Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON

by Keith Douglass

"Gather your co-commanders at eight o'clock tomorrow morning," Ming said. "I'm flying down to talk with all of you and get this straightened out once and for all."

  2145 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 304 USS Jefferson

  As Bird Dog turned on final, he was annoyed to see that the crash barricade, that giant badminton net designed to catch wounded aircraft that missed the cables, had been raised across the deck. Well, of course they would raise it, under these circumstances, but he still found it infuriating. What, they didn't think he could hit a three wire with half an air plane?

  "You hang in there, Catwoman," he said over ICS. "You just hang in there, okay?"

  There was no answer. She was resting, he told himself.

  Watching the meatball, listening to the patter from the LSO, he brought the Tomcat in toward her home. Many pilots referred to carrier landings as "controlled crashes," but Bird Dog had a higher standard than that. And he was going to live up to it now, too--not because of his pride, but because he didn't want to jar the precious cargo in his back seat any more than he had to.

  And he was not going to need that damned net.

  2142 local (-8 GMT) Dirty Shirt Officers' Mess USS Jefferson

  As Hot Rock entered the dirty-shirt mess, he was greeted with subdued applause and slaps on the back. With pilots dead and missing, the usual after-battle banter was subdued, but Hot Rock was still congratulated for making his first kill--even if it was only a helicopter, at least it was probably the same helicopter that blew up the Lady of Leisure, right? He was congratulated for his flying skills, outmaneuvering multiple bogeys even if he didn't have the chance to take any of them out.

  Only his RIO, Two Tone, stayed out of the group.

  Beaman said, "She's a sorry sight, isn't she?"

  Franklin couldn't look at him. Tomcat 304 was now a hangar queen. Fist-sized holes punched all over it, the metal blackened and splintered around the edges. The back half of the canopy just gone. How Bird Dog had managed to bring the plane in, Franklin had no idea. Franklin felt sick and angry. He wasn't sure who he was angry with, but it was a strong feeling.

  "The RIO," he said. "Is she ..."

  "in sick bay. Alive. Bad. And you know what? She's lucky at that. I just had a little talk with Lieutenant Commander Robinson. He says that about the time things got hot, he lost hydraulic pressure in the left wing control surfaces. That was before he took any hits. Now, how do we explain a loss of hydraulic fluid?"

  Franklin felt a frightful chill clatter down his spine. "I tightened that fitting," he said. "I tightened it right down. I know I did."

  Beaman nodded gravely at the plane. "We'll see."

  Tuesday, 5 August

  0700 local (+5 GMT) The Beltway Maryland

  As always when they were going to the car to drive somewhere together, Tombstone and Tomboy both strode straight for the left front door. "I'M more current than you are," Tomboy joked.

  Tombstone handed her his duffel bag. "Exactly why I need some stick time. Besides, this is my car."

  "Sexist pig."

  They tossed their luggage in the back of the GTO and climbed in. Tombstone fired up the GTO's engine and hit the street with a bit more velocity than necessary. He said, "Sorry. But I'm going to be spending the next fourteen hours letting somebody else fly us to Singapore, and then I have to switch to a civilian airliner, A Third World civilian air liner."

  Tomboy reached across the console and squeezed his thigh. "The way things are over there right now, it's either that or swim."

  Only an hour ago, as a consequence of the air battle that had taken place following the downing of an Air Force plane, the Pentagon had curtailed all military flights into Hong Kong. Most American airlines had immediately canceled service to Hong Kong as well. Other nations were picking up the slack; Tombstone had been booked on a Thai Airlines flight out of Singapore.

  "God, I wish I were going to Jefferson with you," Tombstone said. "Not that Batman can't handle the heat, but ... hell, that's where I feel like I should be."

  "Your talking to Martin Lee could make a big difference," Tomboy said, her gaze on the road. "if you can help figure out how the Chinese got their UAV program up and running so well, it could make all the difference in the world--to Jefferson and to the United States."

  "According to you and Uncle Thomas, it's not really an issue. According to you, UAVs are the Volkswagens of the aerospace world. Anybody can make one."

  "No, anybody can afford one. That's not the same thing." She paused. "Especially when you're talking about combat UAVs."

  "Like the one that attacked me."

  "Yes. The Air Force supposedly has a CUAV program under way, but like Uncle Thomas said ..." She shrugged. "The financial and political support is minimal. Of course, that might change now."

  "Because the Chinese are ahead of us. I can't believe that the politicians have gotten us into the position of playing catch-up."

  "It's strange when you think about it," she said. "I mean, from the Chinese perspective. UAVs have two big advantages over conventional aircraft low unit cost, and zero pilot mortality. But let's face it The PRC has always been known for throwing human bodies at the enemy; after all, they've got more of them than anyone else in the world. So why this sudden interest from them in cost-effective, user-friendly UAVs?"

