ELEVEN

Friday, 8 August
0800 local (+8 GMT)
Admiral’s Conference Room
USS Jefferson

Tomboy spread the stack of freshly developed photographs across the table in the admiral’s conference room. She was alone, and grateful to Batman for the offer of this room and the solitude it provided. She had the feeling that her terror might leap onto her face at any moment, and she refused to let anyone see that. Refused to see her dread reflected in the pitying faces of others.

Matthew, her husband, her love, was a prisoner of the Red Chinese. She still couldn’t get her mind around that fact. How often had she heard him talk about his father, himself a navy pilot who had been shot down over North Vietnam? First a POW, then MIA… Never seen again.

And now Tombstone.

A piece of the shirt Tombstone had been wearing when he left for Hong Kong had been left at the American Embassy in Hong Kong, along with a photograph showing Tombstone in the grasp of two Chinese men in PLA uniforms. No one knew who had left the package. There had been no note, no further information.

In the hours since then, the PRC had not denied being involved in the kidnapping. They hadn’t admitted it, either. There was a disturbing lid of silence over the second-largest nation in the world.

“We’ll find him,” Batman had promised her. “We’ll get him out.” Fine words. But how?

For now, she was better off not thinking about it. Better off concentrating on something she might actually be able to do something about.

So she stared at the photos she’d snapped of the bogey.

They weren’t very impressive. The damned plane was too skinny, too carefully camoflaged. All she had in her pictures was a discolored sliver in the sky, really. A shape like a staple with its flanges bent up slightly.

It was a radical shape; the kind of airframe that almost certainly depended on high-speed computers to maintain stability. All top-end fighter planes, including F-14s and the latest-generation Russian designs, were aerodynamically unstable. If it weren’t for the dozens of tiny corrections automatically made each second by the onboard computers, the aircraft would not be able to fly at all. This natural tendency to diverge from level flight resulted in extraordinary combat agility. But shut the computer down, and all that expensive hardware would tumble out of the sky like an autumn leaf.

Such sophisticated technology wasn’t developed overnight. Neither was a radical new airframe like this flying manta shape. How had the Chinese done it? Borrowed from the Russians? Unlikely. Like any technologically-advanced nation, the Russians kept their hottest new gear for themselves.

She went over the photos again and again. Many of them were enlarged. She picked up the last shot she’d made before being interrupted by the radar-lock alarm. She stared at it for a moment, then picked up its matching enlargement. Yes — there was a dark blob beneath the plane, almost like a fuel drop-tank, that wasn’t there in the previous shot. Then she realized what it was: a head-on view of the missile, extended into firing position.

Unfortunately, no more detail was visible even in the blow-ups. Too grainy. All she could tell was that the missile had popped out of some kind of internal bay. Still, she kept staring at the photo. Something about it…

Wait. Wait. The missile itself. How big had the real thing been?

She thought back to what she’d seen as the missile flashed under the Tomcat, and compared that to how much damage had been done to Hong Kong. Not a small missile, but not a behemoth like a Phoenix, either. A mid-sized weapon, then; like a Sparrow. The diameter of a Sparrow was eight inches. Given that measurement to work with, she could compare the cross-section of the missile to the shape of the aircraft that carried it and estimate the latter’s wingspan and overall thickness.

She did so, and frowned. It didn’t make sense. The span would be only about twenty-five feet, and its center thickness… no more than two feet.

That was impossible. The pilot would have to be lying flat to fit in such a tiny airframe. Of course, such a pilot position had been tried before. There was that experimental Northrop flying wing of the 1940s, the Flying Ram, whose pilot lay prone inside the center section of the wing….

But even the Flying Ram was significantly larger than this. If her estimate was correct, only a genuine midget could pilot the Chinese bogey, even assuming he was lying on his belly. And come to think of it, there was no clear view of a canopy in any of her photos. No variation in color or pattern that indicated a viewport or window of any kind.

It was as if…

“My God,” she said, and reached for the phone.


When Batman walked into the conference room, his Gang of Four was gathered around a collage of photographs on the table. The intensity of their concentration made him decide to wait before relating the message he had just received from CVIC. “What is this?” he asked.

Tomboy looked up. Her eyes burned like blue-hot coals in pits of ash. “I was just explaining that I don’t think the bogey that fired that missile at Hong Kong is a fighter at all.”

“What?” Batman moved closer to the photos and stared at them. Frowned. “Then what is it?”

“A UAV.”

Coyote shook his head. “But you said UAVs are single-warhead vehicles, sort of like ultra-smart cruise missiles. This thing was carrying missiles.”

“There’s no theoretical reason to bar that development from occurring.”

“Terrific,” Batman said, looking up at Tomboy. “So what made you so sure this was a UAV all of a sudden?”

“For starters, its size. Look at that photo right there. See the missile? Using that for comparison, I was able to determine that the aircraft itself is bigger than Tombstone’s UAV, but still too small to carry a human pilot. Also, see if you can spot a canopy.”

All the men examined the photos more closely. “These aren’t very clear,” Lab Rat said dubiously. He looked at Bird Dog. “When you were in the air with this thing, did you notice a canopy?”

“I didn’t see the bogey at all. It was right behind us the whole time.”

“It didn’t have a canopy,” Tomboy said firmly. “And it was too small to be piloted. I’m sure about this, Admiral. Positive.”

Batman straightened, although he felt his heart going the other direction. “So what you’re talking about here is a low-cost, disposable fighter plane.”

“Something like that.”

“Is it supersonic?”

“Probably not. The platform doesn’t look right, and I doubt the engines are large enough to do the job anyway.”

“I agree,” Lab Rat said.

“So what?” Batman said. “It carries supersonic missiles.”

No one responded.

“All right,” Batman said. “Tell me what we should do if we have to go to war with these things.”

He’d tried to keep his voice neutral, but Tomboy didn’t miss a thing. “Is there something we should know?”

He gave a single nod. “The PLA just declared martial law in Hong Kong. No one gets in, no one gets out. COS, you might want to get to the bridge. The battle group has been ordered to steam toward Hong Kong and take up a close support position, in case action is necessary to defend American interests.”

“Yes, sir.” Coyote turned without another word and strode out of the room.

Batman faced the others. Their expressions were uniformly grim. “I don’t need to tell you what this could lead to. Washington is working for a diplomatic solution, but it’s our job to assume, and prepare for, the worst.” He pointed at the photos. “Which could include dealing with this thing — or things, if it’s got relatives. So, Tomboy, I repeat: How do we kill them?”

She chewed on her lip. “Okay. We can expect UAVs in general to be much more agile than a Tomcat or even a Hornet because G forces aren’t a problem for a pilot. They’ll also be tough targets for missiles; they have diffusion exhausts to blur their heat signatures, and stealth profiles to throw off radar….” She looked at Batman and must have caught something from his expression. “Sorry, sir. Our best strategy is to fly high and watch low. Stealth or no stealth, the Chinese seem to like hiding these bogeys in surface clutter, so that’s the direction they’ll come from. Also, make sure fighter teams stick close together. Solitary aircraft seem to be the preferred targets.”

“Especially if they’re unarmed,” Lab Rat added.

Batman nodded. “All right, let’s make sure the wings of all patrolling aircraft are as dirty as possible. We want everything we put in the air to look like a major threat.”

Abruptly, Bird Dog spoke. “Wait. Wait…”

Everyone turned toward him. For the first time, Batman noticed that the young pilot was clutching a worn paperback book between his hands. The Art of War. Bird Dog stared into space for several seconds, then seemed to snap back into the room. “Has anyone wondered why we’ve seen this bogey at all?”

“What are you talking about?” Batman asked.

“Tomboy just reminded us about its stealth characteristics. So I was thinking… this bogey could have shot down that Air Force jet before anyone knew it was there. Same thing with Tomboy and me. The bogey hung behind us for God knows how long before releasing its missile. In other words, both times it was spotted, it seemed deliberate.”

Batman frowned. As rational explanations went, this one ranked right up there with Bird Dog’s earlier claim that the Chinese must have attacked Lady of Leisure in order to keep the U.S. Navy in the vicinity.

“Why would the Chinese want us to see their stealthiest plane?” Batman asked. “Why tip their hand that way?”

Bird Dog riffled the pages of his paperback. He didn’t seem to be aware he was doing it. “Politics,” he said finally. “When one nation gains enough of a military technological advantage over another, the second country has to react. If the Chinese can convince us they’ve got highly advanced UAV capabilities, that will affect how Washington behaves in future negotiations. And if that can be accomplished without actually having to produce a working inventory of combat UAVs, all the better.”

“You’re suggesting this bogey was a red herring?” Batman asked, pointing at the photos.

“No. Obviously it’s a viable weapons platform. I’m just suggesting it might not be as viable as we think it is; the Chinese might be using it so sparingly because it has weaknesses they don’t want us to know about. I say we have to factor that into our planning, so we aren’t too conservative out there.”

Batman stared at Bird Dog for a long time, then at Lab Rat. Lab Rat’s expression never changed, but Batman read his eyes and nodded. “All right. Bird Dog, I want you, Tomboy and Lab Rat to come up with a range of battle plans based on facing both UAVs and normal Chinese assets.” He turned back toward the pictures. “Earlier you said the Chinese try to win wars without fighting. If that’s so, I want us to be ready to give them a punch they’ll never forget.”

1300 local (+8 GMT)
Main cell
PLA prison compound

“Wonder why they didn’t let us outside today?” Tombstone said. He was sitting on the floor, back leaning against the concrete wall of what he and Lobo had come to call “Grand Central,” the large cell in which they were both usually kept. He’d folded one of the blankets that were the room’s only furnishings into a thick cushion beneath him. Lobo sat on a second blanket. A third had been rigged as a privacy screen around the waste bucket.

“Guess they don’t like the rain,” Lobo said, nodding toward the single small window. Nothing was visible beyond it except darkness, but earlier in the day they had been able to see water droplets running down the glass.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tombstone said. “Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m bothered by the fact that they ever did let us outside.”

“Because of the satellites?”

“The Chinese aren’t stupid. They know we have spy satellites capable of picking out a particular face from orbit, and they’re bound to assume we have one parked over Hong Kong right now. So, yeah, I have to wonder: Why did they let us wander around outside at all?”

Lobo turned toward him. Although it probably wasn’t possible, her face looked thinner than yesterday, almost gaunt. But her eyes were fierce with calculation. “I’ve been wondering about that, too, and I can only think of two reasons: Either they want Washington to know where we are, for some reason, or else they’re holding us someplace satellites aren’t likely to be watching.”

Tombstone nodded. “Neither one makes me optimistic about our chances of rescue. You?”

“No, but what can we do about it?”

“We can leave,” Tombstone said.

1330 local (+8 GMT)
PLA Air Force Operations Room
Hong Kong

“What is your strategy?” Yeh asked. “Why are you sending so many fighters up in this weather?”

