His mind skipped through bits of information the redheaded woman, Tomboy, had fed to the Vipers concerning this bogey. He already knew one thing She'd been wrong that it depended on visual targeting data. Not in this weather. It had radar, too. But maybe it liked using sight the best. If it did ...
That reminded him of something else The UAV was subsonic.
The missile-lock alarm sounded in his headset at the same instant he yanked the stick to the left and slammed the throttles forward. A brilliant yellow streak ripped the darkness, passing beneath the Tomcat as it pulled into a vicious, diving left turn. Hot Rock had already tightened his belly against it, but the special darkness of blackout spiraled in from the fringes of his vision. He waited until all he could see was the center of the HUD, then eased the stick forward. The darkness receded; in comparison, the edge of the typhoon looked almost bright and cheery.
The Tomcat was diving now, afterburners throbbing, propelling the aircraft past mach one, and then mach two. Below, the gloom peeled back and he saw the ocean, a savage froth of white and gray. Back came the stick, as did the spiraling darkness. Then he eased out, a hundred feet above the water. "Two Tone!" he cried. "Check our six!" No answer. "Two Tone!"
Nothing. He realized he'd lost his backseater to G-force blackout. He was on his own.
And he realized something else That made him happy. Relaxed. Now, whatever he did was entirely his own responsibility. No one to blame, no one to receive blame from.
He banked to the right, then the left, looking over his shoulder. Thought he saw a discoloration dropping out of the clouds. Eased back on the throttle. Let it catch up a bit. Let-
There was nothing on his radar screen. No one to keep an eye on his tail. He grabbed the control to manually extend the wings, and did so. From behind, the extension would be invisible. Then he waited. Waited ...
Over the headset, a moan. "Wha ... Hot Rock-"
"Good-night," Hot Rock said, and simultaneously yanked back on the stick and jammed the throttles full forward. This time he actually felt the blood rush out of his head, like water swirling down a drain; the spiral of darkness closed down fast. He pushed the stick forward and grunted as he slammed up against the shoulder straps of his harness. Below him, through his clearing vision he saw the manta-shaped UAV zip through the airspace he had lately occupied.
Putting the nose over, Hot Rock dove and opened up with his cannon. The tracers cut across the UAV like bright needles, but the UAV immediately cranked to the right in one of its physics-defying maneuvers.
Hot Rock executed a more gentle turn in the same direction, and watched his radar screen. There it was. There it was! The cannon hits might not have put the UAV out of commission, but they had holed it, destroyed the integrity of its radar-deflecting slants and curves. There was its signature on his screen, bright as daylight.
"Fox One," Hot Rock said calmly to anyone who might be listening, and triggered his next-to-the-last Sparrow. The missile leaped away, boring off into the haze. On the HUD, its signal merged with the UAVs. Up ahead the clouds brightened, then dimmed, in artificial lightning.
On the HUD, both signals were gone. Hot Rock realized something strange had happened to his face; it had an achy, stretched feeling to it. God, what if all the high-g maneuvers had permanently damaged something? Some muscle or nerve? What if ...
Then he realized what it was He was grinning.
1540 local (-8 GMT) Hanger bay USS Jefferson
Like everyone else in the hanger bay, Jackson was expected to help battle the fires and damage the missile had done in the hanger bay. There were tons of debris to get out of the way, blackened and useless aircraft to shove into the passing waves, bodies to help move. Time passed in a sweaty, terrifying blur. So this is war, Jackson kept thinking. So this is War.
And outside, the storm just got worse and worse. All the exterior doors were wide open because of the smoke, and wind-driven rain kept blasting in, hard enough to hurt if any of the spray caught you. It also made the decking slippery and dangerous. But the most terrifying thing was the waves. You didn't expect to look out through those doors and see the crest of a wave pass by, all white and sharp on top like something with teeth. You never expected to see waves that big.
