Cervante started to retort, but a group of children, all dressed in their school uniform of white shirts and dark pants, crossed the busy street and entered the store. They called out to Yolanda as they entered.
Cervante kept his mouth shut, angry at Pompano’s cool reception of his news. That is what happens when the founding member of a Huk cell grows old, he thought. Too set in his ways, he spurns change. He had been immersed in the details for so long that he had forgotten what the overall goal of the Huks entailed.
First established as rebel activists after World War II, the Huks had fought against the cruel plantation owners who dotted the Luzon jungles, trying to topple the system oppressing the people. The Huks gained a wide range of notoriety and were even applauded for their democratic goals. But after the plantation owners had capitulated and the major Huk officers had surrendered to the PC, there still remained a dedicated core, a cadre of Huks that wanted reform.
The most famous, and most touted since it supported the Marcos government’s anti-socialist movement, was the radical pro-Communist file that had emerged within the Huks — the New People’s Army. Living in the mountains and striking fear into people’s hearts, this group received most of the press. And it was this group that was the most hated and sought after, since the free world had been programmed to react with a knee-jerk, froth-at-the-mouth reaction at even the mention of Communism.
Pompano had been instrumental in starting the first Huk cell in Angeles City. No other cell was close to an American military base. It was this closeness that had attracted Cervante to this particular cell. But Pompano was an old man, using old ideas to pursue old goals — he was content to steal from the Americans, support the vast black market that infected Clark.
As Cervante studied the man, Yolanda walked out with the group of children. She bid the children farewell, laughing at their joking, then brushed back her hair before heading back inside. Cervante caught Pompano’s attention and nodded to the store.
“Are you worried about your daughter, taking her up to the mountains?”
“Yolanda? She will attend the university in Quezon City later this year. She will not get involved in this. She knows nothing and suspects nothing.” He set his bottle down. “As far as she is concerned, you and I are members of the Friends of Bataan, sharing a common link in our country’s history by building war memorials in the countryside.”
Cervante picked up his glass and swirled it around before draining it. “That is good. Very good. I must travel—” He hesitated, wondering briefly if he should let the old man know where he was going, but decided against it. The meeting with Kawnlo must remain secret.
“I must travel, but I will be back Sunday. When can we next meet? I will know then when I can take you to the mountains.”
Silence, then: “Monday, after the weekend.”
Cervante stood. “Good. Meet me in front of the Skyline Hotel — eight o’clock at night.” He looked toward the door and saw the shadow of Yolanda’s lithe figure and a feeling stirred inside him. Some time would elapse before his return.
Chapter 2
Sweat rolled off Bruce’s forehead. The humidity was as high as in a sauna.
Jet engines roared behind him. From the deep pitch it sounded like a C-5, one of the giant transports that flew into Clark. Without any wind, the heat was even more unbearable. He could see the colonel, waiting by the staff car, hands on hips — ready to have Bruce’s butt for flying upside down on final approach.
Bruce felt a gentle push against his back. Charlie spoke urgently. “Let’s move… I gotta go.”
Charlie squeezed around him at the top of the stairs, holding his helmet in one hand and his flight bag in the other. Unfastened from the helmet, Charlie’s mask bounced against the stairs, looking like a miniature elephant’s trunk as it dangled free.
Bruce swung his flight bag up and followed. As he climbed down the stairs he noticed that a small crowd had gathered around Skipper’s fighter, Maddog One. They stood watching Bruce’s aircraft.
Oh well, thought Bruce. It’s not like I haven’t been chewed out before.
He braced himself for the tirade to come. It was something he had learned to endure at the Air Force Academy — thank God he had gotten something out of the arduous training. He had a dim memory of his fourth-class, or freshman year. Doolies, they had called them, meaning slaves, in Greek. The first year had been bad enough, but the worst was Hell Week — a seventy-two-hour period that made every doolie wish he were dead. It had begun with a special ceremony. The doolies had been ordered to wear their sharpest dress uniforms and line up in a row in the hall with their noses to the wall. After what seemed to be an hour, the strains of Also sprach Zarathustra—the 2001 theme — rumbled down the hall, accompanied by the sound of marching upperclassmen.
The command was given—”Fourthclassmen, about face!”—and the screaming started. Each doolie had been assigned a special “mentor”—an upperclassman whose sole purpose in life was to ensure that the doolie’s life was made as miserable as possible during Hell Week.
Except that Bruce’s mentor was nowhere to be seen. Still looking straight ahead and oblivious to the shouting around him, Bruce momentarily thought that they had forgotten him. After all, as a starting defensive back for the varsity football team as a freshman, Bruce had not seen much of the usually unavoidable hazing.
Then Bruce remembered that the meanest upperclassman had also been the shortest.
Bruce looked down — right into the eyes of Cadet First Class Ping. Standing barely five feet tall, Cadet Ping glared up at Bruce. “Well, Steele, it is about time you look down. Now you really going to eat shit!”
The experience had been a coda to an already formidable year, but it had prepared him for the blastings to come. To be indifferent, not to take it personally, and not to crack.
So no matter how bad this colonel was, Bruce knew that the sun was going to rise tomorrow morning.
Really.
Charlie was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. As Bruce turned he kept a stony face, then they started for the colonel, fifty feet away. Bruce was taller than Charlie by a good six inches, but they fell into step as they left the plane. It was something every military man naturally dropped into, even if they tried to stay out of step — phase-locking, the phenomenon was called, just as pendulum clocks located across a room would start beating together.
“Afternoon, sir,” saluted Charlie. His voice sounded pleasant, masking any emotion he might have felt.
The colonel let them stand at attention, holding the salute. His name tag was now visible — bolte, read Bruce.
Slowly he removed his glasses. His blond hair fit the rest of the man perfectly: blue eyes, a deep tan, and a wiry build. He had a fighter pilot’s look about him, decided Bruce — cautious, almost catlike.
“Just … what … in … the … hell are you trying to do, young man? Buy the farm … before you even land?”
The question was rhetorical. Bruce and Charlie still held their salutes.
Colonel Bolte dropped his hands, then whipped up a quick salute. Bruce and Charlie hit the side of their flight suits at the same time as they brought their hands down.
Bolte glanced at their name tags. “Captain Fargassa, you listen to what I have to say to your aircraft commander, Lieutenant Steele. This upside-down crap on final will cease as of now. Next time he tries one of those stupid-ass maneuvers, just remember that it’s your butt on the line. He dies, you die too. Got that?”