BlackStar Bomber

by T C Miller

  “Let me know when you arrive at the lodge.”

  “Will do, big guy. . .See you as soon as you can get there. I love you, my darling.”

  “And I love you more than you’ll ever know. . .Later.”

  Nora sat still after the call ended and tried to sort out the hidden implications of the call. It sounded like he knew there might be a major disaster in the near future. She entered the numbers by rote.

  HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM

  After removing a folder marked Classified, Level Seven-Alpha, Eyes Only, Benson noted the date and time on a tracking sheet. She returned Colonel Jackson’s military ID card after recording the serial number.

  “We’ve confirmed this room is secure, so we can begin the briefing.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “This is a classified briefing intended for your information only. The contents are not to be divulged under any circumstance, unless specifically authorized by POTUS under written executive order.

  “Disclosing information can result in prosecution under Title 10, Section 978 of the U.S. Code and result in penalties of not less than a ten thousand dollar fine and not less than six months in prison, and penalties can be administered without trial. Do you understand, sir?”

  “Yes, of course,” J.J. said, “I’ve been in hundreds of classified briefings.” He paused for a moment. “Although, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of an automatic conviction without trial.”

  “Then you understand the importance of absolute secrecy?”

  He nodded and she continued, “More than four decades ago, the NSC approved the implementation of a program to prevent the unauthorized acquisition of nuclear material by entities hostile to the United States which might occur from the downing or accidental landing of an aircraft, or the illegal transfer of nuclear devices by a misguided or mentally deranged crew member.”

  Jackson interrupted, “Misguided or mentally deranged crew?”

  “They were concerned that a crew might defect for political or financial gain. . .”

  “But, that’s what the Personnel Reliability Program is all about. Crew members undergo constant physical and mental testing. . .There’s no way it should happen. Of course, the part about mechanical trouble is always possible.”

  “You’re mostly correct. . .PRP has worked well, with only minor deviations.”

  “Minor deviations?”

  “Sorry, you’re not cleared for that.”

  “I see ”

  Mary went on, “Plans were formulated to insure that irretrievable devices would not be available to hostile forces. There might be a need to terminate the event with extreme prejudice.”

  “English, please?”

  “Certainly. . .Small-yield nuclear devices code-named BlackStar are installed on all aircraft that carry nuclear weapons under the guise of being a piece of ultra-secret communications equipment and can be remotely detonated.”

  “What!” J.J. came half out of his chair. “Are you saying we’d blow up our own plane with a crew on board?”

  “Yes, Colonel. . .The possibility of the crew being in the aircraft is unfortunate. . .The bigger issue, of course would be the consequences of nuclear devices falling into the wrong hands. . .”

  Jackson interrupted her, “This sounds like something right out of Hollywood. . .Don’t see how it hasn’t leaked. . .”

  “Not a hint. Think how catastrophic it would be if some ragtag terrorist group or rogue country got control of some of our nukes. . .They could reverse engineer them or use them against us. The BlackStar Investigative Section was created to insure that will never happen. . .I’m proud to be part of the program.”

  “I can see that. But tell me, is there one of these devices on the Blackjack Bomber. . .”

  CONSORTIUM HEADQUARTERS

  CENTRAL EUROPE

  “Commissioner, Rick Eichman is calling via encrypted satellite phone and demands to speak with you directly.”

  “Really? I understand he is a new client, but does he not comprehend our organizational protocol? He should contact his regional director first.”

  “Yes, sir, I told him that, but he insists upon talking with you, saying it is a matter with many zeros behind it.”

  “Thank you, Conrad. I will take his call this time.”

  The Commissioner would usually refuse, but he was intrigued by the cryptic nature of the message. He pressed a button. “Mister Eichner, yours is an unusual request to which I would not normally respond. . .You have thirty seconds.”

  “How about in five words, Commissioner?. . .Hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “I suppose I can overlook the breach in protocol. . .At least long enough to hear a proposal. Please continue.”

  Rick laughed and switched to Russian. “Interesting isn’t it?. . .How large sums of money transcend just about any impediment to conversation. I have only recently made use of your services, but am pleased with your agency’s response to my requests. Certain operations to which I am connected require access to even more sensitive data, however.”

  “You speak White Russian as though you were a native.”

  “I am sure you are undoubtedly aware of my provenance. Therefore, you must know that I can be taken seriously. However, in order to expedite our business relationship, I will ask a direct question. . .What amount of money do you require as a retainer for access to some of the most sensitive information about the American intelligence community?”

  “When you say American intelligence community, to what specific area are you referring?”

  “Deep-cover clandestine agents.”

  “That is, most assuredly, a sensitive area. We usually require a retainer of ten million dollars a year and billing by the hour for research of that sort. . .It can often run into many additional millions. How long will you need our assistance?”

  “There is no set period. . .I prefer to think of it as an ongoing arrangement.”

  “That gives me a better idea of how much time you may demand from my staff,” the Commissioner noted, “Is there an immediate desire for research?”

