“That’s a rog, Assassin.”
Bruce waved the driver on. “Thanks, but we’ll pass.”
“No market?” The driver looked disappointed.
“It will take too long. We’ll try another time.”
The driver suddenly brightened. “Okay. Maybe I help you.”
The jeepney shot off down the street, and had not had much time to accelerate before it screeched to a halt. It stopped before a low-slung building.
“Here. Sari-sari store. Run in fast. Ziggy now.” The driver tried to shoo Bruce into the tiny building.
“Uh?” Bruce looked bewildered. “What’s going on?”
“He wants you to go in there,” said Charlie.
“Master of the obvious. Maybe it’s their equivalent of a 7-11.” Bruce hopped out of the jeepney and started for the store. “Stay with this guy. I don’t want to have to walk back.”
“If we can even find our way back,” muttered Charlie.
Six tiny tables were pushed to the side of the store, making it look like an Asian version of a Paris cafe. The screen door had a tiny bell attached to it. Inside, a long counter ran the entire length of one wall. Music came from an open door to the back; someone was singing “Obla-dee, obla-da” along with the Beatles.
The singing stopped as a girl walked into the room from the back. All Bruce could see was dark hair that extended halfway to the floor. When she swung her hair around and looked up, Bruce was floored, unable to talk. She was the most beautiful woman he’d seen in his life.
The girl lowered her eyes. She spoke in halting English. “May I … help you?”
Bruce stuttered, trying to talk coherently. “Uh, yeah. Do you have any gum?”
“Gun?” The girl looked up, puzzled.
“No, gum. You know, chewing gum? Chew, chew.” Bruce pantomimed putting a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing. He felt suddenly foolish at his Pidgin English.
She still avoided his eyes. “Gum. Yes we have.” The girl turned and stretched, reaching to the top shelf, and brought down several packs of Wrigley’s gum, some of them open. She held them out to Bruce. “How many sticks?”
The girl finally looked at him, and he felt lost in her deep brown eyes. Her skin was flawless; she looked so innocent he couldn’t tell her age. It took Bruce a moment to figure out what she was asking.
“How many sticks? Oh, you mean I can buy just a stick of gum, rather than a pack?”
“Yes.” The girl seemed amused now.
“Well, then … here.” Bruce dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of pesos. He shoved the money to the girl. “I’ll take all the gum. Is this enough money?” The foreign currency seemed more like play money — Monopoly bills — than hard cash.
The girl carefully counted out the money and held out the remainder to Bruce. As she counted, her long black hair fell over her shoulder, giving it the appearance of a waterfall. She pushed eleven packs of gum across the counter to him, then swung her hair back over her shoulder and lowered her eyes.
Bruce backed out of the tiny store. The screen door swung shut, cutting off his view of the young woman. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but Charlie’s voice seemed to pierce through a fog that enveloped him.
“Hey, Bruce! Would you get back in here? The O’Club is going to close.”
Bruce turned and headed for the jeepney. Reaching out to grab the railing, he realized that he still tightly held the packs of gum. He shoved them into a pocket.
Charlie eyed his frontseater as the jeepney started off. “Get enough gum?”
“Umm? Yeah … sure.” Bruce turned back to watch the traffic. He kept to himself the rest of the trip.
The Commander of the Thirteenth Air Force reported directly to the Commander of the Pacific Air Forces, which was headquartered at Hickam AFB, Hawaii. Pacific Air Forces were responsible for the security of an area nearly four times the breadth of the United States — twelve thousand miles — a region that spanned seventeen time zones including the Philippine Islands. And with the reopening of Clark, fueled by national strategy change of “pivot to the East,” Thirteenth Air Force was reactivated, and its operational units were augmented by squadrons rotated in from Seymour Johnson, Elmendorf, Eglin and Langley.
As such, Major General Peter Simone, Commander of the Thirteenth Air Force, was literally on his own. With the exception of a three-star general at Yokota AFB, Japan, and another one at Osan AFB, Korea, Simone was the highest-ranking officer for a thousand miles.
Discounting fleet operations at the newly reopened Subic Naval Base, just fifty miles down the road.
But that was Navy, and therefore didn’t matter.
Simone had short, wirelike hair, dark ebony features, a solid build, and he always had a gleam in his eye and something up his sleeve. As long as you told him the truth and kept him informed, he would support you to the hilt. And that was the secret of his success. His hell-raising instinct was tempered by his charisma. The other generals regarded Simone as their alter ego, the person whom they’d like to be — let down their hair and go crazy. He was the stereotypical, old-school fighter pilot, and he played it for all he could.
Major General Simone reveled in his autonomy. He ran the base with an iron fist and didn’t put up with anyone’s crap. There was a base commander on Clark, a colonel who served more as a housekeeper than anything else, but he didn’t slow Simone’s stride. Everyone knew who ran the base, who was the most important person on Clark, and everyone knew that if it weren’t for his fighters — his boys and girls out there who strapped themselves into screaming tons of metal — Clark would not have a purpose.
It was a perfect match. Simone’s last assignment had been as Commandant of Cadets at the Air Force Academy. He had served the shortest time of any Commandant in history — five months — when the usual tour was two years; the impression he had made on the cadets had gotten him booted upstairs to where he couldn’t influence such naive, pliable minds.
It wasn’t an isolated incident that had led to his “promotion.” It was a combination of events. One time, he had gotten rip-roaring drunk with the senior class and puked at their graduation Dining-In — a formal dinner that was celebrated Air Force-wide; another time he had flown his F-35 over the Academy the day he was supposed to report in — and somehow the afterburners had kicked in and he’d passed Mach 1, sending a sonic boom thundering across the aluminum-and-glass campus, knocking out half the windows. Rather than blame Simone, they had taken the F-35 apart three times before finding a faulty wire to blame for the incident.
But the final straw was the food fight he had started in Mitchell Hall, the cadet mess hall. The scene had made the papers, and Simone was reassigned to Clark the very next week, with the addition of another star.
He’d like to think he’d gotten booted upstairs because of his competence and not because of his race, but he didn’t dare question General Newman’s decision on that one.
So Major General Peter Simone was having his last hurrah, and Clark vibrated with his presence, his aura.
When a visiting general came, the base straightened up and performed like clockwork. After the general left, the partying went on as before.
He kept an eye on his boys and girls, just to make sure they didn’t take things too far. His concept of “too far” was activated when they had to fly — there were no compromises in the air. But if the kids wanted to raise a little hell, drink a little beer, and didn’t hurt anyone — well, Simone knew that it would be best in the long run. A happy crew would follow him to hell and back.