most advanced fighting aircraft in the world. And fly every day if you want. I’ll even get that Pitts shipped over here if you want.”

Tombstone pulled him close and locked his forearm across McIntyre’s windpipe. He squeezed until he felt the men start to sag against him. “I’ve already got my own squadron, asshole. It’s called the United States Navy.”

Flight deck, USS Jefferson

Sykes fought his way across the flight deck to the CH-46 helicopter waiting there. While he had managed to sound fairly confident in Admiral Wayne’s office, he was now beginning to realize the true insanity of his plan.

Take off in this weather? What was I thinking? There’s no way, not a chance in hell.

“Sir? If you’ll get your men on board, we’ll get going.” Sykes stared in awe at the cool, confident pilot who turned around to look at him.

“You really think you can do this?” Sikes asked, choking slightly as the wind drove rain down his throat.

The pilot shrugged. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there? Now if you and the rest of the gentleman will strap in, we’ll find out.”

Ten minutes later, Sykes, along with most of his crew, was puking violently. They were airborne — at least he thought they were. They weren’t in the water at least. But it would be hard to characterized the wildy gyrating motion of the helicopter as controlled flight.

“Sir? You see anything that looks familiar?” The pilot’s voice came over the ICS. “Because according to the GPS, we’re there.”

Sykes unstrapped, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled forward to the cockpit. Bracing himself between the two seats, he rose unsteadily to his feet. “There,” he managed to say, before another wave of nausea swept over him. “That clearing spot.”

The pilot nodded agreement. “That’s what I thought. Strap back in, sir. This might be a little rough.”

Rough. Just before he threw up again, Sykes wondered how the helo pilot would have characterized the last ten minutes.

USS Jefferson

Batman watched as the helicopter pitched violently, then let the wind sweep it away from the flight deck. Up foward, Tomcats and Hornets were already turning, but the normal noise and vibration associated with flight ops was completely indistinguishable from the sound and fury of the storm.

“I hope to God that pilot knows what he’s doing,” Batman muttered to himself. “Hang on, Stony. We’re coming for you.”

McIntyre’s Compound

The walls around the compound blocked the wind only slightly. The helo smacked down onto ground so hard it felt like a fixed wing aircraft trapping on the deck of the carrier. The SEALs were thrown violently forward against their restraining harnesses. The wind caught the tail of the helicopter and spun it in a circle.

Before the last motion dampened out, Sykes was up and moving, his men crowding up behind him. They were green, stumbling slightly, but as they’d all learned during BUDS training, the mind could overcome almost any perceived physical limitation. The last time he remembered feeling like this was during hell week.

“Come on,” Sykes said, pleased to note that his voice sounded almost steady. “We’ve got a job to do.”

Sykes led the charge into the mansion, as his men fanned out to secure his ingress route. As soon as they saw him, Tombstone and a female pilot with ragged shorn hair stepped out to meet them.

“Good to see you,” the admiral said, his voice flat. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sykes whispered into his microphone, recalling the rest of his men. Within seconds, they had formed up again.

“Admiral? I’m not sure we can make it back to the carrier,” Sykes said. “This place is relatively defensible — maybe we should hole up and wait for the weather to pass.”

The admiral fixed him with a steely glare. “You got in — we can get out.” He took the other officer by the elbow, his grip surprisingly light. “What about it, Lobo?”

The other pilot was shivering violently. “Let me talk to that helo jockey. If he won’t fly us out of here, I will.”

They ran back out to the helo, fighting the wind and the rain, and Sykes was almost glad to be back inside the metal fuselage. At least it was dry. “The admiral would like to return to the carrier,” he said formally.

The pilot nodded. “Why not? Can’t be any worse than the ride in, now, can it?”

Five minutes later, Sykes knew the pilot had lied. The noise from the explosion that destroyed the McIntyre compound was lost in the storm.

1650 local (+8 GMT) Bridge USS Jefferson

“Yep, this is it,” Dr. George said. “Welcome to the eye of the storm.”

Batman stared in awe through the starboard windows. The ship was still very unsteady under his feet, plunging and twisting through seas that rose as high as the flight deck on all sides; but the seas were noticeably less regular and aligned than they had been before. Their shape and direction was now chaotic and aimless, so that in some places several seas converged into a single mountainous one; while in another location they canceled one another out, creating a smooth flat area that soon heaved up again.

Everything else in the outside world had changed, too. The eyewall of the typhoon was a black wall shot through with the silvery filigree of disintegrating mist; it curved out of sight to either side, vanishing into gray-white haze. Straight up, it curved in overhead to form an open-topped dome. Sunlight fell through the hole. Alien sunlight, warm and gauzy and surreal, strained through a high layer of haze.

And high up in that haze, circling fighters. The Vipers, running on fumes, waiting in the eye of the storm.

“This is really weird,” someone said.

Batman clutched his concentration back to himself and turned to Coyote. “Get crews to work on that flight deck,” he said. “Now. We have to have at least one cat operational in time to get our birds into the air before this storm runs us ashore. Is that understood?”

“Aye aye, sir.” Coyote wheeled away.

Dr. George was still staring out the window, face enraptured. “I’ve never seen the eye from this angle before,” he said. He pointed toward the sun. “I’m always up there, in a storm-chaser.”

“I wish that’s where I was right now,” Batman said with feeling.

1633 local (+8 GMT) Flanker 67

Tai Ling was tired of circling around in the brutal conditions. Although the forward half of the typhoon had crashed ashore hours ago, to begin the process of its own disintegration, the rear wall remained intact, the air behind it as viciously windy and rough as always. But in this vicinity was where the American fleet had gathered to await the — possible — emergence of its flagship, the carrier Jefferson; so here the massed squadrons of PLA fighters and attack aircraft would also wait. The majority of the fighters were staying high, of course, completely out of sight of the ships below. Low-flying spotter planes would alert the squadron when the carrier finally limped out of the —

Tai started as his radar-lock alarm went off. His screen, fogged as it was with false images, abruptly showed several clear blips. Then more and more. Instantly Tai registered the signatures of SM-1 missiles, SAMs carried on American guided missile destroyers and frigates.

Tai and the rest of the squadron pilots went into defensive mode, dumping radar-confusion chaff and flying erratic routes. The usual techniques, but far more effective than usual in these weather conditions, where radar images were already degraded by air temperature gradations and electrical activity.

Not one missile found a victim. Tai watched the one intended for him hurtle past, a fast-moving yellow blur in the clouds.

“Regroup and start down,” he said over the radio. “I guess we can assume the carrier is about to show up.” His heart pounded with expectation. To think, he was about to contribute to the first sinking of an American aircraft carrier since the end of the Second World War. A proud day indeed. The first day of a new era in the South China Sea.

The massed squadrons found one another again in the clouds, and began to move downward through the

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