Black Star Rising

by Robert Gandt

  He caught Boyce watching him, still wearing that smug expression. Maxwell looked again at the screen. The pieces were falling into place. He recognized the symbols. They represented a Carrier Strike Group, led by the USS Ronald Reagan, CVN-76. And he recognized the islands and land masses on the map.

  The South China Sea.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a female voice behind him. “You’re ten minutes late for the briefing, gentlemen. Don’t let this become a habit.”

  Chapter 4 — Bulldog

  Groom Lake Research Facility, Nevada

  1610 Tuesday, 10 April

  She looked over the late arrivals. The older man, the one with wispy red hair and cigar butt in his hand, was giving her an imperious gaze.

  “I’m Dr. Dana Boudroux,” she said. “Director of Operations, Electrochromatic Programs.”

  “Boyce,” said the man with the cigar. “Commander, Special Tactical Operations Unit.”

  For a moment they locked glances, neither showing the slightest bit of deference. Then she noticed the star on each shoulder of his flight suit. An admiral? She hadn’t expected anyone of that rank. She was told only that a couple of Navy pilots were coming down for the briefing. He didn’t look like an admiral. More like some middle-aged salesman you’d meet at a bar.

  “And this is Brick Maxwell,” said the admiral, nodding to his taller, younger companion. “Detachment commander.”

  She nodded her acknowledgment, not bothering to shake hands, not asking what kind of detachment. That was something she had learned about hotshot fighter pilots. They always expected you to go wobbly-kneed and google-eyed in their presence. She knew better. Never give the cretins any reason to think you’re impressed by them.

  The younger one, Brick something—where did they get these asinine names?—wasn’t bad looking. The oak leaves on his shoulder meant that he was a Navy commander. He was tall with a craggy but handsome face and a quizzical smile.

  They wore sweaty flight suits with the usual set of flashy patches and leather name tags. Typical fighter pilots, full of themselves, still playing high school games with letter jackets and the silly patches.

  “We’ve been looking at the Black Star,” said Boyce. “I wanted Commander Maxwell to see how it’s been modified since he test flew it seven years ago.”

  She nodded, registering the information but keeping her thoughts to herself. So this one was a test pilot. He must have been here when she first arrived back in the early days of Calypso Blue, the super secret stealth jet program. He might even have known Frank.

  Or maybe not. That was the nature of the stealth program. Outside your own area of responsibility, you didn’t know who was working on what. There was a good reason for it after the original stealth technology had been compromised by a turncoat engineer.

  But those were the old days. They were past the research phase. Now it was time for the Black Star to go operational.

  She made a show of glancing at her watch. “We’re late, gentlemen. I suggest we begin the briefing.”

  <>

  Washington, D.C.

  “Have a sandwich, Senator? Those are tuna, and this is ham salad.”

  “I’ve already had lunch,” said Thad Wagstaff.

  “Coffee?”

  “Never drink the stuff.”

  Hollis Benjamin shrugged and poured himself a coffee, then helped himself to a sandwich. Good old Wagstaff, he thought. He was his usual self this morning, meaning that he was a disputatious, supercilious asshole.

  Benjamin busied himself with his tuna sandwich while he tried to think of a way to soften up Wagstaff. They were in the Cabinet Room, though none of the cabinet members were present except Dick Greenstein, the Secretary of Defense. Also at the table was Gen. Gerald Matloff, the Marine four-star who chaired the Joint Chiefs. Half a dozen staffers sat with their notepads a few places removed from the main players.

  These one-on-one lunch chats usually worked for Benjamin. Much of his political success was because of his famous ability to disarm the most contentious adversaries with his personal charm. Beltway veterans called it the Benjamin Effect. Hollis Benjamin, someone told a reporter, could whack your legs off at the knees and have you thanking him for bringing the floor closer to you.

  Well, maybe there was some truth to it, reflected Benjamin, but in the case of Senator Thad Wagstaff, the Effect wasn’t working. The senior senator from Virginia was showing no sign of being charmed. If anything, he was being a greater pain in the ass than usual.

