Honey Ko - A Novel

Chapter Three

The sun rose blood-red through the ash drifting from Mount Pinatubo's smoking crater. Enough moisture filled the air to quench a dying man's thirst. The wind pushed the sun's heat against my face like a second skin. I turned away when the river's stench hit me, but it was no use. Whatever the official name for the vile smelling, lumpy sliver of waste that separated naval base and town, the Sailor's crude nickname stuck: Shit River. I shielded my eyes against the sun's glare, took a deep breath, and held it while I crossed the bridge to Subic Bay Naval Station.

I reached the guard shack, thankful I didn't have to breathe the river's fetid odor all day. The Filipino sentry gave my ID card a cursory look and waved me on. I checked the schedule at the bus queue but took a taxi rather than wait. We sped away for the barracks, driving along the shipyard packed with visiting warships. We drove past the airfield and the runway and into the jungle and up Sky Club Hill. Near the top, the view opened to reveal the deep blue water of Subic Bay backed by the lush green foliage of the Zambales Mountains reaching high into the hazy morning sky. The South China Sea beckoned in the distance. As we rounded the curve to the barracks, the cabbie mashed the brakes to avoid a monitor lizard sunning itself on the hot pavement. We inched closer. The cabbie honked the horn until the eight-foot lizard lifted itself on short, powerful legs, and sauntered away, flicking its long tongue in defiance. We arrived at the barracks next to the jungle survival school compound. I paid the driver and ran up the stairs to my room on the fifth deck. Sweat rolled off me as I caught my breath and peeled away my damp clothes and donned my uniform. I took a soda from the refrigerator and ate a cold slice of pizza leftover from the Sky Club.

A short bus ride later, I walked into the hangar aboard Cubi Point Naval Air Station, the aviation side of the giant American Navy base. Two P-3 Orion anti-submarine aircraft parked nose to nose filled the hangar. The cavernous structure echoed with the sounds of mechanics replacing a propeller on one P-3 while structural mechanics repaired a fuel cell in the starboard wing of the other. Good-natured voices and colorful language rose above the echoing clang of tools and roar of ground support equipment engines.

Fuel fumes enveloped me like Saran Wrap covering a bowl of potato salad as I walked across the hangar deck. I took the stairs to the coffee mess on the second deck and filled my mug to the brim with the lifeblood of the Navy. The cashier, a plain, cross-eyed Filipina in her mid-twenties with acne-scarred cheeks, returned my smile as she made change for me. Outside, I hurried for the air-conditioned comfort of the Airframes shop in the Quonset hut behind the hangar.

Kenny, the shift supervisor, walked in as I scanned the aircraft status board, jotting down maintenance notes for the detachment. His high-pitched Alabama nasal twang grated in my ears. I turned the radio volume up, but it didn't help. His voice rose to the pitch of an untuned violin in the hands of a tone deaf sixth-grader.

"Well, if it ain't my buddy, Admiral Nelson. Hey admiral, I heard you were whining to Master Chief about not going on the Thailand detachment. It wasn't your turn, you know."

"I'm not your buddy, and I'm not related to Admiral Nelson."

"So, you admit you were sucking up to him and got him to change his mind?"

"Whatever you say, Kenny."

"Now, why would you want to go to Thailand? What would your wife say? You just want to see that Thai chick you used to screw over there."

"She's not my wife. And her name is Aida, like the opera. You know what opera is, don't you?"

"Isn't that where fat ladies dress like Vikings and sing? I don't like opera."

"I didn't think you would."

"What?"

"Nothing. Screw you, Kenny."