And yet despite his fear, Jackson carried on, doing whatever needed to be done. He worked alongside brothers and sisters at times, and alongside white men or brown men or yellow men at other times. Officers snapped orders, of course, but the next thing you knew, that same man or woman would be right beside you, helping lift a piece of metal off some trapped sailor.
Once he and Plane Captain Beaman were both commandeered by some firemen to help move debris out of the way of a hose. Together, they heaved against a jagged chunk of metal plating that had once been on the outside of the carrier. It seemed to weigh a ton, but they got it out of the firemen's way. Afterward, for a moment Jackson found himself staring straight into his plane captain's eyes. There was something speculative there that infuriated Jackson. He knew what it meant. He knew that Beaman didn't trust him, thought he'd screwed up Bird Dog's plane. Been incompetent, been lazy. Thought that this kind of work, hauling pieces of metal around, was probably more Jackson Ord's speed.
But then Beaman gave a slanted, tired smile and clapped Jackson on the shoulder. "Good work," he said, and turned away to do something else.
Jackson stared after him, trying hard not to be pleased. You couldn't buy his forgiveness that easily. No way. Still, he went back to work with renewed energy.
1543 local (-8 GMT) Prison compound
"You can't be serious," Lobo shouted in Tombstone's ear. In other circumstances, it would have been a whisper. "Why do you want to go back there?"
"I've got to check something out."
"What?"
"You'll see ... if I'm right."
"What if the guards' bodies have been discovered?"
"With any luck, they'll be out in this mess searching for US."
She grinned. "Good point. Okay, Admiral--lead on."
1540 local (-8 GMT) Fantail USS Jefferson
Bird Dog stumbled onto the fantail for some air. Because the carrier was steaming head-on into the wind, it was actually rather dry and pleasant back here ... if you could ignore the traces of smoke still whipping off the flight deck overhead.
Disaster. Unbelievable disaster, and he blamed himself. If only he really understood the Chinese mentality. If only he could really comprehend the thinking behind The Art of War, maybe he could have predicted ... prevented ...
Well, Sun Tzu had been the first to say it Know the enemy and know Yourself, in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.
Those junks. The missile attack. A beautiful illustration of using the direct and indirect forces. And Bird Dog Robinson, War College graduate, hadn't expected it.
On the other hand, whoever was planning the Chinese assault had missed out on something, too the storm. Only Dr. George had seen that one coming. Ironically, the typhoon had probably been Jefferson's salvation. Its might had scattered the junks across miles of heaving ocean, and caused the Chinese fighters to struggle in what had undoubtedly been intended to be a massacre. The Chinese had planned to fight on Frontier ground, at worst, only to find themselves on Difficult ground instead.
Know the ground, know the weather, your victory will then be total.
Okay, fine. If this was Difficult ground, then Encircled ground was next. He knew that. The weather? It sucked; he knew that, too. Okay ... so where was his total victory?
Know the ground ...
Difficult, encircled, death.
In difficult ground, press on; in encircled ground, devise stratagems; in death ground, right. His grip tightened on the guardrail. In encircled ground, devise stratagems.
"My God," he said, and ran back into the wounded gut of the carrier.
1543 local (-8 GMT) Prison compound
There was no apparent activity around the door Tombstone and Lobo had used to exit the
building in which they'd been imprisoned. Perhaps, Tombstone thought, their absence was still a secret. Not that he cared much one way or the other. Gesturing to Lobo, he moved up to the wall and along its base, circling the building. On the leeward side, the rain dropped off to cold mist whirling off the top of the wall. Rifle ready, Tombstone hurried along the wall to the next corner and peered around. Winced at the needle-blast of rain in his face. The storm was getting worse every second. Still, visibility remained good enough that he could see the dark sedan parked in front of the building, and the wide Portico. Palm trees genuflected wildly before the wind. Pretty place for a communist-built facility, Tomb stone thought, and gestured for Lobo to follow him.
