Typhoon Season

SIX

Ming sat alone at the conference table, sipping a cup of tea. When the door opened, he spoke without looking up. “Major General Yeh. Please have a seat.”

Only after he heard the creak of a chair did he raise his head. He noted that the Political Commissar was looking around nervously, clearly disturbed to find himself alone with the Party’s representative. Good.

“You sent for me?” Yeh said.

“Yes. We need to discuss the situation here in Hong Kong. Things are not going well.”

“If you’re referring to the American attack on our destroyer, I can assure you that — ”

“No, that is not what I’m talking about. That, or something like it, was to be expected. What I’m talking about is this.” And he held up a piece of paper. “This is a message from Beijing. Our spies in Washington tell us that the survivor of the Lady of Leisure gave the Americans the exact name of the man responsible for attacking the yacht.”

Yeh sat up. “His name?”

“Yes. Captain Wang I of the Coastal Defense Force.”

“The CDF? But… that’s not possible.”

“I agree. For one thing, Major General Chin is much too dim to even conceive of so brazen an act, far less disguise it afterward. For another, we have already learned that Wang I was absent from Hong Kong at the time of the attack, visiting his mother in Pok Lo. So it would appear that someone assumed Wang’s identity in order to commandeer the Lady of Leisure.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk to you. As Political Commissar, it’s your job to know the moral strength of our fighting men. Do you know of any who might be responsible for this disaster?”

“Of course not. Only the most politically reliable men were selected for service in the Hong Kong garrison.”

Ming waved his hand. “I’m not interested in speeches, only reality. Perhaps I’m speaking to the wrong man. Allow me to test you: If all four of your fellow major generals were still living, which would you consider most likely to have organized the attack on the yacht?”

Yeh’s eyes flicked from side to side as if seeking escape from the man’s narrow face. “If you really think… well, I suppose Hsu Pi would have been the most likely candidate. The PLA Air Force was humiliated by its last major conflict with the United States, in the Spratley Islands. Revenge ran very hot in Hsu.”

“An excellent analysis,” Ming said, “assuming Hsu could have gotten access to a patrol boat and a full complement of sailors. However, it would appear you aren’t aware that when Hsu had a fatal heart attack, the only thing running hot in him was his lust. He was in a Hong Kong brothel. Evidently you can’t buy six beautiful Filipino women at the same time in Beijing.”

Yeh’s mouth sagged open.

“Or what about our other deceased commander, Po Yu Li of the PLA Navy? Officially, he died in the line of duty, shot by a drug smuggler he was attempting to arrest. This is somewhat true; he was shot by a drug smuggler. Of course, at the time, our major general was attempting to raise his standard bribe for allowing the smuggler to pass unmolested.”

Blood crept up in Yeh’s cheeks. “I cannot believe it.”

“Perhaps you’re wondering about our current commanders, eh? The venerable Wei Ao, First Among Equals? It appears he has a passion for collecting antiquities smuggled out of temples during the Cultural Revolution. He has a warehouse full in the New Territories; you really should see it.”

Yeh stared at him. “You know about these crimes?”

“Of course. These ‘crimes,’ as you put it, are why I selected those men for their jobs in the first place.”

“But — ”

“Major General, your outrage does you credit. But remember, this is Hong Kong, city of temptation. I must be practical. In my opinion, it is easier to watch over and control men whose weaknesses are known than those whose vices are secret. Especially when the men in question believe their personal activities are secret.”

Yeh’s face had grown stiffer with every word that reached him. Ming almost smiled. “What about Chin?” the Commissar asked. “You have something against him as well?”

“Only his worthlessness.”

“But if he has no vices to protect,” Yeh said, “then he’s the only one of us who might be responsible for attacking the yacht, true?”

Ming nodded approvingly. “You’re learning. But in this case you’re wrong. Major general or not, Chin has not a shred of martial wisdom or courage. He could never mount a surprise attack against any boat — even an unarmed American yacht.”

Yeh shook his head. “You have a very cynical attitude, Comrade General. Does the State Council know about it?”

“Of course. Their attitude is the same when it comes to leaders in Hong Kong. Later there will be time for ideological reconstruction, but for now, a decadent place must be dealt with on its own terms.” Ming looked at Yeh sidelong. “You’re wondering what my own vices might be?”

