He was furious with himself. Okay, so he'd never been trained as a spy. That didn't excuse his climbing right into the trap of the enemy. So now he was a prisoner of the Red Chinese--and nobody on the outside knew it. At least, he assumed they didn't, unless his captors had chosen to reveal their hand. If not, then it would be at least a couple of days before any of his friends or contacts began to worry about him.
"Idiot," he wheezed at the floor. "Moron."
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the blankets in the corner move. He whirled. "Admiral Magruder?" a voice said, and a figure rose up, pale in the gloom. The blankets fell away, and the figure staggered toward him.
Tombstone's eyes widened. "Lobo?"
1438 local (-8 GMT) Admiral's Conference Room USS Jefferson
"So Washington would like me to get a look at this new bogey, if at all possible," Tomboy concluded. "Based on our radar data, the attacking unit could have been a Combat UAV with its own warhead, A Combat UAV, or CUAV, possibly carrying multiple missiles, has really got the Pentagon sweating. They want to know more about it, and they want to know now."
She looked around the table. Besides her, the meeting was attended by Batman, Coyote, Lab Rat and Bird Dog. She found comfort in their familiar faces. She also felt the slight buzz in her head that accompanies west-to-east jet-lag, and struggled to remain focused.
Batman drummed his fingers once across the top of the table. "I take it you were impressed by Dr. George's story, then."
"I'd call him a credible witness."
"So would I. The question is, what do you want to do about it? What exactly is your plan?"
She took a seat and leaned across the top of the table. "I need to fly as near the coast as possible, in an unescorted Tomcat, to see if it's possible to lure this bogey out. If it engages, fine. If we get the chance to shoot it down, even better. But the main goal is to gather as much data on it as we can. If the Chinese have one of these things, they probably have more, and we need to know how to face them in the future."
"Oh, that's all you want to do?" Batman said sardonically, one eyebrow raised. "Fly around and play bait for a basically unknown enemy aircraft?" The eye beneath the peaked brow was socketed in bruised-looking flesh. Tomboy wondered when was the last time Batman had gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. "Plus," he said, "I assume you want to use one of my aircraft."
"Those are my orders," Tomboy said. She knew Batman was already aware of this, but let him have his say. He deserved the opportunity to vent.
"Well, I don't like it," he snapped. "At best, it's likely to be a wild-goose chase, or should I say a wild Tomcat chase? At worst, it could cost me a pilot, and a certain RIO on loan from the Pentagon, not to mention a perfectly good F-14."
"The Pentagon considers this worth a try, Admiral," Tomboy said quietly.
"Well, What about the storm? There's no sign of the typhoon Dr. George keeps talking about, but the barometer is falling, and the weather definitely is picking up. Tell me, how do you expect to go bogey-baiting if visibility goes to hell?"
"That's what radar's for, Batman."
"Not with this thing; this thing is stealthy."
"The Pentagon considers this worth a try," Tomboy repeated, in exactly the same tone of voice as the previous time.
Batman sighed. "Wouldn't want to argue with them, would we?"
1740 local (-8 GMT) PLA prison cell
Dinner was dried-out white rice with a few pieces of fatty pork in it, and water. This was passed into the cell by an unarmed PLA soldier while another PLA soldier, this one carrying an AK-47, stood guard behind him. Lobo understood the logic Jumping the inner guard would do no good; he had no weapons to steal.
She glanced at Admiral Magruder. Tombstone. He stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed and his scowling face as unyielding as a granite carving. Although she hated to admit it even to herself, especially since in the final analysis result he was just as powerless as she, nevertheless she felt almost desperately happy he was here. Before his arrival, every time the door opened she had pressed herself against the back wall or burrowed into the pile of musty blankets in a pathetic attempt to hide. She had expected, each time, to see a long file of PLA soldiers waiting outside while the first one came in, smiling, laughing, reaching for her in the darkness.
She knew there would be nothing Tombstone could do if the soldiers came for her in that way--nothing any one person could do--but still, his presence was welcome.
At least she had someone to talk to.
