Admiral Wayne was already at the table when Bird Dog walked into the CVIC. So was Chief of Staff William Grant, call sign Coyote. Bird Dog knew that Batman and the COS went way back together; they’d flown Tomcats during the retrieval of American hostages held in North Korea.
The table was also occupied by four pilots in rumpled flight suits, and an enlisted man in khakis. Bird Dog barely glanced at them, because the Admiral was giving him the cold eye. “Commander, glad you could join us. We’re waiting on Commander Busby; please have a seat.”
Bird Dog took a chair, silently thanking Lab Rat for being even later than he was.
No one in the room seemed disposed to chitchat, so Bird Dog began organizing his papers on the table. Not that there was a lot to organize… his notes about recent military encounters in the South China Sea and adjacent North Pacific; the current political situation in the People’s Republic, Indonesia, and Hong Kong. Finally, he sat back and raised his eyes — and found himself looking directly at Lobo, sitting across the table from him.
Oh, shit. He immediately looked away. From experience he knew that if he hesitated, he wouldn’t be able to turn away from her at all. Ever since they’d met last year, he’d had this stupid problem. She wasn’t that goddamned beautiful.
Fortunately, at that moment the door that connected CVIC with the adjacent Tactical Flag Command Center opened, and Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby, Jefferson’s Intelligence Officer, stepped through. “Sorry I’m late, Admiral,” he said. “Wanted to check the latest Chinese radio traffic.”
“And?”
“On the diplomatic end, they’re still demanding we turn the wreckage and bodies over to them. On the military end, we’re just picking up a lot of ‘What’s going on?’ and ‘Stand off for now.’ ”
Batman frowned. “Very well. Now that we’re all here, let me bring everyone up to speed. This morning, Lieutenant Commander Hanson, on routine patrol, spotted a PLA helicopter firing on an unarmed American pleasure boat in international waters. She and her wingman, Lieutenant Commander Stone, drove the helicopter off. We then established a defensive perimeter and began recovering what we could from the wreckage. So far only one survivor of the attack has been found; he’s currently in sick bay here on Jefferson. The bodies of the other passengers, as well as whatever pieces of hull can be recovered, are being ferried in. Does that pretty much sum it up?” He looked around the table.
Bird Dog had been taking notes, his thoughts streaking ahead on full afterburner. War College had stressed the ancient precept that war was politics by other means — national policy expressed in violence. In the twentieth century, certain Communist nations had been especially fond of mixing the two. But a massacre of civilians on the open sea? What political aim could China possibly expect to serve by that?
He looked up as Batman turned toward the rescue swimmer. “Petty Officer Pitcock, you recovered several of the bodies yourself, as well as the survivor, is that correct?”
The swimmer was a young, freckled guy with hair so blonde and short he looked almost bald. His eyes were the fierce red color that proved he’d spent a lot of time blinking against the salty spray blasted up by a hovering helicopter. “Yes, sir,” he said. “We found the survivor, Martin Lee, hanging on to what was left of the boat. Spotted him pretty quick.”
“And there were no other survivors, is that correct?”
“Not yet. SAR is still ongoing, but… no, it doesn’t look good.”
“Tell me, how many bodies would you say you counted out there?”
The swimmer cleared his throat. “I’d say close to a hundred. Maybe more. Some of them were just shot to pieces, plus the sharks had been at them….” He dragged a palm over his scalp.
Sharks. Bird Dog suppressed a shudder. He knew everyone else in the room was doing the same; sharks were the great nightmare of everyone who sailed on, or flew above, the sea. But he knew from personal experience that you didn’t even know what that fear was all about until you got dumped into the drink and had to float around awhile, watching for a triangular dorsal fin to break the surface of the water….
And this kid had jumped in on purpose.
He brought his attention back to the room. “I understand Mr. Lee spoke to you,” Batman was saying.
The swimmer licked chapped lips. “Yes, sir, on the way back. He said the yacht was American, and it got hijacked and sunk by the PLA for no reason. Mr. Lee’s Chinese, but his English is real good, and — ”
“But you saw nothing, personally, to indicate why that particular boat might have been attacked,” Batman said. “I’m only asking because you were in the water, closer to the wreck than anybody, before it sank.”
