1100 local (-8 GMT)
Kai Tak Airport
Kowloon
Dr. George hurried across the tarmac of the private jet section of Kai Tak airport, his briefcase bumping rhythmically against his thigh. Today he’d gotten stuck in traffic trying to leave downtown Hong Kong. Those damned protestors again, except this time the signs read NO WAR IN HONG KONG and KEEP THE PEACE, AMERICA and, an apparent favorite, HONG KONG IS NOT BAGDHAD. People were marching in the streets, waving their signs and chanting. Armed soldiers in green uniforms had been standing around, looking grave.
But not as grave as George felt. This whole trip had been a waste of time. One corporation after another, and every time the same result. During his last meeting at a huge conglomerate called MIL, several of the Board members had turned and glanced through the windows that faced toward the South China Sea. George knew they were examining the clear blue sky, the handful of puffy white clouds, the limp flags on surrounding skyscrapers, the lack of whitecaps on Victoria Harbor. They were thinking about the television weather reports, which predicted only normal spring squalls on the open sea. In other words, the executives were observing that there was no hint at all a Super Typhoon was imminent. Or even remote.
Naturally they’d been unconvinced, and now it was too late. George’s time was up. Not far away was the converted Gulfstream IV business jet that was the last NOAA aircraft in all the Pacific — and after today it, too, would be heading East. After today, Dr. Alonzo George would be grounded in Guam, in his little office with its earthbound instruments. No more soaring into the stupendous gray world of the typhoon. No more ferreting out its most intimate secrets, including what exactly made it decide to rise out of its saltwater bottle like an evil genie in the first place.
He already knew so much. As he’d told the Board, with Valkyrie he could predict the size and location of developing tropical storms four to seven days in advance. Well, okay, he could predict with reasonable accuracy one time out of four. But that wasn’t bad, and given another season or two of intensive reasearch, he’d improve on both the hit-to-miss ratio and the precision of qualitative data. He’d make them damned near perfect.
The Gulfstream’s pilot appeared in the doorway and raised a hand to his mouth. “Better hurry, Dr. George!” he shouted. “Look at the sky! Looks like a big storm’s coming!” He laughed.
George scowled and climbed the steps, which were formed by the lowered door itself, and squeezed into what used to be the passenger compartment of the jet. This space, intended to contain a few comfortable lounge chairs and perhaps a wet bar, was stuffed with meteorological equipment: dropsonde console, anemometer, barometer, gradient thermometer, three separate radar screens, and real-time satellite monitoring gear.
George squeezed into the seat by the dropsonde console.
The pilot was buckling himself into his seat up front. “I don’t know, Dr. George,” the co-pilot said, turning and grinning. “You sure you want to take off in all this wind?”
“Enough, already; just fly the plane.”
Ingrates. George longed for the heyday of NOAA, when there would have been seven scientists on the crew, and the plane itself would have been supplied by the U.S. Navy. A large, roomy military aircraft, built to take a beating. But the Navy had pulled out of the storm-chasing business in 1975 — Dr. George still wasn’t sure why, since who should be more concerned about oceanic storm systems? — leaving only the Air Force to provide transport. And the Air Force was reverting more and more to using converted civilian craft like this Gulfstream.
Still, right now he’d sell his soul to keep this little plane, even if he had to operate every piece of equipment himself.
Outside, the plane’s twin turbines began to whine.
“You all strapped in back there now, Doc?” the pilot asked. “Don’t want you to get tossed around by any severe turbulence.”
George sighed.
The jet eased into motion and taxied briskly toward the runway. Through the window appeared the blue expanse of Kowloon Bay with the skyscrapers of central Hong Kong on the far side. George gazed at the skyline glumly, wondering how much damage the oncoming typhoon would do to those glittering structures. Then the plane was on the runway and accelerating, wheels thumping, engines squealing. Next came a soft floating sensation, followed by the clunk of the landing gear retracting. Out the window, downtown Hong Kong reappeared, foreshortened as the plane banked.
