Typhoon Season c-14

by Keith Douglass

  Finally, after the majority of the heaviest moving and cleaning was finished, Jackson headed for the plane now assigned to Bird Dog, to see if anything had happened to it. To make absolutely sure that nothing he was responsible for was wrong with it.

  He was halfway across the bay, waiting for two men to cross in front of him bearing a section of fractured catwalk, when he saw Orell Blessing stroll out from under the wing of Bird Dog’s plane. Orell glanced both ways, but casually, as if expecting to find a friend, then meandered off toward his parked tractor. He appeared to be whistling. He hadn’t seen Jackson.

  Jackson stood where he was for a long minute, thinking. Then he headed toward the plane.

  “What exactly are you saying?” Beaman asked. He was standing near the disassembled tail wing of an F-14 that had been damaged by falling metal.

  “I’m saying I didn’t mess up Bird Dog’s plane, or anybody else’s,” Franklin said in a low voice. “I’m saying Orell Blessing did it. And I can prove it.”

  Beaman tapped the heavy wrench against his palm. “Now, why would Orell Blessing want to sabotage Bird Dog’s plane?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just saying I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, just a little while ago I saw him walking away from Bird Dog’s new plane. So I went over and started checking it out. Hydraulic lines on the nose gear strut had been cut. First time you put some extra pressure on it — like in a landing — and pop.”

  Beaman was looking grim now. “Nobody screws with my plane, Franklin, so you can bet your ass I’ll check this out. But what you say still doesn’t prove Orell did anything. Nothing personal, Franklin, but how do I know you didn’t do it just so you could put the blame on someone else?”

  Franklin clenched his jaw. It wasn’t a completely unfair question. “ ’Cause like I said, I can prove it.”

  “And like I said — how?”

  “Well, I already set it up. I made sure Orell saw me checkin’ out the plane, and replacing that cut hydraulic line. I didn’t let on I was thinking anything suspicious. So Orell will think he needs to cut that line again. And that’s when you can catch him.”

  2145 local (+8 GMT)

  Flight Deck

  USS Jefferson

  Beaman stepped out onto the hangar deck and almost fell over. The wind was simply unbelievable, a solid hand pushing him toward the bow of the carrier. And the rain — although he was wearing a complete slicker outfit, the water somehow slashed him to the skin, even blowing up under the pant legs. He felt like he was breathing underwater.

  But he wasn’t alone up here. Other men were moving around, clinging to lifelines and carrying flashlights and tool boxes. Defying death to keep the carrier intact. True heros, as far as Beaman was concerned.

  He moved carefully across the nonskid, his body pressed down in what resembled a wrestler’s posture. A nice, stable position. Slipped past the island to the area where several planes were being stored on deck, their fuselages bobbing to the hammering blows of the wind.

  And he saw a small, blurred glow bobbing around the deck at waist level.

  Flashlight. Nothing wrong with that, not when we’re not in the middle of flight ops. During flight operations, the personnel directing the movement of aircraft on the deck carried lighted wands, and all other extraneous sources of light were verboten.

  Still, Beaman felt a rill of vindication run through him. This weather, no one was supposed to be out on the flight deck alone. No one. Beaman pointedly ignored the fact that he was on the flight deck alone in violation of all standing orders. What the air boss would do to him if he caught Beaman — just one more possibility to be ignored.

  A single flashlight bobbing around, that meant one man. One man meant trouble.

  Just like I do.

  Beaman watched the light flick out. He waited, certainty chasing the cold chill out of his bones. Another brief flick of light.

  Forward refueling station. He knows the deck, but not well enough to be certain. Doesn’t want the light on all the time, not in case someone’s watching. Beaman’s own flashlight was clenched in his hand, his forefinger resting on the push switch.

  If it’s him, he’s almost here. Beaman traced out the man’s movements in his mind, running the time and distance problem as accurately as any RIO ever did in the backseat of a Tomcat. Just about now — wait for him to touch it —

  There. The whiney scrap of an avionics compartment hinge resisting opening.

