Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON

by Keith Douglass

  "I'm used to it," Tomboy said from the backseat. She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. He was right about the turbulence, though. Serious-looking storm clouds crowded against one another all over the water surrounding Jefferson, turning the atmosphere into a roller coaster.

  This particular Tomcat was on its way to the carrier to replace the one shot down during the previous day's air battle. There was something grim in hitching a ride on this particular bird ... still, she found few places more comfortable than the backseat of an F-14. The sounds, the smells, the vibrations ... they were all a part of her.

  As the jet banked onto final, she felt the usual mixture of exhilaration and fear leap up in her gut. It was a sensation familiar to all RIOS. After all, short of opting to punch out, backseaters had absolutely no control over what the Tomcat did with them in the air other than the ultimate veto option--the ejection seat handle. On the other hand, RiOs also didn't have to worry about actually landing the big bird on the deck of a pitching aircraft carrier ... so they could, at some fatalistic level, simply relax and enjoy the ride.

  After the jolt and the stomach-compressing deceleration that told her the wire had been successfully snagged, she let out a long breath and grinned. "Nice trap," she said over ICS.

  "Thank you, ma'am," the pilot replied.

  Batman was waiting for her when she climbed out of the plane. As always, she had to suppress the urge to hug him. His smile, tired but genuine, told her he was thinking the same thing. "Good to see you, Tomboy," he said. "You too, Admiral."

  "How's Stoney?"

  "I'll fill you in on him real soon, Batman," she said as they ducked in out of the wind and noise of the flight deck. "But first, let me go talk to our witness."

  "You bet," he said. "Just do me one favor Don't mention all these thunderheads, okay?"

  0900 local (-8 GMT) The Walled City Kowloon

  The boy scurried past the rows of illegal dentist offices and into the Walled City. Immediately, he left behind the light and clamor of Kowloon for an older, darker city.

  The Walled City had been a curiosity, an embarrassment, and a dangerous pain for every ruler of the region ever since the British expanded their control from Hong Kong proper onto the mainland. At that time, due to a bureaucratic snafu, a section of Kowloon had remained, strictly speaking, an unleased section of the People's Republic. The British dealt with this anomaly by pretending it wasn't there. Squatters immediately moved into this lawless section of the city, erecting a shantytown devoid of electricity, fresh water or sanitation. Here was where criminals and drug runners fled and hid, knowing their foreign landlords would never dare pursue. The British responded by constructing a stone wall around the sector.

  During World War Two the Japanese occupation government tore down the wall itself to supply raw materials for extending the runway of Kai Tak Airport, but the Walled City remained there in spirit. And it remained there still, demarcating the line between bright Kowloon and an intricate warren composed of narrow alleys and staircases descending to deathtraps. Even now, under PRC control, the Walled City remained a land apart, a refuge for those who wished to avoid the attention of the authorities. Any authorities.

  The boy ran down an alley barely a meter wide, his rubber sandals slapping through puddles of water that never went away. He glanced over his shoulder. No one behind him. Immediately he turned and darted down a steep set of steps. At the bottom he rapped on a door, then pushed through. "I have a message," he said in Cantonese to the hard-faced man standing there. The man, who appeared to be Japanese or Korean or some other foreign race, merely nodded.

  The boy flapped on, down dark hallways, up rickety staircases, darting from one building to another. Finally he confronted a door with a peephole in it. He knocked. After a moment, the door opened. A small man stood there. Small even by Hong Kong standards, but filled with the taut energy of a fighting cock. His nose had been smashed enough times that it lay almost flat across his cheeks. His name was Chou Hu, or so he said. Probably he had lied; that was the way in the Walled City.

  The boy respected Chou. Everyone in the Walled City respected Chou, and this was an accomplishment. Here, respect could be won only one way.

  The boy could not tell if Chou was alone in the dark room. Up and down the corridor, other doors stood partly open. Were more quiet, watchful men behind those doors as well? Were guns pointing at him right now?

  He bowed respectfully, then pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out. "A new message for you, sir."

  "Open it," Chou said. "Then hand me the paper."

