“An excellent analysis,” Ming said, “assuming Hsu could have gotten access to a patrol boat and a full complement of sailors. However, it would appear you aren’t aware that when Hsu had a fatal heart attack, the only thing running hot in him was his lust. He was in a Hong Kong brothel. Evidently you can’t buy six beautiful Filipino women at the same time in Beijing.”
Yeh’s mouth sagged open.
“Or what about our other deceased commander, Po Yu Li of the PLA Navy? Officially, he died in the line of duty, shot by a drug smuggler he was attempting to arrest. This is somewhat true; he was shot by a drug smuggler. Of course, at the time, our major general was attempting to raise his standard bribe for allowing the smuggler to pass unmolested.”
Blood crept up in Yeh’s cheeks. “I cannot believe it.”
“Perhaps you’re wondering about our current commanders, eh? The venerable Wei Ao, First Among Equals? It appears he has a passion for collecting antiquities smuggled out of temples during the Cultural Revolution. He has a warehouse full in the New Territories; you really should see it.”
Yeh stared at him. “You
“Of course. These ‘crimes,’ as you put it, are why I selected those men for their jobs in the first place.”
“But — ”
“Major General, your outrage does you credit. But remember, this is Hong Kong, city of temptation. I must be practical. In my opinion, it is easier to watch over and control men whose weaknesses are known than those whose vices are secret. Especially when the men in question believe their personal activities
Yeh’s face had grown stiffer with every word that reached him. Ming almost smiled. “What about Chin?” the Commissar asked. “You have something against him as well?”
“Only his worthlessness.”
“But if he has no vices to protect,” Yeh said, “then he’s the only one of us who might be responsible for attacking the yacht, true?”
Ming nodded approvingly. “You’re learning. But in this case you’re wrong. Major general or not, Chin has not a shred of martial wisdom or courage. He could never mount a surprise attack against any boat — even an unarmed American yacht.”
Yeh shook his head. “You have a very cynical attitude, Comrade General. Does the State Council know about it?”
“Of course. Their attitude is the same when it comes to leaders in Hong Kong. Later there will be time for ideological reconstruction, but for now, a decadent place must be dealt with on its own terms.” Ming looked at Yeh sidelong. “You’re wondering what my own vices might be?”
“Actually, I was wondering what you thought mine to be.”
“Ah. Your vice, Comrade Major General, is your stubborn belief that people can be redeemed by devotion to high ideals. And that vice, my dear Political Commissar, is exactly why I recommended you for
Dr. George hurried across the tarmac of the private jet section of Kai Tak airport, his briefcase bumping rhythmically against his thigh. Today he’d gotten stuck in traffic trying to
But not as grave as George felt. This whole trip had been a waste of time. One corporation after another, and every time the same result. During his last meeting at a huge conglomerate called MIL, several of the Board members had turned and glanced through the windows that faced toward the South China Sea. George knew they were examining the clear blue sky, the handful of puffy white clouds, the limp flags on surrounding skyscrapers, the lack of whitecaps on Victoria Harbor. They were thinking about the television weather reports, which predicted only normal spring squalls on the open sea. In other words, the executives were observing that there was no hint at all a Super Typhoon was imminent. Or even remote.
Naturally they’d been unconvinced, and now it was too late. George’s time was up. Not far away was the converted Gulfstream IV business jet that was the last NOAA aircraft in all the Pacific — and after today it, too, would be heading East. After today, Dr. Alonzo George would be grounded in Guam, in his little office with its earthbound instruments. No more soaring into the stupendous gray world of the typhoon. No more ferreting out its most intimate secrets, including what exactly made it decide to rise out of its saltwater bottle like an evil genie in the first place.
He already knew so much. As he’d told the Board, with Valkyrie he could predict the size and location of developing tropical storms four to seven days in advance. Well, okay, he could predict with reasonable accuracy one time out of four. But that wasn’t bad, and given another season or two of intensive reasearch, he’d improve on both the hit-to-miss ratio and the precision of qualitative data. He’d make them damned near perfect.
The Gulfstream’s pilot appeared in the doorway and raised a hand to his mouth. “Better hurry, Dr. George!” he shouted. “Look at the sky! Looks like a big storm’s coming!” He laughed.
George scowled and climbed the steps, which were formed by the lowered door itself, and squeezed into what used to be the passenger compartment of the jet. This space, intended to contain a few comfortable lounge chairs and perhaps a wet bar, was stuffed with meteorological equipment: dropsonde console, anemometer, barometer, gradient thermometer, three separate radar screens, and real-time satellite monitoring gear.
George squeezed into the seat by the dropsonde console.
The pilot was buckling himself into his seat up front. “I don’t know, Dr. George,” the co-pilot said, turning and grinning. “You sure you want to take off in all this wind?”
“Enough, already; just fly the plane.”
Ingrates. George longed for the heyday of NOAA, when there would have been seven scientists on the crew, and the plane itself would have been supplied by the U.S. Navy. A large, roomy military aircraft, built to take a beating. But the Navy had pulled out of the storm-chasing business in 1975 — Dr. George still wasn’t sure why, since who should be more concerned about oceanic storm systems? — leaving only the Air Force to provide transport. And the Air Force was reverting more and more to using converted civilian craft like this Gulfstream.
Still, right now he’d sell his soul to keep this little plane, even if he had to operate every piece of equipment himself.
Outside, the plane’s twin turbines began to whine.
“You all strapped in back there now, Doc?” the pilot asked. “Don’t want you to get tossed around by any severe turbulence.”
George sighed.
The jet eased into motion and taxied briskly toward the runway. Through the window appeared the blue expanse of Kowloon Bay with the skyscrapers of central Hong Kong on the far side. George gazed at the skyline glumly, wondering how much damage the oncoming typhoon would do to those glittering structures. Then the plane was on the runway and accelerating, wheels thumping, engines squealing. Next came a soft floating sensation, followed by the clunk of the landing gear retracting. Out the window, downtown Hong Kong reappeared, foreshortened as the plane banked.
The intercom clicked on. “Your hostess will be back shortly to serve the beverage of your choice.”
Again, Dr. George lamented the end of Navy involvement in NOAA research. Forget the larger, more comfortable planes — at least the damned pilots showed some respect.
Swiveling the chair, he gazed out the left-side windows, toward mainland China. Blade-shaped mountains receded into haze as the plane headed out toward international airspace. Wistfully, Dr. George wondered if the People’s Republic might be interested in investing in typhoon research. Probably not; they were —
“Holy shit!” The voice of the pilot carried above the whistle of air and turbines. “Look at that. What the hell is
Up front, the co-pilot was leaning across the aisle, almost in the pilot’s lap, staring out the left-side window.
