Typhoon Season c-14

by Keith Douglass

  The LSO backed up step by step, drawing the helo in. When the cargo was finally hovering just above the elevator, the signals changed and the Sea Knight eased to a halt. The cargo began to descend, cables trembling as the winch played out. Flight deck personnel eased in toward it, ready to wrestle the massive hulk into position.

  The smashed piece of yacht hull touched the deck, and the cables began to slacken. Suddenly Batman felt a chill flash through him, so powerful it shook him to his heels. “Get those men —!” he began.

  A flash of light blotted out the sunset, ripping into the sky and across the deck, pursued by a roiling black cloud and a bellow that rattled the Plexiglas in Pri-Fly. Batman instinctively ducked, and found the Air Boss crouching right beside him. “What the hell?” the Air Boss shouted.

  Then both were back on their feet. “Fire on the flight deck!” the Air Boss shouted. He slammed the General Quarters alarm on and jabbed at the bitch box. “Officer of the Deck, Boss. Did you see that?”

  Batman stared at the flight deck, unmoving, as the alarm went off. Where the wreckage of the yacht had been was now nothing but a blackened, cratered section of the elevator pad. Inboard from that, a ring of flames leaped across the deck. Four parked Hornets were on fire. So were two prostrate bodies. There was no sign of the LSO. How many other —

  Then the Sea Knight appeared, dropping from the sky on a comet of flame. It barely cleared the flight deck, vanishing over the side.

  A moment later, an enormous plume of water rose in a bursting fountain. It spread and collapsed down again, and not one drop reached the blazing deck.

  1955 local (-8 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  If the army is confused and suspicious, neighboring rulers will cause trouble. This is what is meant by the saying, “A confused army leads to another’s victory.”

  Bird Dog lowered the book and stared at the ceiling above his bunk. Even back at War College, he had found The Art of War an interesting but frustrating read. It was one thing to pass a test on it, and another to actually understand it. Despite its brevity, Sun Tzu’s book was more difficult to get your brain around than the dense and detailed Clausewitz’ treatment of the same subject. Sun Tzu was so… so Chinese. Allegorical, poetic, as suggestive as a pen and ink sketch.

  And about as practical.

  Bird Dog cringed when he thought about his attempt, at the special briefing, to explain China’s motivation for sinking the Lady of Leisure. As if he had a clue; as if Sun Tzu provided one. The Art of War might be hailed as a classic, but as far as Bird Dog was concerned, its obtuseness explained why the Chinese hadn’t won a major military campaign in years.

  Closing the book, he sighed and tried to concentrate on something more predictable: the flow of activity on the flight deck, its music transmitted to him in the muffled roar of spooled-up jet engines and the thump of the catapult shuttle hitting its stops. Just by listening to that symphony overhead, he could tell what was going on. Today, the rhythm had alternated between the launching and landing of fixed-wing aircraft and the arrival of helos bearing bloody presents from the South China Sea. Currently, the quiet heralded a helo period.

  God, he wished he was scheduled to fly tonight. Or better, the next time Lobo was scheduled. He frowned. What was it about that woman? Maybe he was just on the rebound. After all, not long ago he’d had a very hot thing going with a Navy woman — he’d even proposed to her, idiot that he was — but she’d dumped him for a fellow surface officer, of all things. So it was only natural he’d be attracted to a good-looking female pilot. Somebody who shared his passions, problems and dreams. Of course. That made perfect sense.

  Okay, that took care of that. He opened the book again, arbitrarily, and started reading.

  He who knows the art of both the direct and indirect approach will be victorious. This is the art of maneuvering.

  Well, now, there was a solid piece of military advice. “The direct and indirect approach.” Very informative. Very —

  He dropped the book onto his stomach as the ship transmitted an unfamiliar sensation to him: a sharp jolt, followed by a deep, buzzing vibration. A moment later came the sound of thunder.