  The boy swallowed. He knew why he was being asked to open the envelope It might explode. He had heard of such things.

  Hands sweating, he tore the end off the envelope. Nothing happened. Letting out a long breath, he pulled out a single slip of paper and handed it to Chou without even glancing at it. He didn't want any of these watchful people to think he had read the note. Especially since he didn't even know how to read.

  Chou took the slip of paper and opened it. In the gloom, his eyes moved from side to side. He nodded. "Go back to Mr. Blossom," he said. "Tell him the location is ready for another visitor. And tell him something else as well Tell him his money is welcome, but we'd prefer blood. Can you remember that?"

  The boy nodded. Being without the written word, he had developed an excellent memory.

  Perhaps too good. That night, Mr. Chou would pursue him through the Walled City of his dreams.

  0900 local (-8 GMT) Kai Tak Airport Hong Kong

  Tombstone hated civilian airports. He hated the crowds, hated waiting in lines, hated the smiles of the ticketing clerks, which managed somehow to be obsequious and surly at the same time.

  Still, being in an airport meant one terrific thing, at least on the debarking end It meant you'd survived yet another flight during which someone else controlled your fate.

  His knees were still a bit wobbly from the landing. The pilot had bashed the Boeing 737 down like he was trying for the three-wire. Obviously this was a guy who believed the old saw, "Any landing you can walk away from is a good one." Or maybe he'd just been in a hurry to get out of the air, which had been far from smooth. The flight down from Singapore had meandered through cathedrals of billowing cloud.

  Inside, Kai Tak Airport looked like all airports, from Germany to Iowa. There were even a lot of people from Germany and Iowa. You could tell the latter because they were leaving, and they looked nervous.

  There were also a lot of armed guards around. They looked nervous, too, as well as grim.

  Tombstone stood in line at Customs, trying not to let his impatience show. When he was asked his purpose in Hong Kong, he swallowed the urge to say, "I'm here to make sure the United States can beat the PLA's ass out of the sky for generations to come." Instead, he just said, "Business," and was promptly allowed through. Maybe the suit had been the right idea after all.

  Shouldering his overnight bag, he followed the flood of humanity toward what the signs assured him was the exit. From there, he'd grab a taxi and head straight to Martin Lee's address. He'd already decided not to phone first, lest he worn his wary contact off.

  He still had no idea exactly what he was going to say when and if he did meet Mr. Lee. What could he say to convince the poor young man that he, Tombstone Magruder, was someone to confide in? This whole enterprise really was ridiculous.

  Then he remembered how he'd spent the last half hour of the flight staring fixedly out the window. Not at the clouds, but at every passing airplane. Wondering if the next one would be manta-shaped and carrying air-to-air missiles. Wondering if he, Tombstone Magruder, was going to die in an aircraft with someone else at the controls.

  No. He was here for a reason, and he'd do the best he could to complete his mission.

  As he was making his way across the main lobby toward the doors, eyeing the taxis lined up outside, he heard a soft voice say, "Admiral Magruder?"

  He halted and turned. A youn
g Chinese man stood nearby, his hands folded in front of him. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal suit. Tombstone recognized him instantly, from the photographs he'd been shown. "Mr. Lee?"

  The young man nodded, looked around nervously.

  "How did you know I was coming in?" Tombstone asked.

  "I ... I am sorry I didn't answer your calls before, sir. I was frightened. For my wife, you understand. But now she is gone from Hong Kong. She is safe. So I ... I wanted to talk to you. I called America. I spoke with your uncle; he told me you were coming."

  "Well, it's good to meet you." Tombstone held out his hand. Lee shook it quickly, still looking around.

  "It is not safe," he said. "Please come with me, quickly."

  Tombstone followed the smaller man outside, where Lee gestured away a swarm of taxi drivers, then walked into a parking garage and up to the last thing Tombstone had expected to see a large black American car, a Lincoln. Not quite a limousine, but close. It had a limo's black window glass and boomerang-shaped antenna on the back. "This is from the MEI fleet," Lee said, almost apologetically. "Always available for executive use." He pointed a remote control at the car and an alarm bleeped off. Tombstone heard locks pop open. Lee walked to the trunk and opened it, It was enormous inside; Tombstone's overnight bag looked like a Chicklet in there. Lee moved toward the passenger side, which Tombstone found to be an enormous relief. He couldn't imagine the nervous little man driving this boat.