“Actually, I was wondering what you thought mine to be.”

“Ah. Your vice, Comrade Major General, is your stubborn belief that people can be redeemed by devotion to high ideals. And that vice, my dear Political Commissar, is exactly why I recommended you for your job.”

Dr. George hurried across the tarmac of the private jet section of Kai Tak airport, his briefcase bumping rhythmically against his thigh. Today he’d gotten stuck in traffic trying to leave downtown Hong Kong. Those damned protestors again, except this time the signs read NO WAR IN HONG KONG and KEEP THE PEACE, AMERICA and, an apparent favorite, HONG KONG IS NOT BAGDHAD. People were marching in the streets, waving their signs and chanting. Armed soldiers in green uniforms had been standing around, looking grave.

But not as grave as George felt. This whole trip had been a waste of time. One corporation after another, and every time the same result. During his last meeting at a huge conglomerate called MIL, several of the Board members had turned and glanced through the windows that faced toward the South China Sea. George knew they were examining the clear blue sky, the handful of puffy white clouds, the limp flags on surrounding skyscrapers, the lack of whitecaps on Victoria Harbor. They were thinking about the television weather reports, which predicted only normal spring squalls on the open sea. In other words, the executives were observing that there was no hint at all a Super Typhoon was imminent. Or even remote.

Naturally they’d been unconvinced, and now it was too late. George’s time was up. Not far away was the converted Gulfstream IV business jet that was the last NOAA aircraft in all the Pacific — and after today it, too, would be heading East. After today, Dr. Alonzo George would be grounded in Guam, in his little office with its earthbound instruments. No more soaring into the stupendous gray world of the typhoon. No more ferreting out its most intimate secrets, including what exactly made it decide to rise out of its saltwater bottle like an evil genie in the first place.

He already knew so much. As he’d told the Board, with Valkyrie he could predict the size and location of developing tropical storms four to seven days in advance. Well, okay, he could predict with reasonable accuracy one time out of four. But that wasn’t bad, and given another season or two of intensive reasearch, he’d improve on both the hit-to-miss ratio and the precision of qualitative data. He’d make them damned near perfect.

The Gulfstream’s pilot appeared in the doorway and raised a hand to his mouth. “Better hurry, Dr. George!” he shouted. “Look at the sky! Looks like a big storm’s coming!” He laughed.

George scowled and climbed the steps, which were formed by the lowered door itself, and squeezed into what used to be the passenger compartment of the jet. This space, intended to contain a few comfortable lounge chairs and perhaps a wet bar, was stuffed with meteorological equipment: dropsonde console, anemometer, barometer, gradient thermometer, three separate radar screens, and real-time satellite monitoring gear.

George squeezed into the seat by the dropsonde console.

The pilot was buckling himself into his seat up front. “I don’t know, Dr. George,” the co-pilot said, turning and grinning. “You sure you want to take off in all this wind?”

“Enough, already; just fly the plane.”

Ingrates. George longed for the heyday of NOAA, when there would have been seven scientists on the crew, and the plane itself would have been supplied by the U.S. Navy. A large, roomy military aircraft, built to take a beating. But the Navy had pulled out of the storm-chasing business in 1975 — Dr. George still wasn’t sure why, since who should be more concerned about oceanic storm systems? — leaving only the Air Force to provide transport. And the Air Force was reverting more and more to using converted civilian craft like this Gulfstream.

Still, right now he’d sell his soul to keep this little plane, even if he had to operate every piece of equipment himself.

Outside, the plane’s twin turbines began to whine.

“You all strapped in back there now, Doc?” the pilot asked. “Don’t want you to get tossed around by any severe turbulence.”

George sighed.

The jet eased into motion and taxied briskly toward the runway. Through the window appeared the blue expanse of Kowloon Bay with the skyscrapers of central Hong Kong on the far side. George gazed at the skyline glumly, wondering how much damage the oncoming typhoon would do to those glittering structures. Then the plane was on the runway and accelerating, wheels thumping, engines squealing. Next came a soft floating sensation, followed by the clunk of the landing gear retracting. Out the window, downtown Hong Kong reappeared, foreshortened as the plane banked.