They were halfway to the portico when a man in black commando-type gear stepped into view, AK-47 cradled in his arms. Without hesitation, Tombstone raised his own rifle, sighted it against the wind, and pulled the trigger. As he'd expected, the crack was swallowed by the howling wind. The guard took a wobbly step, then collapsed. Tombstone hurried forward, grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into some shrubbery. Then he looked at the main entrance to the building. Double doors of carved wood, with tall windows to either side.
He ran up the steps to the door and tried it.
Unlocked.
Tombstone looked at Lobo, saw the confusion in her eyes. Saw the water running down her pale face. There was nothing he could tell her, so he simply said, "Let's go."
"What exactly are we looking for?"
"Anything PLA."
"You're not just trying to ditch me, are you?"
"No. After this is all over, I intend to divorce my wife and marry YOU."
"Liar."
"Please, Lobo; just watch the door."
"Aye, aye, Admiral."
He pulled open the door and they entered a wide, high-ceilinged foyer of teak and white marble. Enormous potted palms seemed to support a curved staircase climbing upward. Tombstone raised his eyebrows, and Lobo nodded. She squeaked across the marble and slipped in amongst the fronds.
Faint light spilled down the stairs. Tombstone headed toward it, AK-47 half-raised. He winced at the soggy, squelching sounds he and Lobo made as they walked, but there was no helping that.
At the top of the stairs was a long hallway extending in both directions. The light came from the left, as did a voice speaking sharply. Tombstone moved in that direction. Gradually, words came clear. English words.
"... couldn't have possibly gotten off the island. Of course not. Increase the guard around the buildings, but get a search party out right away. I suspect they will be putting as much distance between themselves and this complex as quickly as possible. Good. Keep me notified."
As the receiver clicked onto its cradle, Tombstone stepped into the room behind his AK-47 and pointed the rifle at the man standing with one hand on the telephone.
"Hello, Uncle Phillip," he said.
1550 local (-8 GMT) Bridge USS Jefferson
"'Offer the enemy a bait to lure him.' 'Feign disorder and strike him.'"
"You're quoting again," Batman snarled. "I don't have time for this. In case you're not aware of it, we have a damaged aircraft carrier here, and an air battle just breaking up. We've lost a lot of planes."
"It's not just a quote," Bird Dog said, refusing to back down, refusing to be sidetracked even by the question, Who got shot down? This was too important, for all of them. "It's a strategy."
"'Feign disorder' is a strategy? We don't have to feign that!"
Bird Dog glanced around at the carefully-turned-away faces on the bridge. "Could we continue this discussion in your conference room, sir?"
"What for? As far as I can see, there's nothing to discuss."
"Beg to differ. In fact, we ought to convene the whole group, plus one."
"And who might that be?"
"Dr. Alonzo George."
1555 local (-8 GMT) Headquarters, PLA Air Force Hong Kong Garrison
"Matthew," McIntyre said. His face was pale. Then it grew serene, and he leaned back in his chair. The room was a study of some kind, furnished like an old English den in dark paneling and ornate furniture. Lots of books. A computer console on the desk.
Without even looking at the rifle, he shook his head and smiled. "Good work. You truly are your father's son."
"And my uncle's nephew." Tombstone moved farther into the room. "Speaking of my uncle, I don't think he'd approve of what you're doing."
"So you've figured it out, have you?"
"Enough of it. You're behind this whole thing; the attacks on both Chinese and Americans, all of it. You're trying to push America and China into war."
"What exactly gave me away?"
"I spotted the UAVs parked in your little hangar. Then I remembered that McIntyre Engineering components figured heavily in the UAV that attacked me back in Maryland. I can do simple arithmetic--like two-plus-two. Combine that with the fact that you're still alive, and it's pretty clear you must be up to something no good."
"I'm sorry about that incident in Maryland, Matthew. I truly am."
"Because you tried to kill me, or because you didn't succeed?"
"In point of fact, I didn't try to kill you. One of my associates did."
"Meaning you weren't actually there. But you ordered the hit."
"It was a necessary part of a larger plan. If it matters to you, I was elated when I heard you'd survived, even though I was hoping to lure your uncle here to investigate your death."
