A blond, lanky officer pulled himself from the staff car. On his light blue shirt, command pilot wings were positioned over a shiny pair of Army “Jump Wings.” The Jump Wings showed that the colonel had completed the arduous parachute school at Fort Benning.
He wasn’t smiling, and he looked straight at Bruce.
“Welcome to Clark, sir,” whispered Charlie, mimicking the female airman.
The street smelled of urine, week-old garbage, and the odor of heavy cooking oil. Two- and three-story buildings enclosed the street in shadows. There was a danger of being hit by dirty water, or buckets of rotting vegetables thrown from the upper two stories. The noise was overwhelming. A half a block away, an open-air market spilled out into the street.
Cervante Escindo had never gotten used to the backwardness, the cramped and crowded living style of this city. Manila to the south, or even Bagio to the north, was nothing like this, so backward and yet pulsating at the same time. People from the barrios, small villages that dotted the majority of the Philippines, found it difficult to adjust here. To Cervante, it seemed inconceivable that such a state of affairs persisted.
But Cervante Escindo knew why. And that was why he was here.
Fifty miles to the southwest lay a similar city, one that could pass for Angeles if you shut your eyes and felt the pain weaving through the city — the pain of a people being raped. For Angeles’ sister city Olongapo lay outside of the Subic Bay Naval Base, just as Angeles lay outside of Clark.
If it hadn’t been for Clark and the thousands of Americans stationed at the sprawling military base, Angeles would have been nothing more than another dot on the map, a barrio peopled by a few hundred Filipinos. But the growth of Clark Field after World War II, after the American “liberation” of the Filipinos from the Japanese, had caused Angeles City’s population to skyrocket. Even after the Americans had left for three decades, the city continued to grow.
And now the Americans were back.
With the population increase came an exponential growth in prostitution, immorality, and other vices. Thousands of Americans filled the streets of Angeles every night — no wonder Angeles had turned out the way it had.
General MacArthur may have had good intentions, but the Philippines might never recover.
Cervante waited outside a small sari-sari store. The same Americans who pumped millions of dollars into the Filipino economy were also responsible for the city’s backwardness. It was unacceptable.
Tired of waiting for the old man, Cervante ground out the cigarette he smoked, salvaged the remaining tobacco and filter, and entered the store.
A long counter ran the length of the store, about two thirds of the way into the building. A door in the rear opened to a back room. Shelves covered every inch of the walls, and items were crammed into every space: food cans, diapers, soap, nails, magazines. Electronic equipment — Japanese flat screens, radios, DVD players, Korean stereos — lined the bottom shelf. A refrigerator guarded the back corner; two cartons of cigarettes were split open.
As Cervante entered, a young woman came from the back. She entered singing along with the latest pop song blasting from the radio. On the counter lay one of the digest-sized weekly magazines, printed in English, that listed the words of all the Top One Hundred songs. No music, just words. Most of the songs were American.
The girl spotted Cervante and stopped singing. She lowered her eyes.
Cervante asked tightly. “Where is Pompano?”
“Father … is not here.”
The young woman was a master of the obvious. “Do you know when he will return?”
She shook her head and kept silent.
Cervante studied her. Yolanda was almost too tall and light-skinned to pass for a native Filipino. At five feet seven, she towered a good half foot above her peers. Yolanda’s high cheekbones, soft dark hair, and long legs distinguished her from other Filipinos.
Cervante turned away from the young woman. Pompano was lucky that the sari-sari store was deep within the city, far enough away from “B-street”—the ubiquitous bar girl district — that Americans would not frequent it. Otherwise, Yolanda was pretty enough to draw the military men like bees to honey. And that would never do.
Cervante had started to leave a message for Pompano when Yolanda placed her hands on the counter.
“Father!”
A short, graying man hobbled in. He dragged one foot slightly behind the other but carried himself with dignity. His eyes lit up. “Hello, Little One.” They both laughed at his greeting. Cervante kept quiet at the obvious absurdity.
Before they said anything else, Yolanda gestured with her eyes toward Cervante. Pompano swung around. He nodded tightly, then without looking to his daughter said, “Yolanda, San Miguel and water.”
As she turned toward the refrigerator, Pompano took Cervante’s arm and led the younger man outside. Pompano leaned heavily on Cervante as they made their way to a table just outside the door.
“I wish I could have stayed to see what you seized during the raid. Have you appropriated enough supplies?”
Cervante nodded slightly. “Yes, and more.”
Pompano raised his eyebrows. Cervante leaned closer, and was about to speak when Yolanda came out of the store. She carried a San Miguel beer, grasping the brown bottle in one hand and carrying a glass of water in the other. She set the drinks on the table.
“Salamat po,” smiled her father. He waved her away. “Go rest in the back, Yolanda — I will watch the front. Go on, we are just speaking man-talk.”
“Thank you, Father.” Ignoring Cervante as she left.
Which was fine with Cervante. Pompano Sicat was a good man and had his roots firmly entrenched in the movement. As long as Pompano kept his daughter separated from the Huks, Cervante had no qualms. It had been an integral part of his intensive training: a strong delineation between pleasure and business.
Cervante took a sip of his water.
“We have appropriated more than enough supplies to accomplish our goals. We can change the way we operate, expand our activities, and increase our power. There are several plantations in the mountains that will serve well as a base camp, a permanent place to extend the revolution.”
Pompano looked tired. “Cervante, is not my store good enough? From here we can ship people and supplies to any place on Luzon, without attracting attention. I am a clearinghouse, a way station for the Huks — not just your New People’s Army faction.” He waved his hand around, motioning to the street. “I have served this way for years and no one even suspects I am involved with the Huks — not even my very daughter! The store provides the perfect alibi.”
Cervante’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, but in the shadow of the Americans. We have to watch everything we do. In the mountains we can build a true base, where we will not have to fear the damn Americans and PC everywhere we turn.”
“What about the Huks in Angeles? You want to reorient our entire focus?”
“That is right! We can either stay small, forever nipping at the government’s heels, or we can seize the opportunity to grow, to make an impact.”
Pompano held up a hand. “I agree, Cervante. It appears that we have an opportunity to grow, but that may be a bad thing.” He smiled. “We will not decide today. This needs discussion, time to evolve, so we may grow and proceed carefully.”
“And if we take too much time, the opportunity will pass us by.” Cervante felt his face grow hot.
Pompano spoke softly. “We must seize the proper opportunity. Take me to the supply cache and we will discuss the options.”