In his headquarters’ office, Simone rocked back and studied the memo given him by his aide, Major Stephanie Hendhold, who waited outside the door.
“Stephanie?”
“Yes, sir?” Hendhold appeared at the door.
“Has anybody else seen this?”
“Not that I know of, General. Colonel Bolte delivered it to me himself.”
Simone nodded. “What about the flight line? Did anyone else report this, or see what the hell happened?”
“Nothing, sir. In fact, Colonel Bolte would not have seen it himself if he hadn’t been waiting for the flight. He wanted to greet every new pilot that ferried in on the planes. He was out on the flight line, watching the ’15s do an overhead when he spotted Maddog Four.” Hendhold shrugged. “Some people on the ground may have spotted it, but there was no way for them to know that it wasn’t an approved pattern.”
“Approved pattern! Flying a ‘break-in’ upside down?” Simone snorted, then slowly broke into a smile. He squinted at the memo. His eyes had been slowly getting worse for the past few years, but pride prevented him from getting glasses. Especially the black model prescribed by Air Force doctors—“B.C.” glasses, his cadets had called them, for “birth control” glasses: a girl wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of you with them on. A true fighter pilot, Simone classed wire-rimmed flight glasses in the same category.
Major General Simone made out the pilot’s name. “Bruce Steele. Bring his record … and his backseater’s, too, Charles Fargassa. I want to know something about these clowns before I meet them.”
“Very well, sir.”
As Major Hendhold turned to leave, Simone called out, “And knock off after you get them, Stephanie. It’s too late for a young major to be hanging around here.”
“Thanks, sir.”
Simone rocked back in his chair when his aide had left. Inverted overhead, he thought. These young guys must have brass for balls. He hadn’t seen this much esprit since the Gulf.
He wasn’t going to intervene at this time—“Lightning” Bolte had done the right thing by disciplining the kid on the spot, and not drawing it out. But it was refreshing to know that there was some untamed spunk out there. As long as it was nurtured, hope remained.
Major Hendhold laid the personnel folders on her boss’s desk.
Simone scanned the document. “Steele … So he’s a zoomie, call sign ‘Assassin.’” He looked up. “Do you know this guy?”
Hendhold narrowed her eyes. The young Major was also a zoomie — an Air Force Academy graduate — and usually had the scuttle on other grads in the area. “Yes, sir. Football player, and one of the better defensive backs the Academy’s ever seen. He has a reputation for being a killer — he put more than one receiver into the hospital — but he’s a hot dog too. Some say Air Force lost that big Notre Dame game three years ago because Steele was trying to beat the all-time interception record.”
“Would you have him as your wing man?”
Hendhold didn’t hesitate. “Give me five minutes with him and I’ll let you know, sir.”
“Okay, thanks, Steph.” He dismissed her with a wave. “Get lost, and have fun.”
“Good night, General.”
Simone glanced through the record: Risner Trophy, Top Stick out of Willie, recommend upgrade to Stan Eval — the prestigious Standardization and Evaluation crew, the cream of the crop. He nodded to himself.
As a general officer, Simone was forbidden from flying the F-15E by himself — he needed an instructor pilot to accompany him. So far he’d flown the pants off the instructor pilots who went up with him. But now there just might be someone who could handle him.
He thought he was going to like this Bruce Steele.
Cervante waited for Kawnlo to speak. The student did not interrupt the teacher, as a journeyman does not hurry a master.
They had met twice since Cervante’s initial training — each time in a crowded airport to avoid drawing attention.
They sat in a small coffee shop, just outside of security. With his small stature, sparse hair, and black glasses, Kawnlo looked far from formidable. He looked to be in his late sixties and seemed quite frail, not at all a dangerous freedom fighter. His fingernails were stylishly long — stylish for a Korean — extending out and curling up and over, at least ten centimeters if they could be stretched unbroken. He carefully smoked a filterless cigarette, allowing the smoke to corkscrew up into his nostrils as he inhaled.
The airport was jammed with people, all chattering away; dogs barked in the background — it seemed as if an outdoor market had been rolled up and stuffed into the building. Cervante glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until check-in for his flight back to Manila. He had only been with Kawnlo for half an hour, and once Cervante had related the details of the latest Huk raid the older man had simply grown quiet, as if he were deep in thought.
Cervante ground out his own cigarette as Kawnlo finally spoke.
“This high-power microwave weapon is very interesting.” Kawnlo spoke low so that Cervante had to strain to hear him.
Cervante leaned forward and said, “But from the manuals I do not see much use for it. Clearing mine fields, disrupting communications — the only reason I can think the Americans gave the device to the Philippine Constabulary was that its uses are limited. The Americans are even stingy to their own allies,” he said bitterly. “At least the extra supplies will enable us to equip more men. The resistance in the countryside will grow.”
Kawnlo drew in a lungful of smoke. “Sometimes the obvious answer is the hardest to see.” He stared straight at Cervante.
Cervante glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. The next flight to Manila was not until tomorrow. He began to grow irritated. “Teacher, you speak the truth, but I do not have the time for games. Is there something I must take back to my people? Are you not pleased with the way I am running the resistance movement?”
“I am very pleased. You have excelled as a student, and you are ahead of your goals in helping the New People’s Army establish a foothold throughout the countryside.” He nodded. “Yes, you have made considerable progress and have fared well after your training. But the obvious point is what you should do next. There is a time to reconsider your goals, the purpose in what you set out to do. And if the goals change, then you must grasp the moment — seize the day.” He smiled slightly, as if bemused.
Cervante shivered, thinking of the cold training camp Kawnlo had headed up. “So I must reconsider my goals? Freeing the Filipino people from their shackles to the rich, the government — am I not succeeding?”
“But now you have the chance to leap ahead. The ammunition and supplies you captured: Instead of enlisting more people, more children to randomly attack your constabulary, why not use what assets you have? Now you are like angry bees attacking a lumbering elephant. This high-power microwave weapon can make you a tiger.
“Use the supplies to fortify yourself, and use the microwave device to directly attack the Satan that fuels your hatred.”
“The Americans…?”
Kawnlo stood. “I am sure that you can think of the appropriate measures to take. Doing so will elevate the stakes, and you must determine if it is worth it.” He smiled. “A teacher can only point the way — it is the student who must climb the mountain.”
Cervante followed him out of the coffee shop. They were immediately swept along with the crowd. Just before reaching security, they stopped.
“Six months from this day. Singapore.”
Cervante nodded as Kawnlo turned away. Cervante trailed behind him, pushing toward security.
As Cervante followed Kawnlo through the metal-detector, he ignored the bank of video cameras that scanned the crowd.