  Bird Dog’s feet hit the deck before general quarters began to sound.

  FOUR

  Saturday, 2 August

  2010 local (-8 GMT)

  PLA Headquarters

  Hong Kong

  The sky above Hong Kong was a shimmer of purple silk as General Ming Wen Hsien strode toward the administrative wing of the Hong Kong garrison of the People’s Liberation Army. At the door, he paused to take in the view of Hong Kong’s lights soaring up against the twilight. The scene looked like one of the postcards sold in the lobbies of the fancy Central District hotels.

  With his aide just behind him, Ming entered the building and saluted a surprised-looking desk sergeant. “Remain where you are,” he said, as the guard started to stand. “Do not notify the commanders I am here.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” the sergeant stuttered.

  Ming moved through the reception area and down a long corridor. At the closed door of the main conference room, he signaled his aide to wait, then opened the door and strode in.

  He scanned the changes to the room since his last visit — April 21, 1997. That had been the greatest day of his life — the day the British Crown had, at last, turned the military garrison over to its rightful owners. On that day, this room had been bare of furniture; the English had taken theirs away, of course. Now it contained a circular conference table and matching chairs, sideboard and audio-visual equipment cabinet, all made of teak hand-carved in dragons and the fishes of good fortune.

  The furnishings had clearly been chosen not for utility so much as the way they complimented the room’s original walnut paneling and plush wall-to-wall carpeting.

  Ming kept the disapproval off his face. He knew that Major General Wei Ao was responsible for the decor in this room.

  Three men sat at the conference table, staring at him first in anger, then surprise. Then they were on their feet and bowing respectfully. And so they should. Ming represented the ultimate authority — not just the PLA, but the entire Chinese Communist Party. In the People’s Republic, all members of the State Central Military Commission also served on the Communist Party’s Central Military Commission — “Two organs with one leading body.” For the PLA, military and politico-social goals were the same.

  At least, this was the belief and the goal, especially in the so-called Special Administrative Region. Ming let his gaze scan the group standing around the long table. The men had, he noted, positioned themselves equidistantly around the table, as if to illustrate their separation: Political Commissar nearest the door at eight o’clock, Coastal Patrol at four, and the Major General of the Army firmly enthroned at the twelve o’clock position. They all wore the special Hong Kong uniforms of their departments — dark green for the Army, white for the Coastal Defense Force, khaki for the Political Commissar. The only consistent feature was the shoulder blaze shared by all: the scarlet bahinia blossom of the Hong Kong SAR.

  On the day the garrison became Chinese once again, there had been five Major Generals in this room. Unfortunately two of them — the commanders of the Air Force and Navy contingents — had recently died. Filling their positions would be no easy task; it took a special kind of officer to work in the SAR.

  Ming fixed his gaze on Wei. Fortunately, the old Army leader was not one of the newly deceased. He had been in command of the entire Hong Kong garrison since the Handover, and got dubbed “First Among Equals” by local newspapers, in sardonic commentary on what the Hong Kongese considered a top-heavy command structure.

  Ming marched directly around the table toward the old soldier, who immediately shifted his squat body to his left. The other two moved as well, rearranging themselves to maintain at least one empty chair between them.

  Then they all sat, with Ming now at twelve o’clock.

  Yeh Lien, the Political Com
missar, cleared his throat. “Comrade General Ming, this is an honor. Perhaps we missed the message that you were coming.”

  “There was no time for niceties. The Central Council is concerned about the incident with the American yacht. None of your reports on the incident are acceptible. How is it possible the perpetrators of this crime were not apprehended?”

  Old Wei, First Among Equals, shook his head. “This incident occurred in international waters and airspace — the provinces of the Navy and Air Force. Unfortunately, both these forces are currently under the command of inexperienced officers. They were not certain how to respond. Until new commanding officers arrive — ”

  “Until that time, you will be held responsible,” Ming said coldly. “You are commander of the entire SAR garrison, are you not?”

