Black Star Rising

by Robert Gandt

  “I thought scientists didn’t believe in luck.”

  “Guess I’m not a real scientist.”

  She was wearing a white jump suit that accented her narrow waist. Her hair was pulled back in her standard pony tail. In the dim artificial light, her face looked young, almost childlike. Maxwell caught a scent of perfume.

  “If this works today,” he said, “we’ll be going home.”

  “And then what?”

  “You go back to your lab. I go back to Fallon.”

  “Fallon’s not that far from Groom Lake. Do you think that. . .” She shuffled her feet, chewed for a moment on a thumbnail. “Do you think you and I could, you know, start over again?”

  This was a different Dana Boudroux than the one he’d met at Groom Lake three weeks ago. This wasn’t the Ice Queen. He liked this one better.

  “Give it another shot?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So you can show me how to punch a speed bag?”

  “Punch it any way you want,” she said. “Even if it’s wrong.”

  He smiled. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, let’s give it a shot.”

  She stepped close. She raised herself on her toes and kissed him, her lips just brushing his. “Promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll come back alive.”

  “I promise,” he said, and walked toward his jet.

  Chapter 30 — Snake Nest

  USS Ronald Reagan

  South China Sea

  0525 Monday, 7 May

  “Relax, Jack,” said Boyce. “It’s gonna be a walk in the park.”

  He could tell by Hightree’s worried expression that he didn’t believe it. “Easy for you to say,” said Hightree.

  They were on the Reagan’s flag bridge. It was still dark outside. All three jets were positioned on the catapults.

  “Hell,” said Boyce, “we might see some action today. You can be a real strike group commander.”

  “Goddamn it, Boyce, I am a real strike group commander. Don’t you forget it.”

  Boyce turned his face to the glass pane so Hightree couldn’t see him grin. It was so easy to push Hightree’s button.

  Boyce and Hightree went back over twenty years in their careers. Hightree was already a rear admiral and a strike group commander when Boyce, still a captain, led the Reagan’s air wing. Now Boyce wore one star, and Hightree had just been selected for his third. In a couple of weeks he’d be headed for the Pentagon and a new job.

  The two were opposites in style and temperament. Unlike Boyce, who had earned a legion of enemies by his flamboyant style, Hightree was a low profile commander who hated taking risks. A black ops mission like this was exactly the kind of operation he loathed.

  Peering down at the flight deck, Boyce could make out the dim outlines of the Black Star jets. Not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined such a thing. Three unescorted jets going against one of the most heavily defended targets in Asia. The Black Stars were loaded with JSOWs—joint stand off weapons. Enough to take out the PLA air force’s entire stock of Dong-jin stealth fighters at Lingshui, if the intel estimates were correct.

  No other warplanes from the Reagan were airborne except a Hawkeye and four Super Hornets configured as refueling tankers. After the Black Stars launched, they would rendezvous with the tankers and top off before proceeding to the target.

  Before the Black Stars arrived on target at Lingshui, the Reagan Strike Group would be at DEFCON One—the highest level of defense condition. A Barrier CAP of sixteen Super Hornets would be airborne, controlled by Navy Hawkeyes and an Air Force E-3B Sentry AWACS ship from Kadena. A complete SEAD package—anti-radiation missile-armed Super Hornets, four F/A-18G Growler electronic jamming aircraft, and four U.S. Air Force KC-10 tankers on station.

  Just in case. This Black Star raid could trigger the mother of all modern sea battles. God help us, thought Boyce.

  Hightree was still glowering at Boyce when the intercom speaker on his console crackled. “Flag, air ops. The jets are up and ready. It’s T minus five. Do we have a go for launch, sir?”

  “You have a go,” said Hightree. “Launch the strike package.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The minutes ticked past. The JBD—jet blast deflector—raised from the deck behind the jet on the number one catapult—the starboard bow catapult. Maxwell’s jet would be the first to launch.

  Through the thick glass Boyce heard the rumble of the engines going to full thrust. The jet seemed to squat, its nose strut compressing. An instant later the wedge-shaped aircraft hurtled down the catapult track. The jet swept over the bow and vanished in the darkness. A trail of steam wafted from the empty catapult track.

