Last night, Bird Dog had been ready to kill whoever was responsible for the hydraulic failure. There had been a time — it seemed a lifetime ago, somehow — when he would have ripped into anyone who might even be remotely involved. Now, he found himself hoping the cause turned out to be something purely mechanical, a failed part no one could have anticipated or prepared for. Because if it was human error, God help the poor kid responsible.
And it was easy to forget that these were kids, most of the technicians and mechanics. Eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds responsible for millions of dollars of equipment, and dozens — or thousands, indirectly — of lives.
If one of the kids had screwed up, he’d have more than the plane captain to contend with. More than an official inquiry. That kid would have to think about dead aviators for the rest of his life.
Dead pilots.
Stop that. You don’t know she’s dead.
Bird Dog stared across the sea, and on the eastern horizon, under the flat bottoms of the thunderheads, lightning drubbed the ocean with white, skeletal fingers.
NINE
Wednesday, 6 August
1300 local (-8 GMT)
Conference Room, PLA Headquarters
Hong Kong
Major General Yeh Lien, Political Commissar of the Hong Kong SAR, thought that the meeting room seemed much too empty these days. Only two months ago there had been five major generals here at every conference. Then, two nights ago, Ming’s presence had filled the room all by itself. But now…
Now there was just Wei Ao of the army, Chin Tsu of the Coastal Defense Force, and he, Yeh Lien, representing the heart and soul of Chinese Communism.
No, there was someone else as well. Someone invisible. The person responsible for the death of General Ming Wen Hsien.
Or was that guilty man actually here in the flesh? Yeh couldn’t help thinking about the secrets Ming had hoarded about the commanders in the SAR. Perhaps one of those commanders had become aware of this knowledge. Perhaps he had decided to free himself.
Yeh watched the other two men, shifting his gaze back and forth as Wei Ao described the latest reports about Ming’s death. Evidence indicated that the general’s plane had been shot down by a missile or missiles of relatively small size; they could have been either air-to-air or ground-to-air. Yeh stared at the Army commander’s blocky, self-satisfied face. Who would have more access to weapons than the First Among Equals? Wei, collector of decadent antiquities, and now sole and supreme commander of the Hong Kong SAR…
“Now,” Wei said, his voice grave but his eyes glittering. “You’ve all seen our new orders. Until a replacement for Ming is officially assigned from Beijing, I alone dictate military actions within and around the Hong Kong SAR. I answer directly to the State Council, and you answer to me, and that is all.”
“What are we going to do about the Americans?” Chin demanded in his impetuous way, as if he hadn’t heard a word Wei had just said.
Wei fixed the younger man with a heavy-lidded gaze. “What are we going to do? We are going to do nothing. More to the point, you are going to do nothing. These matters don’t concern the Coastal Defense Force one way or the other. Besides, who said anything about Americans?”
“But it had to be Americans who shot down the plane!”
“Consider the area where the shoot-down occurred, Comrade. A hundred miles inland, in rough terrain. The missiles were of the short-range variety, not something the Americans could have launched from over the horizon. Therefore, they were almost certainly fired from the ground. Are you claiming that the Americans placed troops that far inland without our being aware of it?”
“But — you’ll do nothing in retaliation, then?”
To Yeh’s surprise, the old major general smiled. “It’s not necessary to retaliate, Major General Chin. Even if the Americans are guilty. Remember, as Sun Tzu said, ‘The way to be certain to hold what you defend… is to defend a place the enemy does not attack.’ ”
Chin looked baffled. Yeh felt baffled, but he gave a sage nod. As Political Commissar, he must not allow himself to look slow or foolish.
Certainly Major General Wei Ao was neither of these things. From the words of his own mouth, the old commander was up to something, some unspecified activity. An activity he did not care to share.
Which meant that Yeh must find out what it was.
1320 local (-8 GMT)
USS Jefferson
“I wish Tomboy were here,” Batman said as he strode down the passageway toward sick bay. “She should hear this.”
“When’s her COD due?” Lab Rat asked, from behind him.