  "Maybe they're not really interested. Maybe it's like during the Cold War, when the Soviets used to park fake bombers on runways for our spy satellites to photograph. We spent billions developing countermeasures to a threat that never existed."

  "That's possible ..." Tomboy said. "I know there are people in the Pentagon who would consider it a blessing if more effort went into CUAV programs. Some people say CUAVs are the wave of the future--a natural extension of the success of cruise missiles and smart bombs."

  Tombstone shook his head. "People have been predicting for years that future wars would be fought by machine. At the beginning of the Vietnam war, American fighter jets didn't even have guns because it was believed that missiles made dog-fighting unnecessary. All it took was a bad kill ratio to bring things around. This is just another instance of that. There will always be the need for human beings on the front lines--including inside aircraft."

  "The Chinese seem to agree with you," Tomboy said. "At least, judging by the fact they've got this other new aircraft out there, the flying wing."

  "That's the one that scares me," Tombstone said.

  Wednesday, 6 August

  1000 local (-8 GMT) PLA transport 10 miles north of SAR

  The officer in charge of the radar station on the mountain just outside of Hong Kong picked up the phone and dialed the number given to him the previous night by Major General Wei Ao, First Among Equals. I want to know the moment General Ming's flight appears on your screen, Wei had said.

  So now, after identifying himself, the officer in charge said, "General Ming's transport is two hundred kilometers out, sir. He's vectoring in to Kai Tak Airport rather than the Air Force base."

  "The quicker to arrive at garrison headquarters," Wei grunted, as if to himself. "Very well."

  After hanging up, the officer in charge went back and stared at the radar screen, watching the incoming blip. General Ming had left Hong Kong for Beijing only a couple of days ago, and now he was back. This did not bode well for certain military people in Hong Kong. The officer was determined to keep his installation running in top form, lest he be caught unawares in some sort of snap inspection.

  He was about to turn to other duties when he noticed something strange on the screen--a tiny, brief return registering twenty kilometers to the rear of General Ming's plane. It brought his full attention immediately back. Only after he stared at the screen for several sweeps without seeing anything else did he start to relax. Suddenly a strong, clear return appeared out of nowhere behind Ming's plane. A moment after that, two more blips appeared, close together, racing toward Ming's plane.

  Even as the station officer reached for the radio, he wondered how quickl
y he could disappear, as so many others had, into the teeming hive of Hong Kong.

  1030 local (-8 GMT) Aft elevator USS Jefferson

  Under the pretext of inspecting the repair work being done on the aft elevator, Bird Dog walked out onto the platform and took in the afternoon air. Odd, when you thought about it Here they were in the open ocean, yet for those who worked and lived in the carrier, fresh air was an uncommon gift. When you were on deck you were stepping lively, concentrating on things, trying not to get killed by any of the myriad heavy, sharp, fast-moving objects around you. When you were below-decks, the air was filtered, air-conditioned, flattened. And of course when you were in a Tomcat, you flew through the air but didn't feel it on your skin.

  He inhaled deeply and looked out across the South China Sea. The water surged past below, appearing to move faster than it really was. Whitecaps were beginning to appear on it, he saw. On the horizon, thunderheads rose like white cliffs crowned in rubble. The wind yanked at Bird Dog's khakis, and he heard the sizzle and crackle of an arc welder at work behind him, but he didn't react, didn't turn.

  He was miserable.

  It was a terrible thing to lose pilots in a battle. Even worse when one of them had been shot down saving your ass. And worst of all when that pilot was ... well, one Of the best damned sticks in the U.S. Navy.

  He thought again about the hydraulic failure in his wing. Beaman, his plane captain, had been checking the Tomcat out ever since Bird Dog thumped it back onto the carrier. "I'm still looking," he said every time Bird Dog asked him what he'd found. Plane captains were fanatically--and blessedly--devoted to their aircraft, and so to the pilots who were allowed to borrow the machines from time to time.

  After climbing out of the aircraft last night, Bird Dog had looked at the rear cockpit and surrounding area and felt suddenly nauseous. It wasn't the blood, because there wasn't any. It wasn't even the sight of the motionless Catwoman, who was already being checked out by corpsmen. It was the realization that his plane had been destroyed. Half the canopy was gone, and the right wing looked like a colander. There was more air than metal left in that wing. Bird Dog had landed a pile of scrap on the carrier, and he had no idea how he had done it, or what had made him think he could.

  In retrospect, he wondered how anyone could hope to figure out what had gone wrong with the control-surface hydraulics on the mangled wing. But Beaman, aided by damned near every hydraulics tech onboard the carrier, refused to give up. If the Tomcat had had a mechanical seizure in the air, the plane captain wanted to know why, and where, and how, And as soon as he figured it out ...

  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.

  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.

  11.

  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 well 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 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 an offense. But Tomb-"

  "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.