Chin didn’t even turn from the tactical display screen on the wall of the Operations Room. He pointed at an icon. “The American aircraft carrier Jefferson is steaming toward Hong Kong.”

Yeh stared at the display, and felt a shiver of dismay at how little of it he could decipher; how far he had fallen behind in matters of warfare. These days, his job was politics and enforcing philosophical rectitude. Still, he knew that Chin was in the process of launching nearly half the SAR’s fighter aircraft into the thundering pre-dawn darkness. “Hong Kong weather warns that this storm could be developing into a typhoon,” he said.

“Our aircraft are all-weather fighters, Comrade. The weather means nothing to them.”

“But why so many?”

“Because the Americans are preparing to attack Hong Kong.”

The skin on Yeh’s back prickled. “You know this for a fact?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“They will have no choice.”

“You’ve warned Beijing?”

“Not yet. ‘He whose generals are able and not interfered with by the sovereign will be victorious.’ ”

“You are a very daring man, Major General Chin. Perhaps too daring for your own good.”

Chin shook his head. “Beijing will question my actions only if we lose.”

“You do realize that an American battle group carries more firepower than — ”

Chin raised a hand. “I know the statistics. They don’t concern me.”

“Why not?”

“Because an aircraft carrier battle group is only as good as its carrier.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have some surprises in store for our American friends.”

1400 local (+8 GMT)
CDF Patrol Boat
South China Sea

The Coastal Defense Force patrol boat had seemed large and capable enough in Victoria Harbor, but in the open sea its limitations became obvious. Still, it had been modified for that environment with an extra-heavy keel, sealed doors on all hatches and ports, and a snorkel intake for the engine that helped keep water out. It could be completely submerged without any danger of shipping water and sinking.

That didn’t mean that riding in it in these conditions was a pleasure. But that was all right. Chou and his men were not being paid to have fun.

“Distance?” Chou asked the radar operator.

“One hundred and fifty kilometers.”

“And our ducks?”

“Unless the aircraft carrier alters course, the ducks will converge on the intercept location just before dawn.”

“Not too much before. They’ll need light to see what they’re doing.”

The radar man nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on it. But these conditions make predicting anything very difficult.”

“The ducks have been well paid already, and know they’ll receive double that amount when they return — if they do what they’re supposed to do. It’s more money than any of them expected to see in ten lifetimes. I think that’s plenty of incentive to get them where they’re supposed to be when they’re supposed to be there.”

“This storm is turning into a typhoon. Many of the ducks will never make it back to Hong Kong at all.”

“Then they won’t be paid.” Chou turned to the radio operator. “You’re still in touch with all the ducks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they understand the importance of coordination? Everything must happen exactly on our signal. They understand that?”

“They understand.”

Chou nodded. “Carry on.”

1450 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson

Coyote was swaying on his feet from exhaustion, although he was trying to pretend that it was just the unpredictable motion of the ship. Despite all odds, Dr. George had been right; during the night, the weather conditions had graduated to “tropical storm,” and were moving rapidly onward. Satellite data showed the clear cloud patterns of a typhoon developing to the southeast.

Outside, the horizon line was smudged from existence by wind-whipped spray, pounding rain and streamers of cloud. Everything was shades and tints of gray. This was weather only fools and Navy sailors — assuming there was a difference — would be out in.

Then he saw the first junk.

Later, there would be questions asked of the officer of the deck and the junior officer of the deck who was responsible for watching the SPA-25G radar repeater on the bridge, and of the lookouts, and of the boatswain’s mate of the watch, who was supposed to be keeping an eye out for obstacles in the water, but no blame would be laid. Not in conditions like these, where curtains of visibility were opened and closed at random.

The junk looked ridiculous out here, a silly toy with its elevated stern house and stubby bow. The sails were furled, of course, leaving the job of propulsion to some kind of rinky-dink engine that had to fight winds currently peaking at over eighty mph, not to mention seas that must look like mountains from the deck of the junk.

Before Coyote could say anything, he heard one of the lookouts say, “Holy shit” in a wondering voice.

Coyote turned back toward the windows. His eyes widened.

The junk was not alone. The ocean was full of boats. Not ships but boats, none more than forty feet long. Junks, sampans, rectangular houseboats, sportfishing cruisers. At a glance, they were all in pretty sorry shape; not one looked like the kind of vessel you’d want to take out of protected waters even during mild weather — never mind this.

But there they were, bobbing around like rubber ducks in a bathtub while 97,000 tons of nuclear-powered aircraft carrier ploughed through them.

“Oh, lord,” Coyote said. “OOD, back off to bare steerageway. Just pray nobody’s right in front of us.” But he wasn’t going to call for evasive action. For one thing, an aircraft carrier was not a cigarette boat; a carrier turned as nimbly as a skyscraper with a keel. For another, in this weather the visibility in any direction, including straight ahead, was so intermittent and limited that attempting to set any kind of avoidance course was pointless.

He grabbed for the phone.

1455 local (+8 GMT)
CDF Patrol Boat
South China Sea

“All ducks reporting in,” the radio operator said. “They are in position, and the carrier is in sight.”

Chou nodded, although he doubted all the ducks were truly in position. Not in this wind and these seas. Many of the ducks were almost certainly far off the mark, and simply denying it. But that was all right. There were a lot of ducks out there; only a handful had to have reached their positions on time.

“Begin the countdown,” he told the radioman.

“Countdown begins,” the radioman said into his headset, broadcasting to all the ducks in the South China Sea.

“On my mark,” Chou said. He raised a hand. “Ten — ”

“Ten,” the radio operator repeated into his headset.

“Nine — ”

“Nine,” the radio operator repeated.

“Eight…”

1500 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson

Refugees, Coyote thought. It was the only possible explanation for this haphazard flotilla — Hong Kong citizens making a truly desperate attempt to escape the abrupt iron hand of the People’s Republic. Fools, but brave fools. Imagine deliberately sailing out into this weather, with a typhoon roaring into existence just over the horizon. You had to admire —

His thought was cut off by a small but intense flare of light in the distance, down near the water. This was followed by another, then another, and another, originating from points all over the compass. The flares turned into long streamers unwinding toward Jefferson.

Before Coyote had quite registered what the streamers meant, the carrier’s Phalanx Close-In Weapons System began to roar.

1510 local (+8 GMT)
Main holding cell
PLA prison

Tombstone was beginning to fear the guards would never arrive with lunch. His butt was going numb from sitting in one spot, waiting.

But finally he heard the heavy thud of the bolt sliding back. The door swung open, revealing the usual arrangement: one guard standing at the ready, AK-47 raised, with another guard behind him holding two bowls of rice and a jug of fresh water.

The armed guard looked at Tombstone sitting against the wall, a coarse blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His naked chest. Tombstone saw the man’s eyes register the nakedness, then move to the tufts of short brown hair exposed above the top edge of the blanket. Move down to the unmistakably feminine shape the blanket made under Tombstone’s curled arm.

The guard grinned and said something over his shoulder to the guard with the food, who laughed. Both men walked into the room. The armed guard kept grinning, but never lowered the muzzle of his automatic rifle.

Neither man saw or heard Lobo step out from behind the privacy curtain. Her feet were bare. Tombstone was careful not to let his gaze even flicker in her direction, but his view of her was clear nonetheless as she set her feet, then charged straight at the guard with the food. She slammed into his back with all her weight, driving him into the back of the armed guard.

Tombstone was already moving, rolling to one side in case the guard reflexively triggered the AK-47. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the handle of the empty waste bucket he’d been holding under the blanket.

There was no gunfire. Tombstone stumbled to his feet, cursing the numbness of his legs, as the two guards stumbled toward him. He swung the bucket over his head and down like a sledgehammer, smashing it with all his strength and fury against the back of the armed guard’s skull. The wooden slats of the bucket exploded in all direction. Without hesitation, Tombstone took a step and drove the point of his elbow into the second guard’s throat. Both guards crashed to the floor, one unconscious and bleeding, the other coughing and gagging. Tombstone raised a foot and stomped down on the latter man’s head once, twice. Felt the surrendering snap of bone. The gagging sounds stopped.

Tombstone looked at Lobo. “Guess I’ll have to report you for a grooming violation,” he said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. “That haircut’s awful.”

Lobo bent down and unholstered the second guard’s side-arm. “Are you kidding? People in Paris pay a fortune to have their hair look like this.”

“Then maybe Parisian barbers should start cutting with wood slivers.” Tombstone gathered up a couple of the blankets and threw one to her. Then he grabbed the AK-47 off the floor. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

1511 local (+8 GMT)
USS Jefferson

The Phalanx CIWS was a carrier’s last-ditch line of defense. There were two Phalanx installations on Jefferson; one mounted on the port bow, the other on the starboard stern. At a glance, they looked like giant water heaters mounted on top of M-61A1 Gatling guns. The water heaters were actually housings for the systems’ automatic search-and-track radars, along with 1,550 rounds of ammunition. The Gatlings were, in turn, mounted on balanced, motorized carriages that could rotate, pivot and rock through all three axis.

A Phalanx system was designed to detect an incoming airborne threat with its radar and pass this data on to the carriage’s motors, which immediately swung the Gatling gun toward the threat. The gun then spewed ammo at the rate of 4,500 rounds per minute, creating a curtain of metal through which virtually nothing could pass intact. Everything happened with breathtaking speed, the 13,600-pound Phalanx unit bobbing and twisting as nimbly as a flyweight boxer.

At least, it sounded good on paper. But even though the Phalanx system had surpassed its performance specifications in all tests, it was still not much trusted by sailors. How could you really put your faith in something almost untested in actual combat? Especially since to activate the system, an incoming missile or enemy aircraft had to first make it safely through the other defenses of the fleet, including the cruisers and frigates with their ship-to-air missiles, Hawkeyes and their radar net, and numerous fighters flying BARCAP. This was something that simply did not happen.

Until now.

A total of fifteen missiles raced toward Jefferson from various boats in the Hong Kong flotilla. Eleven of the bogeys were FIM-92 Stingers, American-made hand-launchable heat-seeking missiles designed for foot soldiers to use against low-flying helicopters and aircraft. The Stinger had a dual-thrust rocket motor capable of pushing its 2.2 pound armor-penetrating warhead to Mach one in a couple of seconds. From there, a heat-seeking head equipped with a reprogrammable microprocessor would guide the missile to its target over a maximum range of approximately three miles.

The other missiles in the salvo were AT-4 anti-tank missiles, also fired from hand-held, expendable launchers. But the AT-4 was designed for one purpose only: to destroy armored land vehicles. It had a range of only a thousand yards, which it reached in less two seconds; then, at the moment of impact, an 84mm HEAT shaped-charge warhead would go off, flash-melting a hole in even rolled homogenous armor plating of up to 400mm thickness. The rest of the warhead’s energy would turn the interior of the vehicle into a fiery cauldron.

Even an AT-40’s guidance system was optimized for striking at large, slow-moving targets: It had none. AT-4s were aimed by eye, like a gun; and their missiles, like bullets, could not be redirected after being sent on their way.

