on the sudden bonanza. From there he’d diversified into other forms of manufacturing and high-tech development.
Tombstone remembered his uncle Phil as a kind of jet-setter, always sending cards and gifts from exotic corners of the world. When Tombstone graduated from Annapolis, a brand-new Japanese motorcycle was waiting for him, courtesy of Uncle Phil. More recently, while Tombstone and Tomboy were in Vegas for their quick, supposedly secret wedding, a complete set of hand-carved rosewood bedroom furniture was en route from the Philippines, on one of Uncle Phil’s commercial ships.
“Is he…” Tombstone said. “Did he…”
“They don’t know yet. They’re still searching. Anyway, your uncle called and told me he won’t be having dinner with us tonight.”
“I understand.” Tombstone shook his head. “That’s okay. Frankly, I don’t think I’m up for it myself.”
She rested a hand on his forearm. “Phillip might not be dead, Tombstone. We don’t know yet.”
“It’s not that. I mean, that’s a shock, but there’s something else.”
“Don’t tell me: Your new toy scared the piss out of you. Go on, admit it.”
He gulped down another mad surge of laughter. “Not exactly.”
Then he told her what
“Very bad thing. Very bad. Is why I left Vietnam. Now same thing here!”
Dr. George wished the cabbie would shut up. The horrendous midmorning Hong Kong traffic was distracting enough without this man jabbering on about something or other. Dr. George was on his way to make a crucial presentation, and he wanted to rehearse it in his mind. He wanted it to be just right. Absolutely convincing. Hundreds of thousands of lives were at stake.
It was a shame he had to behave like a door-to-door salesman to seek financing for his work. Unfortunately, for political and economic reasons, the United States government had cut back drastically on direct research into Dr. George’s specialty: Pacific Basin tropical storms. The logic was that typhoons were a Pacific phenomenon, and the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration had reason to concentrate its resources on Atlantic Basin storms. It was hurricanes, after all, that endangered American homes and American businesses. With the exception of Hawaii and a few pissant military enclaves, only faraway Asian lands were threatened by typhoons.
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.
The irony was, studying typhoons was a
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!”
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.
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
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
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,
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