“Zero eight hundred tomorrow.”
“Well, we can’t wait that long,” Lab Rat said. “Memory’s a fickle thing. The sooner we get Dr. George’s story about what happened, the better.” He paused. “Tombstone’s not coming, too?”
Batman answered in clipped tones: “Admiral Magruder and his wife happen to be two professional officers with different duties and assignments. They aren’t joined at the hip, you know.”
“I realize that, sir. I didn’t intend any offense. But Tombstone’s experience in — ”
“Oh, hell, Lab Rat, forget it. The truth is, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I wish Stoney were coming, too. But he’s not on the passenger list.” Batman stepped over a knee-knocker, made sure no one else was in the corridor, then said over his shoulder, “Do you think I should have asked Bird Dog to come along with us to talk to Dr. George?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not so soon after what happened yesterday.”
“But maybe that’s why he should be with us. To keep him from dwelling on things he couldn’t help.”
He heard the wryness in Lab Rat’s response: “If there’s one thing nobody’s ever accused Bird Dog of before, it’s thinking too much. But that seems to be changing, and I think you should let him work it out for himself. I believe you made the right move.”
Batman nodded, relieved. “Got your recorder ready?” They had arrived at the main entrance to Sick Bay. Batman shoved open the double doors and headed aft toward the Critical Care Unit.
In the bed nearest to the CCU entrance, lay a man somewhat beyond middle age, with white hair, badly sunburned pale skin, and a belly that produced a swell in the sheet like the bow of a nuclear submarine about to breach. He was sucking juice from a plastic cup, using a bent straw. A hospital corpsman stood on the far side of the bed, saying, “Plenty of fluids, doctor, that’s the ticket. Keep them going.”
As Batman entered the room, he glanced at the closed curtain that divided off the beds inside the CCU. He’d already visited Catwoman, stared at her and willed her to get well. She had a fractured neck and skull, and had lost a lot of blood. Once she was stable, she would be medevaced to the base hospital in Singapore.
But now he had to concentrate on this civilian with the bright blue eyes and the straw in his mouth. He and Lab Rat waited patiently until, with a wild slurping sound, Dr. George finished his drink and handed the cup to the doctor. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s better than the juice I remember from my days flying with the navy.”
“You were in the navy, sir?” Batman asked from the side of the bed.
Dr. George looked at him, taking in the uniform and its two stars without any evident reaction. “Oh, no, not me. I work for NOAA, which is part of the Department of Commerce, actually. But we used to fly in Navy hurricane hunters back before 1975 — when you people pulled out of the program.” He managed to make it sound like a personal affront, and Batman fought off a smile.
Batman held out his hand. “I’m Rear Admiral Wayne. This is my intelligence officer, Commander Busby. How are you feeling, sir?”
“Like I never want to go swimming again,” George said with feeling, and this time Batman couldn’t stop the smile. Hell, why try? He felt some of the tension slide off his back.
“I can imagine,” he said. “Mind if we sit down and ask you a few questions about yesterday?”
/> “Yesterday? Oh, yesterday.” A shadow flitted over the man’s face. He sighed. “Was it only yesterday? Those poor pilots. They never had a chance.”
The corpsman brought in three metal chairs, which the three officers situated in the scant space around George’s bed.
“We’d like to ask about the aircraft that shot you down, sir,” Batman said. “We need as precise a description of it as you can give us, your impressions of its flying characteristics — everything.”
George nodded, and for a half hour he talked about his harrowing, truncated voyage of the day before. Lab Rat and Bird Dog took notes, plus each of them had a microcassette tape recorder running. When George got to the part about the flying wing, they both asked questions that would help paint a technical picture of the bogey. George answered the questions with the immediacy of a good memory, and the accuracy of someone with at least a passing knowledge of aircraft. That was good, in that it made his information somewhat reliable. It was bad for the same reason.
From the sound of things, the Chinese possessed a working airframe not dissimilar to America’s F-117 Stealth Fighter, but possibly even more advanced. This mystery carried its missiles in internal bays to prevent them from providing radar signatures.
