Red Tide, стр. 19
He awoke to find that Lola was not only up, but baking pandesal (bread rolls) which she served with slices of cheese, and mugs of Filipino coffee. “Remember this,” Wally said, when breakfast was over. “We won’t be so lucky during the next few days.”
Greer paused to say goodbye before leaving the house. “Thank you, Lola.”
Lola turned a wrinkled cheek toward him and tapped it with a finger. “Pay me.”
Greer kissed Lola’s cheek. And, for the first time since Greer had met her, she smiled. Her teeth were reddish-black after years of chewing parcels of areca nuts and tobacco wrapped in betel leaves. “Let me know if you need a wife. I can find one for you.”
Greer nodded. “Thank you, Lola, I will.”
A box truck was waiting outside. A sun-faded watermelon was displayed on the side along with the words, “Jonny’s Produce.”
Once in the back Greer discovered that the cargo area was mostly full of tubs, filled with mangoes, bananas, and pineapples. Thanks to the external refrigeration unit the cargo area was cool. Too cool.
Fortunately, the driver had anticipated the problem, and two neatly folded blankets were waiting behind a false wall consisting of stacked crates. An old mattress was there to soften the ride. “There’s a checkpoint twenty-five miles west of here,” Wally said. “And when the soldiers open the back, they will see nothing but containers of fruit. Then they will pull the door down, and give the driver permission to proceed.”
Greer eyed the boy. “And if they enter? And find us?”
“Then we will die fighting,” Wally said. And, judging from the determination in the teenager’s eyes, he meant it.
There were no windows. Nor was there a way to interact with the driver. So, Greer took the submachine gun apart, and put it back together while Wally surfed the internet. That gave Greer an idea. “Do me a favor Wally … See what you can find out about the other pilots. The ones who were captured.”
Like most kids his age Wally was very internet savvy. And over the next half hour he shared about a dozen articles with Greer. Most were worthless propaganda stories filled with hyperbole about how evil the fliers were.
But one story actually had some content, including photos and names. And Greer knew them. He’d flown with them, gotten wasted with them, and gone to one pilot’s wedding.
The pilots had, according to the article, been taken to the Bataan Prison and Penal Farm.
“Because the Penal Farm is already operational, and well-guarded, it’s the perfect place to house the American psychopaths,” the story read. “Once the necessary arrangements are complete, the prisoners will be sent to China, where they will go on trial.”
The last sentence sent a chill down Greer’s spine. Because he had little doubt that once his fellow aviators went to trial, they would be found guilty, and executed. He gave the phone back. “Thanks, Wally. I think I’ll take a nap.”
Greer closed his eyes, but was thinking rather than napping. And it wasn’t long before the truck slowed and came to a stop. “There will be a line,” Wally predicted. “There always is.”
The teenager was correct. The truck advanced in a series of fits and starts that lasted for the better part of thirty minutes. That was when Greer heard muffled voices, the latch was freed, and daylight flooded the cargo area.
Wally put a finger to his lips but there was no need. Greer’s heart was pounding like a trip hammer, and the submachine gun was ready in his hands. “Fruit, huh?” a voice said. “How do I know if it’s any good?”
“Would you like to try one of our watermelons?” a second voice said. “Just to make sure? They were picked early this morning.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” the first voice said. Scuffling noises were heard as the driver climbed up into the truck, chose a watermelon, and returned to the doorway. “Here, please accept this with my compliments.”
“Thank you,” the policeman said. “We will test it during lunch.”
The door rattled closed, Greer heard the engine start, and felt the truck get underway. “We’ll spend the night in Dingras,” Wally announced. “We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
Wally’s prediction proved to be true. And, when the driver pushed the big door up and out of the way, his passengers were eager to get out. The truck was parked in a warehouse. Rays of light streamed in through gaps in the siding, spraying streaks of gold across the floor. “This is it,” Wally announced. “Home sweet home. We’re on our own for dinner. Fortunately, a good restaurant is located nearby.”
Greer didn’t want to go out. But knew it wasn’t realistic to expect home cooked dinners at each stop. The driver was a short, stocky man named Angel. He was in a hurry to head home. He locked the side door behind them and gave Wally the key. “Don’t let anyone in,” Angel said. “And be ready at eight in the morning.” With that he left.
It was hot and humid. The sidewalk was cracked where tree roots pushed up from below. Shanties lurked in the shadows between commercial buildings. The sinister thump, thump, thump of bass emanated from a Toyota Vios as it passed by. Greer felt as if he was being watched. Because he was the only black guy in sight? Probably. But he was used to that. A black man could attract hairy eyeballs in the good old U. S. of A. too.
Wally led Greer around a corner and onto a narrow street. Greer saw signs advertising a laundry, an internet café, a convenience store, and much to his surprise—a Mexican restaurant. It was called “The Blue Cactus.” “I hope you like Mexican food,” Wally said,