The intercom clicked on. “Your hostess will be back shortly to serve the beverage of your choice.”
Again, Dr. George lamented the end of Navy involvement in NOAA research. Forget the larger, more comfortable planes — at least the damned pilots showed some respect.
Swiveling the chair, he gazed out the left-side windows, toward mainland China. Blade-shaped mountains receded into haze as the plane headed out toward international airspace. Wistfully, Dr. George wondered if the People’s Republic might be interested in investing in typhoon research. Probably not; they were —
“Holy shit!” The voice of the pilot carried above the whistle of air and turbines. “Look at that. What the hell is that?”
Up front, the co-pilot was leaning across the aisle, almost in the pilot’s lap, staring out the left-side window. George turned to the same direction and squinted into the sunlight. After a moment he spotted another aircraft out there, moving along on a roughly parallel course at a distance of a half mile or so. That was a bit close, but Hong Kong was a major hub of Asian air traffic; the sky was always full of planes coming and…
Wait. George looked closer. He had spent a lot of time in and around aircraft, but he had never seen anything like this. First of all, the plane had no distinct fuselage, but rather a sort of thickened area in the center. Nor was there a tail. The overall shape reminded him of a manta ray with its wingtips upturned, or perhaps a pregnant boomerang. But one thing was unmistakable: The nearest winglet was emblazoned with the red star of the People’s Republic of China.
The Gulfstream’s co-pilot began speaking in the kind of low, cadenced voice that George had come to associate with a radio transmission. At about the same time, the strange plane fell back. As it did so, George glimpsed a narrow door or hatch sliding open on its belly. Then the plane banked behind the Gulfstream, out of sight. George swiveled around and peered out the window, waiting for the plane to reappear on that side. It didn’t.
On the eastern horizon pearly-white castles of a child’s imagination loomed into the sky. Cumulonimbus clouds; thunderheads. Ranks and ranks of them hovering over the South China Sea and the Pacific Ocean, thirstily sucking moisture out of the lower atmosphere and vaulting it to cooler heights. Exchanging hot for cold and cold for hot, firing up the engine of a typhoon.
Only a matter of time. Two days at most; typhoons were capable of leaping up almost overnight. Why couldn’t anyone but he seem to understand —
There was a shout from the cockpit, this one as loud as a trumpet blast: “Incoming!” At the same moment, the Gulfstream dipped violently to the left. George’s head banged against the dropsonde console. There was a brilliant flash of light. A concussion slapped his ears. Grabbing the sides of the chair, he tried to pull himself upright. Lightning strike? He’d been in planes hit by lightning before… but the sky was clear… wasn’t it?
He shook his head, then glanced at the window. The dark of the sea swung across it, as if the whole world had tilted. A moment later the sky reappeared. Then the water. Then the sky, now divided by a garland of black smoke. Shouts and curses echoed back from the cockpit, accompanied by an electronic shrieking.
The ocean reappeared. It was closer now; he could see the mottled ranks of waves rolling shoreward. The plane bucked, shivered. Dr. George realized he could see sunlight coming through the wall near the tail. As he watched, the crack widened.
“What’s going on?” he shouted blearily. He tried to stand, but his seat belt yanked him back.
Now he could finally understand the co-pi
lot’s words, a high-pitched chant: “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday…”
Through the window, water swung into view again. Now it was close enough to show white birds racing across the waves.
“Oh, my,” Dr. Alonzo George said. “Oh my, oh my.” Pivoting his seat toward the front of the plane, he bowed forward as far as his belly would let him, and placed his hands over his head.