  Seconds later, the jet on the port bow catapult squatted, then lurched down the track. Then the waist catapult. Boyce saw a blurry shadow race down the angled deck and disappear into the gloom off the port bow.

  All three jets airborne. After refueling on the tankers, they’d point their noses in the direction of Hainan Island. No overt communications, no SAM suppression, no battle reports. The Black Stars were on their own.

  A damned strange way to run a war, thought Boyce.

  Hightree was looking at him again. “Well, Red. Let’s hope we’re doing the right thing.”

  Boyce nodded. Hightree was being Hightree again. If the decision to attack Lingshui had been left to him, it wouldn’t be happening. The op order had come through the traditional chain of command, but Boyce knew who had made the decision. They were carrying out the orders of the President.

  “No sweat, Jack,” said Boyce. “A walk in the park.”

  <>

  Huangzhu auxiliary air field, Hainan Island

  “Has the Dong-jin been prepared for combat?” asked Zhang.

  “Yes, General,” said Lieutenant Po. His young face bore a troubled expression. “But this has been very troubling. I would most respectfully ask, why must we—”

  “Enough!” snapped Zhang. “I’ll hear no more of your impertinent questions. “Carry out your duties and wait for my orders.”

  Po hesitated. Then he saluted and did an about face.

  Zhang watched the weapons system officer leave. Something would have to be done about Po. He had been behaving in this sullen manner since this morning when they moved the Dong-jin to the auxiliary air field at Huangzhu.

  In normal circumstances, Zhang would have Po arrested and grilled by the Te-Wu. The impudent officer would receive a re-education in protocol. Junior officers in the PLA were expendable.

  But these were not normal circumstances. Zhang needed Po’s services, at least for one final mission. Since he’d executed the commanding general of the PLA air force, Zhang knew that he was a general in name only. Without question, the PLA security police had already received the order to arrest him. For that reason he had secretly moved his Dong-jin to Huangzhu.

  Zhang looked around his makeshift office. It was rudimentary—a single desk for him and a plain steel table for administrative staff. Several months ago he had secretly established this facility. The field had a concealed revetment for a Dong-jin, a basic maintenance shop, and a headquarters for him and his staff. With him at Huangzhu were two dozen loyal Te-Wu agents—the same ones who had neutralized General Han’s staff when they arrived at Lingshui.

  Zhang tilted back in the hard wooden chair and reflected on his situation. Executing General Han had been an audacious move, but so was the killing of Ferrone, the U.S. ambassador. According to Zhang’s Te-Wu agent in Hanoi, this man Ferrone had been a former high ranking naval officer. He had been a prisoner of the Vietnamese during their war with the U.S. The Te-Wu agent had also reported that Ferrone was a close confidante of the U.S. President, himself a former naval officer.

  And then came the news that had set Zhang’s emotions aflame. Ferrone, the agent reported, was a family friend and colleague of Maxwell—the single human whom Zhang hated
more than any other on the planet. Ferrone had served in the Navy with Maxwell’s father. Ferrone had even hosted Maxwell in Hanoi not more than three weeks ago.

  Killing Ferrone was a pleasure. It was also a brilliant tactical move, because it would undo the shameful armistice negotiated by Ferrone and the PRC foreign minister. Zhang understood the infantile nature of Americans.

  The U.S. would retaliate. And Zhang was certain he knew where they would strike.

  A rap on his door interrupted Zhang’s thoughts.

  Without waiting, Lieutenant Po rushed into the office. His face was flushed and his chest was heaving.

  Zhang’s hand went to the grip of his semiautomatic pistol.

  “Sorry to interrupt, General,” Po said, catching his breath. “The air defense net reports an attack. Enemy aircraft, stealth jets, precision weapons.”

  Zhang relaxed his grip on the pistol “Where?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Lingshui.”

  <>

  USS Ronald Reagan

  “Kilo class,” said Hightree, pointing to the triangular symbol on the tactical display screen.

  Hightree and Boyce watched the surface tactical display. The Chinese submarine was back.