The fifteen missiles came at Jefferson from all sides, and all within a few seconds of one another. Two of the Stingers fizzled out well short of the carrier, having been fired from almost five miles away. A third Stinger and one AT-4 veered off into the storm, the Stingers’ infrared seeker heads confused by the cold spray, the AT-4’s trajectory thrown off by a last-moment tilt of the boat from which it was fired. All these missiles disappeared into the raging rain.

Of the remaining eleven missiles, seven were met by the the Phalanx weapons, which detected them, targeted them, then spewed masses of slugs out at them. When the missiles met the barrage they exploded, sending sparkling debris streaking through the gloom. For a few seconds, Jefferson was surrounded by a garden of bright, short-lived flowers.

But the Phalanx system was subject to the same physical laws as any other piece of machinery. Nimble as they were, neither unit could aim at two simultaneously, nor reverse direction faster than momentum would allow.

Two missiles got untouched through the barrage. One was a Stinger, fired late but from almost dead astern; the other, an AT-4 aimed from the deckhouse of a junk on Jefferson’s port side.

The moment the Stinger lofted out of its fiberglass launching tube, its infrared-sensing head sought a heat signature. Although no aircraft were currently launching from Jefferson, the carrier’s stern was crowded with parked aircraft that had recently trapped. To the Stinger, their steaming exhausts stood out like beacons against the cold steel of the ship. The missile whipped toward this feast, and from the embarrassment of riches, selected an F-14 carrying a full complement of ordnance. It sang right up inside the left exhaust.

The Tomcat’s fuel tank was almost empty — but fumes, not fuel itself, is what burns. The rear half of the Tomcat disintegrated in a blinding flare, instantly killing three nearby brown shirts and blowing their blazing corpses into the ocean. Simultaneously, the front half of the jet obeyed Newton’s Third Law of Motion by lunging away from the impact like a giant piston, crashing into the adjacent nose-tail-nose mosaic of parked aircraft. There was a rapid propagation of crumpling metal as wheels broke loose from tie-down chains, landing gear struts collapsed, knife-edged wings swung wildly. Aluminum skins ruptured. Jet fuel poured out onto the non-skid. Flames raised a roaring, yellow-and-black wall. In an instant, seven aircraft sat cooking wildly in the rain.

The missile fired from the junk, the AT-4, had been intended to strike the “island,” the heart of the carrier that included Pri-Fly, the bridge, and all the major communication and tracking equipment of the ship — and therefore the entire battle group. But even at point-blank range, Jefferson was a difficult target to hit from the lunging deck of a small wooden boat. The AT-4, flying straight and true, did not strike the island.

Instead, it struck the underside of the protruding flight deck, just above the closed door to the aft elevator. Its conical warhead, a shaped charge designed to concentrate virtually all its explosive energy on a single spot, liquified the steel plate of Jefferson’s hull and passed straight through, spraying molten metal and chunks of shattered steel before it at high velocity. The majority of the shock wave slammed up into the deck over the hangar bay, buckling it and sending a wave-shaped ripple through the flight deck above. There, sailors were flung off their feet as if someone had jumped on a trampoline beside them. Aircraft yanked and shuddered against their tie-downs, and deck plates sprang free from their rivets. Within seconds, what had been a flat surface the length of three football fields became a warped, rippled mess.

In the hangar bay itself, the results were even worse. Flaming debris rained down on the parked aircraft and the hundreds of men and women working on the planes. Sections of catwalk scaffolding collapsed. There was a wild scramble for cover under fuselages and half-folded wings. Smoke filled the air, permeated by sirens, claxons, and screaming.

Outside, the bow Phalanx immediately swung through ninety degrees in an attempt to acquire the last missile in the air, a Stinger that had been fired from almost directly off the bow. The horizontal blizzard of Phalanx projectiles reached the missile just as it made an abrupt vertical juke to follow a cloud of exploding jet fuel. The slugs nipped the missile’s tail, shearing it off and sending the rest of the missile into an uncontrolled cartwheel. It broke into pieces from the centrifugal force, and in that condition almost accomplished the job for which one of the AT-4s had been intended: Although the seeker head arched a hundred feet into the air and vaulted Jefferson entirely, and the explosive warhead skimmed past the bridge by four feet and spent its explosion in the water, the center section of the missile whirled directly into the island, shearing off antennas and destroying radar masts.

In less than thirty seconds, the USS Thomas Jefferson was transformed from one of the most potent weapons in the world to a smoking, flaming hulk.

1520 local (+8 GMT)
Headquarters, PLA Air Force
Hong Kong Garrison

Tombstone knew the entire enterprise was hopeless, of course. Even if he and Lobo managed to escape all the way from the prison complex — not guaranteed, to say the least — what then? After all, they were being held somewhere in Communist China; for all he knew, just outside Beijing. It wasn’t as if a Caucasian man and woman could wander around unnoticed.

Still, they had to try. Tombstone Magruder was not going to end up like his father, dying in some POW hellhole. And he knew Lobo was with him on that decision.

He already knew that this was not a prison of the sort familiar to Americans, nor even a POW camp like the one he’d heard described by Vietnam vets. It was more like a dungeon. Still, he was surprised to find that the short corridor outside the cell was not itself guarded. He glanced in both directions, and saw a door at either end. Whenever he and Lobo were dragged in or out of their cell, they were first blindfolded with a black hood, which Tombstone had always assumed was part of the psychological terror. But he’d noticed that trips to the outdoor compound were made to the right, so he now turned left.

When he reached the door, he was surprised again. It was unlocked. He frowned; then, with Lobo right behind him, he eased the door open.

Something on the outside hurled the door open with superhuman strength, flinging Tombstone up and out. In an instant he was drenched by a rain that pounded down on his back like a million ballpeen hammers. He gasped in shock, stumbling in the same blast of wind that had grabbed the door. Only by flinging himself sideways, tightly against the wall of the prison, was he able to halt his helpless flight.

Squinting against the blasting rain and wind, he saw Lobo standing uncertainly in the doorway. He shook his head, then looked around.

Through horizontal sheets of rain he saw various buildings move in and out of sight: long, low structures for the most part, with trees arching overhead. The trees were mostly evergreens, their crowns tossing madly. Tombstone noted that most of their branches grew from the leeward side of the trunk; these trees had been shaped by weather like this. Straight ahead of him, perhaps thirty yards away, was a narrow paved road. Nothing moved along it.

Soaked to the skin, beginning to shiver, he considered the options. Wherever they were being kept, the obvious direction to go was east. Since major storms in this part of the world cycled counterclockwise, the wind would be coming from somewhere between north and east, so at least he knew what direction to head. After that… who knew?

He was about to beckon Lobo out of the doorway when he heard a new sound, weaving in and out of the wind: a distinctive, high-pitched whistle. Tombstone turned his head in time to see something rushing along the strip of road. For an instant the weather parted, giving him a clear view of a manta-shaped aircraft, with upturned winglets, lifting off the road. It bobbed, recovered crisply, and lofted out of sight into the slanting rain. There were red stars painted on the winglets.

The bogey. The one Tomboy had been sent to the South China Sea to investigate.

Tombstone rushed back to the doorway, and gasped with relief when he got out of the wind and rain. “Did you see that?” he said.

Lobo nodded. “It must be the thing that shot down the Air Force jet.”

Tombstone nodded. “So we’re not in a regular prison. They’re keeping us at an air base.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Probably in hopes of preventing an attack on the base. Insurance. That would be why they let us show our faces in the compound; to let Washington know where we are.”

Lobo nodded.

“The good news,” Tombstone said, “is that we must be close to Hong Kong. That would be the air base the Chinese would want to protect. If we can reach the city — ”

“How?”

“Find a vehicle. Or a prisoner. Or both.”

She nodded.

“Let’s head toward where the bogey came from. Start looking there.”

She nodded again.

Together, they plunged into the storm.

1530 local (+8 GMT)
USS Jefferson

Before the chaos began, Bird Dog was in his stateroom trying to relax. He’d picked up his copy of The Art of War. One thing about Sun Tzu: If you were having trouble sleeping, just read The Art of War awhile. Trying to make sense of it numbed the brain.

At the moment, Bird Dog was plodding through the chapter on “The Nine Varieties of Ground,” which was a ridiculous pastime because he was, after all, a naval aviator. No ground around, not unless you counted the ocean floor, and only the submariners cared about that. Still, he forced himself to continue. Even if he found nothing practical for himself in The Art of War, he had to remember that for his enemies, the book was a treasure house of information.

So. Per Sun Tzu, the nine types of real estate were: Dispersive, Frontier, Key, Communicating, Focal, Serious, Difficult, Encircled, and Death. These were rated in order of the trouble they’d cause a general during battle, starting with the army’s own homeland — nice and safe — and progressing out into “death” territory — land in which the army could be trapped with virtually no chance of escape, far less victory.

Right now, if you wanted to stretch the metaphor, Jefferson could be said to be occupying Difficult ground: “any place where the going is hard.” Sun Tzu’s advice for dealing with Difficult ground? “Press on.”

“Guess the navy’s doing everything right, then, eh, Sun?” Bird Dog muttered, and closed the book.

At that moment, a series of jarring vibrations shivered through his rack.

1537 local (+8 GMT)
Flanker 67

This was not optimum, Tai thought angrily. The formations were ragged, the voices over the combat radio channel too tense. Not tense because of the promise of combat, though. These were brave men, and eager for blood. No, the problem was the weather. The storm. No one had counted on that. No one had expected to be fighting the Americans in near-blindness.

The PLA fighters had excellent radar, powerful enough to fry a rabbit crossing the runway; that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that using radar exclusively was new to most of the pilots — certainly, using it in the middle of a storm, with visibility diminished nearly to zero, was new to them. The fact that such combat would be a first for most of the Americans, too, was of no consolation, because everyone knew the Americans trained extensively in flight simulators. And while “virtual” experience was not the equivalent of the real thing, it was better than nothing. And nothing was what the Chinese pilots were building upon.

Damn this storm.

No wonder the men were worried, even though they outnumbered the American fighters currently in the air. And even though there would be no American reinforcements in the immediate future, thanks to the ambush Mr. Blossom had arranged. From all reports, the carrier had taken damage. How bad was not yet known, but bad enough. There would be no help there. For the American pilots, even returning to their ship might be out of the question.

So from the Chinese perspective, there was good news as well as bad. Not to mention the special surprise Tai suspected would be out to help the Chinese.

Personally, Tai Ling was not worried at all. This was one battle — fought blind or not — that the Americans would never forget.

No, correct that.

This was a battle the Americans would never survive.

1538 local (+8 GMT)
Tomcat 306
USS Jefferson

“Say again?” Hot Rock heard the disbelief and tension in his own voice. The same question was echoed over the air by other BARCAP pilots.

“I say again,” came the brisk response from the E-2 Hawkeye. “Fifty Flankers inbound your location, bearing 000, ETA ten minutes.”

