1602 local (-8 GMT) Tomcat 306
"Unbelievable," came the mutter over ICS. "They want us to fly through the hurricane?"
"People do it all the time," Hot Rock said, watching his radar, carefully maintaining the interval with the other fighters of the air wing. Nineteen had survived the Chinese assault--better than half. Considering the original odds, that was remarkably fine. So far, all but two had even managed to get a drink from the Texaco. "Storm-chasers, they're called. The trick is to fly with the wind, like we're doing now. It's a little rocky, but nothing we can't handle. And this is a typhoon, by the way. Not a hurricane."
"When did you get so smart?"
"When I stopped listening to you."
1615 local (-8 GMT) Bridge USS Jefferson
"More smoke," Bird Dog said. "More fire. We have to make this look real convincing."
Ten decks below them, flight deck crews were tending burning fifty-gallon drums. A little AVGAS, a bunch of plastics they'd been retaining on board--and finally, something useful from the tedious environmental recycling programs!--and a few flares were all it took to produce geysers of black, acrid smoke whipping around in the stiff wind.
It looked convincing enough to Batman, watching from the bridge. A dense spiral of black smoke and flame unwinding from Jefferson's stern into the winds of the typhoon. It got torn apart quickly, true, but the stain it left on the storm was still unmistakable. And the flames should be visible for fifty miles in this darkness.
Still, he did as Bird Dog suggested, ordering the addition of more plastics and AVGAS to the bonfire. He hoped the damage control teams were heads-up and ready to go with their hoses, just in case.
"You're sure this isn't going to hurt my flight deck any more than it's already been hurt?" he asked. "Remember, at some point, we've got to get all those aircraft back onboard."
Bird Dog didn't even spare him a glance. "It won't do the non-skid much good, but it won't keep planes from cycling, either, no. I mean, once the deck's repaired. And the wind will clear off the deck fast enough once we douse the fire in the drums."
"Good." Batman turned toward Dr. George. "How long before the typhoon really grabs us? Before we're out of sight from the outside?"
George's eyes were bright. He looked pretty happy. "Oh, we're right on the edge of the outer wall right now. It should have us in no more than ten, fifteen minutes. But Admiral, don't you think you're taking a chance by not turning head-on into the wind? I realize this ship is no pushover, but you're talking about a 140-knot wind here, remember."
"Our present course is temporary," Batman said. "We'll turn as soon as we're out of sight of the Chinese. I want them to think we're really hurting."
George's eyes twinkled. "All right!"
Batman turned to the helmsman. "Steady as you go."
"Aye, sir," the helmsman said. His face looked greenish in the sickly light. Or maybe it wasn't the light.
1620 local (-8 GMT) Flanker 67
"It's true," Tai Ling said over the radio. He had been asked to verify the reports made by various other sources, including land-based radar. He hated flying this low, just above the waves, but he had to get under the weather to see at all. And for once, the view was worth the risk. "The carrier's on fire, Looks severe. And the typhoon is catching up with it. Coming right around it ..."
1622 local (-8 GMT) USS Jefferson
Gray-black.
It was as if Jefferson had sunk, and was now sailing through some underwater realm. And fighting it. Corkscrewing, thundering, shaking through dark depths.
Most of the windows on the bridge were simply obscured with rain. The water struck the glass like something solid, with a deafening roar. More than once, Batman had the irrational, but overpowering, feeling that a giant sea, a tsunami, had smashed directly into the bridge. Every now and then there would be an inexplicable gap in the rain, and Batman would see a world of horizontal strips of gray hurtling like comets through utter blackness.
He'd gotten a report that the anemometer--the wind-speed measuring device--had pegged at two hundred miles per hour.
And they hadn't even reached the eye-wall yet. The part of the storm Dr. George described as "the heart of the typhoon."
Batman knew that people were watching him, glancing at him. He kept his expression calm but alert, Forced himself not to cringe when a fresh barrage of wind-powered rain crashed into the windows. To keep his knees loose and relaxed when Jefferson yawed like a tiny skiff in a squall.
What the hell had he agreed to here? What had he gotten them into?
