Typhoon Season

THREE

“Well,” Two Tone said dryly from the backseat, “that was a real waste of fuel.”

Hot Rock knew his RIO was talking about the extra hours they had pulled circling around and around the site of the sunken sailboat, including an aerial refueling so they could stay on station until the SAR and salvage ops were finished. All that without so much as a glimpse of a Chinese fighter.

He made his voice sound rough and disappointed. “Who knows? We might get another chance.”

“We already had a chance with that helo,” Two Tone said.

“We were too close to the twelve-mile limit. You heard our orders.” Hot Rock eased the Tomcat into a left bank, maintaining his position in the Marshal pattern until it was his turn to trap back onto Jefferson.

“Well, let’s just hope that helo doesn’t decide to take out some other poor civilian boat,” Two Tone said. “Or if it does, that we don’t let it get away again.”

Hot Rock didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if there was a reprimand behind those words, or not. He had to remember that not everyone was his father. Not everyone could peer into his heart and see that, deep inside, Reginald Stone knew he wasn’t good enough.

Besides, Two Tone was almost a stranger. Apart from the absolute synchronicity imposed by life in a Tomcat, they shared no common interests and rarely hung out together.

Fifteen minutes later it was his turn at last to land, and he angled the big bird down toward what looked pretty much like a post card-sized deck. But his hands remained steady on the controls, his breath flowed smooth and easy, he was perfectly relaxed. He loved this part.

A moment later the Tomcat’s tailhook snagged the three wire and the Tomcat jolted to a halt. Hot Rock smiled. Another perfect trap. His father could never have done such a thing. His brother, either.

“I’ll say one thing,” Two Tone said in his honking accent. “Nobody knows how to get a bird home as safely as you do, man.”

Although Tombstone was a member of the flying club at the Naval Air Station, he preferred to keep his Pitts Special at a small private strip in the middle of the Maryland countryside. Somehow, the biplane looked more at home amongst the motley collection of Supercubs, Cessna 150s and Stearmans that lodged there than it did surrounded by sleek Bonanzas and Sky Kings, not to mention F-14s and F/A-18s. Besides, Tombstone liked the laid-back atmosphere. He liked the grass strip adjacent to the paved one, and he liked how a pot of bad coffee was always percolating in the office building.

By the time he eased the Pitts down onto the grass, the sun was squatting on the horizon, pushing long shadows across the field. Tombstone taxied to his tie-down area, the Pitts bumping over the sod, and killed the engine. Climbed out of the cramped cockpit and dropped onto the grass — and almost all the way to his knees.

His legs were shaking like Slinkys.

He should be dead. That was the thing. He should be dead right now. He’d had close calls before, sure; but this was different. This time he was alive for only one reason: luck. Not because he was such a damned fine pilot, but because he didn’t know how to handle the Pitts properly. The truth was, that bogey should have nailed him on its first pass. And it would have, if he hadn’t pulled out of his dive too soon. Luck had saved him. Pure luck. That was all.

He heard the crunch of gravel under car tires, and demanded that his legs stiffen. He couldn’t endure being seen like this. As he stood, he had to reach up and grab the Pitts’ cockpit coaming to maintain his balance.

“You got back just in time,” said a familiar voice, and Tomboy appeared before him, short and buxom and beautiful in the shadows. Instinctively, he reached out and pulled her to him, and hung on to her rather than the biplane. Her red hair smelled of violet, as if the twilight had gotten caught in it.

“Hey, big guy!” she said, sounding both surprised and pleased. She hugged him back. “That must have been some flight.”

Tombstone began to laugh. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that was some flight.”

Tomboy pulled away from him. Her face was serious. “Before you tell me about it, I’ve got something to tell you.” Within a couple of minutes, she gave him an encapsulated version of a terrible event in the South China Sea. CBG-14, his old command, was involved.

Atop the airport building, a beacon began to flash at the first stars.

“The Chinese again,” Tombstone said, thinking of his longtime wingman and best friend, Batman. “What the hell are they up to this time?”