The intercom clicked on. “Your hostess will be back shortly to serve the beverage of your choice.”

Again, Dr. George lamented the end of Navy involvement in NOAA research. Forget the larger, more comfortable planes — at least the damned pilots showed some respect.

Swiveling the chair, he gazed out the left-side windows, toward mainland China. Blade-shaped mountains receded into haze as the plane headed out toward international airspace. Wistfully, Dr. George wondered if the People’s Republic might be interested in investing in typhoon research. Probably not; they were —

“Holy shit!” The voice of the pilot carried above the whistle of air and turbines. “Look at that. What the hell is that?”

Up front, the co-pilot was leaning across the aisle, almost in the pilot’s lap, staring out the left-side window. George turned to the same direction and squinted into the sunlight. After a moment he spotted another aircraft out there, moving along on a roughly parallel course at a distance of a half mile or so. That was a bit close, but Hong Kong was a major hub of Asian air traffic; the sky was always full of planes coming and…

Wait. George looked closer. He had spent a lot of time in and around aircraft, but he had never seen anything like this. First of all, the plane had no distinct fuselage, but rather a sort of thickened area in the center. Nor was there a tail. The overall shape reminded him of a manta ray with its wingtips upturned, or perhaps a pregnant boomerang. But one thing was unmistakable: The nearest winglet was emblazoned with the red star of the People’s Republic of China.

The Gulfstream’s co-pilot began speaking in the kind of low, cadenced voice that George had come to associate with a radio transmission. At about the same time, the strange plane fell back. As it did so, George glimpsed a narrow door or hatch sliding open on its belly. Then the plane banked behind the Gulfstream, out of sight. George swiveled around and peered out the window, waiting for the plane to reappear on that side. It didn’t.

On the eastern horizon pearly-white castles of a child’s imagination loomed into the sky. Cumulonimbus clouds; thunderheads. Ranks and ranks of them hovering over the South China Sea and the Pacific Ocean, thirstily sucking moisture out of the lower atmosphere and vaulting it to cooler heights. Exchanging hot for cold and cold for hot, firing up the engine of a typhoon.

Only a matter of time. Two days at most; typhoons were capable of leaping up almost overnight. Why couldn’t anyone but he seem to understand —

There was a shout from the cockpit, this one as loud as a trumpet blast: “Incoming!” At the same moment, the Gulfstream dipped violently to the left. George’s head banged against the dropsonde console. There was a brilliant flash of light. A concussion slapped his ears. Grabbing the sides of the chair, he tried to pull himself upright. Lightning strike? He’d been in planes hit by lightning before… but the sky was clear… wasn’t it?

He shook his head, then glanced at the window. The dark of the sea swung across it, as if the whole world had tilted. A moment later the sky reappeared. Then the water. Then the sky, now divided by a garland of black smoke. Shouts and curses echoed back from the cockpit, accompanied by an electronic shrieking.

The ocean reappeared. It was closer now; he could see the mottled ranks of waves rolling shoreward. The plane bucked, shivered. Dr. George realized he could see sunlight coming through the wall near the tail. As he watched, the crack widened.

“What’s going on?” he shouted blearily. He tried to stand, but his seat belt yanked him back.

Now he could finally understand the co-pilot’s words, a high-pitched chant: “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday…”

Through the window, water swung into view again. Now it was close enough to show white birds racing across the waves.

“Oh, my,” Dr. Alonzo George said. “Oh my, oh my.” Pivoting his seat toward the front of the plane, he bowed forward as far as his belly would let him, and placed his hands over his head.

Wei Ao lowered the telephone receiver from his ear and looked over at the man sitting across the desk from him. Until the interruption of the emergency call, Wei and Yeh Lien, the Political Commissar, had been having a very dry discussion about restructuring political training sessions for off-duty PLA soldiers. At least, that was what the discussion seemed to be about, but Wei had his doubts. Yeh seemed overly eager to increase the number of warnings about the dabbling in the black market. He kept stressing the importance of “clean spirit, Communist spirit.”