1624 local (-8 GMT) Headquarters, PLA Air Force Hong Kong Garrison
Chin grinned. "And the other ships in the group?"
"They're converging into a tighter formation and moving northeast, Major General," the aide told him as he brought in the latest reports. "It appears they're intending to circle around the typhoon."
Chin nodded. "Their plan is obvious to meet the carrier on the back side of the storm--assuming it makes it that far. We'll be ready for them."
"But shouldn't we attack the escort ships now, before they regroup with the carrier?"
"Before the carrier reappears, yes. But not yet. This is working to our advantage after all. Let the storm do some work for us first. Let it batter the ships and tire their crews. Meanwhile, our men will rest. Only when the time is right will we strike--and when the carrier finally reappears, there will be no escort ships left to protect it.
"Then"--He popped a closed fist against his open palm--"then, we finish the job."
1625 local (-8 GMT) McIntyre Estate HOng Kong SAR
"So what are you planning to do with me, Matthew?" McIntyre asked. "Shoot me?"
Tombstone shook his head. "Have my partner place a shore-to-ship telephone call. Get us a little help out here."
"What kind of help?"
"A SEAL team. With explosives."
He watched McIntyre's face tighten, but felt no pleasure in it. He'd grown up loving this man like a father.
"But first," Tombstone went on, "You're going to make a little call. Whoever's responsible for prepping and launching all those UAVs, you're going to call him and tell him to forget the launch." He saw the color fade from McIntyre's handsome face.
"I can't-"
"Sure you can. There's the Phone right there on your desk. Just dial and talk.
"You look nervous, Uncle," Tombstone said, leaning back in the comfortable chair. "Sun's about to come up. Hope you aren't a vampire or something."
"I'm fine," McIntyre said, but glanced toward the phone.
"What's the matter?" Tombstone demanded. "Need Reassurance about current events? Need to let someone know when to launch the UAVs? What?"
"Nothing, nothing ..."
"Good. Then you won't mind devoting your attention to a little plan of mine."
"Plan?"
"Oh, you'll love it. And it will only cost you nine-tenths of your personal fortune."
1626 local (-8 GMT) TFCC USS Jefferson
"Batman?"
Batman's jaw dropped. Even over the static online, Tombstone's voice was recognizable. "Are you okay, Stony?"
"Depends on what you mean by fine, because that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Any chance you've got a spare SEAL team around?"
"You bet. I don't know if you've checked the weather lately, but they're sure not out on the deck doing calisthenics." Not that there's much deck there. Batman refrained from mentioning any of the other disasters Jefferson was facing.
"I could use them right now. I need a lift home for me and a friend."
"A friend?" Batman felt the beginning of a smile start across his face. If Stony meant what he thought he meant, then that was the only piece of decent news Batman had heard in the last couple of days. "Yeah. Pilot by the name of Lobo needs a lift, too."
Hot damn! Lobo was alive. "Hold on, Stony. Where are you?"
As Tombstone started filling him in, Batman began issuing his own set of orders.
A few moments later, the commander of the SEAL team, Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sykes, was standing tall in front of him. "Hold on, Tombstone. I'm going to put you on the speaker-phone."
After listening for a few moments, the SEAL officer started nodding. "Yes, sir. No problem with that. Easy to do. See you in about an hour."
After Batman punched the telephone off, he turned back to the SEAL officer. "I assume you know what the weather's like. It's not going to be pretty."
The SEAL officer regarded him with the grim smile. "It never is, sir. I figure we go in, extract our two people, then do some damage to McIntyre's facility. Getting back's going to be the problem--we may have to find somewhere to lay low until this blows over."
Batman nodded. "I can find a helo to get you in, but it's going to be risky."
"You get us anywhere near the coast, and we'll make it."
1628 local (-8 GMT) McIntyre Estate Hong Kong SAR
Tombstone replaced the receiver, never taking his eyes off McIntyre. "You mind serving as my hostage for about an hour, Uncle Philip? No, I don't think you do. After all, we're like family, aren't we?"
