The cabbie shouted something in Vietnamese, his voice high and throbbing. Arms waving, he switched to English. “Where are police? Need order! Need order now!”
George tried to close out the racket and concentrate on his speech. Mr. Chairman, members of the Board… you operate a major shipping company here. How much income does your business lose annually to storm damage, time lost to bad weather, and high insurance premiums?
The irony was, studying typhoons was a perfect way to increase knowledge of hurricanes. Both phenomena had the same causes, but typhoons tended to be larger in size and scope, and to live longer as well. This made them the ideal subjects for detailed study.
If NOAA would only give him a bit more time… a year, two years… he could hand them the Holy Grail of meteorological research: a truly reliable method of predicting unborn storms. But no, they —
The cabbie shouted again, slamming down simultaneously on brakes and horn. “Traffic very bad today!” he cried. “Very bad! See all people? See signs? Is protess today. You know protess? Is to complain to Chinese about boat sink. Hong Kong people always protess!”
My system, Dr. George recited in his head, once it’s finalized, will allow your business to operate throughout typhoon season with complete confidence. This will give you considerable advantage over your competitors, who will continue to be subject to the vagaries of…
His own government hadn’t been the only one to turn him down. After NOAA informed him they would be shifting the majority of his personnel and all of the Guam station’s research aircraft to the Atlantic, he’d immediately started contacting other Pacific Rim nations for possible funding.
He’d started with Japan, but they’d bowed out on him. Literally. Ditto the Filipinos, South Koreans, Taiwanese, Indonesians… all citing Asia’s economic woes.
Which left only Hong Kong. If George failed here, Project Valkyrie would also fail. He had seven meetings arranged over the next two days — far and away the most critical two days of his career.
And that cabdriver just wouldn’t shut up.
“Is no good!” the cabbie shouted. “Protess cause big trouble! No good! You see!”
After being rebuffed by governments, George had had what he’d believed to be a stroke of genius: going straight to large, private businesses for financing.
Gentlemen, for an initial investment of only 1.6 million dollars, you will reap savings of tens of millions annually….
Unfortunately, so far every corporation, conglomerate and guild he’d contacted had been just as shortsighted as their governmental counterparts. Money was tight these days, they pointed out with elaborate regret. As for George’s promise to come up with a nearly-flawless storm prediction system, well, they’d heard that before….
“Chinese get angry!” the cabbie shouted. “They say, ‘You want trouble? Okay, we give trouble! Sink more than American yacht.’ Never trust Chinese!”
George gave up. For the first time he realized that the traffic around them really had congealed, even by Hong Kong standards. Young people on foot streamed amongst the stationary cars, heading in the direction of Victoria Square. Many of them carried banners or signs marked in both Chinese characters and in English: YOU WERE WARNED! KEEP HONG KONG FREE! NO TIENANMEN SQUARE! They waved the signs and chanted as they marched.
Dr. George sat back and sighed. Whatever it was they were protesting, in a few days it wouldn’t matter. They didn’t know what he knew: Somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean, the first typhoon of the season was brewing. Not just a typhoon. A super typhoon, king of storms. Winds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Rain like a barrage of cannon fire. Surf capable of flattening buildings and sweeping cars into the ocean.
George knew, because Valkyrie had told him. Although the program wasn’t perfect yet, it was good enough to recognize the approach of a true monster… like the one coming to life, right now, in the Pacific not far to the west. Coming to life and turning its attention toward China.
When it arrived… well, that would end any protest.
Lieutenant Commander Curt “Bird Dog” Robinson strode down the corridor toward the CVIC, hopping briskly over each knee-knocker he encountered. He was a little late for the special briefing, but he’d wanted to make sure his notes were in order before he arrived. He knew the meeting had to do with the scuttling of the civilian yacht just before dawn; all morning he’d watched CH-46E Sea Knights, the twin-rotored helicopters normally used to ferry Marines into combat, unloading body bags and a few blasted chunks of fiberglass onto the apron of the flight deck. As he understood it, Jefferson’s morgue and pathology lab had quickly overflowed, and now some of the body bags had joined pieces of wrecked sailboat in the hangar bay.
He’d heard a wide variety of other rumors, too: The Chinese had fired a torpedo at the yacht; American fighter jets had tangled with Red Chinese fighters over the site of the sinking; CBG-14 was about to go on full alert.
The last bit was probably nonsense; as for the rest, he wasn’t so sure. So he wanted to be prepared for any eventuality during this meeting. It was important for a lot of reasons. God knew that so far, he hadn’t exactly wowed his superiors with the strategic acumen he’d picked up in his studies at the Naval War College. In fact, during his first combat situation after graduation — the Second Cuban Missile Crisis — he’d not only done a lousy job of helping direct Navy tactics, he’d gotten his butt shot out of the sky.
To make matters worse, at the time, he wasn’t even supposed to be in the air. He was lucky to still have his wings, far less be called in to provide analysis during an emergency meeting off the coast of the last major Communist power in the world. He most sincerely did not want to screw up again.
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.