  Beaman darted forward, grabbed the dark figure poised next to his bird, and thumbed the flashlight on. The other man howled, jerked back, and started to run. As he turned, his foot caught in the loop of an extra tie-down chain that encircled the aircraft. The man stumbled, went down on one knee, and Beaman tackled him.

  “I knew it was you. I knew it.” Beaman slammed Orell Blessing in the side of his face with the flashlight. “You trying to kill people — you trying to kill our people! In my bird.”

  “No, I wasn’t — I wasn’t doing anything,” Blessing howled, his voice pulled out of his throat by the gale force winds. “Nothing.”

  “Right. What’s those wire snips doing in your hand, then?”

  Blessing stared down at the tool he held as though the hand belonged to a stranger. “Maybe a lot of things,” he said, confidence seeping back into his voice. “You got some ideas, but you can’t prove a damned thing.”

  Beaman dragged him to his feet and punched Blessing in the gut. He lofted the other sailor, now groggy, over his shoulder and walked the ten steps to the side of the ship. He flung Blessing down on the nonskid then shoved the other man forward until he was hanging over the end of the flight deck. Beaman kept a firm grip on Blessing’s ankles. “Tell me the truth. You tell me now — or else.” By way of illustrating “or else,” Beaman loosened his grip on Blessing’s ankles for a moment. The wind tore at the prone sailor, pulling him further out over the sea.

  Blessing howled. “Oh god pull me up pull me up pull me up oh god you can’t — ”

  Beaman cut him off. “Tell me.”

  “He had it coming, I was just going to — nobody was supposed to die. Slow them up, that’s all he said. I was just supposed to — ” The wind surged again, drowning out the babbled confession.

  Beaman stared down at the chaotic ocean, surging and pounding against the side of the ship. He knew what would happen next. Captain’s Mast, followed by referral to a courts-martial. Blessing would be transferred ashore for it, get some fancy lawyer. Get some brig time, maybe. All those excuses about how he was an abused child, how he hadn’t really meant to kill anyone — reality at a trial was far different that the reality that every man and woman faced on the flight deck every day.

  Reality was dead pilots. Reality was the wind and the sea and the typhoon and aircraft getting shot down and ordnance on the wings. Reality was paying for mistakes.

  Beaman turned loose of Blessing’s ankles, giving God one last chance to intervene. “You can get up now.”

  Blessing started to scuttled back onto the nonskid, hunching his back to draw his head back from the sea. His hands flailed, searching for something to hold on to. The fingers of his right hand grazed the rain-slick edge of the flight deck, tried to clamp down around it as Blessing reared back.

  The wind gusted again, catching his exposed torso like a sail. Blessing howled, surged momentarily upright and off balance, then cartwheeled out and away from the flight deck.

  Beaman watched him go, counted to ten, then turned on his flashlight and ran like hell to the Handler’s office located just inside the island. He burst into it and shouted, “Saw a light in the water. MAN OVERBOARD.”

  The search was called off after an hour, fifty-five minutes longer than anyone figured a person could survive in the typhoon-lashed waters.

  2200 local (+8 GMT)

  Sick Bay

  USS Jefferson

  Bird Dog paced in the passageway outside of Sick Bay, fighting down the fear surg
ing through him. Okay, maybe not fear. He was a fighter pilot, after all, one with well over a hundred traps onboard the carrier. Maybe half of those at night. A combat veteran — hell, he had the medals to prove it.

  So what was the big deal about talking to Lobo? Just stopping by, one pilot to another, to make sure she was okay. No big deal. Happened all the time. Had nothing to do with direct and indirect battles, none of that crap. Just a straight-out friendly professional courtesy call that he’d —

  Crap, it wasn’t working. The thought of seeing her again was worse than fighting off G-force gray out, worse than tanking at night in the middle of a storm. Worse than facing down the Chinese again, worse than —

  Wait a minute. Good ol’ Sun had bailed him out before — maybe it’d work with the chicks, too.