Tomboy put her hand on his arm. “There’s something else, sweetheart. The man who owned the yacht was someone you know. Phillip McIntyre.”

“Phillip… you mean… Uncle Phil?” His knees weakened again. Phillip McIntyre wasn’t really an uncle, but an old friend of Tombstone’s real uncle, Admiral Thomas Magruder. The two older men went way back together. They’d been regular blood brothers all during grade school and high school, and remained close after that even though their careers had taken them in opposite directions from college on. Phillip McIntyre had gone into engineering, focusing on the development of computer circuitry long before it was trendy, then cashing in on the sudden bonanza. From there he’d diversified into other forms of manufacturing and high-tech development.

Tombstone remembered his uncle Phil as a kind of jet-setter, always sending cards and gifts from exotic corners of the world. When Tombstone graduated from Annapolis, a brand-new Japanese motorcycle was waiting for him, courtesy of Uncle Phil. More recently, while Tombstone and Tomboy were in Vegas for their quick, supposedly secret wedding, a complete set of hand-carved rosewood bedroom furniture was en route from the Philippines, on one of Uncle Phil’s commercial ships.

“Is he…” Tombstone said. “Did he…”

“They don’t know yet. They’re still searching. Anyway, your uncle called and told me he won’t be having dinner with us tonight.”

“I understand.” Tombstone shook his head. “That’s okay. Frankly, I don’t think I’m up for it myself.”

She rested a hand on his forearm. “Phillip might not be dead, Tombstone. We don’t know yet.”

“It’s not that. I mean, that’s a shock, but there’s something else.”

“Don’t tell me: Your new toy scared the piss out of you. Go on, admit it.”

He gulped down another mad surge of laughter. “Not exactly.”

Then he told her what had happened, and watched her eyes widen in the darkness.

“Very bad thing. Very bad. Is why I left Vietnam. Now same thing here!”

Dr. George wished the cabbie would shut up. The horrendous midmorning Hong Kong traffic was distracting enough without this man jabbering on about something or other. Dr. George was on his way to make a crucial presentation, and he wanted to rehearse it in his mind. He wanted it to be just right. Absolutely convincing. Hundreds of thousands of lives were at stake.

No, millions of dollars. That’s the angle. This is Hong Kong, remember. Millions of dollars are at stake, that’s what I’ve got to tell them. Billions of dollars.

It was a shame he had to behave like a door-to-door salesman to seek financing for his work. Unfortunately, for political and economic reasons, the United States government had cut back drastically on direct research into Dr. George’s specialty: Pacific Basin tropical storms. The logic was that typhoons were a Pacific phenomenon, and the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration had reason to concentrate its resources on Atlantic Basin storms. It was hurricanes, after all, that endangered American homes and American businesses. With the exception of Hawaii and a few pissant military enclaves, only faraway Asian lands were threatened by typhoons.

The cabbie shouted something in Vietnamese, his voice high and throbbing. Arms waving, he switched to English. “Where are police? Need order! Need order now!”

George tried to close out the racket and concentrate on his speech. Mr. Chairman, members of the Board… you operate a major shipping company here. How much income does your business lose annually to storm damage, time lost to bad weather, and high insurance premiums?

The irony was, studying typhoons was a perfect way to increase knowledge of hurricanes. Both phenomena had the same causes, but typhoons tended to be larger in size and scope, and to live longer as well. This made them the ideal subjects for detailed study.

If NOAA would only give him a bit more time… a year, two years… he could hand them the Holy Grail of meteorological research: a truly reliable method of predicting unborn storms. But no, they —

The cabbie shouted again, slamming down simultaneously on brakes and horn. “Traffic very bad today!” he cried. “Very bad! See all people? See signs? Is protess today. You know protess? Is to complain to Chinese about boat sink. Hong Kong people always protess!”