Fifty Flankers,” Hot Rock murmured, feeling sweat spring out along the spine of his flight suit. That was damn near a three-to-one ratio against the Vipers.

“Vipers,” the E-2 said crisply, “be aware Homeplate took a hit and is red deck. Repeat, Homeplate has a red deck. There will be no backup. You are weapons free. Fire at will.”

Hot Rock felt the sweat begin to trickle. Jefferson damaged, the fighters weapons free… it could only mean that the Chinese had struck the carrier, and effectively. How? By submarine? It seemed incredible.

On a more immediate note, it meant that the odds facing the BARCAP pilots were not only three to one, but unlikely to improve. No help would be rushing in….

“Better hope we don’t use our go-juice too quick, youngster,” Two Tone said. “There’s only one Texaco in the sky — and lots of planes bound to get thirsty.”

“Here we go, Hot Rock,” came over his headset from his new lead, Neanderthal. “Try to stay with me.”

Neanderthal’s Tomcat banked hard right. Hot Rock followed.

Until now they had been flying, as much as possible, in the direction of the wind. Going that way, the air was almost smooth. But come around, and life turned into a hell of buffeting and vicious vertical wind shears. Not to mention lack of visibility. The entire world was the striped, irregular gray of oily rags. And this was the outskirts of the storm.

Best to ignore the view entirely. Stare out there for more than a few seconds, denying the brain reliable visual reference points, and in no time you’d start to think you were on the verge of a stall, or had entered a power dive, or even that you were going backward. There was no escaping it — no one, however hot on the stick, could fly in by the seat of his pants in zero visibility.

Instead, you watched your instruments. The blips on radar, those were real. Readings from altimeter, variometer, airspeed indicator, attitude indicator — those were real. When a pilot flew instruments, he became as dependent on artificial sensors as was any RIO.

“Picking up the bogeys now,” Two Tone said. “Yep. I’d call that a shitload of Flankers.”

“Phoenixes,” came over the radio.

“Phoenix ready,” Two Tone said. “Got us a nice juicy Flanker all picked out, Rocker.”

“Roger,” Hot Rock said, switching the weapons selector switch to the appropriate setting.

A moment later, the order came: “Fire when ready.”

As with the helicopter, Hot Rock didn’t allow himself to think: He toggled the switch and made the Fox call. The upward bounce of the Tomcat when the missile’s weight dropped away was barely noticeable in the general tumult.

He watched the missile’s progress on radar, knowing that the pilot of the targeted Chinese plane was doing the same thing. For all the Phoenix’s weaknesses, Hot Rock was glad the PLA didn’t have anything like the big radar-guided killer.

“Miss,” Two Tone said. “That’s a miss.” Meanwhile, over the headphones came whoops from a handful of more fortunate Vipers. Sounded like three or four had successfully taken out a Flanker.

Three or four… out of fifty.

The Vipers hurtled northwest into the claws of the wind, intending to engage the Chinese as far as possible from Jefferson. Meanwhile the Flankers, with the wind quartering on their tails, intended to do just the opposite. Hot Rock and Two Tone began assigning missile tags to incoming blips.

“Hang tough, amigo,” Two Tone said. “Don’t leave your lead for anything this time.”

“What do you mean, ‘this time’?”

“Just thinking of that helo you shot down. Some people might have questioned that if I hadn’t backed your story, you know? So this time stick with your lead, stay in position. Don’t do anything fancy on your own. That’s what I’m suggesting.”

“But I — you — ”

“Heads up, Rock. Here come the bad guys.”

1538 local (+8 GMT)
USS Jefferson

Beaman struggled into his OBA, or oxygen breathing apparatus, and mustered with the rest of his damage control party. Hosemen, investigators, and on-scene leader — they fell into their assigned positions automatically.

“Beaman,” the team leader said. “Get going. Cut around the forward end of it — see how big it is.”

Beaman nodded. As the primary investigator, his first task was to figure out where the edges of the fire were so that Damage Control Central, or DCC, could order smoke and fire boundaries set. First they would try to contain the fire, keep it from spreading, contain the smoke in the damaged area with heavy curtains hung from the hatches. Then while essential systems were being rerouted through the multiple system redundancies that existed on every Navy ship, the fire party would start nibbling at the edges, forcing flames and heat back into a smaller and smaller area until they could finally extinguish it.

At least, that was the plan. Reality always threw some monkey wrenches into the mix.

“You, Jones — get down to the first deck, see if the overhead’s starting to buckle. We stop it from moving down first, people. You know why.”

Beaman nodded. He did indeed. Starting three decks below the hangar bay, the aircraft carrier was honeycombed with ammunition lockers. Sure, they were equipped with sprinklers, watertight doors, Halon systems, everything the carrier could bring to bear in the way of fire control. But three decks wasn’t all that far away, not if this was a class D fire, a metal-burning conflagration. Given a little time, the fire could eat through steel deck plates like they were hot tortillas.

“It might have missed the hangar queen,” Beaman said. “They were moving her forward last time I saw.” The hangar queen, an aircraft that was virtually impossible to ever get flying again but served as a valuable source of parts, had been spotted directly ahead of them.

Even two hundred feet away from the fire, Beaman could feel the waves of heat rolling over him. The fire billowed and roared, battered the overhead, and reached out for them with tentacles of sparks.

“Get moving. Be safe,” the team leader said. He gave Beaman a swat on the rear as Beaman and his designated messenger broke off from the pack. “We’re right behind you.”

As they neared the edge of the fire, the hosemen behind Beaman arced a stream of fog into the air, showering it around him from a safe distance away. It wasn’t particularly useful for actually extinguishing the fire, but that wasn’t the point just yet. The mist cooled the air off to a temperature that his fire-fighting ensemble could withstand.

Never step where you can’t see. Beaman edged out just a bit from the fire, out to the edge of the cloaking smoke that roiled like a snake in the air. The banshee scream of the fire was louder now, reducing the voice of the team leader on his communications handset to a harsh whisper.

The rest of the damage control party was out of sight now as Beaman and his messenger moved around the far wall of the inferno. No secondary explosions yet, and it looked like — two more steps — yes, by God, one break. He could see the hangar queen safely out of the way. Safe for now, at least. Another five minutes and the gutted hulk of the queen would simply be more fuel in the fire. And then they would have a problem — once the aircraft’s metal ignited, there would be damned little chance of extinguishing the blaze.

Beaman backed off a bit until the noise was at a tolerable level. He toggled the transmit switch and screamed, “Hangar queen’s clear. Checking the far side now.” He slipped the walkie-talkie into a pocket on his fire fighting suit and motioned to the messenger to follow him. If he lost communications completely, his messenger would be his only link with the team leader.

Back close to it now, as close as he dared. The air inside his ensemble scorched the delicate lining of his noise, rasped against the back of his throat as he sucked down heaving breaths. Sweat cascaded down his face, his neck, his entire body, trickling down to soak his dungarees and seep into his boots. Another few steps, another one step — Beaman struggled against the blackness crowding in on his vision, knowing on some level that he was too close, too damned close, that he had to —

He felt someone jerk him back by his elbows. He stumbled and fell awkwardly onto the deck. Heat from the steel plates blistered through the fire retardant gear. He could feel the skin along his leg where he landed starting to stick to the fabric. Beaman let out a scream, then shoved himself up and away from the deck, drawing on reserves of energy he wouldn’t have guess that he had.

“Too close!” Beaman could make out the words that the investigator mouthed, unable to hear over the noise.

Too close. Too damned close. Beaman shook his head, clearing away the fog that threatened to consume his consciousness. Get himself killed, pass out or something, and he’d put the whole team at risk trying to come after him.

He nodded to let the messenger know he understood, then motioned them forward. They resumed their achingly slow progress around the fire, inching forward in the near-complete darkness.

Another two steps, and Beaman felt the heat start to decrease drastically. Was it possible — yes, by God. Through the veil of partially combusted missile fuel, burning bits of debris, he could see the open hangar bay doors. Outside, the gale raged, the wind blowing parallel to the length of the ship, sucking the smoke outside and creating a draft on the entire hangar bay.

But how could they contain the fire already raging inside? If only there were some way to channel the force of the storm into the hangar bay, let Mother Nature’s rain dowse the flames, cool the inferno to a point that the man-made fire fighting systems had a chance to beat it out?

Could they push it overboard? Sure, if they were up on the flight deck with yellow gear and Tilly, the flight deck crane that was used to hoist burning aircraft over the side. But down here?

Wait. It just might be possible — he stepped back farther from the flames, felt the air inside his suit start to cool slightly. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his masked face and started shouting.


“He wants to what?” Batman roared.

“Turn abeam to the wind, Admiral,” Coyote said. “Open the hangar bay doors on both sides. According to DCC, it might just work.”

“What idiot is down in Damage Control Central?” Batman snapped. “This is lunacy — the last thing we need is to feed more oxygen in to the fire. All that’s going to do is spread it and gut this air craft carrier like a — like a — ” Batman spluttered to a stop, and Coyote leaped into the silence.

“I think it will work, Admiral. Frankly, with fires topside and in the hangar bay, it’s our only chance. We can fight one, maybe both for a while. But not much longer if we have any chance of ever using the flight deck again. It’s going to buckle — and that will be the least of it.” He pointed at the damage control schematic of the ship. “Another five minutes, and it’s going to get to the catapults. Then you can kiss that flight deck good-bye for good.”

Batman was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What about the men on the deck? We’ve lost internal communications with Repair Eight. The wind shifts and it’ll foul their plan of attack completely.”

“Messengers,” Coyote said. “In the end, it’ll help them, too. They’re going to have to push that flaming mass of metal over the side one way or another, and right now they’re working at cross angles to the wind. We turn, we give them a tail wind.”

“Dangerous.”

“It always is.”

Batman stared down at the flight deck, watching the coordinated chaos that represented one of the finest fire fighting actions he’d ever seen anywhere, in training films, in drills, in actual videotapes of disasters. The missiles that had hit the flight deck had come in at a low angle. One had plowed through four helos parked aft, another had taken out two E-2 Hawkeyes parked next to the island. He shuddered as he studied that particular hit. Another twenty feet and the missile would have snapped the tower right off the ship.

Finally, Batman said, “Do it. But don’t kill anyone in the process.”


“Okay, stand by,” the team leader shouted. “Hosemen, get over to the other side and get the windward hangar door open. It’ll take them about two minutes to get us abeam of the wind.” The team leader looked over at Beaman. “I hope to hell you’re right about this. DCC thinks you are.”

Beaman tried to speak, but all he could manage was a hoarse croak. Pain rattled down his throat as scorched tissue protested. The corpsman leaned over him and pressed a canteen of water into his hand. “Drink a little more — you’re headed down to sick bay, man.”

