Typhoon Season

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.

Fortunately, at that moment the door that connected CVIC with the adjacent Tactical Flag Command Center opened, and Commander Hillman “Lab Rat” Busby, Jefferson’s Intelligence Officer, stepped through. “Sorry I’m late, Admiral,” he said. “Wanted to check the latest Chinese radio traffic.”

“And?”

“On the diplomatic end, they’re still demanding we turn the wreckage and bodies over to them. On the military end, we’re just picking up a lot of ‘What’s going on?’ and ‘Stand off for now.’ ”

Batman frowned. “Very well. Now that we’re all here, let me bring everyone up to speed. This morning, Lieutenant Commander Hanson, on routine patrol, spotted a PLA helicopter firing on an unarmed American pleasure boat in international waters. She and her wingman, Lieutenant Commander Stone, drove the helicopter off. We then established a defensive perimeter and began recovering what we could from the wreckage. So far only one survivor of the attack has been found; he’s currently in sick bay here on Jefferson. The bodies of the other passengers, as well as whatever pieces of hull can be recovered, are being ferried in. Does that pretty much sum it up?” He looked around the table.

Bird Dog had been taking notes, his thoughts streaking ahead on full afterburner. War College had stressed the ancient precept that war was politics by other means — national policy expressed in violence. In the twentieth century, certain Communist nations had been especially fond of mixing the two. But a massacre of civilians on the open sea? What political aim could China possibly expect to serve by that?

He looked up as Batman turned toward the rescue swimmer. “Petty Officer Pitcock, you recovered several of the bodies yourself, as well as the survivor, is that correct?”

The swimmer was a young, freckled guy with hair so blonde and short he looked almost bald. His eyes were the fierce red color that proved he’d spent a lot of time blinking against the salty spray blasted up by a hovering helicopter. “Yes, sir,” he said. “We found the survivor, Martin Lee, hanging on to what was left of the boat. Spotted him pretty quick.”

“And there were no other survivors, is that correct?”

“Not yet. SAR is still ongoing, but… no, it doesn’t look good.”

“Tell me, how many bodies would you say you counted out there?”

The swimmer cleared his throat. “I’d say close to a hundred. Maybe more. Some of them were just shot to pieces, plus the sharks had been at them….” He dragged a palm over his scalp.

Sharks. Bird Dog suppressed a shudder. He knew everyone else in the room was doing the same; sharks were the great nightmare of everyone who sailed on, or flew above, the sea. But he knew from personal experience that you didn’t even know what that fear was all about until you got dumped into the drink and had to float around awhile, watching for a triangular dorsal fin to break the surface of the water….

And this kid had jumped in on purpose.

He brought his attention back to the room. “I understand Mr. Lee spoke to you,” Batman was saying.

The swimmer licked chapped lips. “Yes, sir, on the way back. He said the yacht was American, and it got hijacked and sunk by the PLA for no reason. Mr. Lee’s Chinese, but his English is real good, and — ”

“But you saw nothing, personally, to indicate why that particular boat might have been attacked,” Batman said. “I’m only asking because you were in the water, closer to the wreck than anybody, before it sank.”

“No, sir, I didn’t see anything at all. Just a real nice boat shot to pieces.”

“Thank you.” Batman turned to Coyote. “COS, any questions?”

“I believe you covered everything.”

“Commander Busby?”

Lab Rat seemed to blink out of a reverie. “Um, no, sir. I’m going to want to talk to Mr. Lee as soon as possible, of course, but that’s it.”

“We’re waiting for Doc’s okay on that. Bird Dog, anything for Petty Officer Pitcock?”

Bird Dog was startled by the use of his call sign, and immediately wondered if this was a good or bad indicator. He’d been paranoid that way, lately; second-guessing everything. He was pretty sure it had started with his being dumped by his fiancee. “Not right now, sir,” he said.

“Very well. Petty Officer Pitcock, thank you.”

After the swimmer was gone, Batman turned his attention to the pilots and RIOs. “Lobo, you were first on the scene. Describe exactly what you saw.”

There was no avoiding it now. Bird Dog looked across the table at Lobo. Her eyes were socketed with exhaustion and her flight suit was all wrinkled and creased. No doubt about it: She was absolutely the most enticing thing Lieutenant Commander Curt Robinson had seen in his life.

And she flew F-14s. Flew them like an angel.

He’d met her in a bar, not long after Callie notified him that she’d changed her mind about marrying him. Pretty cliche for a fighter jock to catch the eye of a beautiful woman in a bar, except that Bird Dog hadn’t intended to even be there. His regular RIO, Gator Cummings, had introduced him to Lobo because, he confessed later, he was pretty sure Lobo had balls at least the size of Bird Dog’s. He wanted to see who swung first.

Nobody had swung. In fact, Bird Dog hadn’t exactly caught Lobo’s eyes. In fact, when he’d asked her for her number, she had grinned and said, “One.”

Fine, he’d thought as he and Gator left the bar. Who needed to deal with an uppity — if beautiful — female Tomcat pilot? Probably some kind of radical feminist, if not a lesbian.

Last thing he’d expected was to be sent on WestPac with her. To see her almost every day, in the corridors and on the flight deck of Jefferson. To hear other male pilots talk about her the way male pilots do, albeit more privately than in years gone by. To see her absorb their more public teasing and fire it right back. He hadn’t expected to… to…

He watched Lobo as she spoke, even jotting down an occasional note so he’d appear to be paying attention to her words instead of just the shape of her lips. He picked up enough of what she said to return his attention sharply to the matter at hand. Now was no time to let his mind wander.

Lobo’s RIO — the lucky bastard — spoke next, seconding everything Lobo had said — not that that meant anything. Any backseater worthy of the name backed his pilot up, no matter what. Hell, the RIO would swear he’d seen Elvis on a flying carpet, if that was what Lobo reported.

The second Tomcat pilot, Hot Rock, and his RIO were next. They recited what they’d observed from their higher altitude, and the brief tale of the helicopter chase. Although he was just a pup, Hot Rock looked more exhausted than anyone else, Bird Dog noticed.

“Could you identify the type of helo?” Lab Rat asked the young pilot.

“No, sir. It was dark, and I was above it. I can only say it was single-rotor. I was just about to go down for a