1130 local (-8 GMT)
Office of the Commander
People’s Liberation Army Air Force
Hong Kong SAR
Wei Ao lowered the telephone receiver from his ear and looked over at the man sitting across the desk from him. Until the interruption of the emergency call, Wei and Yeh Lien, the Political Commissar, had been having a very dry discussion about restructuring political training sessions for off-duty PLA soldiers. At least, that was what the discussion seemed to be about, but Wei had his doubts. Yeh seemed overly eager to increase the number of warnings about the dabbling in the black market. He kept stressing the importance of “clean spirit, Communist spirit.”
Now, however, Wei was very glad to have the commissar present. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, he said, “Comrade, I have just been informed that an American military jet departing Kai Tak Airport has been shot down.”
“Shot down?” Yeh Lien straightened in his seat. “An American military jet? What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. It was a NOAA aircraft — which is to say, an American Air Force jet supposedly used to study weather. Its pilot reported being paced by an unknown aircraft with a red star on the wing. He then reported missiles being fired, and began to go down. He has since vanished off radar and is presumed to have crashed.”
Yeh closed his eyes. “This American plane — it was not armed?”
“No. Many times these kinds of planes are used for spying, so they are not armed. It would ruin the illusion.”
“I assume you can identify who fired at it?”
“No. It was not one of ours.”
Yeh’s eyes opened. “But you said — ”
“Anyone can paint a red star on a wing. Comrade, the American pilot reported that his attacker resembled a ‘stealth fighter.’ To the best of my knowledge, the PLA Air Force possesses no such aircraft. Also, our own radar detected only the smallest return, other than that of the business jet, in that area. They would have taken it to be a bird or temperature anomaly if it weren’t for what happened later. And finally, all PLA aircraft have reported in and been accounted for. None is, or was, in the vicinity of the attack.”
“What exactly are you telling me, Comrade Major General?”
“I’m telling you we need to find out what really happened.” Wei leaned forward. “There’s only one way to do that. I want to route a squadron of fighters to the area to search for this mystery plane and the American jet. Immediately.”
Yeh looked uncomfortable. “You say the American went down outside the twelve-mile limit?”
“That’s the radar indication. We won’t know for sure until we get someone out there.”
“Perhaps…perhaps we should consult with General Ming before — ”
“Ming is on his way back to Beijing. By the time we contact him, the enemy will be gone. We must act now.” Wei was pleased. Here was the perfect opportunity for him to show Beijing how dedicated he was to his job, while at the same time sharing responsibility for the final decision with his own Political Commissar.
But Yeh just stared out the window.
“Comrade,” Wei said. “Radar indicates there are currently no conventional American aircraft in the vicinity of the crash — but that won’t last. If we wish to get there before the Americans cordon off the site like they did last time, we must act now. I’m asking for your concurrence in this decision.”
At last Yeh looked back at him. “Not an entire squadron; it would look… aggressive. Some smaller number, perhaps.”
Wei carefully kept the sneer off his face. Evidently living in Hong Kong had taught the Political Commissar the finer points of a very Capitalistic practice: haggling.
“Very well,” he said, and reached for the phone.
1200 local (-8 GMT)
CVIC
USS Jefferson
“No doubt about it,” Lab Rat said. “A small USAF jet, departing north out of Hong Kong, was taken out with an air-to-air missile fired at close range. This was a unarmed transport plane, sir. Whatever fired the shot dropped to the deck and disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘whatever fired the shot’?”
“Well, Admiral, the contact was… odd.”
“Don’t dance around the question. Tell me.”
“It was an extremely weak return; nothing like your average fighter plane — especially one carrying missiles. Also, it never switched on its own radar. Not any radar, passive or fire-control. Nothing. It came up, shot off a couple of heat-seekers, and disappeared again.”
“But it was described as a PLA aircraft, correct?”
“Well… that’s the other thing.” The intelligence officer pointed at the icons shifting over the blue screen. “The American pilot did say the bogey had PLA markings, but as you can see, right now eight Flankers are converging on the site; half of those are the newest model. It’s weird; if the PLA is responsible for taking out the Air Force plane, why all this activity now?”
