Everything else in the outside world had changed, too. The eyewall 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’ve 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.
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 viciously 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 hurtle 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.
Tomcats! How the hell —? He realized they were trapped an instant before his missile lock alarm went off again.
Batman leaned forward in his leatherette chair, his hands clamped down on the armrests. “It worked,” he breathed, hardly daring to say the words out loud for fear of jinxing the entire evolution. “Of all the damned foolish ballsy plans that ever stood a snowball’s chance in hell of working — dear God, it worked.”
The predatory cries of American pilots ravaging the gaggle of Chinese fighters rang out over tactical. Fox calls, target calls, the occasional frantic plea for a wingman, it all blended into the cacophony of combat. The same words, the same phrases that Batman had heard too many times before in too many parts of the world. He closed his eyes and followed the progress of the battle, picturing the manuevering, the tail chases that ended in perfect firing position, the hard terror that flashed through a pilot as he saw the impossibly bright fire of a missile careening toward him — it flooded him, the sense that he was airborne with them, fighting the war again as a pilot instead of a chair-bound admiral. He heard the exultant splash calls, the constant sequence of American voices, no fighter voice disappearing from the babble without warning, and knew it was coming.
“Admiral?”
Batman opened his eyes and saw the TAO staring at him. A grin started across Batman’s face. “Tell them, permission denied.”
Just then, the call came across tactical. “Homeplate, this is Viper lead. We got four left — looks like they’re turning tail and heading back to the mainland. Request permission to follow them inside the twelve-mile limit and finish this off.”
Batman heard the hot blood of battle singing in the pilot’s voice. He looked over at the TAO, who was just starting to frame the obvious question.
“Because I’ve been there before. You heard me. Call them back,” Batman said.
TWELVE
Jackson would be almost relieved when night arrived. At least he couldn’t see the ocean sweeping past the open doors. The seas just kept getting taller; now, the biggest ones completely blocked the doorway as they rushed past. You could hear them hissing, too; avalanches of water.
On the other hand, darkness did not bring rest, at least not for long. Except for brief breaks, everyone kept going, doing what needed to be done. Lots of welding up above, where the missile had come through the side and whalloped the overhead. This was a life-and-death matter, and they all knew it.
Finally, after the majority of the heaviest moving and cleaning was finished, Jackson headed for the plane now assigned to Bird Dog, to see if anything had happened to it. To make absolutely sure that nothing he was responsible for was wrong with it.
He was halfway across the bay, waiting for two men to cross in front of him bearing a section of fractured catwalk, when he saw Orell Blessing stroll out from under the wing of Bird Dog’s plane. Orell glanced both ways, but casually, as if expecting to find a friend, then meandered off toward his parked tractor. He appeared to be whistling. He hadn’t seen Jackson.
Jackson stood where he was for a long minute, thinking. Then he headed toward the plane.
“What exactly are you saying?” Beaman asked. He was standing near the disassembled tail wing of an F-14 that had been damaged by falling metal.
“I’m saying I didn’t mess up Bird Dog’s plane, or anybody else’s,” Franklin said in a low voice. “I’m saying Orell Blessing did it. And I can prove it.”
Beaman tapped the heavy wrench against his palm. “Now, why would Orell Blessing want to sabotage Bird Dog’s plane?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying I can prove it.”
“How?”
“Well, just a little while ago I saw him walking away from Bird Dog’s new plane. So I went over and started checking it out. Hydraulic lines on the nose gear strut had been cut. First time you put some extra pressure on it — like in a landing — and pop.”