Now, however, Wei was very glad to have the commissar present. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, he said, “Comrade, I have just been informed that an American military jet departing Kai Tak Airport has been shot down.”

“Shot down?” Yeh Lien straightened in his seat. “An American military jet? What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. It was a NOAA aircraft — which is to say, an American Air Force jet supposedly used to study weather. Its pilot reported being paced by an unknown aircraft with a red star on the wing. He then reported missiles being fired, and began to go down. He has since vanished off radar and is presumed to have crashed.”

Yeh closed his eyes. “This American plane — it was not armed?”

“No. Many times these kinds of planes are used for spying, so they are not armed. It would ruin the illusion.”

“I assume you can identify who fired at it?”

“No. It was not one of ours.”

Yeh’s eyes opened. “But you said — ”

“Anyone can paint a red star on a wing. Comrade, the American pilot reported that his attacker resembled a ‘stealth fighter.’ To the best of my knowledge, the PLA Air Force possesses no such aircraft. Also, our own radar detected only the smallest return, other than that of the business jet, in that area. They would have taken it to be a bird or temperature anomaly if it weren’t for what happened later. And finally, all PLA aircraft have reported in and been accounted for. None is, or was, in the vicinity of the attack.”

“What exactly are you telling me, Comrade Major General?”

“I’m telling you we need to find out what really happened.” Wei leaned forward. “There’s only one way to do that. I want to route a squadron of fighters to the area to search for this mystery plane and the American jet. Immediately.”

Yeh looked uncomfortable. “You say the American went down outside the twelve-mile limit?”

“That’s the radar indication. We won’t know for sure until we get someone out there.”

“Perhaps…perhaps we should consult with General Ming before — ”

“Ming is on his way back to Beijing. By the time we contact him, the enemy will be gone. We must act now.” Wei was pleased. Here was the perfect opportunity for him to show Beijing how dedicated he was to his job, while at the same time sharing responsibility for the final decision with his own Political Commissar.

But Yeh just stared out the window.

“Comrade,” Wei said. “Radar indicates there are currently no conventional American aircraft in the vicinity of the crash — but that won’t last. If we wish to get there before the Americans cordon off the site like they did last time, we must act now. I’m asking for your concurrence in this decision.”

At last Yeh looked back at him. “Not an entire squadron; it would look… aggressive. Some smaller number, perhaps.”

Wei carefully kept the sneer off his face. Evidently living in Hong Kong had taught the Political Commissar the finer points of a very Capitalistic practice: haggling.

“Very well,” he said, and reached for the phone.

“No doubt about it,” Lab Rat said. “A small USAF jet, departing north out of Hong Kong, was taken out with an air-to-air missile fired at close range. This was a unarmed transport plane, sir. Whatever fired the shot dropped to the deck and disappeared.”

“What do you mean, ‘whatever fired the shot’?”

“Well, Admiral, the contact was… odd.”

“Don’t dance around the question. Tell me.”

“It was an extremely weak return; nothing like your average fighter plane — especially one carrying missiles. Also, it never switched on its own radar. Not any radar, passive or fire-control. Nothing. It came up, shot off a couple of heat-seekers, and disappeared again.”

“But it was described as a PLA aircraft, correct?”

“Well… that’s the other thing.” The intelligence officer pointed at the icons shifting over the blue screen. “The American pilot did say the bogey had PLA markings, but as you can see, right now eight Flankers are converging on the site; half of those are the newest model. It’s weird; if the PLA is responsible for taking out the Air Force plane, why all this activity now?”

“So everybody will ask exactly that question. Please tell me this shoot-down happened on our side of the property line.”

“Yes, sir. Barely.”

Batman turned to the flag TAO. “Get SAR and air cover out there now. I want that area sealed off.”

“It might be too late for that, sir,” Lab Rat said. “This site is quite a bit north of our present position. Our closest assets are a pair of Hornets and a pair of F-14s, but they’re all at least ten minutes out. No way they can get there before the PLA.”

“Then have them get there second and make it clear we won’t be cut out of this. Launch the Alert Five and Alert Fifteen birds, too; we want to match the PLA plane for plane as soon as we can. We’re not going to start anything, but we want it understood we’re in this game.”