“No, sir, I didn’t see anything at all. Just a real nice boat shot to pieces.”
“Thank you.” Batman turned to Coyote. “COS, any questions?”
“I believe you covered everything.”
“Commander Busby?”
Lab Rat seemed to blink out of a reverie. “Um, no, sir. I’m going to want to talk to Mr. Lee as soon as possible, of course, but that’s it.”
“We’re waiting for Doc’s okay on that. Bird Dog, anything for Petty Officer Pitcock?”
Bird Dog was startled by the use of his call sign, and immediately wondered if this was a good or bad indicator. He’d been paranoid that way, lately; second-guessing everything. He was pretty sure it had started with his being dumped by his fiancée. “Not right now, sir,” he said.
“Very well. Petty Officer Pitcock, thank you.”
After the swimmer was gone, Batman turned his attention to the pilots and RIOs. “Lobo, you were first on the scene. Describe exactly what you saw.”
There was no avoiding it now. Bird Dog looked across the table at Lobo. Her eyes were socketed with exhaustion and her flight suit was all wrinkled and creased. No doubt about it: She was absolutely the most enticing thing Lieutenant Commander Curt Robinson had seen in his life.
And she flew F-14s. Flew them like an angel.
He’d met her in a bar, not long after Callie notified him that she’d changed her mind about marrying him. Pretty cliché for a fighter jock to catch the eye of a beautiful woman in a bar, except that Bird Dog hadn’t intended to even be there. His regular RIO, Gator Cummings, had introduced him to Lobo because, he confessed later, he was pretty sure Lobo had balls at least the size of Bird Dog’s. He wanted to see who swung first.
Nobody had swung. In fact, Bird Dog hadn’t exactly caught Lobo’s eyes. In fact, when he’d asked her for her number, she had grinned and said, “One.”
Fine, he’d thought as he and Gator left the bar. Who needed to deal with an uppity — if beautiful — female Tomcat pilot? Probably some kind of radical feminist, if not a lesbian.
Last thing he’d expected was to be sent on WestPac with her. To see her almost every day, in the corridors and on the flight deck of Jefferson. To hear other male pilots talk about her the way male pilots do, albeit more privately than in years gone by. To see her absorb their more public teasing and fire it right back. He hadn’t expected to… to…
He watched Lobo as she spoke, even jotting down an occasional note so he’d appear to be paying attention to her words instead of just the shape of her lips. He picked up enough of what she said to return his attention sharply to the matter at hand. Now was no time to let his mind wander.
Lobo’s RIO — the lucky bastard — spoke next, seconding everything Lobo had said — not that that meant anything. Any backseater worthy of the name backed his pilot up, no matter what. Hell, the RIO would swear he’d seen Elvis on a flying carpet, if that was what Lobo reported.
The second Tomcat pilot, Hot Rock, and his RIO were next. They recited what they’d observed from their higher altitude, and the brief tale of the helicopter chase. Although he was just a pup, Hot Rock looked more exhausted than anyone else, Bird Dog noticed.
“Could you identify the type of helo?” Lab Rat asked the young pilot.
“No, s
ir. It was dark, and I was above it. I can only say it was single-rotor. I was just about to go down for a closer look when — ”
“We got called back,” his RIO filled in. Just as Bird Dog’s RIO, Gator, often finished his sentences for him. Annoying as hell.
COS leaned forward. “What about missiles?”
“Missiles?” Hot Rock said.
“Yes, was the helo carrying missiles?”
The men looked at one another. The pilot shrugged. “I couldn’t tell, sir; not from my angle.”
“Lobo? You certainly had the angle.”
“But no time.” She paused, bit her lip, then shook her head. “No, sir, I only took one pass; I can’t say for sure if the helo was carrying missiles.”
COS nodded, made a note and leaned back.
“I have a question for Lobo,” Batman said. “What convinced you that you were justified in making a low-altitude, high-speed pass at another nation’s helicopter with an American fighter plane?”