  Indirect. That’d done it with the carrier. He paced for a moment longer, puzzling out his approach. Dangerous ground, indirect — finally, he had it. He pushed open the door and stepped into sick bay.

  Lobo was curled up on her side in a hospital bed facing away from him. The rails on the sides of the bed were up. A thin cotton bedspread in hospital dingy white was pulled up to her neck. He could see the outline of her body underneath it and saw the shallow, regular breathing change as she came out of a light doze. She twisted slightly, groaned, then shoved herself up into a sitting position.

  “Hey,” Bird Dog said. He looked around for a chair. Some ancient prohibition against sitting on the side of a hospital bed rattled around in his mind, momentarily displacing his well-thought-out indirect approach. “Hey,” he started again.

  Lobo’s eyes blazed brilliantly in her pale face. Traces of grime clung to one edge of her jaw and her hair was a tattered, spiky mess. She tried to speak but started coughing. Bird Dog glanced around helplessly and started to leave to get a doctor. This coughing — hell, she wasn’t going to die, was she?

  In between spasms, Lobo managed to point at the pitcher of water by her bed. When Bird Dog didn’t move, she fixed him with a steely glare. Bird Dog almost knocked the pitcher over scrambling for it.

  Finally, he managed to get a glass of water poured into a plastic cup. He handed it to her, then kept his hand over hers to still the trembling in her fingers.

  Lobo sipped slowly, grimacing as each mouthful slid down. Finally, when she’d finished half of the water, she moved their hands over the table and loosened her grip on the cup.

  “You’d make a rotten RIO,” she said, her voice hoarse and slightly slurred. “Can’t even figure out refueling.”

  “I see too good to be a RIO,” Bird Dog said.

  “Yeah, well. Sometime seeing’s not enough, you know?” She laid back against the pillows. “So’d you just stop by to gloat? You want to know if they did it to me again?”

  “Christ, no, I just — ” Suddenly, his indirect plan was in shambles. How the hell could you sneak up on someone who was always on the attack? She never slowed down enough to be lured into the quiet, sincere discussion he’d had planned, to listen to the few lines of poetry he’d dredged up from ancient English classes.

  “I love you,” he said finally. “I came down to see you.”

  Lobo stared at him, the shock deepening her pallor. “This would never work,” she said finally. She started shaking her head, winced as some new pain made itself known. “Never in a million years — pilots don’t get involved with pilots.”

  “Pilot this.” He leaned over and poised his lips above hers. “Just once.” He moved in slowly, feeling the fear turn into anticipation. Their lips met. Electricity arced between them, fusing their flesh together. For long moments, neither pulled away.

  Lobo finally gasped and pulled back. Bird Dog blinked, opened his eyes, and found her hands wrapped around the back of his neck.

  “Not fair,” she said. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  Bird Dog felt a lazy smile of sheer joy spreading across his face. “Let me tell you what my old friend Sunny would say about this.”

  THIRTEEN

  Friday, 8 August

  1800 local (-5 GMT)

  United Nations

  Ambassador T’ing sprinkled a tiny amount of sugar across the surface of the tea, then watched contemplatively as it sank below the surface. Sarah Wexler decided he must be tracking each atom, timing the exact moment at which it either dissolved completely or sank to the bottom of the cup. She found herself staring, wondering if she would ever be able to understand how T’ing saw a cup of tea.

  Or, for that matter, how he saw the currents of power and interest that flowed so chaotically between his country and hers. Was there any possibility that America could truly understand China? Or, for that matter, that China could understand the U.S.?

  “As I said — a serious misunderstanding,” T’ing said finally.

  Wexler snorted. “A lot of people dead over a misunderstanding.”

  T’ing gave her a reproachful look. “Serious, I said. As I’ve said before, Sarah, you must learn to pay attention to the nuances involved.”

  Sarah? Now just when did we get on a first name basis? Over the last several years, she thought she’d come to a better understanding of both T’ing and his masters at home than she’d had during the Spratly Islands conflict. She’d even understood what he’d meant when he’d said it was a “serious misunderstanding.” In such circumlocutions are the deals of diplomacy often worked, and she fancied herself more than a little familiar with what China was likely to do in a given situation.

