Tombstone knew the entire enterprise was hopeless, of course. Even if he and Lobo managed to escape all the way from the prison complex — not guaranteed, to say the least — what then? After all, they were being held somewhere in Communist China; for all he knew, just outside Beijing. It wasn’t as if a Caucasian man and woman could wander around unnoticed.
Still, they had to try. Tombstone Magruder was not going to end up like his father, dying in some POW hellhole. And he knew Lobo was with him on that decision.
He already knew that this was not a prison of the sort familiar to Americans, nor even a POW camp like the one he’d heard described by Vietnam vets. It was more like a dungeon. Still, he was surprised to find that the short corridor outside the cell was not itself guarded. He glanced in both directions, and saw a door at either end. Whenever he and Lobo were dragged in or out of their cell, they were first blindfolded with a black hood, which Tombstone had always assumed was part of the psychological terror. But he’d noticed that trips to the outdoor compound were made to the right, so he now turned left.
When he reached the door, he was surprised again. It was unlocked. He frowned; then, with Lobo right behind him, he eased the door open.
Something on the outside hurled the door open with superhuman strength, flinging Tombstone up and out. In an instant he was drenched by a rain that pounded down on his back like a million ballpeen hammers. He gasped in shock, stumbling in the same blast of wind that had grabbed the door. Only by flinging himself sideways, tightly against the wall of the prison, was he able to halt his helpless flight.
Squinting against the blasting rain and wind, he saw Lobo standing uncertainly in the doorway. He shook his head, then looked around.
Through horizontal sheets of rain he saw various buildings move in and out of sight: long, low structures for the most part, with trees arching overhead. The trees were mostly evergreens, their crowns tossing madly. Tombstone noted that most of their branches grew from the leeward side of the trunk; these trees had been shaped by weather like this. Straight ahead of him, perhaps thirty yards away, was a narrow paved road. Nothing moved along it.
Soaked to the skin, beginning to shiver, he considered the options. Wherever they were being kept, the obvious direction to go was east. Since major storms in this part of the world cycled counterclockwise, the wind would be coming from somewhere between north and east, so at least he knew what direction to head. After that… who knew?
He was about to beckon Lobo out of the doorway when he heard a new sound, weaving in and out of the wind: a distinctive, high-pitched whistle. Tombstone turned his head in time to see something rushing along the strip of road. For an instant the weather parted, giving him a clear view of a manta-shaped aircraft, with upturned winglets, lifting off the road. It bobbed, recovered crisply, and lofted out of sight into the slanting rain. There were red stars painted on the winglets.
The bogey. The one Tomboy had been sent to the South China Sea to investigate.
Tombstone rushed back to the doorway, and gasped with relief when he got out of the wind and rain. “Did you see that?” he said.
Lobo nodded. “It must be the thing that shot down the Air Force jet.”
Tombstone nodded. “So we’re not in a regular prison. They’re keeping us at an air base.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Probably in hopes of preventing an attack on the base. Insurance. That would be why they let us show our faces in the compound; to let Washington know where we are.”
Lobo nodded.
“The good news,” Tombstone said, “is that we must be close to Hong Kong. That would be the air base the Chinese would want to protect. If we can reach the city — ”
“How?”
“Find a vehicle. Or a prisoner. Or both.”
She nodded.
“Let’s head toward where the bogey came from. Start looking there.”
She nodded again.
Together, they plunged into the storm.
Before the chaos began, Bird Dog was in his stateroom trying to relax. He’d picked up his copy of
At the moment, Bird Dog was plodding through the chapter on “The Nine Varieties of Ground,” which was a ridiculous pastime because he was, after all, a naval aviator. No ground around, not unless you counted the ocean floor, and only the submariners cared about that. Still, he forced himself to continue. Even if he found nothing practical for himself in
So. Per Sun Tzu, the nine types of real estate were: Dispersive, Frontier, Key, Communicating, Focal, Serious, Difficult, Encircled, and Death. These were rated in order of the trouble they’d cause a general during battle, starting with the army’s own homeland — nice and safe — and progressing out into “death” territory — land in which the army could be trapped with virtually no chance of escape, far less victory.
Right now, if you wanted to stretch the metaphor,
“Guess the navy’s doing everything right, then, eh, Sun?” Bird Dog muttered, and closed the book.
At that moment, a series of jarring vibrations shivered through his rack.
This was not optimum, Tai thought angrily. The formations were ragged, the voices over the combat radio channel too tense. Not tense because of the promise of combat, though. These were brave men, and eager for blood. No, the problem was the weather. The storm. No one had counted on that. No one had expected to be fighting the Americans in near-blindness.
The PLA fighters had excellent radar, powerful enough to fry a rabbit crossing the runway; that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that using radar exclusively was new to most of the pilots — certainly, using it in the middle of a storm, with visibility diminished nearly to zero, was new to them. The fact that such combat would be a first for most of the Americans, too, was of no consolation, because everyone knew the Americans trained extensively in flight simulators. And while “virtual” experience was not the equivalent of the real thing, it was better than nothing. And nothing was what the Chinese pilots were building upon.
Damn this storm.
No wonder the men were worried, even though they outnumbered the American fighters currently in the air. And even though there would be no American reinforcements in the immediate future, thanks to the ambush Mr. Blossom had arranged. From all reports, the carrier had taken damage. How bad was not yet known, but bad enough. There would be no help there. For the American pilots, even returning to their ship might be out of the question.
So from the Chinese perspective, there was good news as well as bad. Not to mention the special surprise Tai suspected would be out to help the Chinese.
Personally, Tai Ling was not worried at all. This was one battle — fought blind or not — that the Americans would never forget.
No, correct that.
This was a battle the Americans would never
“Say again?” Hot Rock heard the disbelief and tension in his own voice. The same question was echoed over the air by other BARCAP pilots.