“So everybody will ask exactly that question. Please tell me this shoot-down happened on our side of the property line.”
“Yes, sir. Barely.”
Batman turned to the flag TAO. “Get SAR and air cover out there now. I want that area sealed off.”
“It might be too late for that, sir,” Lab Rat said. “This site is quite a bit north of our present position. Our closest assets are a pair of Hornets and a pair of F-14s, but they’re all at least ten minutes out. No way they can get there before the PLA.”
“Then have them get there second and make it clear we won’t be cut out of this. Launch the Alert Five and Alert Fifteen birds, too; we want to match the PLA plane for plane as soon as we can. We’re not going to start anything, but we want it understood we’re in this game.”
Lab Rat stared at the blue screen. “No one could have lived through that.”
Batman shook his head. “That’s not how we do SAR. If they are, we’re not going to make them wait around for a certain helicopter to show up.”
1205 local (-8 GMT)
South China Sea
Dr. George awoke to the feel of warm water sweeping around his ankles. What was this — Monsoon rains leaking into his office again? He started to sit erect, but a twisting pain arced through his lower back and he cried out. After a moment’s rest he tried again, more slowly.
My, his office was a mess. No, not his office… this looked more or less like the rear compartment of the NOAA Gulfstream that had been flying him back to Guam from Hong Kong.
Then he remembered: The strange-looking fighter plane, the explosion… and the rear of the Gulfstream breaking open like an eggshell.
The water was swirling around his calves now. He looked forward, into the cockpit. The windscreens were both opaque, shattered. He could see the right shoulder of the pilot, the left shoulder of the co-pilot, leaning together across the central aisle. Neither was moving.
“Hey!” George called, and winced at the pain in his back. “Hey! Hey, are you all right?”
No response. The water was now up to his knees. A small jellyfish floated past. The plane remained remarkably level, though, as if the sea were entering with equal speed from both ends. He looked out the nearest window just as a low swell rolled past, its crown sweeping along the bottom of the glass. Water surged into the plane, soaking his thighs.
“Oh God.” He fumbled with the release catch on his seat belt. Saw fresh blood on his hands. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. “Oh God, oh God…”
Finally, the catch popped and he yanked himself out of the tight seat,
groaning at spasms in his back. Something was wrong with his right leg, too; it would barely support him. Bracing his weight against various pieces of equipment, he yanked himself toward the cockpit. “Hey! Hey, guys!” No response. The water was up to his knees now.
At the cockpit entrance he halted. The nose of the Gulfstream had been crushed; the instrument panel looked like it had slammed back like a horizontal guillotine blade, chopping deeply into the chests of both pilots. One glance was all George needed, and all he could stand. He turned, pushed himself back against the water.
The Gulfstream’s door was designed to hinge outward along its bottom edge, creating a staircase. He reached for the handle that would break the seal, then thought of something and groped into one of the overhead compartments for a life vest. It looked pathetically small; how could he ever wrestle it on in these confined quarters?
And what would happen when he opened that door? He thought of the physics of it: The water would rush in, and its mounting weight would roll the plane in the direction of the flow, at least at first. The entire doorway opening might dip beneath the surface before George could swim out against the current. On the other hand, the plane’s wings — assuming they were still attached — would resist the roll, perhaps buying him enough time to escape before the door was submerged. On the other hand — how many hands was that? — what if the incoming water was moving so fast he couldn’t push against it anyway?
Water swirled around his crotch, leaching out his body heat. He started to shiver. No time to argue with himself; the plane was almost half sunk as it was. At any moment it might choose a direction to rock and start diving for the bottom of the South China Sea — and all his options would be gone.
He grabbed the door handle, braced himself, and put pressure on it. Screamed as his back let out an electric bolt of pain.
He’d forgotten one hand: The airframe was warped; the door jammed. It wouldn’t budge.
The water was up to his waist, tendrils creeping up his shirt to his armpits.
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 11