  But when he opened the left front door, he was confronted by an empty seat. Where the hell was the steering wheel? Then he remembered Hong Kong had spent most of the last hundred and fifty years under British management, which meant people drove on the wrong side of the road around here. For the right amount of money, American car manufacturers were willing to take that idiosyncrasy into account.

  Sighing, Tombstone slid into an atmosphere of leather and cigar smoke.

  On the opposite side of the vast bench seat, Martin Lee perched like a tiny porcelain doll, the steering wheel rising almost to the level of his eyes. "Seat belt, please," he said gravely.

  Tombstone had just clicked the buckle home when some thing hard and quite cold ground into his head just behind the bend of his jaw. "Please do not move," a voice said in his ear. The accent resembled Martin Lee's, but it was a man's voice. "Or you will die."

  Tombstone glanced at Lee. He was staring at the dashboard, head lowered.

  "What is this?" Tombstone asked.

  "I am sorry," Lee told the dashboard. "They have my wife. I am very sorry, sir."

  "No more talk," the man behind Tombstone said, and a moment later, Tombstone winced as a coarse bag was hauled over his head.

  Wednesday, 6 AUGUST

  1300 local (+5 GMT) Lincoln Memorial Washington, D.C.

  "This is very irregular, to say the least," Sarah Wexler said as she mounted the last step to the top of the Lincoln Memorial. T'ing was standing in the shadow of one of the columns. Wexler found herself glancing around for bodyguards--or assassins--or something. She had no idea; she was functioning entirely on instinct.

  "No one knows you came?" T'ing asked. He was wearing his usual charcoal suit and white shirt.

  "No. You?"

  He shook his head once. "As you say, this is very irregular."

  "It had better be good, Ambassador."

  "We do not want war," T'ing said in a low voice.

  "Ah." Wexler felt the tension leave her shoulders, and her stomach start to smolder. "You disappoint me. After all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, I at least expected to hear some new lie instead of the same one you keep repeating at the UN."

  "It is not a lie. I am telling you the truth from Beijing."

  "Really? Well, I'm afraid 'the truth from Beijing' pretty much equals a lie from my perspective." God, it was liberating to speak openly for once.

  T'ing did not seem offended. "I am not here to bicker, Ambassador. Bickering is for the United Nations. I am here to be blunt."

  She raised an eyebrow. Blunt? An ambassador? A Chinese ambassador? That was like the Iranian representative claiming to extol freedom of religion.

  Still, she was more intrigued every minute. "Be blunt, then," she said.

  "Beijing believes America began the trouble in Hong Kong."

  "Oh, please, not the drug war nonsense again. There's absolutely no evidence Phillip McIntyre was involved in-"

  "I am not referring to the drug war story. No one in Beijing believes that. This is blunt speaking. However, they do in fact believe Americans began this trouble. That is also blunt speaking. You understand, Ambassador? They truly believe it."

  "But ... that's absurd. Sink a boat belonging to one of our own citizens? Shoot down our own airplane?"

  T'ing shrugged. Wexler understood, and felt a little chill He was telling her that his masters wouldn't think twice about doing such a thing; destroying Chinese citizens if it would further some strategic purpose. They expected it from other governments, as well.

  She glanced to the foot of the steps outside the monument, where a family was gathering three children scrambling around a pair of adults and an infant. With part of her mind, Wexler heard the kids' shouting voices, and thought, Dutch.

  "Ambassador T'ing," she said, "you've lived in the United States long enough to know that even if our government was into murdering its citizens for political gain, they would never get away with it. It's not the way we do things here."

  Again, T'ing shrugged. The Dutch family was coming up the steps, and T'ing moved farther behind the pillar. "Nevertheless, my government, like your own, bases its conclusions on the evidence at hand. They look at events in Hong Kong and think, 'America is doing this.' My point is simple Until more evidence surfaces to explain what is happening in Hong Kong, the wise ruler exercises caution. And the rash ruler causes disaster."