All of this raised a number of important questions, but from an immediate standpoint, the one that interested Batman was: Why use such an exotic asset to shoot down a helpless business jet in a very public manner, only to keep it out of combat during the subsequent air battle? There had to be a reason.
“Dr. George,” Batman said. “The plane you were in — did it carry NOAA markings, or U.S. Air Force?”
“Air Force.” George’s eyes teared up. “It was the last dedicated storm-chasing plane in the Pacific basin. It was going to leave for the Caribbean tomorrow. Would never have even been in Hong Kong if I hadn’t — ”
Batman spoke quickly, decisively, cutting off that line of thought. “Now, are you sure it was only carrying meteorological equipment? It couldn’t possibly have been used for anything else?” He was thinking about the navy’s spy ships, which, disguised as trawlers, crept up and down the Asian coast day and night. Back when Batman was still just a Tomcat pilot, the North Koreans had attacked and captured one of those spy vessels in an attempt to trigger a war with America.
Dr. George looked confused by the question. “Of course I’m sure. It was loaded with weather gear. When you fly into a hurricane, you want to gather all the data you can, on the spot.”
Batman nodded, but exchanged glances with Lab Rat. Just because the little Air Force jet truly was a scientific platform, that didn’t mean the Chinese believed it. The question of motive for the shoot-down was still open.
“Excuse me,” Dr. George said. “But where exactly is this ship positioned right now?”
“We’re about two hundred miles east-southeast of Hong Kong,” Batman said. “Once we get you thoroughly debriefed and the doctor okays it, we can have you back to the city in a couple of — ”
George shook his head. “That’s not why I’m asking. How seaworthy is this ship in a typhoon?”
“We’ve weathered our share,” Batman said. “If you position yourself properly on the edge of one, the relative wind across the deck makes it very easy to launch aircraft. They take off almost by themselves.”
“And if you’re not positioned properly?”
“It can get a little rough. But Jefferson can take almost anything…. Why?”
“Because you’re about to get caught in the biggest typhoon to hit the South China Sea in the last ten years.”
Batman looked at his fellow officers. Bird Dog seemed oblivious, but Lab Rat’s eyebrows were elevated. He said, “We haven’t received any severe weather warnings from Metoc, have we?”
“That’s because they don’t know yet. Nobody knows but me. Because only I have Valkyrie.”
“Valkyrie?” Lab Rat said.
“It’s a program I developed that gives weighted values to more than a hundred factors affecting tropical weather. It lets me predict the time and place where a typhoon is likely to begin, its probable direction, and its probable strength. My accuracy is very impressive. Valkyrie is what I was trying to peddle in Hong Kong before…” His voice trailed off. “Those poor young pilots. I’ll bet they have wives and children. I’ll bet their wives and children are crying….”
Again, Batman interrupted quickly. “And this program of yours, Valkyrie, it tells you a typhoon is going to strike here?”
“ ‘Told,’ not ‘tells’; my laptop went down with the plane. And not just a typhoon, a super typhoon. That means sustained wind speeds in excess of 150 miles per hour. For this storm, I’m predicting a minimum velocity of 200 miles per hour in the eyewall. Perhaps as high as 250, not that I’ll be able to measure it anymore.” His blue eyes sharpened. “So, how would you like to launch your aircraft straight up, Admiral? Without even starting their engines?”
“It’s a bit early in the season for typhoons, isn’t it?” Lab Rat asked in a painfully polite voice.
Now the sharp eyes fixed on him. “Yes, it is, Commander. But typhoons don’t give a damn about statistics. All they care about is warm water, minimal wind shear, and plenty of moisture in the atmosphere. And a few other odds and ends I’ve managed to figure out over the years.”
Batman decided to give the man some credit. Turning to Lab Rat, he said, “What’s the satellite data been like recently?”