Beaman struggled to his feet and tried to shove the corpsman away. He took another slug of water in, rolled it around in his mouth and let it seep into the damaged tissue. Finally, he felt the tightness in his throat start to ease up. “Not yet,” he whispered. “I have to see if it works.”

The corpsman grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him over toward a transport litter. “Going down to triage now.”

The team leader stepped between the two of them, breaking the corpsman’s hold on Beaman’s arm. “Not yet. He earned this.” A hard, shuddering, grating vibration ran up through the soles of their feet, and all three turned to stare at the hangar bay doors slowing inching back along their tracks. The world outside was solid gray, and sheets of rain were already pelting the remaining gear inside the hangar bay. Water slashed across the vastness of the hangar bay, flashing into steam as it hit the still raging fire. The howl of the fire competed with the hiss of steam and the keening of the wind through the four-foot gap in the beam of the ship.

“More. All the way,” the team leader said into his walkie-talkie.

Beaman broke away from the rest of them and walked unsteadily toward the massive, three-story metal doors. He heard a shouted curse, then the corpsman joined him, steadying him by holding one elbow as they moved as quickly as they could across the open bay. They fell in side by side along the line of men and women straining to move the massive bulk of the hangar doors.

Beaman found a handhold and felt a moment of despair at that massive inertia with which the steel doors resisted the best efforts of the team. The doors inched back achingly slow, grinding and squealing inch by inch over the greased tracks upon which they rode.

Then something gave. Almost imperceptibly, the doors picked up speed, increasing the thin slit window open to the weather outside.

The difference was noticeable almost immediately. The wind picked up, battering at the flames, driving them out of the open doors on the opposite side of the hangar. The fire licked hungrily at the edge of the deck above and the low catwalk that surrounded the flight deck. Beaman saw a canister life raft sway unsteadily as the flames reach it. First one support line gave way, then the second. The canister tumbled down into the fire, and as the plastic seal around it gave way, it gouted forth the eerie shape of an automatically inflating life raft. It seemed to float for a moment on top of the burning hot air, tossed upside down by the draft, and then the tough plastic vaporized in the flames. Beaman saw one small fragment spiraling in the updraft before the wind forced it out the other side of the ship.

“It’s working,” the team leader shouted. “Come on now — put your back into it!” Each person redoubled his efforts, pushing muscle and sinew past the point of pain, welding their flesh with that of the ship they sought to save.

“I see it,” Beaman shouted. “Grissom, I see the boundary of it.” He dropped his hold on the door, now sliding easily along its track, and raced forward to the fire. He stopped just twenty feet away, the hard pounding rain and wind almost driving him forward into the inferno involuntarily. He turned back to the team leader. “We need some shoring timbers, then some flat sheets of metal. And yellow gear.”

“You think it will work?” Grissom asked.

Beaman nodded. “The wind is driving the smoke away from us, the rain’s acting like a fogger, and we got fresh air coming in. Come on, we got to get it off the deck now.”

Within moments, the damage control team had a makeshift tractor rigged on the front of the yellow gear. “I got it,” Beaman said and stepped forward to take the driver’s seat.

“No way.” This time, the corpsman locked his arm around Beaman’s neck and pulled him back. Beaman felt pain flash in his upper arm, then looked up at the corpsman. The man’s features were fuzzy — and there was something about a fire, some reason Beaman had to stay awake, had to, had to get to the — With the urgency beating his brain, Beaman slid to the deck, unconscious.

The corpsman held up the empty syringe. “Morphine. It’ll do it every time,” he said aloud.

But no one was listening.


“That’s the last of them,” Batman said, his voice heavy with relief. Tilly the crane had just unceremoniously released the last burning aircraft over the open water, her steel cable almost at a forty-five degree angle in the gale force winds. “How the hell they pulled this off, I’ll never understand. Get the chief engineer down there. I want to know how bad the deck is.”

“He’s on his way, Admiral,” Coyote answered. “We’ve lost two Hawkeyes and four helos, along with the Tomcat.”

“Then let the small boys know they’re going to have to pick up the slack in SAR,” Batman said. “The Hawkeyes have enough crews on board to do a hot crew swap.”

“If we can launch,” Coyote said.

Batman stared at him, cold fire shining in his eyes. “Those people didn’t just beat that fire for me not to be able to launch aircraft. You tell the chief engineer it’s a question of when and how — not if. One way or another, I want metal in the air in fifteen minutes.”

1537 local (+8 GMT)
Prison compound

Pushed along by the giant hand of the wind at their backs, Tombstone and Lobo needed only a minute to find the beginning of the runway. It was marked by a circular turning area and a taxiway extending to the south. Without a word, Tombstone turned in that direction. His entire body felt bruised by the wind and rain; he was grateful that the ground was covered in some kind of crushed black rock rather than slick grass or, worse, mud. As it was he had to lean to the left at almost a thirty-degree angle to keep his balance, and his feet gouged sideways ruts in the rock with every step. He tried to keep the AK-47 protected by his body.

An enormous darkness loomed through the rain ahead. Tombstone found some bushes and crept along beside them, hunched over, until he was able to see that the dark shape was a mountain black and craggy. And at its base were several pairs of enormous sliding doors of what looked like galvanized metal. They were inset beneath a stony shelf in the side of the mountain, fronted by a tarmac apron that led to the taxiway. Hangars. Hangars, hidden from aerial surveillance by the mountain and a fringe of desperate-looking trees.

The hangar doors were all closed. How well-guarded were they? What would happen if he crept up for a little peak at —

He started when a hand tugged at his sleeve. He glanced back at Lobo, who pointed to the east. A pair of headlights was brightening the storm.

Lying flat on his belly beside the bushes with Lobo just behind him, Tombstone watched as a big dark sedan — not a military-style vehicle — approached the hangars. Its horn blasted once, and one of the hangar doors slid open. Bright light poured through the aperture, giving Tombstone a view of what lay within. His heart gave a rapid stutter.

CUAVs. Not like the manta. These were smaller, double-arrowhead-shaped. Like the one that had attacked him in Maryland.

And even in the narrow space he could see, there were dozens of them, stored on tall racks like private boats in a fancy dry dock. Dozens of them, waiting to go.

The sedan pulled just inside the hangar and stopped. An armed guard appeared from somewhere, and opened the back door. Another guard moved into view, escorting a third man. The third man was considerably taller than the others, and dressed in civilian attire. The guards hustled him into the backseat of the sedan. For an instant, just before the door slammed closed, Tombstone had a clear view of the man’s face.

It was Phillip McIntyre.

1540 local (+8 GMT)
Tomcat 306
USS Jefferson

Do your job, Hot Rock thought, over and over again, the words tumbling through his head like a mantra. Two Tone’s right. Just do your job and nobody can blame you, no matter how things turn out. Do your job, do your job…

And of course, in his case, that meant protecting his lead’s ass. Any actual shooting would be executed only in conjunction with Neanderthal’s efforts, and at his direction; for the most part, Hot Rock was there as defender and nothing more.

The battle was surreal in the gray soup. Attention focused strictly on the video game screen of the HUD, with perhaps an occasional glance at some other instrument. This radar blip was Neanderthal; that one was a Flanker; that other one, an incoming missile. Far more Flanker blips than anything else.

Hot Rock kept his gaze focused on the instruments, and his hearing on Neanderthal’s signals radioed from the lead’s position ahead and below. Now and then, when so directed, Hot Rock triggered a missile. Like all the Vipers, he was carrying only two Sidewinders, because the heat-seekers became notoriously unreliable in extremely wet conditions. But he believed he might have contributed to the shooting down of a Flanker with one of his Sparrows. “Nice shot,” Two Tone said over ICS, “but don’t get wild now; remember your job.” Hot Rock felt relieved. It was good to have someone experienced tell you what to do.

With another part of his head Hot Rock kept track of other reports flashing over the air. Splash one, splash two, splash three Flankers. Then a Mayday. One American down. Another. Mayday. Mayday. Unimaginable to bail out in these weather conditions; what hope of surviving the trip down, far less being in the water?

Don’t think about that. Do your job. Fly, watch, fire. Follow the leader.

Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Missile blips appearing unexpectedly on the radar screen, other blips disappearing. Vipers disappearing.

“The stealth bogey,” Hot Rock blurted over ICS. “Two Tone, that UAV they briefed us about, it’s here. It’s taking people out left and — ”

“Do your job, goddammit!” Two Tone snarled. “Stop trying to figure out — ”

The blip appeared and vanished from his HUD almost before it registered on his eye. At the same time, Neanderthal’s blip disappeared, too. There was a throbbing glow in the clouds, swiftly consumed by darkness.

“Neanderthal!” Hot Rock shouted. No response.

Then came Two Tone’s cry from the backseat: “Shit, Hot Rock, get us out of here! That thing’s gonna be after us next!”

But Hot Rock had noticed something. A pattern in the vanished Vipers. The UAV was cutting straight across the Americans, from east to west. Nothing fancy. Locating American aircraft and firing at them from very close range.

Hot Rock saw this, and once he did, it was his responsibility. He owned it. He had to do something about it.

“Shut up, Two Tone,” he said, and banked hard to the right. Now, instead of staring at his HUD, he gazed through it. Let his eyes take in the radar information peripherally, while he searched for holes and gaps in the clouds.

And he saw it. Briefly, almost hallucinogenically, the UAV was there, swimming like a great sea creature through the sky. And Hot Rock remembered something from the briefing: Like American stealth aircraft, the UAVs had their engine exhausts located on top, where they could not be easily spotted by ground-based infrared detectors. But airborne sensors were a different matter….

“Fox One!” he cried, and triggered a Sidewinder. The missile hurtled off his left wingtip, unraveling a garland of smoke behind it as it went, and curved toward the bogey. Instantly, the bogey nosed over in a maneuver so abrupt it formed almost a right angle. Hot Rock couldn’t conceive of the G-forces involved… then realized the UAV was indifferent to G-forces. As long as its wings didn’t snap off, it was fine.

And it was turning toward him. That was the next thing Hot Rock saw before a raft of fast-moving clouds swept across his sight, and the manta disappeared.

Two Tone was howling from the backseat. Hot Rock felt an unnerving moment of doubt, of fear that once again he was screwing up, but of course it was too late to back out now. The manta was after him.

His mind skipped through bits of information the red-headed woman, Tomboy, had fed to the Vipers concerning this bogey. He already knew one thing: She’d been wrong that it depended on visual targeting data. Not in this weather. It had radar, too.

But maybe it liked using sight the best. If it did…

That reminded him of something else: The UAV was subsonic.

The missile-lock alarm sounded in his headset at the same instant he yanked the stick to the left and slammed the throttles forward. A brilliant yellow streak ripped the darkness, passing beneath the Tomcat as it pulled into a vicious, diving left turn. Hot Rock had already tightened his belly against it, but the special darkness of blackout spiraled in from the fringes of his vision. He waited until all he could see was the center of the HUD, then eased the stick forward. The darkness receded; in comparison, the edge of the typhoon looked almost bright and cheery.