Lab Rat stared at the blue screen. “No one could have lived through that.”

Batman shook his head. “That’s not how we do SAR. If they are, we’re not going to make them wait around for a certain helicopter to show up.”

Dr. George awoke to the feel of warm water sweeping around his ankles. What was this — Monsoon rains leaking into his office again? He started to sit erect, but a twisting pain arced through his lower back and he cried out. After a moment’s rest he tried again, more slowly.

My, his office was a mess. No, not his office… this looked more or less like the rear compartment of the NOAA Gulfstream that had been flying him back to Guam from Hong Kong.

Then he remembered: The strange-looking fighter plane, the explosion… and the rear of the Gulfstream breaking open like an eggshell.

The water was swirling around his calves now. He looked forward, into the cockpit. The windscreens were both opaque, shattered. He could see the right shoulder of the pilot, the left shoulder of the co-pilot, leaning together across the central aisle. Neither was moving.

“Hey!” George called, and winced at the pain in his back. “Hey! Hey, are you all right?”

No response. The water was now up to his knees. A small jellyfish floated past. The plane remained remarkably level, though, as if the sea were entering with equal speed from both ends. He looked out the nearest window just as a low swell rolled past, its crown sweeping along the bottom of the glass. Water surged into the plane, soaking his thighs.

“Oh God.” He fumbled with the release catch on his seat belt. Saw fresh blood on his hands. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. “Oh God, oh God…”

Finally, the catch popped and he yanked himself out of the tight seat, groaning at spasms in his back. Something was wrong with his right leg, too; it would barely support him. Bracing his weight against various pieces of equipment, he yanked himself toward the cockpit. “Hey! Hey, guys!” No response. The water was up to his knees now.

At the cockpit entrance he halted. The nose of the Gulfstream had been crushed; the instrument panel looked like it had slammed back like a horizontal guillotine blade, chopping deeply into the chests of both pilots. One glance was all George needed, and all he could stand. He turned, pushed himself back against the water.

The Gulfstream’s door was designed to hinge outward along its bottom edge, creating a staircase. He reached for the handle that would break the seal, then thought of something and groped into one of the overhead compartments for a life vest. It looked pathetically small; how could he ever wrestle it on in these confined quarters?

And what would happen when he opened that door? He thought of the physics of it: The water would rush in, and its mounting weight would roll the plane in the direction of the flow, at least at first. The entire doorway opening might dip beneath the surface before George could swim out against the current. On the other hand, the plane’s wings — assuming they were still attached — would resist the roll, perhaps buying him enough time to escape before the door was submerged. On the other hand — how many hands was that? — what if the incoming water was moving so fast he couldn’t push against it anyway?

Water swirled around his crotch, leaching out his body heat. He started to shiver. No time to argue with himself; the plane was almost half sunk as it was. At any moment it might choose a direction to rock and start diving for the bottom of the South China Sea — and all his options would be gone.

He grabbed the door handle, braced himself, and put pressure on it. Screamed as his back let out an electric bolt of pain.

He’d forgotten one hand: The airframe was warped; the door jammed. It wouldn’t budge.

The water was up to his waist, tendrils creeping up his shirt to his armpits.

He looked around for something to pry with, to gain leverage. Nothing, and no time to search. Setting his feet, locking his hands around the handle, he closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and hauled as hard as he could.

His back felt like a missile had hit it. Still, he kept twisting. There was a grinding sound, a thump, and the top of the door eased out, then down. There was no ferocious flood of water, although the level immediately rose faster. Physics again: The air trapped in the fuselage was resisting the incoming flow.

But soon the plane would sink.

Clutching his life vest under one arm, George plunged like a walrus through the diminishing gap between the water and the top of the doorway.

“Well, now, what are the odds?” Two Tone said, sounding pleased. “You, me, Lobo and Handyman… here we go again.”

“Yeah.” Following the lead of Lobo, a thousand feet below and as far ahead, Hot Rock banked the Tomcat onto the new heading sent to them by Homeplate. Much farther down, the South China Sea shone silver and blue. At ten o’clock, the mountainous coast of China shimmered in the haze like a fever dream. A few jagged-sided islands of various sizes thrust up from the water. Everything was so gorgeous from up here.