My system, Dr. George recited in his head, once it’s finalized, will allow your business to operate throughout typhoon season with complete confidence. This will give you considerable advantage over your competitors, who will continue to be subject to the vagaries of…

His own government hadn’t been the only one to turn him down. After NOAA informed him they would be shifting the majority of his personnel and all of the Guam station’s research aircraft to the Atlantic, he’d immediately started contacting other Pacific Rim nations for possible funding.

He’d started with Japan, but they’d bowed out on him. Literally. Ditto the Filipinos, South Koreans, Taiwanese, Indonesians… all citing Asia’s economic woes.

Which left only Hong Kong. If George failed here, Project Valkyrie would also fail. He had seven meetings arranged over the next two days — far and away the most critical two days of his career.

And that cabdriver just wouldn’t shut up.

“Is no good!” the cabbie shouted. “Protess cause big trouble! No good! You see!”

After being rebuffed by governments, George had had what he’d believed to be a stroke of genius: going straight to large, private businesses for financing.

Gentlemen, for an initial investment of only 1.6 million dollars, you will reap savings of tens of millions annually….

Unfortunately, so far every corporation, conglomerate and guild he’d contacted had been just as shortsighted as their governmental counterparts. Money was tight these days, they pointed out with elaborate regret. As for George’s promise to come up with a nearly-flawless storm prediction system, well, they’d heard that before….

“Chinese get angry!” the cabbie shouted. “They say, ‘You want trouble? Okay, we give trouble! Sink more than American yacht.’ Never trust Chinese!”

George gave up. For the first time he realized that the traffic around them really had congealed, even by Hong Kong standards. Young people on foot streamed amongst the stationary cars, heading in the direction of Victoria Square. Many of them carried banners or signs marked in both Chinese characters and in English: YOU WERE WARNED! KEEP HONG KONG FREE! NO TIENANMEN SQUARE! They waved the signs and chanted as they marched.

Dr. George sat back and sighed. Whatever it was they were protesting, in a few days it wouldn’t matter. They didn’t know what he knew: Somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean, the first typhoon of the season was brewing. Not just a typhoon. A super typhoon, king of storms. Winds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Rain like a barrage of cannon fire. Surf capable of flattening buildings and sweeping cars into the ocean.

George knew, because Valkyrie had told him. Although the program wasn’t perfect yet, it was good enough to recognize the approach of a true monster… like the one coming to life, right now, in the Pacific not far to the west. Coming to life and turning its attention toward China.

When it arrived… well, that would end any protest.

Lieutenant Commander Curt “Bird Dog” Robinson strode down the corridor toward the CVIC, hopping briskly over each knee-knocker he encountered. He was a little late for the special briefing, but he’d wanted to make sure his notes were in order before he arrived. He knew the meeting had to do with the scuttling of the civilian yacht just before dawn; all morning he’d watched CH-46E Sea Knights, the twin-rotored helicopters normally used to ferry Marines into combat, unloading body bags and a few blasted chunks of fiberglass onto the apron of the flight deck. As he understood it, Jefferson’s morgue and pathology lab had quickly overflowed, and now some of the body bags had joined pieces of wrecked sailboat in the hangar bay.

He’d heard a wide variety of other rumors, too: The Chinese had fired a torpedo at the yacht; American fighter jets had tangled with Red Chinese fighters over the site of the sinking; CBG-14 was about to go on full alert.

The last bit was probably nonsense; as for the rest, he wasn’t so sure. So he wanted to be prepared for any eventuality during this meeting. It was important for a lot of reasons. God knew that so far, he hadn’t exactly wowed his superiors with the strategic acumen he’d picked up in his studies at the Naval War College. In fact, during his first combat situation after graduation — the Second Cuban Missile Crisis — he’d not only done a lousy job of helping direct Navy tactics, he’d gotten his butt shot out of the sky.

To make matters worse, at the time, he wasn’t even supposed to be in the air. He was lucky to still have his wings, far less be called in to provide analysis during an emergency meeting off the coast of the last major Communist power in the world. He most sincerely did not want to screw up again.