He'd already told her how he ended up here, and she had described being picked up by the PLA boat after punching out of her Tomcat and floating around for a while. She'd told him about Handyman, and saw the pain cross the admiral's face.
Now, rice bowl in hand, she asked the one thing she hadn't dared bring up yet. "What do you think they're going to do with us, Admiral?"
"Tombstone," he said absently, squatting on his heels and eating the rice with his fingers. They had been given no utensils, not even chopsticks. "I have no idea. Most likely they'll question us, then use us for propaganda or bargaining chips."
"And what are we supposed to do?"
"You know the drill from SERE school. We hold out as long as we can with name, rank and serial number. When it gets too bad, do as little damage as possible. Make them work for every bit of information. If they force you to read a confession, do it in a way that makes it clear you're reciting a speech someone else wrote for you."
She nodded, remembering the wooden, almost comically insincere "confessions" given by the few allied pilots who had been shot down over Baghdad and subsequently captured.
She ate some rice. Her throat was so tight she could barely swallow it, even with a chaser of water. She didn't want to ask the next question, but felt she had no choice "Do you think they'll question us?"
He turned toward her, his eyes unexpectedly kind in the hard face. "I expect so. But if it's torture you're worried about, I can't say what they'll do. It's best not to dwell on it."
The dirty hands ripping at her flight suit, at her breasts, tearing away her underwear ...
She swallowed, lowered her head. She would not give in to this fear. Not ever.
"They'll come get us, Lobo. You can count on that."
Lobo looked up at him, despair in her eyes. "Like they got your father out?"
Just then, the door clunked open, and a grinning Chinese soldier walked in. "All finish eating?" he asked. "Good, good. We have question for you. You first, lady. You come with us now."
1800 local (-8 GMT) Sick Bay USS Jefferson
Hot Rock sat on a chair beside Catwoman's bed and stared down at her. "How are you doing?" he asked.
"Okay." Her voice was soft and dopey, her face as purple and mottled as an overripe plum. "I'll be NPQ for a few days, then I'll be back on the flight schedule."
"Yeah, I know. Busting my ass again." He started to reach for her hand, then changed his mind. She looked like one huge wound, and that was only the parts not covered by sheets. The worst stuff was hidden. From what he'd heard, it was amazing she was alive at all. And fly again? Maybe. Probably not.
No thanks to you, a voice snorted in his mind.
He licked his lips. "Catwoman, I just wanted to tell you I'M Sorry I Wasn't more help out there. They had me boxed in. There was nothing I could do."
Her eyes rotated toward him. "I'm sure everybody did their best."
He nodded. "That's right. Bird Dog did a hell of a job flying back in. Half his wing was shot off, but he refused to dump the plane for fear of losing you. Did you know that?"
Her lips curved up briefly. "I always said he was too stupid to be a pilot."
"I just wish I could have done more to help, that's all," he said again. He sounded so sincere he startled himself.
She gave a brief nod. Her eyelids fluttered. "Maybe next time."
"Sure. Next time." He watched her eyes close, her breathing slow down and deepen. "Nex
t time it will be different, you'll see."
There was no reaction. Hot Rock got to his feet and walked quietly around the privacy curtain. As he was passing the only other occupied bed in the hospital, a voice cried cheerfully, "Excuse me, young man, but could you tell me what the weather's like this morning?"
2100 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 307 South China Sea
"Sorry about the rough air, Tomboy." Bird Dog's voice sounded soft and pensive over the ICS. If Tomboy hadn't seen him get into the front seat, she wouldn't have believed it was Bird Dog Robinson up there.
"I doubt-you had-anything to do with-the weather," she said from behind her radar hood, her voice cracking every few words as the Tomcat hit a particularly violent spot in the sky. Although no RIO could afford to be prone to motion sickness, she was definitely feeling greenish.
"Dr. George says this is just the start of the bad weather," Bird Dog said. "He predicts a super-typhoon. What do you think?"
"I'm no meteorologist geek."
"Me neither. According to Lab Rat, the National Weather Service is predicting no more than a mild tropical storm."
"Bird Dog, you-seem distracted today. Are you-keeping your eyes peeled-up there?"