"Tombstone, as I told you, I never meant to-"
Tombstone crossed the room in three strides. "Never meant what, Uncle Philip?" He grabbed McIntyre by the hair and yanked him up. "Come on, I've got to collect the rest of my team, and you're going to make sure that everything goes smoothly."
"Like you said, we're--family." McIntyre's voice was finally taking on an edge of fear. "For the sake of your father, your uncle--Tombstone, don't do this. There's a place for you in my organization. Have you ever wanted to be rich? Rich beyond your wildest dreams? I can make that happen, Stony. You know I can."
Tombstone's grip on McIntyre's hair tightened. "I'm already richer than you'll ever be, Uncle Philip. My wife, my friends, my career--there's nothing you can offer me."
"I could give you command of your own private squadron," McIntyre said persuasively. "Think of it, Stony. What future have you got left in the Navy now? A series of desk jobs, that's all. Join me, and you'll command the most advanced fighting aircraft in the world. And fly every day if you want. I'll even get that Pitts shipped over here if you want."
Tombstone pulled him close and locked his forearm across McIntyre's windpipe. He squeezed until he felt the man start to sag against him. "I've already got my own squadron, asshole. It's called the United States Navy."
Flight deck, USS Jefferson
Sykes fought his way across the flight deck to the CH-46 helicopter waiting there. While he had managed to sound fairly confident in Admiral Wayne's office, he was now beginning to realize the true insanity of his plan.
Take off in this weather? What was I thinking? There's no way, not a chance in hell.
"Sir? If you'll get your men on board, we'll get going."
Sykes stared in awe at the cool, confident Pilot who turned around to look at him.
"You really think you can do this?" Sikes asked, choking slightly as the wind drove rain down his throat.
The pilot shrugged. "Only one way to find out, isn't there? Now if you and the rest of the gentleman will strap in, we'll find out."
Ten minutes later, Sykes, along with most of his crew, was puking violently. They were airborne--at least he thought they were. They weren't in the water at least. But it would be hard to characterize the wildly gyrating motion of the helicopter as controlled flight.
"Sir? You see anything that looks familiar?" The pilot's voice came over the ICS. "Because according to the GPS, we're there."
Sykes unstrapped, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled forward to the cockpit. Bracing himself between the two seats, he rose unsteadily to his feet. "There," he managed to say, before another wave of nausea swept over him. "That clearing spot."
The pilot nodded agreement. "That's what I thought. Strap back in, sir. This might be a little rough."
Rough. Just before he threw up again, Sykes wondered how the helo Pilot would have characterized the last ten minutes.
USS Jefferson
Batman watched as the helicopter pitched violently, then let the wind sweep it away from the flight deck. Up forward, Tomcats and Hornets were already turning, but the normal noise and vibration associated with flight ops was Completely indistinguishable from the sound and fury of the storm.
"I hope to God that pilot knows what he's doing," Batman muttered to himself. "Hang on, Stony. We're coming for YOU."
McIntyre's Compound
The walls around the compound blocked the wind only slightly. The helo smacked down onto ground so hard it felt like a fixed wing aircraft trapping on the deck of the carrier. The SEALs were thrown violently forward against their restraining harnesses. The wind caught the tail of the helicopter and spun it in a circle.
Before the last motion dampened out, Sykes was up and moving, his men crowding up behind him. They were green, stumbling slightly, but as they'd all learned during BUDS training, the mind could overcome almost any perceived physical limitation. The last time he remembered feeling like this was during hell week.
"Come on," Sykes said, pleased to note that his voice sounded almost steady. "We've got a job to do."
Sykes led the charge into the mansion, as his men fanned out to secure his ingress route. As soon as they saw him, Tombstone and a female pilot with ragged short hair stepped out to meet them.
"Good to see you," the admiral said, his voice flat. "Now let's get the hell out of here."
Sykes whispered into his microphone, recalling the rest of his men. Within seconds, they had formed up again.
"Admiral? I'm not sure we can make it back to the carrier," Sykes said. "This place is relatively defensible--maybe we should hole up and wait for the weather to pass."