  "But meanwhile, of course, you're suggesting that the stupid United States just sit back and let the PLA kill its citizens in Hong Kong, right? I don't think that's going to work out, do you?"

  "Many leaders in Beijing speak the same way about dealing with the American military near Hong Kong. This is the pity. And never forget, we have the largest army in the world." With that, T'ing gave a short bow, turned, and walked away down the steps.

  Wexler stared after him, wondering if she'd just been given delicate inside information, or a red herring, or a dire warning ... or nothing but an insult. With the Chinese, it was impossible to tell.

  Thursday, 7 August

  1200 local (-8 GMT) Mess Hall USS Jefferson

  "Heard Robinson's been bad-mouthing you, brother."

  Jackson Ord looked up at his friend Skinny Washburn. "What?"

  Skinny squeezed his 250 pounds behind the table and put his tray down. "Bird Dog Robinson, Mr. Hotshot. He's been bad-mouthing you all over the hangar bay. You ain't heard that?"

  Franklin's stomach gave a sour lurch. He scowled. "He can't bad-mouth me. I didn't do nothin' wrong, I tightened that connector, and there ain't nobody can prove different."

  Skinny raised one massive shoulder; his other arm was busy shoveling food into his mouth. "Don't matter if they can prove it; once you on an officer's shit list, you got nowhere to run."

  Franklin's scowl deepened. "Who you hear talking about that pilot bad-mouthin' me?"

  "I don't know. Everybody."

  "Shit." Franklin threw down his fork. "This ain't fair." This time Skinny raised both shoulders. "It's the navy."

  1400 local (-8 GMT) Headquarters, PLA Air Force Hong Kong Garrison

  In his dream, Tombstone could not escape from the UAV. It stayed glued to his tail, banking when he banked, rolling when he rolled, looping when he looped, refusing to be evaded or tricked. And yet it didn't come in and hit the Pitts, come and blow the little plane out of the sky, either. It just stayed there, not a foot behind the Pitts' rudder, as if connected with a tow bar. Showing him that it was a better flier than he was. That it could take him out whenever it wanted. That it was the wave o
f the future ...

  Tombstone opened his eyes, but the darkness remained. There was a sour odor in his nostrils. His head pounded, and he had to fight the desire to vomit. He remembered the hood being yanked over his head. After that, nothing ... but judging by the smell and his symptoms, the bag must have been soaked in chloroform or some other knockout chemical.

  He felt a sense of movement. He was stretched out on something, on his back, moving along at a fair clip. His wrists were tied together in front of him; his ankles were tightly bound. He breathed shallowly, and waited.

  At last the rolling motion stopped. Someone spoke a few clipped words of Chinese, and Tombstone felt hands clutching his armpits and the backs of his knees. He was lifted, turned vertically so his feet touched the floor, and supported there. Try to fight now? No, not blind.

  He heard the sound of a lock turning, followed by the squeal of rusty hinges. The same voice that had spoken before now shouted in English, "Back! Get back!"

  Then, without warning, Tombstone found himself hurtling forward. He threw his bound hands out just in time to catch his weight against a floor of hard, cold stone. He skidded and rolled to a stop, then brought his hands up and yanked the hood off his head.

  He was in a small, gloomy room. The walls and floor were made of stone, the low ceiling of wooden planks. The only light leaked through a narrow slit window of pebbled glass, mounted up near the ceiling. The glass was translucent, and barricaded behind metal bars.

  The heavy thump of a bolt sliding home echoed across the room. Tombstone rolled over. The door was narrow and solid-looking, made of riveted metal. There was no window in it.

  Tombstone's wrists were tied with hemp rope. As he tugged the knots loose with his teeth, he looked around more carefully. There wasn't much to see--a pair of buckets standing in one gloomy corner, a pile of blankets piled in another. No furniture, no cot, no nothing. The air smelled damp and salty.

  Once his hands were free, Tombstone untied his ankles, then got unsteadily to his feet. The nausea rose with him, and he bent over and waited for it to either do its job or go away. He was relieved when it chose to fade without emptying his stomach first.