And yet despite his fear, Jackson carried on, doing whatever needed to be done. He worked alongside brothers and sisters at times, and alongside white men or brown men or yellow men at other times. Officers snapped orders, of course, but the next thing you knew, that same man or woman would be right beside you, helping lift a piece of metal off some trapped sailor.
Once he and Plane Captain Beaman were both commandeered by some firemen to help move debris out of the way of a hose. Together, they heaved against a jagged chunk of metal plating that had once been on the outside of the carrier. It seemed to weigh a ton, but they got it out of the firemen’s way. Afterward, for a moment Jackson found himself staring straight into his plane captain’s eyes. There was something speculative there that infuriated Jackson. He knew what it meant. He knew that Beaman didn’t trust him, thought he’d screwed up Bird Dog’s plane. Been incompetent, been lazy. Thought that this kind of work, hauling pieces of metal around, was probably more Jackson Ord’s speed.
But then Beaman gave a slanted, tired smile and clapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Good work,” he said, and turned away to do something else.
Jackson stared after him, trying hard not to be pleased. You couldn’t buy his forgiveness that easily. No way.
Still, he went back to work with renewed energy.
“You can’t be serious,” Lobo shouted in Tombstone’s ear. In other circumstances, it would have been a whisper. “Why do you want to go back there?”
“I’ve got to check something out.”
“What?”
“You’ll see… if I’m right.”
“What if the guards’ bodies have been discovered?”
“With any luck, they’ll be out in this mess searching for us.”
She grinned. “Good point. Okay, Admiral — lead on.”
Bird Dog stumbled onto the fantail for some air. Because the carrier was steaming head-on into the wind, it was actually rather dry and pleasant back here… if you could ignore the traces of smoke still whipping off the flight deck overhead.
Disaster. Unbelievable disaster, and he blamed himself. If only he really understood the Chinese mentality. If only he could really comprehend the thinking behind The Art of War, maybe he could have predicted… prevented…
Well, Sun Tzu had been the first to say it: Know the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.
Those junks. The missile attack. A beautiful illustration of using the direct and indirect forces. And Bird Dog Robinson, War College graduate, hadn’t expected it.
On the other hand, whoever was planning the Chinese assault had missed out on something, too: the storm. Only Dr. George had seen that one coming. Ironically, the typhoon had probably been Jefferson’s salvation. Its might had scattered the junks across miles of heaving ocean, and caused the Chinese fighters to struggle in what had undoubtedly been intended to be a massacre. The Chinese had planned to fight on Frontier ground, at worst, only to find themselves on Difficult ground instead.
Know the ground, know the weather; your victory will then be total.
Okay, fine. If this was Difficult ground, then Encircled ground was next. He knew that. The weather? It sucked; he knew that, too. Okay… so where was his total victory?
Know the ground….
Difficult, encircled, death.
In difficult ground, press on; in encircled ground, devise stratagems; in death ground, fight.
His grip tightened on the guardrail.
In encircled ground, devise stratagems.
“My God,” he said, and ran back into the wounded gut of the carrier.
There was no apparent activity around the door Tombstone and Lobo had used to exit the building in which they’d been imprisoned. Perhaps, Tombstone thought, their absence was still a secret.
Not that he cared much, one way or the other. Gesturing to Lobo, he moved up to the wall and along its base, circling the building. On the leeward side, the rain dropped off to a cold mist whirling off the top of the wall. Rifle ready, Tombstone hurried along the wall to the next corner, and peered around. Winced at the needle-blast of rain in his face. The storm was getting worse every second. Still, visibility remained good enough that he could see the dark sedan parked in front of the building, and the wide portico. Palm trees genuflected wildly before the wind.
Awfully pretty place for a Communist-built facility, Tombstone thought, and gestured for Lobo to follow him. They were halfway to the portico when a man in black commando-type gear stepped into view, AK-47 cradled in his arms. Without hesitation, Tombstone raised his own rifle, sighted it against the wind, and pulled the trigger. As he’d expected, the crack was swallowed by the howling wind. The guard took a wobbly step, then collapsed. Tombstone hurried forward, grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into some shrubbery. Then he looked at the main entrance to the building. Double doors of carved wood, with tall windows to either side.
He ran up the steps to the door and tried it.
Unlocked.
Tombstone looked at Lobo, saw the confusion in her eyes. Saw the water running down her pale face. There was nothing he could tell her, so he simply said, “Let’s go.”
“What exactly are we looking for?”
“Anything PLA.”
“You’re not just trying to ditch me, are you?”
“No. After this is all over, I intend to divorce my wife and marry you.”
“Liar.”
“Please, Lobo; just watch the door.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
He pulled open the door and they entered a wide, high-ceilinged foyer of teak and white marble. Enormous potted palms seemed to support a curved staircase climbing upward. Tombstone raised his eyebrows, and Lobo nodded. She squeaked across the marble and slipped in amongst the fronds.
Faint light spilled down the stairs. Tombstone headed toward it, AK-47 half-raised. He winced at the soggy, squelching sounds he and Lobo made as they walked, but there was no helping that.
At the top of the stairs was a long hallway extending in both directions. The light came from the left, as did a voice speaking sharply. Tombstone moved in that direction. Gradually, words came clear. English words.
“… couldn’t have possibly gotten off the island. Of course not. Increase the guard around the buildings, but get a search party out right away. I suspect they will be putting as much distance between themselves and this complex as quickly as possible. Good. Keep me notified.”
As the receiver clicked onto its cradle, Tombstone stepped into the room behind his AK-47 and pointed the rifle at the man standing with one hand on the telephone.
“Hello, Uncle Phillip,” he said.
“ ‘Offer the enemy a bait to lure him,’ ” Bird Dog said. “ ‘Feign disorder and strike him.’ ”
“You’re quoting again,” Batman snarled. “I don’t have time for this. In case you’re not aware of it, we have a damaged aircraft carrier here, and an air battle just breaking up. We’ve lost a lot of planes.”
“It’s not just a quote,” Bird Dog said, refusing to back down, refusing to be sidetracked even by the question, Who got shot down? This was too important, for all of them. “It’s a strategy.”
“ ‘Feign disorder’ is a strategy? We don’t have to feign that!”