"Yes. Sorry. Didn't mean to babble. Catwoman's going to make it. I saw her this morning."
"That's great news, Bird Dog." Which was true. Still, he was babbling; combined with the roller-coaster air, it made concentration difficult. Tomboy's fingers moved over the radar's controls, each bump and knob identifiable by its unique shape. One advantage of the rowdy atmosphere was that there was relatively little air traffic today. Unfortunately, so far none of it looked suspicious.
She was losing hope for a quick encounter with the bogey. Bird Dog had made innumerable passes up and down the coastline of the SAR, and had seen and passed both commercial and military aircraft, but so far nothing had challenged them. Not even one of the ubiquitous PLA fighters that periodically moved in disturbingly close, then peeled away again.
Tomboy was painfully aware of how helpless they were out here, without support and armed with nothing but a cannon. On the other hand, their wings-clean configuration probably explained why the PLA was not pressing them too hard.
She realized she'd lost all her concentration. She had the feeling Bird Dog wasn't adequately focused on doing his job today. She leaned back, extracting her face from the hood, and winced as the sunlight crashed in on her through the greenhouse bubble of the canopy. She flipped down the tinted visor of her helmet. "Bird Dog?" she said over ICS.
"Yes?"
"Want to talk about it?" It was easier to converse in a level voice when you could see around you, even if the bounces themselves remained unpredictable.
"Talk about what?" Bird Dog asked in an elaborately casual voice.
"What happened the other day, at the end of the ACM. You aren't feeling guilty about coming back when other people didn't make it, are you? Because-"
"It's not that. I know there was nothing I could do, the way my plane was acting."
"Then what's eating you? Your backseater's going to be okay."
"Yeah, but ... I'm kind of worried about Lobo. She took that missile for me."
"She was just doing her job, Bird Dog. Besides, I understand she's still MIA, which means there's hope."
"Maybe. But it also means if somebody did pick her up, it must have been the wrong people." Then, in a fast, gruff voice, he added, "She saved my ass, man. I owe her."
Tomboy was silent, frowning. Then her eyes widened. Could it be ...?
But the idea that had occurred to her wasn't something she could say out loud, not on a mission, not even over the privacy of ICS. "Tell you what," she said. "When we get through with this gig, I want to talk to you about something."
"Okay," he said. "Speaking of finishing, we probably ought to head back, unless you want to call up a Texaco for refueling."
"I don't think so. But tell you what. When you make your turn, let it get you closer to the twelve-mile limit. Let's really push it on the way back, see if it stirs up any wasps."
"Roger."
The Tomcat leaned into a slow, smooth bank. Tomboy looked to the west, where the mountains of China winked in and out of sight between billowing piles of cloud clearly visible in the full moonlight. Then, instinctively doing her job as backseater, she turned and looked over her shoulder to check their tail. And suddenly she was shouting, "Bogey at five o'clock! Bogey at five o'clock! It's right on our ass, Bird Dog!"
"Countermeasures," he said in a steely voice.
"Right." She calmed herself and twisted in her seat as far as possible, trying to keep the thing behind them in view at all times. Meanwhile, her hands did their work unseen. She didn't bother glancing at the radar screen again, either; if it hadn't detected the bogey creeping up behind them, it undoubtedly didn't display it now.
In fact, she could barely see the aircraft even now. If the shadow of a passing cloud hadn't wrapped over it briefly as it banked behind the Tomcat, She wouldn't have noticed it in the first place.
But what she could see jibed exactly with Dr. George's description a flattened, narrow manta ray of an aircraft, with angled winglets in place of conventional tail surfaces. Distances were difficult to judge, but the bogey couldn't be more than a quarter-mile behind the Tomcat.
"Hold your turn," she said to Bird Dog as she groped for her camera. "Don't let him know we've noticed him."
"Swell."
She got the camera out and started snapping. The bogey stayed exactly where it was relative to the Tomcat, as if both aircraft were sliding along on the same set of rails.
"This is sure fun," Bird Dog said, "but I'd be happy to go buster anytime you say."
