“Yes, sir.”
Bolte paused, then turned his attention to Bruce.
Bruce’s face was emotionless. He stared straight ahead, unblinking.
Bolte set his mouth. “Well, well. The famous Lieutenant Steele. Your reputation precedes you, Son. And to think Clark Air Base just about didn’t get to see you. Flying in the jungle is unlike anywhere else. Winds come out of nowhere, thermals pop up, clear-air microbursts — this isn’t Luke Air Force Base, Lieutenant. You aren’t flying your bird above the desert, keeping the commies out of Phoenix. If the weather doesn’t get you, then some Huk sitting in a tree might decide to take a potshot at your jet. And if he’s lucky he just might hit you — go through your canopy and ruin some poor girl’s day.
“Clark has seen your type, Steele, and I tell you, we don’t want you. I don’t need you. With the new treaty, we have to rotate our fighters in and out of here — we can’t afford mistakes. You might be the best stick coming out of the F-15E program, but there’s one thing I want to make perfectly clear: Dead … pilots … don’t … win … wars. Got that? If you die, you aren’t any good to me. Not only would you have wasted over a million dollars of good taxpayers’ money spent training you, you would have destroyed one of America’s top-line fighters. And that’s the only reason I’m in this job, to win one if the balloon goes up. None of my boys died in Iraq, and none are going to die here. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Bruce’s reply was quick, curt. Smooth sailing, thought Bruce. This isn’t bad at all. And that crack about his reputation preceding him — did the wing commander know about Bruce’s winning the Robbie Risner award, given to the top graduate of the Fighter Weapons School?
“Next time you think about doing anything foolish, remember your reputation. You still piss off every grad who watched that Notre Dame game. You’re marked as a hot dog.” Bolte pulled back. “Welcome to Clark, gentlemen.” He turned for the staff car.
Charlie whispered, “Got off easy there, Assassin. I was expecting him to bite down on our butts and get lockjaw. But we got away with no teeth marks, much less blood loss. Now let’s get going — I’m up to my eyeballs in piss.”
Sweat ran down Bruce’s face, and he was tired as hell. Why did it seem so friggin’ hard to breathe? It had to be the humidity. They walked toward the bus.
As they approached, a short, overweight captain dressed in a Nomex flight suit stepped from the bus. He nodded as Charlie pushed past him.
“Foggy.”
“Hey, Skipper. Nice to be on the ground.”
“Yeah. We’ll get you to the pisser as soon as Assassin gets his ass in gear.”
Charlie smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
Skipper turned to Bruce. “Just a minute, Assassin.” He steered the younger man by the elbow away from the bus.
Skipper was Captain Thorin Olsen’s call sign, given to the man the year he was in pilot training at Vance AFB. Olsen was a dead-ringer for “Skipper” on the old TV program Gilligan’s Island: paunchy, a gleam in his eye, and good-natured. But at that moment Skipper’s face wore an expression of pain.
“I guess he spoke to you about your stunt.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Colonel Bolte — the Wing Commander, I guess.”
“Yeah, the wing commander. For crying out loud, that’s the one guy who could have your ass in a sling, Assassin. Don’t screw around with him.”
A redheaded man leaned out the bus window. “Hey, Skipper, Assassin — either crap or get off the pot. Foggy’s about to pop.”
Skipper slapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Let’s move. I don’t want Foggy to hose down the crew bus.”
Bruce followed Skipper onto the bus. As soon as they were on board the vehicle started off.
Skipper stood in the aisle and read out loud from a sheet of paper given to him by the bus driver. He held on to a rail that ran the length of the bus.
“All right, listen up. After Foggy relieves himself, we’ve been booked into the Q for the next few nights.” “Q” was short for VOQ, or the Visiting Officers’ Quarters. “The Housing Office has arranged appointments for us tomorrow, and you married guys will attend some additional briefings.” He stopped reading as the bus rounded a corner — on two wheels, it seemed, from the Filipino driver’s speed. “And congratulations on a safe trip. Beers are on me tonight. I’ll show you the sights downtown.”
The boys roared their approval — except for Charlie, who sat at the edge of his seat with a pained look on his face.
Cervante sat alone in his apartment, smoking a cigarette and staring at a blank wall. He didn’t know the time, or how long he had been sitting, thinking. His ashtray was spilling over and an empty pack of cigarettes lay at his feet.
He looked past the bare apartment wall, and remembered … the cold Korean nights; sloughing through the mud on a training mission; holding his hands over a fire and smelling the burning flesh, yet denying the pain.…
And all the time his master, Yan Kawnlo, silently watching the training. Observing as Cervante grew wise in the ways of a true freedom fighter.
Cervante had trained with the best. And now he was preparing to return for the final time, to gather the wisdom of his master.
He crushed out his cigarette. Tomorrow he would fly out from Manila, and within a week he would be ready to move against the Americans.
Two taxis pulled up to the Visiting Officers’ Quarters and honked their horns. Half of Maddog Flight spilled out of the VOQ and made for the cars.
“They dragged me along,” Charlie mumbled.
“Designated driver,” said Skipper as he raced by.
“With taxis?” But Charlie’s protests went unheard.
Bruce waited for his backseater before heading to the cars. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”
Charlie nodded. “You heard him. I guess they need someone to keep them out of trouble.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ve been there before.”
“You bring anything to keep you busy?”
Charlie pulled a paperback book out of his back pocket. “I don’t plan on getting much read if I have to ride herd on you guys.”
Bruce squinted at the title. It was written by some guy named Toynbee. Oh, well — to each his own. One thing though: It was nice to have Charlie around when the Flight got ripped. One cool head in the midst of an alcohol-induced fog was well worth it.
As they approached the Skipper’s taxi, a shock of red hair whizzed by. “Dibs on the front seat!” Ed Holstrom — Catman, by his call sign, ostensibly because he was such a smooth operator — slid in the front seat next to the driver. His red hair and freckled face made him look more like a teenager than a fighter pilot.
Bruce shrugged and moved to the back with Skipper.
The Filipino driver slapped the wheel with both of his hands, enjoying the exchange. He was making money just sitting still.
After Charlie squeezed in the back, a face appeared by Charlie’s window. Steve Garcioni — Robin, Catman’s backseater and right-hand man — pushed his face up against the glass, squashing his nose and cheeks while keeping his mouth open; his tongue made crazy patterns.
Skipper called out, “Where are the girls and the rest of the guys?”
Robin rolled his eyes. “The married ones? Probably writing letters home.”
“Come on, let’s go,” urged Catman. Robin squeezed in and pushed Catman next to the driver.