Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON

by Keith Douglass

  "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 meterological 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 eye-wall. 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 loud-hailer. 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 TIENAMIN 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 pro-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 olde
r 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 him self.

  Then he lowered the loud-hailer, which was a signal. The girl raised her bundle of cloth over her head and let it unfurl--the blood-red flag of the People's Republic of China. Other hands grasped its edge, pulling it tight, holding it high. Cigarette lighters flared.

  Flames rose on the sound of the chanting. At the edge of the crowd, the PLA soldiers began to push inward, using their AK-47s to clear the way. It was not legal to deface the PRC flag, even in liberal Hong Kong. Even under the New rule which was released. The flag was now a sheet of flame.

  It sailed into the air, billowing, dropping hot ashes back onto the crowd, onto their pumping fists as they chanted, "Free Hong Kong! Beijing out! Free Hong Kong! Beijing out!"

  Someone threw a crushed soda can at Sung.

  The soldiers were having trouble moving through the sheer bulk of the crowd. Yet one soldier had miraculously arrived, appearing suddenly from behind the platform. He was a small, wiry man with the flattened nose of a gorilla. Actually, he'd been waiting underneath the platform all day. Sung knew that whether he was a real PLA soldier or not, his true commander was Mr. Blossom. Other men like him were scattered through the crowd, all wearing PLA uniforms and carrying standard-issue AK-47 assault rifles.

  Sung didn't know exactly what was going to happen next, only that it was something Mr. Blossom had orchestrated carefully; something that, along with the pro-democracy chanting, would work to end the ridiculous idea of "Hong Kong self-rule" and bring the SAR back into the arms of the PRC, the real China.

  The soldier with the flattened nose continued to shove toward the students who had burned the flag. So did the real PLA soldiers. Meanwhile the students themselves jumped up and down, chanting, pumping their fists. No doubt they hoped that the television cameras all around the square were catching the action. Other students scrambled onto the platform with Sung, shouting incoherently, waving their arms in the air. Sung was irritated. This was not in the plan. These idiots were not even politically motivated; to them, this was a party.

  The flat-nosed soldier and three of the PLA soldiers were about to converge on the students below. As Sung watched, there was a sudden, deafening crack, a noise so loud Sung staggered sideways. At the same moment one of the real soldiers fell, the center of his face abruptly as red as the flag that had burned. Instantly, the mob fell silent, as if collectively holding its breath. The PLA soldiers halted. Everything halted. All the faces turned toward Sung.

  Sung felt hands close hard around his right hand and arm. Something cold and heavy slapped into his hand, and his fingers closed around it reflexively. His arm was dragged up. He stared in amazement at what was in his hand a large black pistol, smoke wafting from its barrel. "Here!" the student beside him shouted, waving Sung's arm wildly, as if fighting with it. "He did it! Help me!"

  Sung wanted to say something, wanted to point out that he didn't even know what was going on, but his attention was caught by the flat-nosed soldier. Flat-nose was turning toward him, raising his AK-47. The small black eye of the assault rifle's barrel was staring at Sung. Farther back, so was the non-soldier's cold eye. Sung started to say, "You don't understand." The first round caught him in his open mouth.

  1500 local (-8 GMT) Singapore

  "So far, the death toll stands at seventeen." Navy Captain Joe Tacstrom, Singapore's U.S. Naval base commander, held out the latest sitrep, or situation report. "Some reports have the PLA starting the shooting; others claim it was one of the pro-democracy students. Either way, both civilians and PLA soldiers ended up dead. If this happened anywhere but Hong Kong, the PRC would have already declared martial law and parked tanks in the streets."

  "Are you sure I'll even be able to fly into Hong Kong?" Tombstone asked. He and Tomboy were sitting in Tacstrom's office. Tomboy was wearing her khakis preparatory to flying out to Jefferson, Tombstone was dressed in a business suit someone from the base had rushed into town to buy for him. Originally he'd intended to enter Hong Kong as a tourist, but that had all changed. Considering the most recent turn of events, the only Americans likely to run the gauntlet into that part of the world would be those with financial interests to protect.