Admiral Wayne was already at the table when Bird Dog walked into the CVIC. So was Chief of Staff William Grant, call sign Coyote. Bird Dog knew that Batman and the COS went way back together; they’d flown Tomcats during the retrieval of American hostages held in North Korea.

The table was also occupied by four pilots in rumpled flight suits, and an enlisted man in khakis. Bird Dog barely glanced at them, because the Admiral was giving him the cold eye. “Commander, glad you could join us. We’re waiting on Commander Busby; please have a seat.”

Bird Dog took a chair, silently thanking Lab Rat for being even later than he was.

No one in the room seemed disposed to chitchat, so Bird Dog began organizing his papers on the table. Not that there was a lot to organize… his notes about recent military encounters in the South China Sea and adjacent North Pacific; the current political situation in the People’s Republic, Indonesia, and Hong Kong. Finally, he sat back and raised his eyes — and found himself looking directly at Lobo, sitting across the table from him.

Oh, shit. He immediately looked away. From experience he knew that if he hesitated, he wouldn’t be able to turn away from her at all. Ever since they’d met last year, he’d had this stupid problem. She wasn’t that goddamned beautiful.

Fortunately, at that moment the door that connected CVIC with the adjacent Tactical Flag Command Center opened, and Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby, Jefferson’s Intelligence Officer, stepped through. “Sorry I’m late, Admiral,” he said. “Wanted to check the latest Chinese radio traffic.”

“And?”

“On the diplomatic end, they’re still demanding we turn the wreckage and bodies over to them. On the military end, we’re just picking up a lot of ‘What’s going on?’ and ‘Stand off for now.’ ”

Batman frowned. “Very well. Now that we’re all here, let me bring everyone up to speed. This morning, Lieutenant Commander Hanson, on routine patrol, spotted a PLA helicopter firing on an unarmed American pleasure boat in international waters. She and her wingman, Lieutenant Commander Stone, drove the helicopter off. We then established a defensive perimeter and began recovering what we could from the wreckage. So far only one survivor of the attack has been found; he’s currently in sick bay here on Jefferson. The bodies of the other passengers, as well as whatever pieces of hull can be recovered, are being ferried in. Does that pretty much sum it up?” He looked around the table.

Bird Dog had been taking notes, his thoughts streaking ahead on full afterburner. War College had stressed the ancient precept that war was politics by other means — national policy expressed in violence. In the twentieth century, certain Communist nations had been especially fond of mixing the two. But a massacre of civilians on the open sea? What political aim could China possibly expect to serve by that?

He looked up as Batman turned toward the rescue swimmer. “Petty Officer Pitcock, you recovered several of the bodies yourself, as well as the survivor, is that correct?”

The swimmer was a young, freckled guy with hair so blonde and short he looked almost bald. His eyes were the fierce red color that proved he’d spent a lot of time blinking against the salty spray blasted up by a hovering helicopter. “Yes, sir,” he said. “We found the survivor, Martin Lee, hanging on to what was left of the boat. Spotted him pretty quick.”

“And there were no other survivors, is that correct?”

“Not yet. SAR is still ongoing, but… no, it doesn’t look good.”

“Tell me, how many bodies would you say you counted out there?”

The swimmer cleared his throat. “I’d say close to a hundred. Maybe more. Some of them were just shot to pieces, plus the sharks had been at them….” He dragged a palm over his scalp.

Sharks. Bird Dog suppressed a shudder. He knew everyone else in the room was doing the same; sharks were the great nightmare of everyone who sailed on, or flew above, the sea. But he knew from personal experience that you didn’t even know what that fear was all about until you got dumped into the drink and had to float around awhile, watching for a triangular dorsal fin to break the surface of the water….

And this kid had jumped in on purpose.

He brought his attention back to the room. “I understand Mr. Lee spoke to you,” Batman was saying.

The swimmer licked chapped lips. “Yes, sir, on the way back. He said the yacht was American, and it got hijacked and sunk by the PLA for no reason. Mr. Lee’s Chinese, but his English is real good, and — ”

“But you saw nothing, personally, to indicate why that particular boat might have been attacked,” Batman said. “I’m only asking because you were in the water, closer to the wreck than anybody, before it sank.”