  Wei drew himself up. “I am. But remember, General, we must all operate under standing orders which forbid us from initiating a ‘potentially hostile encounter’ with foreign military forces — especially the Americans. It happens that several U.S. Navy jets reached the SOS area before we did, and since they were in international airspace, our commanders elected to stand off. As per orders.”

  Ming stared at him flatly. “The Americans claim otherwise. In fact, they claim that the People’s Liberation Army was responsible for the attack on the yacht itself.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Wei shouted, to a chorus of agreement from the other two officers.

  Ming raised a hand, creating instant silence. “You all deny any involvement, then?”

  Now came a barrage of angry affirmation. Ming watched their faces closely. “The Americans say they have both evidence and witnesses,” he said.

  “Then let them present this evidence,” Yeh, the Political Commissar, said.

  “Yes, let them present it,” echoed Chin of the Coastal Defense Force.

  Ming eyed Chin. He was by far the youngest of the garrison commanders, only fifty, but that did not excuse the man’s helpless incompetence. His having a cousin in a position of power on the State Council was a different matter. Ming felt fortunate that he’d managed to limit Chin’s command assignment to the CDF, the least glamorous of all China’s military branches. And the least likely to get the fool into serious trouble.

  Ming addressed the table at large. “Let me explain our difficulty. Since even before the Revolution, Hong Kong has been the government’s connection to the foreign world. For now, sustaining it is a necessary evil. The People’s Republic ohas long-term projects under way here; their progress must not be interrupted. This means that to the rest of the world, the image of the SAR must remain one of stability and safety. You will all be approached by the Hong Kong media concerning what happened to the Lady of Leisure. Since the State does not currently control the news media here, we must all agree on a correct version of events, to balance whatever lies the Americans intend to tell the world.”

  “What correct version?” Wei asked. “How can we know what to say to the Americans if we don’t even know what evidence they have?”

  Ming looked at the staring faces around the table and squelched a surge of anger. Wei was a soldier of the old school, tough but lacking in personal vision; Yeh was a blind idealogue; Chin a cretinous lump. In losing Hsu and Po, the SAR garrison had lost its best military — and political — minds.

  “Comrade Major General Wei,” Ming said, “I’m sure you have studied your Sun Tzu.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you know that Sun Tzu taught this: The wise general conquers because he has foreknowledge. He employs spies in the enemy camp.”

  “You’re saying we have spies?” Wei said. “In America?”

  Ming offered a small smile. “And closer to home as well. It is not even necessary to infiltrate our own people. It is only necessary to provide the proper incentive to Americans already in place.”

  “Money,” Yeh said.

  “What else? Money is Hong Kong’s national product. And thanks to it, we have already learned the broad outlines of what the Americans claim happened to that yacht. Now we need only to create our own story to fit the same circumstances….”

  2100 local (-8 GMT)

  CVIC

  USS Jefferson

  “Semtex,” Lieutenant Jim “Bomber” Marsh said. “There’s no question about that.”

  Batman nodded grimly. If anyone would know, it would be the SEAL officer assigned as Special Forces Advisor to the carrier’s staff. Although the explosion had disintegrated the chunk of Lady of Leisure’s hull in which it had been contained, in doing so it inevitably left behind a particular signature: a distinctive blast pattern, particular chemical deposits, certain bits of debris, all of which were like fingerprints to an expert. Even without specialized demolition training, Batman knew that Semtex was a very popular form of plastic explosive, equivalent to America’s C-4 but much more widely available. Terrorists had made it the favored clay of their bloody art.

  Batman realized that against all odds, he had been clinging to the macabre hope that the explosion had been some kind of accident — the spontaneous combustion of a fuel tank on board the salvaged hull, perhaps. That would be better than the thought that someone had succeeded in sneaking a massive bomb on board Jefferson. No — in getting the U.S. Navy to place the bomb there themselves. My God, if they’d had time to lower the wreckage onto the hangar deck, as they’d planned… with all those parked planes and jet fuel…

  “What about the fuse?” he asked. “How was this damned thing set off?”

