dawn.”
“Not too much before. They’ll need light to see what they’re doing.”
The radar man nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on it. But these conditions make predicting anything very difficult.”
“The ducks have been well paid already, and know they’ll receive double that amount when they return — if they do what they’re supposed to do. It’s more money than any of them expected to see in ten lifetimes. I think that’s plenty of incentive to get them where they’re supposed to be
“This storm is turning into a typhoon. Many of the ducks will never make it back to Hong Kong at all.”
“Then they won’t be paid.” Chou turned to the radio operator. “You’re still in touch with all the ducks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they understand the importance of coordination? Everything must happen exactly on our signal. They understand that?”
“They understand.”
Chou nodded. “Carry on.”
Coyote was swaying on his feet from exhaustion, although he was trying to pretend that it was just the unpredictable motion of the ship. Despite all odds, Dr. George had been right; during the night, the weather conditions had graduated to “tropical storm,” and were moving rapidly onward. Satellite data showed the clear cloud patterns of a typhoon developing to the southeast.
Outside, the horizon line was smudged from existence by wind-whipped spray, pounding rain and streamers of cloud. Everything was shades and tints of gray. This was weather only fools and Navy sailors — assuming there was a difference — would be out in.
Then he saw the first junk.
Later, there would be questions asked of the officer of the deck and the junior officer of the deck who was responsible for watching the SPA-25G radar repeater on the bridge, and of the lookouts, and of the boatswain’s mate of the watch, who was supposed to be keeping an eye out for obstacles in the water, but no blame would be laid. Not in conditions like these, where curtains of visibility were opened and closed at random.
The junk looked ridiculous out here, a silly toy with its elevated stern house and stubby bow. The sails were furled, of course, leaving the job of propulsion to some kind of rinky-dink engine that had to fight winds currently peaking at over eighty mph, not to mention seas that must look like mountains from the deck of the junk.
Before Coyote could say anything, he heard one of the lookouts say, “Holy shit” in a wondering voice.
Coyote turned back toward the windows. His eyes widened.
The junk was not alone. The ocean was full of boats. Not ships but
But there they were, bobbing around like rubber ducks in a bathtub while 97,000 tons of nuclear-powered aircraft carrier ploughed through them.
“Oh, lord,” Coyote said. “OOD, back off to bare steerageway. Just pray nobody’s right in front of us.” But he wasn’t going to call for evasive action. For one thing, an aircraft carrier was not a cigarette boat; a carrier turned as nimbly as a skyscraper with a keel. For another, in this weather the visibility in any direction, including straight ahead, was so intermittent and limited that attempting to set any kind of avoidance course was pointless.
He grabbed for the phone.
“All ducks reporting in,” the radio operator said. “They are in position, and the carrier is in sight.”
Chou nodded, although he doubted all the ducks were truly in position. Not in this wind and these seas. Many of the ducks were almost certainly far off the mark, and simply denying it. But that was all right. There were a lot of ducks out there; only a handful had to have reached their positions on time.
“Begin the countdown,” he told the radioman.
“Countdown begins,” the radioman said into his headset, broadcasting to all the ducks in the South China Sea.
“On my mark,” Chou said. He raised a hand. “Ten — ”
“Ten,” the radio operator repeated into his headset.
“Nine — ”
“Nine,” the radio operator repeated.
“Eight…”
His thought was cut off by a small but intense flare of light in the distance, down near the water. This was followed by another, then another, and another, originating from points all over the compass. The flares turned into long streamers unwinding toward
Before Coyote had quite registered what the streamers meant, the carrier’s Phalanx Close-In Weapons System began to roar.
Tombstone was beginning to fear the guards would never arrive with lunch. His butt was going numb from sitting in one spot, waiting.
But finally he heard the heavy thud of the bolt sliding back. The door swung open, revealing the usual arrangement: one guard standing at the ready, AK-47 raised, with another guard behind him holding two bowls of rice and a jug of fresh water.
The armed guard looked at Tombstone sitting against the wall, a coarse blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His
The guard grinned and said something over his shoulder to the guard with the food, who laughed. Both men walked into the room. The armed guard kept grinning, but never lowered the muzzle of his automatic rifle.
Neither man saw or heard Lobo step out from behind the privacy curtain. Her feet were bare. Tombstone was careful not to let his gaze even flicker in her direction, but his view of her was clear nonetheless as she set her feet, then charged straight at the guard with the food. She slammed into his back with all her weight, driving him into the back of the armed guard.
Tombstone was already moving, rolling to one side in case the guard reflexively triggered the AK-47. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the handle of the empty waste bucket he’d been holding under the blanket.
There was no gunfire. Tombstone stumbled to his feet, cursing the numbness of his legs, as the two guards stumbled toward him. He swung the bucket over his head and down like a sledgehammer, smashing it with all his strength and fury against the back of the armed guard’s skull. The wooden slats of the bucket exploded in all direction. Without hesitation, Tombstone took a step and drove the point of his elbow into the second guard’s throat. Both guards crashed to the floor, one unconscious and bleeding, the other coughing and gagging. Tombstone