“No, sir, I didn’t see anything at all. Just a real nice boat shot to pieces.”

“Thank you.” Batman turned to Coyote. “COS, any questions?”

“I believe you covered everything.”

“Commander Busby?”

Lab Rat seemed to blink out of a reverie. “Um, no, sir. I’m going to want to talk to Mr. Lee as soon as possible, of course, but that’s it.”

“We’re waiting for Doc’s okay on that. Bird Dog, anything for Petty Officer Pitcock?”

Bird Dog was startled by the use of his call sign, and immediately wondered if this was a good or bad indicator. He’d been paranoid that way, lately; second-guessing everything. He was pretty sure it had started with his being dumped by his fiancée. “Not right now, sir,” he said.

“Very well. Petty Officer Pitcock, thank you.”

After the swimmer was gone, Batman turned his attention to the pilots and RIOs. “Lobo, you were first on the scene. Describe exactly what you saw.”

There was no avoiding it now. Bird Dog looked across the table at Lobo. Her eyes were socketed with exhaustion and her flight suit was all wrinkled and creased. No doubt about it: She was absolutely the most enticing thing Lieutenant Commander Curt Robinson had seen in his life.

And she flew F-14s. Flew them like an angel.

He’d met her in a bar, not long after Callie notified him that she’d changed her mind about marrying him. Pretty cliché for a fighter jock to catch the eye of a beautiful woman in a bar, except that Bird Dog hadn’t intended to even be there. His regular RIO, Gator Cummings, had introduced him to Lobo because, he confessed later, he was pretty sure Lobo had balls at least the size of Bird Dog’s. He wanted to see who swung first.

Nobody had swung. In fact, Bird Dog hadn’t exactly caught Lobo’s eyes. In fact, when he’d asked her for her number, she had grinned and said, “One.”

Fine, he’d thought as he and Gator left the bar. Who needed to deal with an uppity — if beautiful — female Tomcat pilot? Probably some kind of radical feminist, if not a lesbian.

Last thing he’d expected was to be sent on WestPac with her. To see her almost every day, in the corridors and on the flight deck of Jefferson. To hear other male pilots talk about her the way male pilots do, albeit more privately than in years gone by. To see her absorb their more public teasing and fire it right back. He hadn’t expected to… to…

He watched Lobo as she spoke, even jotting down an occasional note so he’d appear to be paying attention to her words instead of just the shape of her lips. He picked up enough of what she said to return his attention sharply to the matter at hand. Now was no time to let his mind wander.

Lobo’s RIO — the lucky bastard — spoke next, seconding everything Lobo had said — not that that meant anything. Any backseater worthy of the name backed his pilot up, no matter what. Hell, the RIO would swear he’d seen Elvis on a flying carpet, if that was what Lobo reported.

The second Tomcat pilot, Hot Rock, and his RIO were next. They recited what they’d observed from their higher altitude, and the brief tale of the helicopter chase. Although he was just a pup, Hot Rock looked more exhausted than anyone else, Bird Dog noticed.

“Could you identify the type of helo?” Lab Rat asked the young pilot.

“No, sir. It was dark, and I was above it. I can only say it was single-rotor. I was just about to go down for a closer look when — ”

“We got called back,” his RIO filled in. Just as Bird Dog’s RIO, Gator, often finished his sentences for him. Annoying as hell.

COS leaned forward. “What about missiles?”

“Missiles?” Hot Rock said.

“Yes, was the helo carrying missiles?”

The men looked at one another. The pilot shrugged. “I couldn’t tell, sir; not from my angle.”

“Lobo? You certainly had the angle.”

“But no time.” She paused, bit her lip, then shook her head. “No, sir, I only took one pass; I can’t say for sure if the helo was carrying missiles.”

COS nodded, made a note and leaned back.