The Tomcat was diving now, afterburners throbbing, propelling the aircraft past mach one, and then mach two. Below, the gloom peeled back and he saw the ocean, a savage froth of white and gray. Back came the stick, as did the spiraling darkness. Then he eased out, a hundred feet above the water. “Two Tone!” he cried. “Check our six!”

No answer. “Two Tone!”

Nothing. He realized he’d lost his backseater to G-force blackout. He was on his own.

And he realized something else: That made him happy. Relaxed. Now, whatever he did was entirely his own responsibility. No one to blame, no one to receive blame from.

He banked to the right, then the left, looking over his shoulder. Thought he saw a discoloration dropping out of the clouds. Eased back on the throttle. Let it catch up a bit. Let it —

There was nothing on his radar screen. No one to keep an eye on his tail. He grabbed the control to manually extend the wings, and did so. From behind, the extension would be invisible. Then he waited. Waited…

Over the headset, a moan. “Wha… Hot Rock — ”

“Goodnight,” Hot Rock said, and simultaneously yanked back on the stick and jammed the throttles full forward. This time he actually felt the blood rush out of his head, like water swirling down a drain; the spiral of darkness closed down fast. He pushed the stick forward and grunted as he slammed up against the shoulder straps of his harness. Below him, through his clearing vision he saw the manta-shaped UAV zip through the airspace he had lately occupied.

Putting the nose over, Hot Rock dove and opened up with his cannon. The tracers cut across the UAV like bright needles, but the UAV immediately cranked to the right in one of its physics-defying maneuvers.

Hot Rock executed a more gentle turn in the same direction, and watched his radar screen. There it was. There it was! The cannon hits might not have put the UAV out of commission, but they had holed it, destroyed the integrity of its radar-deflecting slants and curves. There was its signature on his screen, bright as daylight.

“Fox One,” Hot Rock said calmly to anyone who might be listening, and triggered his next-to-the-last Sparrow. The missile leaped away, boring off into the haze. On the HUD, its signal merged with the UAVs. Up ahead the clouds brightened, then dimmed, in artificial lightning.

On the HUD, both signals were gone.

Hot Rock realized something strange had happened to his face; it had an achy, stretched feeling to it. God, what if all the high-g maneuvers had permanently damaged something? Some muscle or nerve? What if…

Then he realized what it was: He was grinning.

1540 local (+8 GMT)
Hanger bay
USS Jefferson

Like everyone else in the hanger bay, Jackson was expected to help battle the fires and damage the missile had done in the hanger bay. There were tons of debris to get out of the way, blackened and useless aircraft to shove into the passing waves, bodies to help move. Time passed in a sweaty, terrifying blur. So this is war, Jackson kept thinking. So this is war.

And outside, the storm just got worse and worse. All the exterior doors were wide open because of the smoke, and wind-driven rain kept blasting in, hard enough to hurt if any of the spray caught you. It also made the decking slippery and dangerous. But the most terrifying thing was the waves. You didn’t expect to look out through those doors and see the crest of a wave pass by, all white and sharp on top like something with teeth. You never expected to see waves that big.

And yet despite his fear, Jackson carried on, doing whatever needed to be done. He worked alongside brothers and sisters at times, and alongside white men or brown men or yellow men at other times. Officers snapped orders, of course, but the next thing you knew, that same man or woman would be right beside you, helping lift a piece of metal off some trapped sailor.

Once he and Plane Captain Beaman were both commandeered by some firemen to help move debris out of the way of a hose. Together, they heaved against a jagged chunk of metal plating that had once been on the outside of the carrier. It seemed to weigh a ton, but they got it out of the firemen’s way. Afterward, for a moment Jackson found himself staring straight into his plane captain’s eyes. There was something speculative there that infuriated Jackson. He knew what it meant. He knew that Beaman didn’t trust him, thought he’d screwed up Bird Dog’s plane. Been incompetent, been lazy. Thought that this kind of work, hauling pieces of metal around, was probably more Jackson Ord’s speed.

But then Beaman gave a slanted, tired smile and clapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Good work,” he said, and turned away to do something else.

Jackson stared after him, trying hard not to be pleased. You couldn’t buy his forgiveness that easily. No way.

Still, he went back to work with renewed energy.

1543 local (+8 GMT)
Prison compound

“You can’t be serious,” Lobo shouted in Tombstone’s ear. In other circumstances, it would have been a whisper. “Why do you want to go back there?”

“I’ve got to check something out.”

“What?”

“You’ll see… if I’m right.”

“What if the guards’ bodies have been discovered?”

“With any luck, they’ll be out in this mess searching for us.”

She grinned. “Good point. Okay, Admiral — lead on.”

1540 local (+8 GMT)
Fantail
USS Jefferson

Bird Dog stumbled onto the fantail for some air. Because the carrier was steaming head-on into the wind, it was actually rather dry and pleasant back here… if you could ignore the traces of smoke still whipping off the flight deck overhead.

Disaster. Unbelievable disaster, and he blamed himself. If only he really understood the Chinese mentality. If only he could really comprehend the thinking behind The Art of War, maybe he could have predicted… prevented…

Well, Sun Tzu had been the first to say it: Know the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.

Those junks. The missile attack. A beautiful illustration of using the direct and indirect forces. And Bird Dog Robinson, War College graduate, hadn’t expected it.

On the other hand, whoever was planning the Chinese assault had missed out on something, too: the storm. Only Dr. George had seen that one coming. Ironically, the typhoon had probably been Jefferson’s salvation. Its might had scattered the junks across miles of heaving ocean, and caused the Chinese fighters to struggle in what had undoubtedly been intended to be a massacre. The Chinese had planned to fight on Frontier ground, at worst, only to find themselves on Difficult ground instead.

Know the ground, know the weather; your victory will then be total.

Okay, fine. If this was Difficult ground, then Encircled ground was next. He knew that. The weather? It sucked; he knew that, too. Okay… so where was his total victory?

Know the ground….

Difficult, encircled, death.

In difficult ground, press on; in encircled ground, devise stratagems; in death ground, fight.

His grip tightened on the guardrail.

In encircled ground, devise stratagems.

“My God,” he said, and ran back into the wounded gut of the carrier.

1543 local (+8 GMT)
Prison compound

There was no apparent activity around the door Tombstone and Lobo had used to exit the building in which they’d been imprisoned. Perhaps, Tombstone thought, their absence was still a secret.

Not that he cared much, one way or the other. Gesturing to Lobo, he moved up to the wall and along its base, circling the building. On the leeward side, the rain dropped off to a cold mist whirling off the top of the wall. Rifle ready, Tombstone hurried along the wall to the next corner, and peered around. Winced at the needle-blast of rain in his face. The storm was getting worse every second. Still, visibility remained good enough that he could see the dark sedan parked in front of the building, and the wide portico. Palm trees genuflected wildly before the wind.

Awfully pretty place for a Communist-built facility, Tombstone thought, and gestured for Lobo to follow him. They were halfway to the portico when a man in black commando-type gear stepped into view, AK-47 cradled in his arms. Without hesitation, Tombstone raised his own rifle, sighted it against the wind, and pulled the trigger. As he’d expected, the crack was swallowed by the howling wind. The guard took a wobbly step, then collapsed. Tombstone hurried forward, grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into some shrubbery. Then he looked at the main entrance to the building. Double doors of carved wood, with tall windows to either side.

He ran up the steps to the door and tried it.

Unlocked.

Tombstone looked at Lobo, saw the confusion in her eyes. Saw the water running down her pale face. There was nothing he could tell her, so he simply said, “Let’s go.”

“What exactly are we looking for?”

“Anything PLA.”

“You’re not just trying to ditch me, are you?”

“No. After this is all over, I intend to divorce my wife and marry you.”

“Liar.”

“Please, Lobo; just watch the door.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral.”

He pulled open the door and they entered a wide, high-ceilinged foyer of teak and white marble. Enormous potted palms seemed to support a curved staircase climbing upward. Tombstone raised his eyebrows, and Lobo nodded. She squeaked across the marble and slipped in amongst the fronds.

Faint light spilled down the stairs. Tombstone headed toward it, AK-47 half-raised. He winced at the soggy, squelching sounds he and Lobo made as they walked, but there was no helping that.

At the top of the stairs was a long hallway extending in both directions. The light came from the left, as did a voice speaking sharply. Tombstone moved in that direction. Gradually, words came clear. English words.

“… couldn’t have possibly gotten off the island. Of course not. Increase the guard around the buildings, but get a search party out right away. I suspect they will be putting as much distance between themselves and this complex as quickly as possible. Good. Keep me notified.”

As the receiver clicked onto its cradle, Tombstone stepped into the room behind his AK-47 and pointed the rifle at the man standing with one hand on the telephone.

“Hello, Uncle Phillip,” he said.

1550 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson

“ ‘Offer the enemy a bait to lure him,’ ” Bird Dog said. “ ‘Feign disorder and strike him.’ ”

“You’re quoting again,” Batman snarled. “I don’t have time for this. In case you’re not aware of it, we have a damaged aircraft carrier here, and an air battle just breaking up. We’ve lost a lot of planes.”

“It’s not just a quote,” Bird Dog said, refusing to back down, refusing to be sidetracked even by the question, Who got shot down? This was too important, for all of them. “It’s a strategy.”

“ ‘Feign disorder’ is a strategy? We don’t have to feign that!”

Bird Dog glanced around at the carefully-turned-away faces on the bridge. “Could we continue this discussion in your conference room, sir?”

“What for? As far as I can see, there’s nothing to discuss.”

“Beg to differ. In fact, we ought to convene the whole group, plus one.”

“And who might that be?”

“Dr. Alonzo George.”

1555 local (+8 GMT)
Headquarters, PLA Air Force
Hong Kong Garrison

“Matthew,” McIntyre said. His face was pale. Then it grew serene, and he leaned back in his chair. The room was a study of some kind, furnished like an old English den in dark paneling and ornate furniture. Lots of books. A computer console on the desk.

Without even looking at the rifle, he shook his head and smiled. “Good work. You truly are your father’s son.”

“And my uncle’s nephew.” Tombstone moved farther into the room. “Speaking of my uncle, I don’t think he’d approve of what you’re doing.”

“So you’ve figured it out, have you?”

“Enough of it. You’re behind this whole thing; the attacks on both Chinese and Americans, all of it. You’re trying to push America and China into war.”

“What exactly gave me away?”

“I spotted the UAVs parked in your little hangar. Then I remembered that McIntyre Engineering components figured heavily in the UAV that attacked me back in Maryland. I can do simple arithmetic — like two-plus-two. Combine that with the fact that you’re still alive, and it’s pretty clear you must be up to something no good.”

“I’m sorry about that incident in Maryland, Matthew. I truly am.”

“Because you tried to kill me, or because you didn’t succeed?”

“In point of fact, I didn’t try to kill you. One of my associates did.”

“Meaning you weren’t actually there. But you ordered the hit.”