  “Yes. I will give your assistant a list of names of United States Air Force personnel for which I need background material.”

  “How many names and how far back?”

  “From university forward should suffice for now and there are five names on the list.”

  “Such a search will entail many hours and, therefore, be very expensive. How soon will you need the information?”

  “Minutes would be better than hours,” Rick replied. “I am in the middle of an operation.”

  “I am aware of that. . .Instantaneous service requires a two-hundred per cent premium and a deposit equal to a one year retainer.”

  “I see no problem, and will get the appropriate banking information from your assistant to transfer the money immediately.”

  “Are there, perhaps, other services we can offer?”

  “Not presently. I will, at some point, require clandestine transportation and papers for me and approximately two thousand pounds of cargo to an overseas destination.”

  “I do not foresee any difficulty. Simply give Conrad possible destinations and he will research the matter. Will your present team accompany you?”

  “That is undetermined at this time.”

  “Very well, I will transfer you back to Conrad. Thank you for your business.”

  The Commissioner smiled as he ended the call.

  HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM

  “A BlackStar device is aboard all aircraft and vessels that carry nuclear weapons,” Mary Benson stated.

  Colonel Jackson brushed his gray-tinged hair back and exhaled slowly. “Really?. . .Still, if this is a highly classified program I would think the terrorists don’t even know it exists.”

  “Actually, there may be a problem on that point.”

  She withdrew a personnel folder from the briefcase, o
pened it and took out a picture. “Look familiar?”

  Jackson studied the picture. “Maybe. . .can’t say for sure. I’ve got over 2300 military, 2700 civilians and who knows how many contractors on base at any given time. . .Can’t be expected to know all of them.”

  “Of course not. John Paul Hamilton. . .goes by Jack. WG-11 electrician in Civil Engineering. . .Worked there for eleven years. Before that, he was a classified weapons technician in Project BlackStar.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I seldom kid, sir. . .especially when it comes to BlackStar. As soon as we heard of a possible Broken Arrow we did a search of our database. Three former employees popped up within a two hundred-mile radius and we’ve interviewed two of them. Hamilton is the only one we haven’t found.”

  “Think he’s one of them?”

  “Distinct possibility. Wife says she doesn’t know where he is. . .Been calling friends and relatives trying to locate him. Given his background and heavy gambling debts, we can assume he’s involved.

  “On the positive side, he had limited access to the devices and compartmentalized knowledge of the overall program. His primary task was to insure electrical systems on aircraft were adequate to handle the increased load. After all, the BUFF was designed during World War II and has been upgraded piecemeal since.

  “Furthermore, his work was closely monitored and recorded. . .Still, there’s always a possibility that casual conversation with other maintenance personnel may have disclosed more information than necessary. Hamilton is competent enough to deduce BlackStar’s intended purpose. He’s also competent enough to figure out how to remove the device. Which means Johansen and I need to gain access to the aircraft as soon as it’s secured to see if the unit is intact.”

  “By all means,” J.J. replied. “Hard to believe that a foreign terrorist group found Hamilton and got him to cooperate. Although, if he has heavy gambling debts, who knows?. . .So what do I tell my people to explain your participation?”

  “Tell them nothing about BlackStar. The constraints of SALT II make it more important than ever for the U.S. to have an ace in the hole.”

  “It violates the treaty?”

  “Not in the technical sense. . .It existed prior to SALT and is not a weapon, per se. Tell your people the President asked the NSA to oversee the incident and report directly to him. . .that we’re comm experts here to secure classified encrypted equipment. They should understand they don’t have a need-to-know.”

  “I can do that.” Colonel Jackson was already considering the possibilities. What a leg-up for the BG Selection Board.

  “By the way, how big is this BlackStar device?”

  “About the size of a small office photocopier, although somewhat flatter than cube shape. . .Good comparison would be an oversized piece of luggage. Dark gray in color. . .with locking pins that keep it secured to the aircraft.”

  “That should give my security people an idea of what to look for. . .Anything else I should know?”

  Johansen broke in, “Two things. . .You have a Technical Sergeant Jake Thomas assigned to your security police squadron. . .”

  “Matter of fact, I do.” J.J. smiled. “Second best softball player on his squadron team. . .tags more than his share of runners.”

  “That’s nice. . .but we’re more interested in his job skills. He’s been extremely valuable to our agency on more than one occasion. We’re not planning to use him in this event unless absolutely necessary, but wanted to make you aware of his history with us.”

  Benson added, “Same goes for a Lieutenant Colonel Bart Winfield.”

  “Best softball player on their team. I wasn’t aware. . .”

  “And you still aren’t. . .understood? A remarkable asset. but, there’s no need to mix his background in with this event, at least not at this point.”

  “In light of what you just told me, should I call them in for a private chat?”

  “No. . .Our superiors feel it would be better to let things unfold naturally. We’ll let you know if it becomes necessary to use them. In the meantime, though, you might insure they are involved in face-to-face contact with the intruders whenever possible. . . .could prove valuable.”