Hot Rock eased the throttles forward and felt the delicious shiver as the Tomcat opened the door to the sound barrier and stepped through. He loved that. Back when he’d started flight school, he’d thought the training jet, a T-45A Goshawk, had been powerful and intimidating; the F-14 had seemed an impossibility to handle. So large, so expensive and particular. When the time had come to strap one on he’d expected it to be the horses all over again, and him washing out with his tail between his legs….

Instead — God. The Tomcat and the sky, and hurtling along faster than sound. If it could only be like this all the time. If only he could just fly and fly up here between the sky and the water…. “What the hell are the Chinese thinking?” he said. “Sinking our boats, shooting down our planes… do they really want to go to war with us?”

“Why not?” his RIO said. “Bound to happen sooner or later.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. China’s the last major Communist power in the world, unless you want to count Berkeley. Hard-core communists believe in world domination. It’s part of the deal.”

“Didn’t work for Russia.”

“Won’t work for China, either, but they don’t know that. And they won’t figure it out until they get their butts kicked a few times.”

Hot Rock realized his palms were sweating, and his chest felt tight. “And you think this is the start?”

“Got your steel-toed boots on?”

Dr. George raised his head when he heard the rippling roar of jet engines. He’d been floating along quietly, almost enjoying himself. Hadn’t been this close to the water for quite a while, that was for sure. The South China Sea was a nice temperature, not too warm, kind of soothing on his twisted back. The only troublesome thing was the stream of blood that kept running down his face from a cut somewhere on his scalp. The blood dripped into the water, of course; he couldn’t stop it. Which meant he couldn’t stop thinking about sharks.

Overfishing, he kept telling himself. For decades the Asians had been decimating the shark population, netting the fish left and right, lopping off their dorsal fins for soup and tossing the maimed animal back into the water for its brethren to devour. Then catching the brethren. More recently, half-baked theories about the ability of shark cartilage to prevent cancer in humans had led American fishing boats to join in the massacre.

Still, sharks… it only took one. And these waters were the hunting grounds of one of the most notorious man-eating species in the world: the tiger shark.

That was why the sound of approaching jet engines brought feelings of relief to him, as well as dread. He wanted to be found and rescued. On the other hand, it had been a jet that shot down the Gulfstream.

To his relief, when he finally spotted the two aircraft that were making the racket, they didn’t look like the one that had fired the missile. These had angular bodies, double vertical stabilizers, and wings that pointed in the right direction.

Then he spotted the red stars on their undersurfaces, and his fear doubled. Chinese fighters, not American.

But the jets were searching in the wrong place, a mile or two to the south. Without the Gulfstream itself to focus on, they seemed to be streaking around almost arbitrarily, close to the water, possibly trying to make sense of the debris that had fanned across the surface of the South China Sea.

George debated what to do. There were flares in one pocket of the life vest; he could draw attention in his way in an instant with those. But… one of these maniacs’ friends had shot down the Gulfstream; what would they do to him if they picked him up?

The jets began to spread out, circling. Then he saw more jets moving in from the southeast, pair by pair, at a much higher altitude. At least eight planes up there. But this group didn’t circle; it continued straight east, heading further out to sea.

Fighter planes, nothing but fighter planes. Where were the rescue helicopters, the slow search aircraft, the boats?

Maybe, George thought, he should just keep floating along here until a fishing vessel came along.

Down in the water, a brown shadow cruised past his dangling feet. It had a blunt, squared-off snout, and dark stripes on its flanks.

Dr. George groped wildly in the pocket of his life vest.

“Well, here they come.” Handyman’s voice was dry over the ICS. Lobo thought he sounded like a bored suburbanite announcing the arrival of neighbors for the annual block party. “Six new bogeys, altitude thirty thousand feet, bearing zero one zero. Flankers, by their radar. And they aren’t searching for anything but favorable position.”