“It was a necessary part of a larger plan. If it matters to you, I was elated when I heard you’d survived… even though I was hoping to lure your uncle here to investigate your death.”

“Uncle Thomas was going to be your hostage?”

“No offense, but his rank is higher than yours.”

Tombstone shook his head. “How many people have you got in your pocket?”

“Thousands. Politicians and military personnel on both sides, at all levels of rank and experience. Ordinary citizens. Businesspeople.”

“Anyone on Jefferson?”

“Naturally. More than one, in fact.”

“My God.”

“You probably won’t believe this,” McIntyre said, “but I’m doing all this for my country. The same as you.”

“For your country,” Tombstone said. “You had dozens of Americans massacred at sea. Shot others out of the sky in cold blood. Tried to start a war that will cost hundreds of thousands of lives if it gets rolling. You’re right. I don’t believe you.”

“That’s because you’re taking the short-term view. That’s a common Western failing, in both business and politics, and it’s the one that’s getting us beaten. It’s necessary to think long-term, to plan carefully far into the future.”

“I still don’t understand how you think starting a war with China is going to benefit the United States.”

McIntyre made a face. “You’re deliberately missing the point. It’s not about all-out war. It’s about fighting, and winning, a localized war, with a specific goal: The liberation of Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong is part of China, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“But it doesn’t have to be. Wasn’t for most of the past century and a half. And during all that time, no matter what was happening to mainland China, Hong Kong always prospered.”

“And still is.”

“But it’s faltering. The PRC is taking advantage of capitalism in Hong Kong, but that won’t last. In the end, they won’t be able to keep their hands off. In fact, that’s already starting. Bit by bit, the PRC will kill the financial engine of Hong Kong, to the detriment of the rest of the world — including America.”

“So what are you saying? You want the United States to conquer Hong Kong and claim it as a possession, the way the British did?”

“Exactly.”

“Why not push the British to do it, then?”

“Please. China isn’t Argentina. We’re talking about the largest military the world has ever known — and it’s getting stronger all the time. Hong Kong is a big contributor to that growth, because the PRC uses Hong Kong business to generate billions of dollars, and to get access to otherwise forbidden technology.”

“Like UAVs.”

“That’s another reason I did all this, Matthew. What better way to draw attention to the utility and inevitability of combat UAVs than to spring them on the Pentagon in actual battle? How would you like for the Chinese to acquire that technology instead of us?”

“The fact that McIntyre Engineering International happens to be able to build most of the components in a UAV has nothing to do with it?”

“Obviously my company would benefit, monetarily, from American UAV construction. But America would benefit, too, and isn’t that what it’s all about? Democracy and capitalism working together, hand in hand?”

“Not when it comes to manipulating politics through terrorism, no.”

For the first time, McIntyre’s face lost its composure. “How can you not understand? We’re talking about an initial sacrifice of a few thousand people in order to preserve millions!”

“Of dollars, or people?”

“Both! My god, Matt, even the PRC realizes the two are connected! If the Chinese aren’t stopped now, they’ll soon have not only the biggest military in the world, but the best. The best weapons, the best delivery systems, the best aircraft and ships and radar and sonar. Who will stop them then?”

“So let me get this straight: You’re starting a war in order to prevent a war. Is that it?”

“That’s exactly it. When it comes right down to it, the PRC will allow America to take control of Hong Kong. They won’t dare fight over it too hard, for fear of destroying the very thing they need most.”

1600 local (+8 GMT)
Admiral’s Conference Room
USS Jefferson

“That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard,” Coyote said. There was a bandage on his forehead where he’d been cut by flying glass.

Before Bird Dog could respond, Batman turned to his right and said, “Dr. George? Do you agree?”

“That the idea is crazy? Depends on your ship. Looks like she took some damage, so…”

Jefferson can be made ready.”

“Well, then you’ll be fine. Might get some kids in the infirmary with bad seasickness before it’s over, but other than that you should be fine.”

Batman nodded and turned to Lab Rat. “Your thoughts, Commander?”

“I think it’s just harebrained enough to work.”

“Then let’s get started. COS, notify the fighters in the air what to do. I’m going to address the crew.”

1602 local (+8 GMT)
Tomcat 306

“Unbelievable,” came the mutter over ICS. “They want us to fly through the hurricane?”

“People do it all the time,” Hot Rock said, watching his radar, carefully maintaining the interval with the other fighters of the air wing. Nineteen had survived the Chinese assault — better than half. Considering the original odds, that was remarkably fine. So far, all but two had even managed to get a drink from the Texaco. “Stormchasers, they’re called. The trick is to fly with the wind, like we’re doing now. It’s a little rocky, but nothing we can’t handle. And this is a typhoon, by the way. Not a hurricane.”

“When did you get so smart?”

“When I stopped listening to you.”

1615 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson

“More smoke,” Bird Dog said. “More fire. We have to make this look real convincing.”

Ten decks below them, flight deck crews were tending burning fifty-gallons drums. A little AVGAS, a bunch of plastics they’d been retaining on board — and finally, something useful from the tedious environmental recycling programs! — and a few flares were all it took to produce geysers of black, acrid smoke whipping around in the stiff wind.

It looked convincing enough to Batman, watching from the bridge: a dense spiral of black smoke and flame unwinding from Jefferson’s stern into the winds of the typhoon. It got torn apart quickly, true, but the stain it left on the storm was still unmistakable. And the flames should be visible for fifty miles in this darkness.

Still, he did as Bird Dog suggested, ordering the addition of more plastics and AVGAS to the bonfire. He hoped the damage control teams were heads-up and ready to go with their hoses, just in case.

“You’re sure this isn’t going to hurt my flight deck any more than it’s already been hurt?” he asked. “Remember, at some point, we’ve got to get all those aircraft back onboard.”

Bird Dog didn’t even spare him a glance. “It won’t do the non-skid much good, but it won’t keep planes from cycling, either, no. I mean, once the deck’s repaired. And the wind will clear off the deck fast enough once we douse the fire in the drums.”

“Good.” Batman turned toward Dr. George. “How long before the typhoon really grabs us? Before we’re out of sight from the outside?”

George’s eyes were bright. He looked pretty happy. “Oh, we’re right on the edge of the outer wall right now. It should have us in no more than ten, fifteen minutes. But Admiral, don’t you think you’re taking a chance by not turning head-on into the wind? I realize this ship is no pushover, but you’re talking about a 140-knot wind here, remember.”

“Our present course is temporary,” Batman said. “We’ll turn as soon as we’re out of sight of the Chinese. I want them to think we’re really hurting.”

George’s eyes twinkled. “All right!”

Batman turned to the helmsman. “Steady as you go.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. His face looked greenish in the sickly light. Or maybe it wasn’t the light.

1620 local (+8 GMT)
Flanker 67

“It’s true,” Tai Ling said over the radio. He had been asked to verify the reports made by various other sources, including land-based radar. He hated flying this low, just above the waves, but he had to get under the weather to see at all. And for once, the view was worth the risk. “The carrier’s on fire. Looks severe. And the typhoon is catching up with it. Coming right around it….”

1622 local (+8 GMT)
USS Jefferson

Gray-black.

It was as if Jefferson had sunk, and was now sailing through some underwater realm. And fighting it. Corkscrewing, thundering, shaking through dark depths.

Most of the windows on the bridge were simply obscured with rain. The water struck the glass like something solid, with a deafening roar. More than once, Batman had the irrational, but overpowering, feeling that a giant sea, a tsunami, had smashed directly into the bridge. Every now and then there would be an inexplicable gap in the rain, and Batman would see a world of horizontal strips of gray hurtling like comets through utter blackness.

He’d gotten a report that the anemometer — the wind-speed measuring device — had pegged at two hundred miles per hour.

And they hadn’t even reached the eyewall yet. The part of the storm Dr. George described as “the heart of the typhoon.”

Batman knew that people were watching him, glancing at him. He kept his expression calm but alert. Forced himself not to cringe when a fresh barrage of wind-powered rain crashed into the windows. To keep his knees loose and relaxed when Jefferson yawed like a tiny skiff in a squall.

What the hell had he agreed to here? What had he gotten them into?

1624 local (+8 GMT)
Headquarters, PLA Air Force
Hong Kong Garrison

Chin grinned. “And the other ships in the group?”

“They’re converging into a tighter formation and moving northeast, Major General,” the aide told him as he brought in the latest reports. “It appears they’re intending to circle around the typhoon.”

Chin nodded. “Their plan is obvious: to meet the carrier on the back side of the storm — assuming it makes it that far. We’ll be ready for them.”

“But shouldn’t we attack the escort ships now, before they regroup with the carrier?”

“Before the carrier reappears, yes. But not yet. This is working to our advantage after all. Let the storm do some work for us first. Let it batter the ships and tire their crews. Meanwhile, our men will rest. Only when the time is right will we strike — and when the carrier finally reappears, there will be no escort ships left to protect it.

“Then” — He popped a closed fist against his open palm — “then, we finish the job.”

1625 local (+8 GMT)
McIntyre Estate
Hong Kong SAR

“So what are you planning to do with me, Matthew?” McIntyre asked. “Shoot me?”

Tombstone shook his head. “Have my partner place a shore-to-ship telephone call. Get us a little help out here.”

“What kind of help?”

“A SEAL team. With explosives.”

He watched McIntyre’s face tighten, but felt no pleasure in it. He’d grown up loving this man like a father.

“But first,” Tombstone went on, “you’re going to make a little call. Whoever’s responsible for prepping and launching all those UAVs, you’re going to call him and tell him to forget the launch.”

He saw the color fade from McIntyre’s handsome face. “I can’t — ”

“Sure you can. There’s the phone right there on your desk. Just dial and talk.

“You look nervous, Uncle,” Tombstone said, leaning back in the comfortable chair. “Sun’s about to come up. Hope you aren’t a vampire or something.”

“I’m fine,” McIntyre said, but glanced toward the phone.

“What’s the matter?” Tombstone demanded. “Need reassurance about current events? Need to let someone know to launch the UAVs? What?”

“Nothing, nothing….”

“Good. Then you won’t mind devoting your attention to a little plan of mine.”

“Plan?”

“Oh, you’ll love it. And it will only cost you nine-tenths of your personal fortune.”

1626 local (+8 GMT)
TFCC
USS Jefferson

“Batman?”

Batman’s jaw dropped. Even over the static online, Tombstone’s voice was recognizable. “Are you okay, Stony?”

“Depends on what you mean by fine, because that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Any chance you’ve got a spare SEAL team around?”

“You bet. I don’t know if you’ve checked the weather lately, but they’re sure not out on the deck doing calisthenics.” Not that there’s much deck there. Batman refrained from mentioning any of the other disasters Jefferson was facing.

“I could use them right now. I need a lift home for me and a friend.”

“A friend?” Batman felt the beginning of a smile start across his face. If Stony meant what he thought he meant, then that was the only piece of decent news Batman had heard in the last couple of days.