  General Matloff was giving Wagstaff an update on the situation in the South China Sea. Bringing Matloff along had been Secretary Greenstein’s idea, and Benjamin saw now that it was a smart play. Matloff, being a Marine general, could squeeze a certain amount of respect out of Wagstaff, who had been a Marine infantry officer and still looked the part. Wagstaff was a thick-necked man, heavy in the shoulders, with close-cropped white hair and a set of blazing dark eyes that he aimed like lasers.

  Matloff finished telling Wagstaff about the Chinese capture of Swallow Reef atoll, in the Spratly Islands.

  “What I want to know,” said Wagstaff, “is why in the hell we are even remotely concerned about a goddamn reef in the South China Sea.”

  “Because it could ignite a war between Vietnam and China. It’s in our best interest to prevent such a thing.”

  “And you’re telling me, General, that you’ve sent the Reagan into the middle of this pissing contest?”

  “Not exactly in the middle,” said Matloff. He was a slim, bespectacled officer with a bristly haircut that was even shorter than Wagstaff’s. “We have always kept a strike group deployed in the region when tensions are high. Just to discourage the Chinese—or anyone else—from doing something reckless.”

  “General, my position on this matter has not changed. What we should do is get the hell out of there and let the Chinks finish what we lacked the balls to do thirty years ago. Let them bomb Hanoi back to the stone age.”

  Matloff frowned, unable to contain his dislike of the pugnacious senator. Benjamin forced himself to laugh, just to keep the discussion from getting too serious. Wagstaff was wearing his trademark bulldog expression, signaling that he was ready for combat.

  On a personal level, Benjamin had never liked Wagstaff, and he had no doubt that the feeling was mutual. He considered Wagstaff to be an unpleasant, quarrelsome man who made it his life’s work to impede every progressive idea in Congress. But there was no denying that the man had earned the right to his opinions, blockheaded as they were. Wagstaff had distinguished himself as a platoon commander during the siege of Khe San, earning a purple heart and a silver star. An embittered war veteran, Wagstaff came home to run for a Congressional seat against an incumbent whose credentials included burning his draft card and heading a group called Americans for Nuclear Disarmament. After winning a narrow victory, Wagstaff spent the next thirty years fortifying his position both in Virginia and Washington.

  Now he headed the powerful Senate Armed Services Committee. The wrath of Wagstaff would be directed like a high-yield nuke on anyone, journalist or educator, liberal or conservative, congressman or President, who dared propose a cutback in military readiness. The same wrath would descend on any fool who favored relations with a communist state, particularly one with whom the U.S. had waged eight years of warfare.

  “Fifty-eight thousand,” said Wagstaff.

  Benjamin blinked, returning his thoughts to the breakfast table. He looked at Wagstaff. “Excuse me? Fifty-eight thousand what?”

  “Lives,” snapped Wagstaff. “American lives. In case you need reminding, that’s how many we lost in Vietnam. And if I’m hearing correctly, your administration wants to kiss and make up and pretend it never happened.”

  Benjamin recognized that familiar deprecating tone in Wagstaff’s voice. He forced a smile and said, “I happen to agree that Vietnam was a great tragedy. We shouldn’t pretend it never happened, but we should put history behind us.”

&
nbsp; “If you were a veteran like I am, Mr. President, you would not be so eager to embrace the Vietnamese communists.”

  Benjamin felt a flash of anger. He gave it a beat, composing himself. “I’ll remind you that I am a veteran, Senator Wagstaff. The Vietnam war was before my time, but I did serve my country for eight years as a naval officer and aviator.”

  “Then you should be talking like a veteran instead of a peacenik.”

  “Not all veterans think the same as you. As you know, Admiral Joe Ferrone, whose war record is as impressive as your own, strongly supports relations with Vietnam and is our new ambassador there.”

  Wagstaff shook his head. “Something happened to Ferrone. He spent too many years as a prisoner. They must have done something to his head. He’s been brainwashed into sleeping with the enemy.”