“I have a question for Lobo,” Batman said. “What convinced you that you were justified in making a low-altitude, high-speed pass at another nation’s helicopter with an American fighter plane?”

She started. Her face hardened. “That helo was mincing those people in the water, Admiral. You heard Pitcock; it was a massacre. At the time, politics seemed… irrelevant.”

Batman held her gaze for a long time, then nodded. “Be sure to stress that in your report. I’ll back you up a hundred percent, but I’m warning you all, if the Chinese know something we don’t, this whole affair could turn around and bite us in the butt.”

“Yes, sir.” Lobo stared right at him, uncowed. Bird Dog’s heart stumbled with pride. Go, girl.

“Very well,” Batman said. “If none of you have anything else to add, you pilots and RIOs are dismissed. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

As the pilots and RIOs filed toward the door, Bird Dog took the opportunity to glance up, as if by accident, and meet Lobo’s eyes. He nodded at her, very cool and professional. To his horror, she gave him a broad, theatrical wink.

After the door closed, Batman said, “All right, I want ideas and I want them now. At the moment I’m not interested in whether or not you think our response was appropriate; I’m only interested in what you think the Chinese might be up to, and what they might try next.”

Lab Rat said, “Their next move is bound to be political. They’ll spin some kind of yarn for public consumption.”

“I agree,” Bird Dog said.

The earned him a quick, unnervingly searching glance from Batman. Bird Dog forced himself to meet it. “While I was at War College, there was a lot of talk about a war game they conducted there a year or two earlier. It was intended to be a complete assessment of the probable outcome of an all-out war with the PRC.” He paused. “We lost.”

Batman frowned. “Lost?”

“Yes, sir. The Chinese ended up controlling all of the Far East, including Japan. It created quite a flap — well, in an underground sort of way — about cuts in American military spending. Because the gap is widening.”

“And you think the Chinese have chosen to start World War Three by blowing the hell out of an American yacht?”

Bird Dog blinked. “I’m just saying — ”

“Coyote?” Batman turned to the COS. “Your assessment?”

“I’m not sure what the PRC’s overall motivation is, but when they started things in the Spratleys, manipulating public opinion was their next trick — so I’d expect that next.”

“Okay, they’re going to make a public stink. Agreed. But what’s their next step here likely to be?”

“The Chinese study their ancient sages,” Lab Rat said. He took a slim book out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. Looking at the title, Bird Dog felt a thrill of recognition. It was Sun Tzu’s The Art of War — the oldest known treatise on organized warfare. They’d studied it in War College. Lab Rat said, “This is what helped me guess what they were up to in the Spratleys. They believe the best general wins without fighting at all. He uses deception, infiltration, undermines his enemy’s alliances — ”

“Political warfare,” Bird Dog blurted. He couldn’t help himself. “They’ll complain about the way we handled this. Try to shift the blame to us.”

“That’s all fine,” Batman said impatiently, “but it doesn’t answer my question. What can we expect them to do next here?”

Since Lab Rat didn’t seem to have anything to say, Bird Dog spoke again. This time he tried to keep his voice mild. “Down in the Spratleys,” he said, “the Chinese blew up their own assets and tried to make it look like we did it. Their goal was to make us look like aggressors so they’d be justified in driving us out of the South China Sea. This time, they’re doing the opposite: They attacked American civilians… so the only possible reason is that they want to make sure we stay in the area.”

A thudding silence ensued.

“Commander,” Batman said, his voice as slow and cold as a glacier, “what have you been taking notes on all night?”

“Sir?” Bird Dog felt the tips of his ears burning.

“The Chinese might be obtuse, but they’re not stupid. First of all — especially if you’re correct about their long-term goals — what possible reason would they have to keep a Carrier Battle Group near their coast?”

“I don’t know,” Bird Dog said. “But — ”

“Good answer,” Batman said. “Now, assuming that was their goal for some reason, wouldn’t they want to do something really public to ensure our attention? Wouldn’t they launch a few missiles our way, or at least attack an American yacht in Victoria Harbor at high noon, rather than in the South China Sea, outside the shipping lanes, at five o’clock in the morning?”