Hot Rock’s voice came over tactical: “Lobo? Did you happen to notice we’re getting a tad outnumbered here?” His words were flyboy-cool, but under them his voice was as tight as a spool of cable. Lobo reminded herself that her wingman hadn’t tasted combat yet. Never knew how anyone would react to the real thing until it happened. She wondered if the tension in his voice was the product of eagerness, or of fear… and which would be better. “Backup’s on the way,” she said. “And remember, we’re just here to hang around, not to fight. So stay cool.”

“Tell them that.”

Looking up through the canopy, Lobo spotted six double-wide vapor trails etching across the blue. Her skin tightened. For any fighter pilot, altitude almost always equaled power. But today she didn’t have the option of seeking the high slot, not if she was going to perform her assigned duty of protecting the area where the jet had gone down. If what had happened to Lady of Leisure was any indication, the biggest danger to potential survivors would come not from a highflying jet, but from a boat or helicopter. Still…

“I hate this,” she said over ICS.

“Lobo,” Handyman said, “high or low, you can out-fly anyone in the sky. You got that?”

She blinked. “Thanks, Handyman.” Switching to tactical, she said, “Okay, Hot Rock, get ready to start searching.”

“What a grand idea.”

“Relax. Reinforcements are ten minutes out. Keep tight this time, Hot Rock. Welded wing unless somebody starts something.”

“Welded wing, roger.”

Lobo clicked off. Easy to tell her wingman to relax, but she was facing a bit of an inner chill herself; couldn’t deny it. The last major air battle she’d been in… well, she’d ended up punching out of her plane. And then, of course, spending some quality time with a Russian militia.

And later still, spending a lot more time getting her head shrunk.

She hoped it was the right size for whatever came up now.

“I always thought Hornets were speedy,” Major “Thor” Hammersmith growled, thumping the throttles of his F/A-18 with the heel of his hand. “Come on, you bitch.”

“We’re getting there,” his wingman, Reedy, said in the voice that had earned him his call sign. “Besides, we were told to grab for altitude at the same time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” All Thor wanted to do was shoot down a bad guy. The last major military action he’d been involved in, down in Cuba, he’d gotten his ass blown out of the sky while he was refueling. Refueling! Spent the rest of that little affair tied to a chair while different Cubans pounded on him and used him to taunt the U.S. Navy. Not any Marine’s idea of “participation.”

Not that he was planning on starting a fight here. No way. But these assholes had blasted an innocent American yacht to pieces the other night, then actually ripped a chunk out of Jefferson — accidentally or otherwise, it didn’t matter — and now they’d shot down a commair with a missile. How brave. How warrior-like. Well, Thor’s Hornet was loaded down with air-to-air missiles, so if the Chinese were ready to try their luck against the big boys, Thor was ready for them.

He knew that more than half the planes awaiting them were the latest model Flanker. Rumor had it that although these Flankers were as big as F-14s — or “Turkeys,” in Hornet driver parlance — the Russian fighters handled more like F/A-18s. In the case of the SU-35, they supposedly handled better than Hornets.

That’s what he’d heard. But what you heard and what you knew, well, they were often two different things. And Thor Hammersmith knew that nothing could beat an F/A-18 in a close-in knife fight. Nothing.

He thumped the throttles again. Tried not to think about the rate at which his two F404-GE-402 turbofans were gulping down precious fuel. That was the Hornet’s biggest disadvantage compared to the Turkey: Hornets had short legs. It would be just his luck to get in a punch or two in an air battle, only to have to run away again to gas up.

Not that there was going to be any fight, mind you….

An axiom of dogfighting stated that all else being equal, a lone fighter plane was a victim, while a pair acting in concert was like a two-headed snake: It saw everything, and could bite in any direction.

As wingman in the so-called “welded wing” formation, Hot Rock’s primary job was to be the rear head of the snake, keeping his lead safe. In the event of an actual battle, he would fly in tandem with Lobo, protecting her vulnerable back from attack so she could concentrate on her primary job: shooting down enemy aircraft. His own weapons load would serve mostly as a backup to hers.

That was why most fighter jocks preferred the “loose deuce” formation, developed by American pilots during the Vietnam war. In loose deuce configuration, the two fighters kept a great deal more space between them, and depending on circumstances, one or the other might become the primary attack plane, with the second flying in the support and backup role.