  Again Benjamin forced himself to hold back his anger. Wagstaff was looking for a fight, and Benjamin was almost ready to give it to him. But not yet.

  “The Vietnam war was a lesson for the U.S. I want to make sure that we don’t repeat the mistake.”

  “The lesson from Vietnam is that we should never to go to war without the will to achieve total victory.”

  “Perhaps, Senator. But after our total victory over Germany and Japan in World War II, we became economic partners with both countries, to everyone’s mutual advantage. Doesn’t it make sense to do the same with Vietnam?”

  Wagstaff shook his head. “We reduced Berlin and Tokyo to rubble before we helped them rebuild. That’s exactly what we should have done to Hanoi. Turn the place into a parking lot before we ever considered doing business with them.”

  “After World War II, we were in a contest with the Soviet Union. We needed the backing of Germany and Japan.”

  “The Cold War’s over,” snapped Wagstaff. “What’s that got to do your sucking up to a commie country like Vietnam?”

  “For a similar reason, Senator. The People’s Republic of China has replaced the Soviet Union as our greatest economic and military rival. We need partners like Vietnam to maintain balance in the Far East.”

  “Balance?” Wagstaff snorted. “Is that this administration’s secret buzz word for ‘oil?’ The oil deposits in the South China Sea perhaps?”

  Benjamin exchanged glances with Greenstein. Greenstein gave him a barely perceptible head shake. Don’t go there.

  “No,” said Benjamin. This was not a time for complete candor. Not with Senator Thad Wagstaff. “The matter of the Spratly Island oil rights is strictly between Vietnam and China. The U.S.’s only role in the dispute is to insure that neither side uses military force to seize the oil.”

  “And how are you going to insure that?” said Wagstaff. “By siding with your new best friend, Vietnam?”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “If we’re worried about China violating international law, why not just impose trade sanctions on them?”

  “Sanctions don’t work. Not with an eight-hundred pound gorilla like the People’s Republic of China. China only responds when confronted with force.”

  At this, Wagstaff slammed his fist down on the table, jiggling his water glass and sending a notepad scooting over the edge. “Damn it, Mr. President, you don’t have the authority to commit U.S. forces to combat over there. Not without my committee’s oversight and not without the approval of Congress.”

  Benjamin nodded, keeping a mask of sincerity on his face. The words of his old mentor, Joe Ferrone, came to him. If you can’t dazzle ‘em with brilliance, baffle ‘em with bullshit. It was time for a little bullshit.

  “There are several contingency plans on the table, Senator, but no commitment has been made. You can be assured that we would not undertake any military action without the advice and consent of your committee.”

  Across the table, Benjamin saw Greenstein’s eyeballs roll. Matloff was studying some object on the far wall.

  Wagstaff took a long drink of water. By his narrow-eyed expression he showed that he wasn’t buying it, at least not all of it. He shoved his chair back from the table.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise.” He rose, and two of his aides at the far end of the table jumped to their feet. “In the meantime, know that the ghosts of 58,000 Americans are counting on you to remember their sacrifice.”

  “I’ll remember, Senator.”

  Wagstaff nodded to Greenstein and Matloff, who were standing. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do.”

  Benjamin waited until he was gone. He looked around the table. Matloff had stopped staring at the wall and was busy drumming his fingers on the table. Greenstein was rubbing the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.

  “Well?”

  “He’ll find out,” said Greenstein. “Wagstaff has sources everywhere.”

  “And then what?”

  “The proverbial waste matter makes contact with the rotor blades.”

  “What’s the problem?” said Benjamin. “There’s plenty of historical precedent for a President authorizing covert military operations. Is that a big deal?”

  The Secretary shrugged. “Not if it works. You’re a hero and you get reelected. If it doesn’t work, you’re a schmuck and Wagstaff calls for your impeachment. No big deal.”

  <>

  Groom Lake Research Facility, Nevada

  Maxwell yawned.