"Another few seconds. Hold the turn, hold the turn; the bank gives me a better view of-"
Her words were sliced off by the insistent beeping of the ESM gear. "Fire control radar!" she cried, but even as she dropped the camera and reached for the chaff-release controls, she knew it was too late. A corona of flame appeared beneath the bogey as a missile's rocket booster ignited and hurled the warhead forward at speeds far greater than human reflex.
For a half heartbeat, Tomboy actually saw it a white circle trailing flame and smoke, growing larger as if by magic.
Then she was staring only at the smoke trail, just below them. What- She slammed back in her seat as Bird Dog hit the afterburners. "Missed!" he shouted over ICS, and the Tomcat cranked into a neck-snapping left turn. "Sucker missed us!"
With her helmet locked against the inside of the canopy by centrifugal force, Tomboy watched the missile's smoke trail billowing away into the distance, puncturing each cloud that stood in its way, lacing them together. Then she saw what lay beyond the clouds. "My god," she said.
"What? What?"
"It's heading straight for Hong Kong."
2110 local (-8 GMT) Hangar Bay USS Jefferson
"Hey, Bubba."
Franklin smelled the stink of diesel fumes, and turned slowly. "I'm busy, Orell."
"Know who I saw down here earlier? Bird Dog."
Franklin wiped his hands on a rag. "So?"
"He was checkin' this bird out real careful. I mean real careful. Know what he told Beaman?"
Franklin just kept wiping his hands.
"He said he was glad he was takin' some other Tomcat up today. And he didn't want you touching his plane again."
"I didn't do nothin' wrong," Franklin said, jaw clenched. He was getting sick of saying that.
"Sure, of course," Orell said. "Lots of you techies work on these planes, right? Coulda been anybody, doin' anything. 'Course, they're not all the same color as you. Shit brown Wonder why Bird Dog is so sure you're the one fucked up?" And with a wink, Orell released the tractor's brake and moved off across the hangar.
13.
Friday, 8 August
1400 local (-8 GMT) PLA compound
Tombstone was squatting on his heels next to the wall, face upturned to the intermittent sunlig
ht, when he heard the blockhouse door open. He lowered his head and looked down. Two guards were escorting Lobo into the compound. Her legs looked wobbly, but she stood in place when the guards released her.
Refusing to acknowledge the screaming pain in his own muscles, Tombstone rose to his feet and walked toward her. The guards eyed him disdainfully for a moment, then turned and walked back inside the blockhouse. They closed the door behind them. That left only the armed guards on top of the wall. Two of them. More than enough.
"How are you?" Tombstone asked when he got close enough for Lobo to hear him.
She raised her head. Her face was unmarked but very pale. He was pleased to see that her eyes smoldered from their bruised sockets. "They beat me with a rubber hose. I thought the Chinese were supposed to be masters of subtlety."
"Maybe that was back before the Revolution. Follow me." He turned and led her toward the center of the compound, which wasn't much larger than a good-sized patio. On one side was the blockhouse, a tall stone building with barred windows and a steeply-slanted roof of brown tiles. From either end of this extended the high stucco walls that formed the enclosure. Set in the wall opposite the blockhouse was a tall, arch-shaped doorway and a pair of solid wooden doors. Teak, Tombstone thought--one of the hardest woods in the world.
Above the walls, the occasional crown of a tree swept into view, tossed by a strong wind Tombstone could hear but not feel. Beyond that, the sky was crowded with towering thunderheads. Below, the ground was covered in crushed white limestone. There was no dirt, no trash. In fact, the surroundings were generally not all that grim. Throw around some lawn chairs, potted palms and maybe a Jacuzzi--and open the doors, of course--and this place could be almost pleasant.
Nothing like the underground rooms. Especially the one with the bolted-down chair fitted with leather restraints.
He halted in the middle of the compound and turned toward Lobo. "Turn your face up," he said. "Get some sun while it's still there."
"Don't you remember your training? Make your face visible to spy satellites, just in case."
Although he couldn't see her now, he heard her speak softly "I keep forgetting they can actually I.D. us that way."
Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON Page 19
