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.
Saturday, 2 June
Bangkok International Airport
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
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.
Saturday, 2 June
Bangkok International Airport
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
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