  He felt ridiculous.

  "So far, most non-American airlines are still flying into Kai Tak," Tacstrom said. "Remember, Hong Kong fuels the economies of most of the countries on this side of the Pacific Rim. None of their neighbors can afford to slam the door on them if they can help it."

  Tombstone nodded. "What about my American passport? Is that going to be a problem?"

  "No. There's still no official restriction on Americans entering or leaving Hong Kong. It's just that it's an at-your-own-risk sort of thing. When you think about it, it's probably better that you're going into the civilian airport, anyway. Less chance of anyone noticing who you are that way."

  Tombstone nodded again. This amateur 007 stuff drove him crazy. It fed into his mounting conviction that he was on a snipe hunt, while the real action was happening out at sea, with the carrier group.

  But orders were orders. In his wallet he carried a piece of paper with Martin Lee's telephone number and address written on it in both English and Chinese, courtesy of someone at the Pentagon. Not that Lee had agreed to speak with Tombstone, or anyone else. Evidently he had even stopped answering his telephone.

  Joe checked his watch. "We'll have someone drive you to the airport, Admiral. Your flight leaves at thirteen hundred. Commander Flynn, we've got a Tomcat on the deck waiting to get you out to Jefferson." He rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll double-check its status."

  After he left, Tombstone turned to Tomboy. "Decent of him. Give me a kiss. It might be a while before we have another chance."

  "Why, Admiral ... what if someone were to walk in?"

  "I'd accuse you of attacking me."

  "And you'd be right." Still, they kept the kiss short.

  Tuesday, 5 August

  1800 local (-8 GMT) Hilton Hotel Washington, D.C.

  It had been a hectic day in Washington, an endless string of meetings with various cabinet members and think tank groups, and Ambassador Wexler was about to slide into a hot bath when the phone rang.

  She scowled at it, debating letting the hotel's answering service pick it up. Any really critical calls would have come in on her cell phone.

  But in the end, she went and grabbed up the receiver anyway. Sometimes she lamented her own compul
siveness.

  The first thing she heard was the unmistakable background cacophony of a kitchen in full swing. What's this, room service? "Hello?" she said loudly.

  A clipped, formal voice said, "Madame Ambassador, this is Ambassador T'ing from the People's Republic of China."

  "Right, and I'm Little Orphan Annie from the planet Zondar." She was about to hang up when the voice said, "Please."

  Something about the tone of that word ... well, it wasn't a word you often heard expressed with sincerity in her line of work ... something about it made her bring the receiver back to her ear. "What is this?"

  "Please, Madame Ambassador. It is very difficult for me to make this call at all. I ask you not to make it any more difficult."

  By God, the voice did sound like T'ing's. Still, Sarah Wexler was nobody's patsy. "It's rare for the United Nations Ambassador from one major world power to call the United Nations ambassador from another major world power from the middle of a kitchen," she said.

  "Not in my country." That did it. The voice was so dry, the words so ambiguous, their source had to be T'ing. He went on, "I must meet with you, Madame Ambassador. Privately."

  "You mean--privately privately?"

  "Just so. There are certain things I must discuss with you. Things for your ears only, you understand."

  "Not entirely. There are channels for this. And how did you find out where I was staying, anyway?"

  He didn't answer her question. "It is crucial for the futures of both our nations that we have this conversation, Ambassador. And that only you and I are involved at this point. Could you meet with me? Shall we say, at the Lincoln Memorial?"

  She blinked. He had to be kidding. And yet, dry wit aside, intrigue aside, "joking" was not a characteristic one ordinarily associated with T'ing.

  She surprised herself by saying, "When?"

  12.

  Thursday, 7 August

  0800 local (-8 GMT) Vicinity USS Jefferson

  "Bit bumpy, ma'am," the COD pilot said over ICS. "Sorry about that."