Although he’d never admit it, Hot Rock not only liked flying welded wing, he preferred the wingman slot. It was challenging from a piloting standpoint, because a wingman had to not only anticipate his lead’s movements so as to maintain proper relative position on her, but do so while constantly scanning the surrounding sky for enemies.

This meant the wingman had to leave the most crucial battle decisions up to the lead.

And that was fine with Hot Rock, because such an arrangement almost eliminated the possibility that he might make a bad tactical error.

He followed Lobo as she flew a grid search pattern, drawing an invisible tic-tac-toe board over the approximate area where the business jet had gone down. Looking down at the water, Hot Rock glimpsed the occasional fleck that was a drifting cushion or other piece of flotsam. He was hoping to see a flare or spreading dye marker, or even a life raft. Nothing.

Of course, it was difficult to concentrate on searching the water, because he and Lobo were not alone in the air. Apart from the eight bogeys far overhead, two more were hurtling around at virtually this same altitude, probably conducting their own search. Twice already, Hot Rock had gotten a much closer look at them than he would have preferred as the Flankers cut across the Tomcats’ path.

He toggled the radio to tactical. “Viper Leader, they’re going to be just above us on the next pass,” he said.

“I know that.” Lobo’s voice was curt. “Be ready, but ignore them.”

Hot Rock started to reply, then toggled to ICS. “ ‘Be ready, but ignore them’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means to keep your finger over the weapons selector,” Two Tone said. “I’ll let you know when you need it.”

“You mean ‘if.’ ”

“Right.”

“Here they come,” Lobo said, eyes locked on the two Chinese aircraft crossing from her right. She felt sweat prickling her scalp as they closed in, everything moving too fast —

— and then the Flankers thundered overhead, so close the shock of their passing gave Lobo’s Tomcat a savage yank. For once, she was glad for the tight fit of the cockpit.

“Assholes,” Handyman said dryly.

“Looked like SU-27s,” Lobo said, as if she’d had all day to study the Chinese plane going by. “Guess they left the top-of-the-line fighters in the high-altitude hairball.”

“Yeah. Probably all the missiles these two are carrying are low-budget models, too,” Handyman said. “Now I feel a lot better about having them playing chicken with us. It’s — Lobo! Flare at two o’clock!”

She looked to her right and saw it, a red spark burning bright and hot even against the sunny sky. She immediately put in a call to the carrier. “Homeplate, Viper Leader. We’ve spotted an emergency flare. Repeat, an emergency flare; looks like it came from the area where the plane went down.”

“Viper Leader, this is Admiral Wayne. Maintain overhead orbit until SAR arrives. Don’t start anything, but make it clear we’re involved, understood?”

“Roger.” She rolled her eyes. Involved? What did that mean? “What’s the ETA for SAR?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Homeplate said. “Be advised a Luhu-class destroyer just pulled out of the harbor and is making flank speed to your datum. ETA twenty-five minutes.”

“A destroyer?” Hot Rock said, switching to ICS. “Great.” He knew that China’s Luhu-class ships were new, fast, and armed with Crotale anti-aircraft missiles, among other treats. And the ship was already close enough to take part in any air battle. Of course, so were CVBG-14’s destroyer and Aegis cruiser, with their over-the-horizon firing capabilities… but still, in a missile situation, a difference of seconds was all anyone needed. Any ship leaving Hong Kong would already have the drop on both American support ships.

“We got other problems at the moment,” Two Tone said. “Like the fact that those two Flankers are coming back around on us.”

“They’re just doing the same thing we are,” Hot Rock said, forcing his dry lips to move. “Circling the flare.”

“And what about the six dudes overhead?” Two Tone asked. “Why do you suppose they’re there? Tour guides?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Hot Rock’s hands weren’t just sweaty inside his gloves now — they were slathered, and shaking a bit. Had been ever since those goddamned Chinese fighters galloped past, close enough to kiss. He sharpened his voice. “Our orders are to keep things clear for SAR, so we keep things clear for SAR.”

“But what if the Chinese get their SAR here first? Because I’m picking up a low-level return, bearing??… same bearing and distance as the destroyer. That’s gotta mean the Chinese launched a helo. And guess what? It’s going to get here before any of our eggbeaters do.”