."
The man grunted. "That sound like fun to you?"
"Hell no. It would drive me crazy."
The man shrugged. "Me too. I'd rather sneak around and hide among my wife's family." He waved vaguely after the departing policeman. "That young man is my son-in-law. One of them." The man smiled as he continued, "Of course there are dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, and other assorted 'family' in the area as well, even though my wife died ten years ago. I heard about it as soon as you mentioned my name the first time." The smile faded. "Now, yes, I'm Frank Weatherly. And it's time for you to tell me who you are and what you want."
David put on a hurt look. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize the name."
Frank frowned. "David Tarrant . . . David . . . The astronaut?"
David nodded. "That's right. Ex-astronaut, actually. I have been told I've flown my last mission. In two weeks, I'm to report to my new command. It was supposed to be command of an operational air group in the sandbox, but suddenly a "high priority" slot came up. A desk job at the pentagon, where I can be trotted out to impress senators at appropriation time. Just what I always wanted," he finished bitterly.
He shook his head as if coming back from a dream. "So," he resumed, "I'm a washed-up astronaut whose greatest ambition is to get back into space, and you, sir, may be the man who can help me do it." He leaned forward intently. "I know a lot about you, sir," he said. "You've been a space freak like me since longer than I've been alive. You also single-handedly built one of the largest mainframe computer companies in the world, and invested millions in space-related tech companies. Two years ago, your board of directors staged a hostile takeover, and threw you out with a billion-dollar golden parachute. Not that you needed it; you already had several billions of your own. Since then, you established that bogus foundation to draw off the fortune hunters, and simply disappeared. It's not my field, but I'm told you've been slowly and quietly moving your investments out of the U.S. and Europe, and into Asian economies. I don't think the government approves of that very much."