The admiral fixed him with a steely glare. "You got in--we can get out." He took the other officer by the elbow, his grip surprisingly light. "What about it, Lobo?"
The other pilot was shivering violently. "Let me talk to that helo jockey. If he won't fly us out of here, I will."
They ran back out to the helo, fighting the wind and the rain, and Sykes was almost glad to be back inside the metal fuselage. At least it was dry. "The admiral would like to return to the carrier," he said formally.
The pilot nodded. "Why not? Can't be any worse than the ride in, now, can it?"
Five minutes later, Sykes knew the pilot had lied. The noise from the explosion that destroyed the McIntyre compound was lost in the storm.
1650 local (-8 GMT) Bridge USS Jefferson
"Yep, this is it," Dr. George said. "Welcome to the eye of the storm."
Batman stared in awe through the starboard windows. The ship was still very unsteady under his feet, plunging and twisting through seas that rose as high as the flight deck on all sides; but the seas were noticeably less regular and aligned than they had been before. Their shape and direction was now chaotic and aimless, so that in some places several seas converged into a single mountainous one; while in another location they canceled one another out, smooth flat area that soon heaved up again. creating a Everything else in the outside world had changed, too. The eye-wall of the typhoon was a black wall shot through with the silvery filigree of disintegrating mist; it curved out of sight to either side, vanishing into gray-white haze. straight up, it curved in overhead to form an open-topped dome. Sunlight fell through the hole. Alien sunlight, warm and gauzy and surreal, strained through a high layer of haze.
And high up in that haze, circling fighters. The Vipers, running on fumes, waiting in the eye of the storm.
"This is really weird," someone said.
Batman clutched his concentration back to himself and turned to Coyote. "Get crews to work on that flight deck," he said. "Now. We have to have at least one cat operational in time to get our birds into the air before this storm runs us ashore. Is that understood?"
"Aye aye, sir." Coyote wheeled away.
Dr. George was still staring out the window, face enraptured. "I'v
e never seen the eye from this angle before," he said. He pointed toward the sun. "I'm always up there, in a storm-chaser."
"I wish that's where I was right now," Batman said with feeling.
1633 local (-8 GMT) Flanker 67
Tai Ling was tired of circling around in the brutal conditions. Although the forward half of the typhoon had crashed ashore hours ago, to begin the process of its own disintegration, the rear wall remained intact, the air behind it as visciously windy and rough as always. But in this vicinity was where the American fleet had gathered to await the--possible--emergence of its flagship, the carrier Jefferson; so here the massed squadrons of PLA fighters and attack aircraft would also wait. The majority of the fighters were staying high, of course, completely out of sight of the ships below. Low-flying spotter planes would alert the squadron when the carrier finally limped out of the-
Tai started as his radar-lock alarm went off. His screen, fogged as it was with false images, abruptly showed several clear blips, Then more and more. Instantly Tai registered the signatures of SM-1 missiles, SAMs carried on American guided missile destroyers and frigates.
Tai and the rest of the squadron pilots went into defensive mode, dumping radar-confusion chaff and flying erratic routes. The usual techniques, but far more effective than usual in these weather conditions, where radar images were already degraded by air temperature gradations and electrical activity. Not one missile found a victim. Tai watched the one intended for him hurdle past, a fast-moving yellow blur in the clouds.
"Regroup and start down," he said over the radio. "I guess we can assume the carrier is about to show up." His heart pounded with expectation. To think, he was about to contribute to the first sinking of an American aircraft Carrier since the end of the Second World War. A proud day indeed. The first day of a new era in the South China Sea.
The massed squadrons found one another again in the clouds, and began to move downward through the layers of cloud and rain. Tai had to fight to keep from staring through the canopy, watching for the American battle group to reappear.
His alarm went off again. He searched his radar screen. Nothing but trash images, and the stronger blips of his nearest squadron partners. Then- Out of the darkness and rain-battered air, a Tomcat thundered past him in afterburner. Tai jerked hard to the left by reflex, turning his tail to the Tomcat's jet wash. The storm caught his wing, started to flip him into a barrel roll before he corrected.
Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON Page 25