“Yeah. Pilot by the name of Lobo needs a lift, too.”

Hot damn! Lobo was alive. “Hold on, Stony. Where are you?”

As Tombstone started filling him in, Batman began issuing his own set of orders. A few moments later, the commander of the SEAL team, Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sykes, was standing tall in front of him. “Hold on, Tombstone. I’m going to put you on the speakerphone.”

After listening for a few moments, the SEAL officer started nodding. “Yes, sir. No problem with that. Easy to do. See you in about an hour.”

After Batman punched the telephone off, he turned back to the SEAL officer. “I assume you know what the weather’s like. It’s not going to be pretty.”

The SEAL officer regarded him with the grim smile. “It never is, sir. I figure we go in, extract our two people, then do some damage to McIntyre’s facility. Getting back’s going to be the problem — we may have to find somewhere to lay low until this blows over.”

Batman nodded. “I can find a helo to get you in, but it’s going to be risky.”

“You get us anywhere near the coast, and we’ll make it.”

1628 local (+8 GMT)
McIntyre Estate
Hong Kong SAR

Tombstone replaced the receiver, never taking his eyes off McIntyre. “You mind serving as my hostage for about an hour, Uncle Philip? No, I don’t think you do. After all, we’re like family, aren’t we?”

“Tombstone, as I told you, I never meant to — ”

Tombstone crossed the room in three strides. “Never meant what, Uncle Philip?” He grabbed McIntyre by the hair and yanked him up. “Come on. I’ve got to collect the rest of my team, and you’re going to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

“Like you said, we’re family.” McIntyre’s voice was finally taking on an edge of fear. “For the sake of your father, your uncle — Tombstone, don’t do this. There’s a place for you in my organization. Have you ever wanted to be rich? Rich beyond your wildest dreams? I can make that happen, Stony. You know I can.”

Tombstone’s grip on McIntyre’s hair tightened. “I’m already richer than you’ll ever be, Uncle Philip. My wife, my friends, my career — there’s nothing you can offer me.”

“I could give you command of your own private squadron,” McIntyre said persuasively. “Think of it, Stony. What future have you got left in the Navy now? A series of desk jobs, that’s all. Join me, and you’ll command the most advanced fighting aircraft in the world. And fly every day if you want. I’ll even get that Pitts shipped over here if you want.”

Tombstone pulled him close and locked his forearm across McIntyre’s windpipe. He squeezed until he felt the men start to sag against him. “I’ve already got my own squadron, asshole. It’s called the United States Navy.”

Flight deck, USS Jefferson

Sykes fought his way across the flight deck to the CH-46 helicopter waiting there. While he had managed to sound fairly confident in Admiral Wayne’s office, he was now beginning to realize the true insanity of his plan.

Take off in this weather? What was I thinking? There’s no way, not a chance in hell.

“Sir? If you’ll get your men on board, we’ll get going.” Sykes stared in awe at the cool, confident pilot who turned around to look at him.

“You really think you can do this?” Sikes asked, choking slightly as the wind drove rain down his throat.

The pilot shrugged. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there? Now if you and the rest of the gentleman will strap in, we’ll find out.”

Ten minutes later, Sykes, along with most of his crew, was puking violently. They were airborne — at least he thought they were. They weren’t in the water at least. But it would be hard to characterized the wildy gyrating motion of the helicopter as controlled flight.

“Sir? You see anything that looks familiar?” The pilot’s voice came over the ICS. “Because according to the GPS, we’re there.”

Sykes unstrapped, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled forward to the cockpit. Bracing himself between the two seats, he rose unsteadily to his feet. “There,” he managed to say, before another wave of nausea swept over him. “That clearing spot.”

The pilot nodded agreement. “That’s what I thought. Strap back in, sir. This might be a little rough.”

Rough. Just before he threw up again, Sykes wondered how the helo pilot would have characterized the last ten minutes.

USS Jefferson

Batman watched as the helicopter pitched violently, then let the wind sweep it away from the flight deck. Up foward, Tomcats and Hornets were already turning, but the normal noise and vibration associated with flight ops was completely indistinguishable from the sound and fury of the storm.

“I hope to God that pilot knows what he’s doing,” Batman muttered to himself. “Hang on, Stony. We’re coming for you.”

McIntyre’s Compound

The walls around the compound blocked the wind only slightly. The helo smacked down onto ground so hard it felt like a fixed wing aircraft trapping on the deck of the carrier. The SEALs were thrown violently forward against their restraining harnesses. The wind caught the tail of the helicopter and spun it in a circle.

Before the last motion dampened out, Sykes was up and moving, his men crowding up behind him. They were green, stumbling slightly, but as they’d all learned during BUDS training, the mind could overcome almost any perceived physical limitation. The last time he remembered feeling like this was during hell week.

“Come on,” Sykes said, pleased to note that his voice sounded almost steady. “We’ve got a job to do.”

Sykes led the charge into the mansion, as his men fanned out to secure his ingress route. As soon as they saw him, Tombstone and a female pilot with ragged shorn hair stepped out to meet them.

“Good to see you,” the admiral said, his voice flat. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sykes whispered into his microphone, recalling the rest of his men. Within seconds, they had formed up again.

“Admiral? I’m not sure we can make it back to the carrier,” Sykes said. “This place is relatively defensible — maybe we should hole up and wait for the weather to pass.”

The admiral fixed him with a steely glare. “You got in — we can get out.” He took the other officer by the elbow, his grip surprisingly light. “What about it, Lobo?”

The other pilot was shivering violently. “Let me talk to that helo jockey. If he won’t fly us out of here, I will.”

They ran back out to the helo, fighting the wind and the rain, and Sykes was almost glad to be back inside the metal fuselage. At least it was dry. “The admiral would like to return to the carrier,” he said formally.

The pilot nodded. “Why not? Can’t be any worse than the ride in, now, can it?”

Five minutes later, Sykes knew the pilot had lied. The noise from the explosion that destroyed the McIntyre compound was lost in the storm.

1650 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson

“Yep, this is it,” Dr. George said. “Welcome to the eye of the storm.”

Batman stared in awe through the starboard windows. The ship was still very unsteady under his feet, plunging and twisting through seas that rose as high as the flight deck on all sides; but the seas were noticeably less regular and aligned than they had been before. Their shape and direction was now chaotic and aimless, so that in some places several seas converged into a single mountainous one; while in another location they canceled one another out, creating a smooth flat area that soon heaved up again.

Everything else in the outside world had changed, too. The eyewall of the typhoon was a black wall shot through with the silvery filigree of disintegrating mist; it curved out of sight to either side, vanishing into gray-white haze. Straight up, it curved in overhead to form an open-topped dome. Sunlight fell through the hole. Alien sunlight, warm and gauzy and surreal, strained through a high layer of haze.

And high up in that haze, circling fighters. The Vipers, running on fumes, waiting in the eye of the storm.

“This is really weird,” someone said.

Batman clutched his concentration back to himself and turned to Coyote. “Get crews to work on that flight deck,” he said. “Now. We have to have at least one cat operational in time to get our birds into the air before this storm runs us ashore. Is that understood?”

“Aye aye, sir.” Coyote wheeled away.

Dr. George was still staring out the window, face enraptured. “I’ve never seen the eye from this angle before,” he said. He pointed toward the sun. “I’m always up there, in a storm-chaser.”

“I wish that’s where I was right now,” Batman said with feeling.

1633 local (+8 GMT)
Flanker 67

Tai Ling was tired of circling around in the brutal conditions. Although the forward half of the typhoon had crashed ashore hours ago, to begin the process of its own disintegration, the rear wall remained intact, the air behind it as viciously windy and rough as always. But in this vicinity was where the American fleet had gathered to await the — possible — emergence of its flagship, the carrier Jefferson; so here the massed squadrons of PLA fighters and attack aircraft would also wait. The majority of the fighters were staying high, of course, completely out of sight of the ships below. Low-flying spotter planes would alert the squadron when the carrier finally limped out of the —

Tai started as his radar-lock alarm went off. His screen, fogged as it was with false images, abruptly showed several clear blips. Then more and more. Instantly Tai registered the signatures of SM-1 missiles, SAMs carried on American guided missile destroyers and frigates.

Tai and the rest of the squadron pilots went into defensive mode, dumping radar-confusion chaff and flying erratic routes. The usual techniques, but far more effective than usual in these weather conditions, where radar images were already degraded by air temperature gradations and electrical activity.

Not one missile found a victim. Tai watched the one intended for him hurtle past, a fast-moving yellow blur in the clouds.

“Regroup and start down,” he said over the radio. “I guess we can assume the carrier is about to show up.” His heart pounded with expectation. To think, he was about to contribute to the first sinking of an American aircraft carrier since the end of the Second World War. A proud day indeed. The first day of a new era in the South China Sea.

The massed squadrons found one another again in the clouds, and began to move downward through the layers of cloud and rain. Tai had to fight to keep from staring through the canopy, watching for the American battle group to reappear.

His alarm went off again. He searched his radar screen. Nothing but trash images, and the stronger blips of his nearest squadron partners. Then —

Out of the darkness and rain-battered air, a Tomcat thundered past him in afterburner. Tai jerked hard to the left by reflex, turning his tail to the Tomcat’s jet wash. The storm caught his wing, started to flip him into a barrel roll before he corrected.

Tomcats! How the hell —? He realized they were trapped an instant before his missile lock alarm went off again.

1638 local (-8 GMT)
TFCC
USS Jefferson

Batman leaned forward in his leatherette chair, his hands clamped down on the armrests. “It worked,” he breathed, hardly daring to say the words out loud for fear of jinxing the entire evolution. “Of all the damned foolish ballsy plans that ever stood a snowball’s chance in hell of working — dear God, it worked.”

The predatory cries of American pilots ravaging the gaggle of Chinese fighters rang out over tactical. Fox calls, target calls, the occasional frantic plea for a wingman, it all blended into the cacophony of combat. The same words, the same phrases that Batman had heard too many times before in too many parts of the world. He closed his eyes and followed the progress of the battle, picturing the manuevering, the tail chases that ended in perfect firing position, the hard terror that flashed through a pilot as he saw the impossibly bright fire of a missile careening toward him — it flooded him, the sense that he was airborne with them, fighting the war again as a pilot instead of a chair-bound admiral. He heard the exultant splash calls, the constant sequence of American voices, no fighter voice disappearing from the babble without warning, and knew it was coming.

“Admiral?”

Batman opened his eyes and saw the TAO staring at him. A grin started across Batman’s face. “Tell them, permission denied.”

Just then, the call came across tactical. “Homeplate, this is Viper lead. We got four left — looks like they’re turning tail and heading back to the mainland. Request permission to follow them inside the twelve-mile limit and finish this off.”

Batman heard the hot blood of battle singing in the pilot’s voice. He looked over at the TAO, who was just starting to frame the obvious question.

“Because I’ve been there before. You heard me. Call them back,” Batman said.

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