  False pride, she’d learned over the last several weeks. Thinking she understood them — it wasn’t a mistake she’d make again. She wondered if T’ing had the same misgivings, dealing with her.

  And now first names. A mark of respect? A peace gesture? Or simply a reminder that much of her relationship with him would be wrapped in inscrutable layers of meanings?

  She saw quiet amusement in his eyes, and realized that he’d achieved whatever he’d expected to by using her first name, perhaps no more than to throw her temporarily off balance.

  Then another possibility occurred to her. Perhaps it was more in the line of a compliment — not using the name alone, but using it and acknowledging that she would take note that he’d done so.

  Yes, that was it. She lifted her chin slightly, then gave the smallest of nods. T’ing returned it.

  “And one that will end well,” he continued. “Out of the storm comes cleansing. Those unreliable elements in our Special Administrative Region have been pruned, the balance of the people’s government resolved.” He lifted his spoon carefully from the paper-thin cup and laid it on the small saucer to his side. He raised the cup, inclined it slightly toward her. “To a deepening spirit of harmony and cooperation between us, madam.”

  “And between our nations, Su,” she said, slipping his first name into the conversation as though she’d been using it forever.

  “And that will appear likely as well.” T’ing took a small, appreciative sip of his tea. “Your Mr. McIntyre — we are pleased that he has been restored to you. Such a terrible thing, to be kidnapped by gangsters.” He sighed.

  “Indeed.” Wexler tried to keep the doubt out of her voice. Phillip McIntyre’s story agreed far too closely with China’s official party line for her taste. Kidnapped — she watched two grains of sugar collide in her own cup before continuing. “Perhaps some day we will round up the rest of the perpetrators.”

  “Perhaps.” T’ing glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “For McIntyre to pledge so much of his fortune in humanitarian aid for Hong Kong — well, we are humbly pleased. Repairing the damage from the typhoon will take decades.”

  “Indeed.” Wexler sensed another layer of meaning behind that statement as well, and filed it away for later examination. The orange blossom scent of the tea was relaxing her.

  “And we’ve all learned a valuable lesson, have we not?” T’ing continued, his voice markedly more hearty. “Particularly on how to welcome back parts of our country as they r
eturn to the fold.”

  “What do you mean?” Wexler said, then immediately regretted the question. With T’ing, one did not ask outright. She saw the faint disappointment in his eyes.

  “Nothing specifically,” he said. “I was speaking in general terms.” His eyes held hers across the cup. “Of opportunities.”

  Taiwan. A cold shot of adrenaline flooded her system. He’s warning me — Taiwan.

  “As you said, opportunities,” she answered. “Opportunities to avoid more ‘serious misunderstandings’, perhaps?”

  T’ing looked at her with new respect. “Perhaps.”

  GLOSSARY

  0–3 level The third deck above the main deck. Designations for decks above the main deck (also known as the damage control deck) begin with zero, e.g. O-3. The zero is pronounced as “oh” in conversation. Decks below the main deck do not have the initial zero, and are numbered down from the main deck, e.g. deck 11 is below deck 3. Deck 07 is above deck 03.

  1MC: The general announcing system on a ship or submarine. Every ship has many different interior communications systems, most of them linking parts of the ship for a specific purpose. Most operate off sound-powered phones. The circuit designators consist of a number followed by two letters that indicate the specific purpose of the circuit. 2AS, for instance, might be an antisubmarine warfare circuit that connects the sonar supervisor, the USW watch officer, and the sailor at the torpedo launched.

  Air Boss: A senior commander or captain assigned to the aircraft carrier, in charge of flight operations. The “boss” is assisted by the mini-boss in Pri-Fly, located in the tower onboard the carrier. The air boss is always in the tower during flight operations, overseeing the launch and recovery cycles, declaring a green deck, and monitoring the safe approach of aircraft to the carrier.