The heat swarmed across Bird Dog’s face and neck. “Not if they intended to leave survivors,” he said — knowing it was a mistake even as he spoke, but once again unable to trap the words. “The automatic SOS signal from the boat was triggered, which suggests — ”

“ ‘Automatic’ means just that, Commander. And the Chinese plainly did not intend to leave any survivors — or even evidence. You heard Pitcock. Only Lobo’s quick action kept anyone alive out there.”

Bird Dog closed his mouth. Why couldn’t he ever seem to do that before he started flossing with his shoelaces?

To his relief, Lab Rat spoke up as if none of the previous discussion had occurred. “Admiral, I hate to sound like Mr. Spock, but we need more information before we can reach any conclusions at all, far less try to predict the next move the Chinese might make. Meanwhile, I suggest we convey as many facts as possible to Seventh Fleet so they can get our version out there before the Chinese make up some kind of PR story.”

“A preemptive publicity strike,” Batman said dryly.

“It’s a media-driven world, Admiral.”

“So it is. I’ll expect a draft of your recommended wording of such a public statement in an hour. Get together with the staff PAO on it.”

Lab Rat sighed. “Yes, sir.”

Batman glanced around the table. “Anything else? COS?”

Coyote shook his head. Bird Dog started to speak, but when he saw the sharp, assessing look in the admiral’s eye, he changed his mind.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Batman got to his feet. “I’m going to go see how the recovery operation is going.” He strode out of the room, COS on his heels.

Bird Dog stood up and began gather his notes. His knees were a little wobbly, but he wasn’t sure whether that was from anger or shame. As he turned toward the door, he heard Lab Rat say, “Bird Dog?” Bird Dog turned.

“With the Chinese,” Lab Rat said, “it’s probably best to keep all lines of thinking open… even those that seem ridiculous. Don’t tell the admiral I said that.” He held something across the table. “Why don’t you keep this awhile?”

Bird Dog accepted the gift. It was the slim copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.

Batman stood in the tower next to the Air Boss, looking out beyond the flight deck to the silhouette of an oncoming CH- 46E Sea Knight. There were two silhouettes, actually: the helicopter’s and that of its cargo, dangling beneath. Behind them glared the red furnace of the setting sun; beneath spread a blood-colored river of light. Blood-colored, Batman thought grimly. How appropriate.

“That’s the last trip, Admiral,” the Air Boss said. “Got the biggest piece of the boat. Had a hell of a time hooking it up.” He paused. “I understand most of it broke off and sank anyway.”

“Will it fit in the hangar bay?” Batman asked.

The Air Boss scanned the double silhouette with a practiced eye. “I think so. Barely. I’m having them set it down by the aft elevator; we’ll see from there.”

Batman nodded.

“I heard the legal eagles are disturbed about us bringing any of the boat aboard,” the Air Boss said. “Something about salvage laws.”

Batman set his jaw. “I’d say that taking control of evidence of international piracy and mass murder is a bit more important than salvage law.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Admiral — I’m glad it’s your headache and not mine.”

“You’ve got enough to worry about, Chad. Let me take care of the bullshit.”

The Sea Knight circled aft, gradually changing from a blunt silhouette to a long, sun-smeared loaf of French bread with enormous rotors fore and aft. Beneath it, suspended by cables and netting, hung a slab of fiberglass bursting with aluminum rails, foam insulation, wires, miscellaneous pieces of upholstery and carpeting.

“Used to be part of the upper deck and main cabin, I guess,” the Air Boss said. “We could get lucky; maybe there’s a logbook or something in it.”

Batman, not trusting to luck, just nodded.

The Sea Knight positioned itself off the stern and began easing toward the deck. Like any other aircraft, helos benefited from using prevailing wind conditions to increase lift — especially when heavily loaded.

On deck, the landing signals officer, or LSO, signaled the helo toward the aft elevator.

