Strike Eagle by Doug Beason

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    “Holy crap, look at the size of that!”
    Bruce left the table.
    “Make sure Foggy goes with you, Assassin,” called out Skipper. “You don’t want to be caught out in this area alone.”
    Bruce wove his way around tables, mostly packed with young Americans. A few tables held Filipino men quietly smoking their cigarettes, but the place obviously catered to foreigners such as himself. When he reached the lobby the air was clear of smoke; more importantly, the lack of music now enabled him to think.
    Charlie sat at the end of a long red bench, opposite the door, reading his book. Two bouncers chatted quietly just outside, ignoring what was going on. Charlie looked up; he folded the top right-hand corner of the page to mark his place.
    “You guys through?”
    “I am.”
    Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
    “Nothing. Just ready to go.” Bruce pushed his way out the door. The heat and humidity hit him as he left the air-conditioned building. At least there was no smoke, but the heavy, humid air made up for it. It was just getting dark, with a little less than a half hour until night. The street outside the Fire Empire was still crazy with traffic, honking horns, and the cacophony of unfamiliar words. Charlie followed him outside. His paperback book bulged in his rear pocket.
    A jeepney spotted the two and pulled a U-turn. The driver motioned with his head to climb in. “Back to base?”
    Bruce remembered Skipper’s lesson. “How much?”
    “Four peso.”
    Charlie started to climb in the vehicle. “How much to take the long way?”
    “Long way?” The driver looked puzzled.
    Charlie swept his arm in a circle. “Yeah, the long way home—show us some of the city.”
    “Ah, yes. A tour.” The driver nodded. “For you, forty peso each. I show you Angeles.”
    Charlie snorted. “Ten peso.”
    The driver shook his head. “Thirty, special for you.”
    “Twenty-five.” Charlie wasn’t about to lose a centavo.
    The man thought for a moment, then brightened. “Okay, twenty-five peso. Hop in, Joe.”
    Charlie climbed in and waved Bruce on board. They roared off. The Filipino driver turned in his seat to half face the two Americans. He kept a lazy hand on the wheel while darting in between cars. “You see something and want to stop, tell me loudly.”
    “Right, right.” Charlie waved for the man to turn around.
    Bruce watched the exchange without emotion. A short time ago he had been looking forward to a new locale, a new beginning, but now, in-country only six hours, he already felt like going home. The noise, heat, humidity, and strange smells all overloaded his senses. There was nothing in the Islands to anchor to, nothing familiar. And what he had just seen in the bar was beyond erotic—it bordered on the clinical.
    They passed one place that seemed to provide a reminder of home—the sign was of a fried chicken fast-food place. But then Bruce saw carcasses hanging from the ceiling—the bodies of skinned dogs—with a sign “Dog-On-A-Log” displayed in English.
    He felt a tap on his arm.
    “Okay Bruce, what’s eating you? You haven’t talked since we landed.” Charlie paused, then added, “What did Colonel Bolte tell you?”
    “Uh?” Bruce shook his head and switched gears. He had almost forgotten about what Colonel Bolte had said, the crack about his reputation preceding him. “That? Nothing.”
    “Yeah. Think I believe it? Come on—he must have jabbed you pretty well.”
    “That’s a rog.” Compared with everything else going on, Colonel Bolte’s remarks did seem ludicrous. “You know, when Bolte was going on about my reputation, I was sure he was alluding to the Risner Trophy we’d won.”
    “You won. That was for being the best stick, not a team effort.”
    Bruce shrugged Charlie’s observation off. “We did it; it wasn’t just me. Anyway, that’s not the point.” He looked away. Ashley, thought Bruce. That’s the real reason I’m down, isn’t it? But Charlie