She started. Her face hardened. “That helo was mincing those people in the water, Admiral. You heard Pitcock; it was a massacre. At the time, politics seemed… irrelevant.”
Batman held her gaze for a long time, then nodded. “Be sure to stress that in your report. I’ll back you up a hundred percent, but I’m warning you all, if the Chinese know something we don’t, this whole affair could turn around and bite us in the butt.”
“Yes, sir.” Lobo stared right at him, uncowed. Bird Dog’s heart stumbled with pride. Go, girl.
“Very well,” Batman said. “If none of you have anything else to add, you pilots and RIOs are dismissed. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
As the pilots and RIOs filed toward the door, Bird Dog took the opportunity to glance up, as if by accident, and meet Lobo’s eyes. He nodded at her, very cool and professional. To his horror, she gave him a broad, theatrical wink.
After the door closed, Batman said, “All right, I want ideas and I want them now. At the moment I’m not interested in whether or not you think our response was appropriate; I’m only interested in what you think the Chinese might be up to, and what they might try next.”
Lab Rat said, “Their next move is bound to be political. They’ll spin some kind of yarn for public consumption.”
“I agree,” Bird Dog said.
The earned him a quick, unnervingly searching glance from Batman. Bird Dog forced himself to meet it. “While I was at War College, there was a lot of talk about a war game they conducted there a year or two earlier. It was intended to be a complete assessment of the probable outcome of an all-out war with the PRC.” He paused. “We lost.”
Batman frowned. “Lost?”
“Yes, sir. The Chinese ended up controlling all of the Far East, including Japan. It created quite a flap — well, in an underground sort of way — about cuts in American military spending. Because the gap is widening.”
“And you think the Chinese have chosen to start World War Three by blowing the hell out of an American yacht?”
Bird Dog blinked. “I’m just saying — ”
“Coyote?” Batman turned to the COS. “Your assessment?”
“I’m not sure what the PRC’s overall motivation is, but when they started things in the Spratleys, manipulating public opinion was their next trick — so I’d expect that next.”
“Okay, they’re going to make a public stink. Agreed. But what’s their next step here likely to be?”
“The Chinese study their ancient sages,” Lab Rat said. He took a slim book out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. Looking at the title, Bird Dog felt a thrill of recognition. It was Sun Tzu’s The Art of War — the oldest known treatise on organized warfare. They’d studied it in War College. Lab Rat said, “This is what helped me guess what they were up to in the Spratleys. They believe the best general wins without fighting at all. He uses deception, infiltration, undermines his enemy’s alliances — ”
“Political warfare,” Bird Dog blurted. He couldn’t help himself. “They’ll complain about the way we handled this. Try to shift the blame to us.”
“That’s all fine,” Batman said impatiently, “but it doesn’t answer my question. What can we expect them to do next here?”
Since Lab Rat didn’t seem to have anything to say, Bird Dog spoke again. This time he tried to keep his voice mild. “Down in the Spratleys,” he said, “the Chinese blew up their own assets and tried to make it look like we did it. Their goal was to make us look like aggressors so they’d be justified in driving us out of the South China Sea. This time, they’re doing the opposite: They attacked American civilians… so the only possible reason is that they want to make sure we stay in the area.”
A thudding silence ensued.
“Commander,” Batman said, his voice as slow and cold as a glacier, “what have you been taking notes on all night?”
“Sir?” Bird Dog felt the tips of his ears burning.
“The Chinese might be obtuse, but they’re not stupid. First of all — especially if you’re correct about their long-term goals — what possible reason would they have to keep a Carrier Battle Group near their coast?”
“I don’t know,” Bird Dog said. “But — ”
“Good answer,” Batman said. “Now, assuming that was their goal for some reason, wouldn’t they want to do something really public to ensure our attention? Wouldn’t they launch a few missiles our way, or at least attack an American yacht in Victoria Harbor at high noon, rather than in the South China Sea, outside the shipping lanes, at five o’clock in the morning?”