“Well… we can certainly expect increased thunderstorm activity, but — ”
“No, no, no,” George said irritably. “Satellites only provide part of the picture, that’s the whole point. They don’t factor in certain events, like seismic activity. Tremors in the sea floor can shift deep currents and bring scalding water up from thermal vents. That contributes to the heating, and can really accelerate a storm along. That’s a theory of mine that I factored into Valkyrie. I’m telling you, the surface layer in the Pacific just east of here is a good four degrees warmer and a hundred feet thicker than usual for this time of year. It’s pumping incredible amounts of energy into a weather engine that’s about to switch on and grind right over this place.”
“You’re suggesting we move the battle group somewhere else, then?” Batman said. He sounded only vaguely interested.
“Young man, I know naval vessels are very seaworthy, and that they can move fast when they have to. But this storm I’m talking about is going to develop in less than a two-day period, and it’s going to be huge. You don’t want to be anywhere near it when it gets going.”
Again Batman exchanged glances with Lab Rat, and caught the intelligence officer’s suppressed amusement. It reflected his own. Few civilians understood the capabilities of modern naval vessels; every ship in the battle group could be sealed up so tightly that virtually nothing shy of capsizing could flood or sink them.
“We appreciate your warning, Doctor,” Batman said. “I promise we’ll keep an eye out for conditions to change.”
George shook his head. “That’s what they all say. But by the time you notice anything, it’s already too late.”
1400 local (-8 GMT)
Victoria Square
Hong Kong
“Free Hong Kong!” Sung Fei shouted through his loudhailer. He strove to make his voice sound sincere. “No more PLA atrocities!” He stood on a makeshift platform in Victoria Square, with the glass cliffs of international banks and brokerage houses looming on all sides. A crowd surged around him, waving signs that read CHINESE FOR DEMOCRACY and FREE HONG KONG and REMEMBER TIANANMEN SQUARE. “Look what they’ve already done! Look at the boat they sank, the airplane they shot down! What’s next? What do you think?”
Most people within range of his voice cheered; a few booed. Personally, Sung would prefer to bite his lips off than to utter these reactionary, hollow words. But he was part of a larger plan. Could he do any less?
There was no denying the mounting frenzy of the mob, nor its increasing division into pr
o-Beijing and pro-Western factions. This schism had widened with the air battle that had taken place not a hundred miles off the main shipping lanes. People in Hong Kong felt threatened in a way only the older ones, those who had endured the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong in the 1940s, could recall. In the United Nations, the People’s Republic and the United States were growing more and more vocal in accusing one another of aggression, with no end in sight.
Sung Fei glanced around at the sea of bodies, the spume of waving banners and signs. He never ceased to marvel at the incredible crush of bodies that characterized Hong Kong. In a nation as vast as China, this was unnatural. The small village, the community farm, the egalitarian life of fresh air, hard, honest work and simple food… that was the way things should be. That must be the future. Not these artificial canyons, these cliffs of money, these hives of screaming mouths.
Still talking, he raised his eyes to the periphery of the mob, where Hong Kong Police officers mingled uncomfortably with the green uniforms of the PLA. It was the PLA that Sung had been waiting for. Under the provisions of the so-called New Rule, the PLA could interfere in “civil affairs” only when activities were deemed to threaten national security. That was, of course, a very flexible term.
He lowered his gaze again, and nodded at a young woman standing not far from the foot of the platform. She nodded back, then pulled a red-and-white bundle of cloth from beneath her jacket. “Free Hong Kong!” she shouted. “Beijing out!” The people nearest her, all fellow students, took up the chant. “Free Hong Kong! Beijing out! Free Hong Kong! Beijing out!” The chant, in English, rolled across the square, lifting from voice to voice, growing louder and louder. Sung joined in the chant as well, adding his amplified voice until the crowd was in such an uproar he couldn’t even hear himself.
Then he lowered the loudhailer, which was a signal. The girl raised her bundle of cloth over her head and let it unfurl — the bloodred flag of the People’s Republic of China. Other hands grasped its edge, pulling it tight, holding it high. Cigarette lighters flared.
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 17