Strike Eagle by Doug Beason Read Free Book Online Page A

the nomination?”
    Weinstein spread his hands. “That’s why I wanted to catch you before the meeting—just in case someone tries to throw a wrench in the idea. Longmire’s health is on pretty shaky grounds, and if something happens it would be better for you to go into office as a hero, who’s been tested in international negotiations. This treaty could boost confidence in you and ensure you the next election, if Longmire lasts that long. You should view this trip as more than just service to the country. It’s a springboard for you as well.”
    Adleman kept eye contact with Weinstein. Boost confidence and ensure the next election. Suddenly he felt uneasy about his actions, about being calculating and anticipating President Longmire’s demise.
    But the first lesson he’d learned as an Army officer was to anticipate and be prepared. So when things went wrong, he could do something. Reacting was better than sitting still and allowing events to pass him by, which was like striking out by watching the balls go by instead of swinging.
    ***

Chapter 3
    Friday, 1 June
    Angeles City, P.I.
    Bruce watched the floor show for as long as he could stomach it. Without Ashley to go back to, he should have been enjoying it, if for no other reason than because of his freedom.
    His gum grew stale; tired of popping it, he slipped it into an empty beer bottle that littered the table top.
    Set in a smoky, low-ceilinged bar, the show oozed sleaze. Tables were pushed up around an elevated runway. On the bed in the middle of the stage a naked Filipino woman gyrated her hips to music. Bruce couldn’t tell how old she was—it was difficult, since the Filipinos looked so much younger than he.
    Technorock, driven by a throbbing bass and incessant drum, blared throughout the bar. The songs were old, from a different era than the one in which Bruce had grown up—not hard rock, but something more commercial, like the soundtrack to a cheap porno movie. It added to Bruce’s discomfort. He pushed his chair back. There must have been twenty beer bottles on the table in front of him.
    “Hey, where you going, Assassin?”
    “Fresh air.”
    “You don’t look too good. Too much to drink?”
    Bruce paused. “Yeah.”
    Catman turned back to watch the act; he spoke loud enough so everyone could hear him. “Don’t wimp out on us.”
    Right, thought Bruce. Talk about a wimp.  
    He remembered when Catman had finally soloed in the F-15—or rather he remembered the party afterward. They had stumbled into a bar during happy hour, and within a short time they were all drunk as skunks. Catman made a pass at the waitress, only to get sick and toss his cookies all over the table. He then promptly passed out and slumped head-first into his vomit. Thrown out of the bar, the boys had had to push Catman around in a shopping cart until they found their car.
    ACC solo. Catman’s first solo flight in an Air Combat Command fighter … a bonding experience known to only a few. Bruce’s thoughts drifted to his own first solo, high above the desert, outside of Luke AFB in Arizona.…

    “Heads up, Assassin.”
    “Rog.” Bruce craned his neck around the cockpit. At eighteen thousand feet, the view was breathtaking: cloudless blue sky above him, rugged red-brown terrain below. He felt one with the ancient F-15A fighter. He rocked the wings. The craft responded instantly.
    What the hell? he thought. He slammed the stick to the right, and the fighter instantly rolled around. He saw brown-blue brown-blue as he spun. He jerked the stick to the neutral position and immediately flew level. “Holy shit.”
    “Say again, Assassin.” His instructor pilot’s voice from back at the training squadron on the ground came over his headphones.
    “Ah, getting good response,” paraphrased Bruce. “This bird is pretty agile.” He had forgotten that his mike was “hot,” the transmitter left on an open channel during this first solo.
    “Copy that,” came back his