  “Can’t be sure,” Bomber said. “What didn’t go up in smoke went over the side. But judging by the sequence of events, it was probably a pressure-sensitive trigger. When the weight of the wreckage settled on deck — boom.”

  “What, you mean the Chinese guessed we’d be putting that particular chunk of wreckage on board Jefferson? That doesn’t seem credible.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Lab Rat said, “Maybe the bomb wasn’t meant for us at all.”

  Batman frowned at him. “Explain yourself.”

  “Maybe its real purpose was to finish off the Lady of Leisure; it wasn’t supposed to go any further than that. Not pressure detonated, but it had a bad time — a dud. We just got… unlucky.”

  Batman closed his eyes briefly. “Unlucky.” He looked at Bird Dog, who had yet to say a word. Batman was ambivalent about this particular officer. At one time he’d described Bird Dog as a “good man” — but that had been before Cuba and all the childish nonsense Bird Dog had pulled down there. Add to that the man’s seeming inability to transpose all his book learning to real-life situations… and you had to wonder, what was the use of including him in these meetings?

  On the other hand, where would Rear Admiral Batman Wayne be if nobody had ever given him a break? And Bird Dog could fly, there was no doubt about that. Lately, he’d even shown some signs of gaining a little maturity.

  “Commander Robinson?” Batman said.

  Bird Dog raised his head, and his hands slid over the tabletop — he seemed at a loss without his usual notebooks and charts. Then he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I’m inclined to agree with Commander Busby. This seems like an awfully complicated way to get a booby trap on board Jefferson. Especially since if damaging us was their goal, why didn’t they do a better job?”

  “A better job?” Batman said. “We lost ten sailors in that blast, Commander. Six aircraft are in the shop, and one Sea Knight is on the bottom of the South China Sea.”

  Bird Dog placed his hands in his lap, but his jaw was set. The guy had moxie, you had to give him that. “I know all that, sir. But it seems to me the damage could have been much worse. They could have loaded more explosives on the wreck, or used a shaped charge or some kind of incendiary chemical. They could have holed the flight deck, blown the parked planes away, taken out the antenna array… they could have tried to really hurt us. But they didn’t. So that tells me they didn’t intend to.”

  Batman stared at him
a moment longer, then turned toward Bomber. Bomber cocked his head and raised one eyebrow. “It’s true, they could have rigged something with a lot more muscle behind it.”

  “Here’s another piece of evidence in that direction,” Lab Rat said. “At the time of the explosion, we detected no increased Chinese military activity in the area. If they’d intended to soften us up with a booby trap, wouldn’t they have taken advantage?”

  “Answering that kind of question is your department, Commander.” Batman caught himself, sighed. “Damn it, it goes against my instincts to think we got damaged by an explosion and it was just a… fluke. You can’t strike back at a damned accident.”

  There were grim nods all around the table.

  “All right. We’ll report that this was an accident of sorts. No retaliation.”

  “Sir…” Bird Dog said. “If I may make one more suggestion.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It might be best if the Chinese don’t even learn about the explosion. Even if it was an accident… well, us being hurt by that bomb… it makes us look stupid.”

  Batman noticed that Lab Rat was nodding. “You mean we lose face.”

  “Face is important to the Chinese,” Bird Dog said. “No point in giving them ammunition against us.”

  Batman nodded. “I’ll make sure to note your suggestion in my report, Bird Dog. It’s a good one.”

  Bird Dog smiled and visibly relaxed.

  But not Batman. Although the “accident” theory should make him feel less threatened, the opposite was true. Because he’d just realized what that theory meant, strategically speaking: They were right back where they’d started. Nowhere.

  The only people who knew what was going on around here were the Chinese.

  Friday, 1 August