  “Certainly, I’ll make sure they’re front and center.” He consulted his chronograph again. Twenty-two hours and four minutes. “Look, I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back to work as On-Scene-Commander. As they say, the clock is ticking. . .So, unless you have something else. . .”

  “No, that’s all for now.” Johansen glanced down at his watch. “Written executive orders detailing what we’ve told you should have been transmitted to your comm center by now.”

  They stood and began gathering their materials.

  “Good,” J.J. replied. “Comm Center’s right here in the basement. . .We can stop by on the way out.”

  He waited while the agents secured the briefing material and led them from the room. Could be the biggest career boost I’ve ever had.

  He locked the door and pointed them down the hall in the opposite direction from which they had come. Looking better every minute. He couldn’t help but smile.

  MOBILE COMMAND POST

  NEAR THE ALERT PAD

  J.J. stood at the wide back window of the mobile command post with feet spread apart and hands clasped behind his back. He chewed on the stub of a cigar and stared into the darkening evening.

  “Be nice to light that up, wouldn’t it?” Colonel Bill Howard, the Flying Training Wing Commander stepped up beside him.

  “Sure as hell would,” he answered. “This politically correct crap’s gone too far when I can’t even light up in my own Command Post. Supposed to set a good example. . .What a crock!”

  “I hear that. . ..Least we can hope it’ll be gone next election.”

  “Don’t know about that. . .This no smoking thing may be here to stay. Anyway, what’s going on?”

  “Training’s mostly shut down, since we can’t use the runways. . .Thanks to whoever they are.” He nodded toward the Alert Pad. “Thought I’d stop by and lend some moral support. Sorry I couldn’t make your staff meeting this morning. . .Been busy all day trying to sort things out for the current class of nav students. This’ll put them behind on their training schedule, which means adjusting all of their follow-on report dates.”

  “Wish it could be avoided. . .Too chancy to let anything take off right now.”

  “I know. . .You holding up okay?”

  “As well as can be expected with this hot potato thrown at me. Wish we were both back on Okinawa flying routine patrols. . .Thousand times more fun than this and we could have a beer or two at the O Club when we got back.”

  “Yeah, I miss those days. . .Young and dumb and hardly a care. Nice rig you got here. . .New?”

  “Sure is. . .first op I’ve used it on.”

  “Good way to break it in. . .Well, guess I’ll head on home. . .Been one long day.”

  “And gonna be an even longer night.”

  “Expect so. . .See you later and good luck. . .Be praying for you.”

  “Thanks. . .Pray for all of us. . .and watch your six.”

  “Roger that. . .Back atcha.”

  He wanted to tell Bill about the timer but, even though he knew the secret would be safe with him, decided not to. He might be tempted to send his family away and that could start a mini-evacuation. Fire up the old rumor-mill a bit too much.

  J.J. turned back to the window in time to see part of SORT Team A cut a hole in the fence and roll custom made dirt bikes into the Alert Pad. The sun had set an hour before and the moonless night left any area outside the security lights in total darkness.

  Speakers crackled behind him as the rest of the team moved into place. The secure frequency was scrambled and gave their voices an alien quality that could not disguise the tension they felt. This was not an exercise.

  He moved from side-to-side to loosen his back and wished he could go for a workout, or maybe even play a little ba
sketball. The quest for physical fitness that started before high school took him to the base gym three or four days a week to play some hoops with men and women half his age.

  He not only kept up with them, but usually left them bent over and gasping for breath while he sailed down the court. He longed to be there now with sweat pouring out of his body while they practiced the mild version of trash talk they used.

  An administrative specialist handed him a message. “Sir, do you have any idea how long this will last? My boys go to a civilian childcare facility in Rancho Cordova. . .”

  “Nobody knows how long. I hope it’s over today or tomorrow, but it’s not up to me. . .Only the people who’ve taken over the Alert Pad know for sure and they’re not talking.”

  “My mom lives in the Bay area. . .I can probably get her to come over to watch them.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “A cop. . .In fact, he’s on the team getting ready to go into the Alert Pad.”

  “Talk to your bosses. . .See if they can put you on opposite shifts. Have them call me if need be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The event affected most base personnel, as they held their breath and hoped they could soon drop back from rotating twelve-hour shifts. The cover story spoke of a SAC exercise and warned them against discussing the events with anybody, especially the media. They knew this was no exercise.

  Closure of the road that passed by the Alert Pad meant a longer drive around the base to get home, but produced only a few minor grumbles. Base housing residents understood the need for occasional inconveniences.

  His reverie was interrupted by the Chief of Services, Major John Miller, who was coordinating the delivery of food and water to the Black Jack Bomber.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, but Number Two is at it again. . .Dictating new terms every fifteen minutes and generally being a pain. It was a lot easier dealing with his boss.”

  “I know, but they’re in charge. . .at least for the moment. What’s he doing now?”