"Uncle Thomas was going to be your hostage?"
"No offense, but his rank is higher than yours."
Tombstone shook his head. "How many people have you got in your pocket?"
"Thousands. Politicians and military personnel on both sides, at all levels of rank and experience. Ordinary citizens. Businesspeople."
"Anyone on Jefferson?"
"Naturally. More than one, in fact."
"My God."
"You probably won't believe this," McIntyre said, "but I'm doing all this for my country. The same as you."
"For your country," Tombstone said. "You had dozens of Americans massacred at sea. Shot others out of the sky in cold blood. Tried to start a war that will cost hundreds of thousands of lives if it gets rolling. You're right. I don't believe you."
"That's because you're taking the short-term view. That's a common Western failing, in both business and politics, and it's the one that's getting us beaten. It's necessary to think long-term, to plan carefully far into the future."
"I still don't understand how you think starting a war with China is going to benefit the United States." McIntyre made a face. "You're deliberately missing the point. It's not about all-out war. It's about fighting, and winning, a localized war, with a specific goal The liberation of Hong Kong."
"Hong Kong is part of China, in case you've forgotten."
"But it doesn't have to be. Wasn't for most of the past century and a half. And during all that time, no matter what was happening to mainland China, Hong Kong always prospered."
"And still is."
"But it's faltering. The PRC is taking advantage of capitalism in Hong Kong, but that won't last. In the end, they won't be able to keep their hands off. In fact, that's already starting. Bit by bit, the PRC will kill the financial engine of Hong Kong, to the detriment of the rest of the world--including America."
"So what are you saying? You want the United States to conquer Hong Kong and claim it as a possession, the way the British did?"
"Exactly."
"Why not push the British to do it, then?"
"Please. China isn't Argentina. We're talking about the largest military the world has ever known--and it's getting stronger all the time. Hong Kong is a big contributor to that growth, because the PRC uses Hong Kong business to generate billions of dollars, and to get access to otherwise forbidden technology."
"Like UAVs."
"That's another reason I did all this, Matthew. What better way to draw attention to the utility and inevita
bility of combat UAVs than to spring them on the Pentagon in actual battle? How would you like for the Chinese to acquire that technology instead of us?"
"The fact that McIntyre Engineering International happens to be able to build most of the components in a UAV has nothing to do with it?"
"Obviously my company would benefit, monetarily, from American UAV construction. But America would benefit, too, and isn't that what it's all about? Democracy and capitalism working together, hand in hand?"
"Not when it comes to manipulating politics through terrorism, no."
For the first time, McIntyre's face lost its composure. "How can you not understand? We're talking about an initial sacrifice of a few thousand people in order to preserve millions!"
"Of dollars, or people?"
"My god, Matt, even the PRC realizes the two are connected! If the Chinese aren't stopped now, they'll soon have not only the biggest military in the world, but the best. The best weapons, the best delivery systems, the best aircraft and ships and radar and sonar. Who will stop them then?"
"So let me get this straight You're starting a war in order to prevent a war. Is that it?"
"That's exactly it. When it comes right down to it, the PRC will allow America to take control of Hong Kong. They won't dare fight over it too hard, for fear of destroying the very thing they need most."
1600 local (-8 GMT) Admiral's Conference Room USS Jefferson
"That's the craziest idea I've ever heard," Coyote said. There was a bandage on his forehead where he'd been cut by flying glass.
Before Bird Dog could respond, Batman turned to his right and said, "Dr. George? Do you agree?"
"That the idea is crazy? Depends on your ship. Looks like she took some damage, so ..."
"Jefferson can be made ready."
"Well, then you'll be fine. Might get some kids in the infirmary with bad seasickness before it's over, but other than that you should be fine."
Batman nodded and turned to Lab Rat. "Your thoughts, Commander?"
"I think it's just harebrained enough to work."
"Then let's get started. COS, notify the fighters in the air what to do. I'm going to address the crew."
Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON Page 24