  The intelligence briefing had gone on for nearly an hour. The woman scientist, Dr. Boudroux, seemed to be in charge. There were two briefing officers, both civilians. Their names had not been offered, but their demeanor and dress bore the unmistakable mark of the CIA—button down oxford shirt, khaki slacks, clunky black wingtips.

  Maxwell looked across the row of seats and found himself locking eyes with Dr. Boudroux. The research scientist seemed to be appraising him, regarding him over the tops of her narrow glasses.

  He returned her gaze. He wondered why she had been so snotty. As if she hated men, or maybe it was just men in flight suits. Maybe it was just a facade.

  Maxwell tried smiling at her. She didn’t smile back. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a facade.

  Boyce cleared his throat and interrupted the briefing officer. “In other words,” he said, “you’re saying this whole damn thing is about oil.”

  A pained expression passed over the briefer’s face. “No, Admiral. Not exactly.”

  The other briefer said, “It has to do with balance of power.” He was a round-faced man with rimless spectacles. “Denying China the right to seize any asset it wants in Southeast Asia.”

  “Even if the asset happens to be an oil field that’s also being seized by Vietnam?”

  The briefers exchanged glances. “That’s a judgment that goes beyond this level of discussion.”

  Boyce snorted and inserted his unlit cigar back in his mouth.

  “Let me repeat,” said the first briefer. “There will be no open provocation of Chinese military units. Our Rules of Engagement allow only covert operations, meaning Black Star stealth aircraft, certain submarine activity, or special ops forces operating clandestinely.”

  “So we’re going to engage their invisible jets with our invisible jets,” said Boyce.

  “Only as a last resort,” said the briefer with the rimless glasses. “The objective is to discourage the Chinese from making any further aggressive moves against Vietnam.”

  “May I ask why we’re so committed to helping Vietnam?”

  Again the briefers exchanged glances. The first one shrugged. “All I can tell you is that the tasking order comes from the very highest authority.”

  Boyce’s eyes narrowed, then he tilted back in his chair. “Since the highest authority is willing to stick our necks out this far, is it prepared to back us up when we get in trouble?”

  “Only to the extent that the operation remains clandestine.”

  Maxwell saw Boyce nod. They both knew what the officer meant. It was the standard caveat of a black ops tasking order. Yes, you have the backing of the “highest authority,”
which meant the President or someone very close to him. Except that the backing stopped short of getting you out of trouble if you fell into the enemy’s hands. In which event you were screwed.

  Some things never changed.

  Chapter 5 — Old Soldiers

  Hanoi, Socialist Republic of Vietnam

  1745 Thursday, 12 April

  Ferrone’s Chrysler limousine glided to a stop at the gates of the Presidential Palace. The afternoon sun bathed the palace in an orange hue. Two sentries in the green and red uniform of the National Security Police stood at rigid attention before the guard towers.

  Ferrone’s driver, Trunh Bao, leaped out of the limo and rushed around to open the back door. Ferrone extended his right leg, then stepped outside, ignoring Trunh’s outstretched hand. He winced. The goddamn leg. It was giving him fits again.

  With Ferrone was his Deputy Chief of Mission, Mike Medford. Trunh would serve as his translator. Since Ferrone’s arrival in Vietnam, he had grown fond of the young Vietnamese man. Trunh was fluent in four languages, and he had displayed an amazing ability to get Ferrone through Vietnam’s labyrinth of red tape.

  “You’ve been here before, yes, Mr. Ambassador?” said Trunh.

  Ferrone smiled. He was tempted to give the wiseass fighter pilot’s answer when someone asked if he’d visited somewhere in Vietnam before. Yeah, but I was just passing through. But he’d not passed through—or over—Ho Chi Minh’s palace because it wasn’t on the list of approved bombing targets.

  “Only once,” he said. “To present my credentials as the new ambassador. I’ve never had a real meeting with the President.”

  The big iron gates swung open. Ferrone’s party entered the front courtyard. The palace was an ornate, colonial-style edifice built by the French when they ruled Vietnam at the end of the nineteenth century.