Strike Eagle by Doug Beason Page A

would never understand .…They expect you to bounce right back, act as if divorce were no big deal.
    Charlie let the matter be.
    Bruce tapped a finger on the railing that ran the length of the jeepney. Cloth decorated in psychedelic patterns covered the jeepney’s top. Little cloth balls hung from the sides, running along the entire top. Large linked chains made up the steering wheel; in place of the rearview mirror there sat a black velvet painting of Jesus, which looked back at the passenger compartment and down on the driver.
    The traffic thinned. The houses and stores were still packed together, but the crowds and noise had abated. Charlie finally spoke, as if he had been thinking.
    “When will you try to see your father?”
    “Dad?” It was Bruce’s turn to be quiet. He nodded slowly. “He knows I’m here—or at least that I’ll be coming soon. My mom spoke with him last week, and he’s expecting me. I guess I’ll wait until I’m settled a little more before I give him a call.”
    “He lives in Subic?”
    “Olongapo.” Bruce looked around the dingy streets as they sped through the city. “It’s right outside Subic.”
    “We all have some adjusting to do, Bruce. This has been a big change. Skipper’s family won’t be able to get over here for at least six months; Catman left a fiancée behind.”
    Bruce snorted.
    “Okay,” said Charlie, backing off. “So Catman has three or four fiancées. But look at it this way—you’re a new man now: single, on flight pay, no kids, no alimony, and you’ve got your health. What more could you ask for?”
    “Right.” The “no alimony” pierced him. Divorced … He thought it would never happen to him—but no use dwelling on it. Charlie was right, they all had adjustments to make.
    Bruce leaned to the front of the jeepney; he tried to speak over the onrushing air so that the driver could hear him. “Excuse me.”
    “Aih?” Again the driver turned, smiling back at Bruce.
    “Are there any stores that sell gum?”
    “Cigarettes? You want Blue Seal?”
    “No, gum. You know chewing gum?” Bruce pantomimed putting a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing.
    “Aih, gum! Yes, yes, the market! One minute.”
    The man turned back to the front and gunned the jeepney. He pulled off the main street and slid between long rows of buildings. As they slowed, they passed what appeared to be an open market. It was a cross between an outdoor and indoor shopping center: merchants spilled out into the street hawking animals, complete meals, fabrics, stereo equipment, books, plants, furniture, fresh vegetables, mounds of rice three feet tall, chickens—anything imaginable. The selling extended far into a tin-covered, single-story building. Buildings in the neighborhood resembled warehouses more than offices.
    The driver stopped in front of the market. An incoherent jabber of foreign language surrounded the jeepney. The driver nodded happily. “Here, you find gum.”
    Bruce turned to Charlie. “What do you think?”
    “Whatever.”
    Now Bruce concentrated on the time. “Skipper cautioned us to stay together, and it’s getting late. What do you say we skip it this time and head back to the Club—for dinner.”
    “That’s a rog, Assassin.”
    Bruce waved the driver on. “Thanks, but we’ll pass.”
    “No market?” The driver looked disappointed.
    “It will take too long. We’ll try another time.”
    The driver suddenly brightened. “Okay. Maybe I help you.”
    The jeepney shot off down the street, and had not had much time to accelerate before it screeched to a halt. It stopped before a low-slung building.
    “Here. Sari-sari store. Run in fast. Ziggy now.” The driver tried to shoo Bruce into the tiny building.
    “Uh?” Bruce looked bewildered. “What’s going on?”
    “He wants you to go in there,” said Charlie.
    “Master of the obvious. Maybe it’s their equivalent of a 7-11.” Bruce hopped out of the jeepney and started for the store. “Stay