The helo drifted over the stern, rotors beating heavily, cargo just clearing the non-skid. As usual, the skill required to maneuver the big helo stirred a grudging respect in Batman, who generally shared the jet jockey’s ingrained disdain for “eggbeaters.”

The LSO backed up step by step, drawing the helo in. When the cargo was finally hovering just above the elevator, the signals changed and the Sea Knight eased to a halt. The cargo began to descend, cables trembling as the winch played out. Flight deck personnel eased in toward it, ready to wrestle the massive hulk into position.

The smashed piece of yacht hull touched the deck, and the cables began to slacken. Suddenly Batman felt a chill flash through him, so powerful it shook him to his heels. “Get those men —!” he began.

A flash of light blotted out the sunset, ripping into the sky and across the deck, pursued by a roiling black cloud and a bellow that rattled the Plexiglas in Pri-Fly. Batman instinctively ducked, and found the Air Boss crouching right beside him. “What the hell?” the Air Boss shouted.

Then both were back on their feet. “Fire on the flight deck!” the Air Boss shouted. He slammed the General Quarters alarm on and jabbed at the bitch box. “Officer of the Deck, Boss. Did you see that?”

Batman stared at the flight deck, unmoving, as the alarm went off. Where the wreckage of the yacht had been was now nothing but a blackened, cratered section of the elevator pad. Inboard from that, a ring of flames leaped across the deck. Four parked Hornets were on fire. So were two prostrate bodies. There was no sign of the LSO. How many other —

Then the Sea Knight appeared, dropping from the sky on a comet of flame. It barely cleared the flight deck, vanishing over the side.

A moment later, an enormous plume of water rose in a bursting fountain. It spread and collapsed down again, and not one drop reached the blazing deck.

If the army is confused and suspicious, neighboring rulers will cause trouble. This is what is meant by the saying, “A confused army leads to another’s victory.”

Bird Dog lowered the book and stared at the ceiling above his bunk. Even back at War College, he had found The Art of War an interesting but frustrating read. It was one thing to pass a test on it, and another to actually understand it. Despite its brevity, Sun Tzu’s book was more difficult to get your brain around than the dense and detailed Clausewitz’ treatment of the same subject. Sun Tzu was so… so Chinese. Allegorical, poetic, as suggestive as a pen and ink sketch.

And about as practical.

Bird Dog cringed when he thought about his attempt, at the special briefing, to explain China’s motivation for sinking the Lady of Leisure. As if he had a clue; as if Sun Tzu provided one. The Art of War might be hailed as a classic, but as far as Bird Dog was concerned, its obtuseness explained why the Chinese hadn’t won a major military campaign in years.

Closing the book, he sighed and tried to concentrate on something more predictable: the flow of activity on the flight deck, its music transmitted to him in the muffled roar of spooled-up jet engines and the thump of the catapult shuttle hitting its stops. Just by listening to that symphony overhead, he could tell what was going on. Today, the rhythm had alternated between the launching and landing of fixed-wing aircraft and the arrival of helos bearing bloody presents from the South China Sea. Currently, the quiet heralded a helo period.

God, he wished he was scheduled to fly tonight. Or better, the next time Lobo was scheduled. He frowned. What was it about that woman? Maybe he was just on the rebound. After all, not long ago he’d had a very hot thing going with a Navy woman — he’d even proposed to her, idiot that he was — but she’d dumped him for a fellow surface officer, of all things. So it was only natural he’d be attracted to a good-looking female pilot. Somebody who shared his passions, problems and dreams. Of course. That made perfect sense.

Okay, that took care of that. He opened the book again, arbitrarily, and started reading.

He who knows the art of both the direct and indirect approach will be victorious. This is the art of maneuvering.

Well, now, there was a solid piece of military advice. “The direct and indirect approach.” Very informative. Very —

He dropped the book onto his stomach as the ship transmitted an unfamiliar sensation to him: a sharp jolt, followed by a deep, buzzing vibration. A moment later came the sound of thunder.

Bird Dog’s feet hit the deck before general quarters began to sound.