Sung Fei was watching CNN when the phone rang. His tiny flat in the Mongkok District of Kowloon was far from overfurnished, but by local standards he lived in luxury: He had no roommates, and his television was the latest Japanese model, with a satellite dish that picked up over two hundred stations from all over the world. In the last two days nearly half those stations had been broadcasting continuous “updates” on the so-called “Lady of Leisure attack.”
How symptomatic. In a world where millions starved to death every year, and hundreds of thousands more were ground into poverty by wealthy industrialists, what story was deemed worthy of round-the-clock dissection? Only the one where a handful of wealthy, worthless socialites and mega-capitalists died at sea in the middle of one of their debauched, high-profile soirees. Even the retaliatory attack on a PLA military ship in Victoria Harbor was referred to in the briefest of sidebars.
Another staple part of most broadcasts was an appearance by a so-called “expert” who dissected events in the South China Sea and speculated as to motivations and possible outcomes. While admitting that solid evidence about exactly what had occurred in the South China Sea was scanty, these experts seemed remarkably certain about what the events meant, what had caused them, and what would happen next. None of them seemed to question the U.S. Navy’s policy of keeping all shipping and aircraft out of the area of the supposed “attack.”
So much for experts. The truth was, not one of those talking heads knew as much about what was happening in the Hong Kong area as did Sung Fei. Not nearly as much.
He had been waiting for the phone to ring all day and night, so when it happened, he was not startled. Instead, a shimmer of excitement played down his backbone.
He picked up the receiver. “Sung,” he said calmly.
As always, Mr. Blossom’s voice was weird, changeable, obviously run through a distorter. “You’ve been watching the news?” the voice asked in Cantonese.
“I always watch the news,” Sung said, reciting the words he’d memorized, knowing his voice and its point of origin were also being scrambled. “But I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
That concluded the password exchange. The voice said, “It is time.”
“I thought it might be, Comrade. I regret the loss of life aboard Suhai, but my heart is full of joy that the moment of freedom has arrived at last. I am honored to be participating.”
“You did an excellent job of filling Victoria Square with anti-China protestors this morning.”
“Students are easy to convince of anything. After what the Americans did in the harbor, I can guarantee hundreds more.”
“Both pro- and anti-American? This is very important.”
“I understand, but trust me. The Hong Kongese love a demonstration.”
“Not for long,” the voice on the other end said.
Tombstone was awakened by the ringing of the phone. He sat up groggily, only to find the soft pressure of his wife’s breasts on his naked chest as she slid over him to reach the receiver first. She muttered a few words into it, listened, then sighed and held it out to him.
She remained sprawled across him as he put the receiver to his ear. “Magruder.”
“Admiral, this is John Palmer.”
It took Tombstone a moment to remember that was the name of the man in the suit from the previous night’s meeting. The spook. Of course, Tombstone thought, his concentration wasn’t helped by the things Tomboy was doing to him. “How can I help you, Mr. Palmer?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
“We were wondering if you’d come to Andrews as soon as possible. We’ve got something you might be interested in seeing.”
Instantly Tombstone’s concentration was on the phone. He sat halfway up, almost tumbling Tomboy off him. “I’ll be there right away.”
He hung up the phone and found Tomboy kneeling beside him on the mattress, her naked body as pale and beautiful as a marble statue in the darkness. “I take it this is important.”
“Very.” He reached out and touched her cheek, then slipped his fingertips down the front of her body. “I’m off to Andrews. I think it has something to do with my little encounter the other day.”
“Ah.” Her eyebrows rose. She knew about the bogey, but nothing about the content of his meeting the previous night. Nor had she asked about it. Her own job had made secrecy second nature to her. She waved a hand at him. “Go. Go.”
He looked her up and down, and sighed. “Damn the Navy.”
“Not to mention the Air Force,” she said.
“I see you’re on the flight schedule for CAP tomorrow,” Bird Dog said in his most casual voice.
Lobo looked over her shoulder at him. She was pouring coffee, not spilling a drop despite the fact she wasn’t watching what she was doing. “Gee, you’re capable of reading a flight schedule. That’s very impressive.”
“I went to college and everything,” Bird Dog said. “It’s just that I’m surprised they’re putting you in the air again so soon.”
“Part of the job. I don’t write the flight schedule.” She stared at him over the rim of her cup. God, she had killer eyes. “Besides, Bird Dog, I want to be up there. In case the Chinese try something else. And especially after the lies they told the U.N.”
Bird Dog moved up to the coffeepot. “So, who’s your backseater again?”
“Handyman.”
“Like him?”
“He’s the best.”
“And who’s flying wing for you?”
“Hot Rock.”
“Hm. He’s pretty raw, isn’t he?”
That maddening smirk climbed into her eye. He felt the stream of scalding coffee dribble over his thumb, and suppressed a wince. “Why?” she said. “You worried about me? Think I might get into trouble? Need a big strong man to help me out?”
“I just wish I could be your wingman, that’s all. We’d make a good team.”
“I’m sure whoever you are flying wing with wishes you could be my wingman, too.” She gave him a wicked grin. “Who’s your backseater these days, anyway?”
“Catwoman.”
“Good RIO. What did you do to deserve her?”
“I don’t make the assignments. But yeah, she is good. We’ll be up there tomorrow, too. So if you run into trouble…”
“Well, that’s nice, because Handyman and I will be up there if you run into trouble.”
There were a couple of fundamental differences between Naval Air Stations and Air Force bases, apart from the obvious fact that the majority of Naval bases were situated near water. For one thing, Air Force bases served better coffee while making you wait for the meeting that had dragged you out of your bed. For another, the base commander’s office had photos of F-15s and B-2s on the walls.
Other things were exactly the same. The murmur of voices in the corridor, the distant ringing of phones, the whistling shriek of jet engines outside.
Tombstone stood at the window, staring at what little of the airstrip he could see from this angle. Every now and then an F-15 Eagle, the Air Force’s answer to the Tomcat, would come in to land. Like any naval aviator, Tombstone was mildly contemptuous of Air Force weenies and their birds. However impressive an Eagle might be in the air, in the end it only had to land on a motionless, fifteen-hundred foot long strip of asphalt. Nothing to it. Now, try putting one down on top of a boat in the open sea.