The heat swarmed across Bird Dog’s face and neck. “Not if they intended to leave survivors,” he said — knowing it was a mistake even as he spoke, but once again unable to trap the words. “The automatic SOS signal from the boat was triggered, which suggests — ”
“ ‘Automatic’ means just that, Commander. And the Chinese plainly did not intend to leave any survivors — or even evidence. You heard Pitcock. Only Lobo’s quick action kept anyone alive out there.”
Bird Dog closed his mouth. Why couldn’t he ever seem to do that before he started flossing with his shoelaces?
To his relief, Lab Rat spoke up as if none of the previous discussion had occurred. “Admiral, I hate to sound like Mr. Spock, but we need more information before we can reach any conclusions at all, far less try to predict the next move the Chinese might make. Meanwhile, I suggest we convey as many facts as possible to Seventh Fleet so they can get our version out there before the Chinese make up some kind of PR story.”
“A preemptive publicity strike,” Batman said dryly.
“It’s a media-driven world, Admiral.”
“So it is. I’ll expect a draft of your recommended wording of such a public statement in an hour. Get together with the staff PAO on it.”
Lab Rat sighed. “Yes, sir.”
Batman glanced around the table. “Anything else? COS?”
Coyote shook his head. Bird Dog started to speak, but when he saw the sharp, assessing look in the admiral’s eye, he changed his mind.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Batman got to his feet. “I’m going to go see how the recovery operation is going.” He strode out of the room, COS on his heels.
Bird Dog stood up and began gather his notes. His knees were a little wobbly, but he wasn’t sure whether that was from anger or shame. As he turned toward the door, he heard Lab Rat say, “Bird Dog?” Bird Dog turned.
“With the Chinese,” Lab Rat said, “it’s probably best to keep all lines of thinking open… even those that seem ridiculous. Don’t tell the admiral I said that.” He held something across the table. “Why don’t you keep this awhile?”
Bird Dog accepted the gift. It was the slim copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.
1950 local (-8 GMT)
Pri-Fly
USS Jefferson
Batman stood in the tower next to the Air Boss, looking out beyond the flight deck to the silhouette of an oncoming CH- 46E Sea Knight. Th
ere were two silhouettes, actually: the helicopter’s and that of its cargo, dangling beneath. Behind them glared the red furnace of the setting sun; beneath spread a blood-colored river of light. Blood-colored, Batman thought grimly. How appropriate.
“That’s the last trip, Admiral,” the Air Boss said. “Got the biggest piece of the boat. Had a hell of a time hooking it up.” He paused. “I understand most of it broke off and sank anyway.”
“Will it fit in the hangar bay?” Batman asked.
The Air Boss scanned the double silhouette with a practiced eye. “I think so. Barely. I’m having them set it down by the aft elevator; we’ll see from there.”
Batman nodded.
“I heard the legal eagles are disturbed about us bringing any of the boat aboard,” the Air Boss said. “Something about salvage laws.”
Batman set his jaw. “I’d say that taking control of evidence of international piracy and mass murder is a bit more important than salvage law.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Admiral — I’m glad it’s your headache and not mine.”
“You’ve got enough to worry about, Chad. Let me take care of the bullshit.”
The Sea Knight circled aft, gradually changing from a blunt silhouette to a long, sun-smeared loaf of French bread with enormous rotors fore and aft. Beneath it, suspended by cables and netting, hung a slab of fiberglass bursting with aluminum rails, foam insulation, wires, miscellaneous pieces of upholstery and carpeting.
“Used to be part of the upper deck and main cabin, I guess,” the Air Boss said. “We could get lucky; maybe there’s a logbook or something in it.”
Batman, not trusting to luck, just nodded.
The Sea Knight positioned itself off the stern and began easing toward the deck. Like any other aircraft, helos benefited from using prevailing wind conditions to increase lift — especially when heavily loaded.
On deck, the landing signals officer, or LSO, signaled the helo toward the aft elevator.
The helo drifted over the stern, rotors beating heavily, cargo just clearing the non-skid. As usual, the skill required to maneuver the big helo stirred a grudging respect in Batman, who generally shared the jet jockey’s ingrained disdain for “eggbeaters.”
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 6