  “That symbol is twenty minutes old. The ASW commander says the surface ships have lost him, but one of the SSNs—Daytona Beach—is still hawking him.”

  “What do you want to bet its the same guy we chased away last time with depth charges?” said Boyce. “Good old Yuanzheng 67.”

  Hightree frowned, still studying the symbol. “That was before we lost Melbourne. Now we know the Chinese can shoot Shkval torpedoes.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  Hightree kept watching the triangular symbol. “Watch him. If he shows any sign of hostile intent, we’re going to blow him out of the water.”

  Boyce nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  <>

  22,000 feet, Hainan Island

  “Forty miles to release,” Maxwell said on the intercom.

  Gypsy didn’t reply. She could see the release point on her own display. Maxwell was just trying to get her to talk. To hell with him.

  She knew she was behaving like a snitty teenager, but there wasn’t any rule that said a wizzo had to act all warm and fuzzy. Later, maybe. When Dragon Flight was a wrap and they were headed back to Groom Lake, she’d patch it up with Maxwell. He was an okay guy, just too much of a boy scout. He should have flamed that Dong-jin before they acknowledged the stand down order from Boyce.

  There was something in the display. Something off the southeast coast of Hainan.

  “Contacts,” she said in the hot mike. “Two o’clock, fifteen miles, twenty thousand.”

  “Flankers,” said Maxwell. “Looks like a CAP. Keep them tagged in case they acquire us.”

  The Flankers were no big deal. It would have been odd, Gypsy thought, if Chinese fighters weren’t out there somewhere. The Flankers were no problem unless they had been reconfigured with sensors to penetrate the Black Star’s stealth cloaking. Not likely.

  In the display she could see the other two Black Stars. Their positions were all data linked via satellite. They had separated for deconfliction and mutual support. Now they were all on convergent courses toward Lingshui.

  Each Black Star carried two 2,000-pound GBU-27 bombs with hard target penetrator warheads. The bombs were guided by a computer-sorted mix of GPS commands, inertial guidance, and laser targeting. Each of the weapons was programmed to take out one of the concrete Dong-jin revetments at Lingshui.

  It was like exterminating a nest of snakes, Gypsy thought. Easy unless one of the snakes came after you. If a Dong-jin got airborne unobserved, it could kill all of them. Which was why two Black Stars—Maxwell and Otis McCollister—were tasked to remain overhead after the attack to intercept any Dong-jins that might get airb0rne. The third Black Star, flown by Crud Carruthers, would sweep the target with its onboard surveillance cameras for bomb damage assessment.

  “One minute,” said Maxwell.

  Another needless call. Gypsy didn’t bother replying.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Ten.”

  “Three, two, one—“

  She heard the roar of the wind blast as the internal bay doors opened. The first bomb released with a thunk.

  Two seconds later, the second bomb. The doors closed, and the wind blast abruptly ceased.

  The bombs were on their way. Their moveable guidance fins were obeying the satellite-delivered orders of the GPS navigation unit.

  Maxwell hauled the nose of the Black Star around in a climbing turn to the right, then back to the left, opening up the distance from their descending bombs. Gypsy kept her eyes riveted on the elapsed timer. She had calculated that the GBU-27s would take something around forty seconds to impact.

  She was close. Forty-two seconds from release the first bomb struck.

  In the next few seconds, all the bombs from the Black Stars were impacting Lingshui. Penetrator warheads were detonating inside each revetment. Gypsy could see pillars of fire and smoke erupting like lava from the subsurface emplacements. Interior explosions were punching holes in the concrete surface of the base.

  Nothing could survive those explosions, she thought. None of the Dong-jins could possibly have—

  “Bogey on the runway,” called someone on the tactical frequency. She recognized the voice of Otis McCollister. “A Bogey is rolling,” called Otis. “Shit, he’s airborne already.”

  Gypsy felt a jolt run through her. Bogey? A Dong-jin?

  It was. She saw it through the greenish glare of the CFD goggles. A shimmering dark diamond. It was racing down the runway, just lifting off.

  “Dragon Two has a lock,” called Otis.

  “We should take him,” said Gypsy on the intercom.

  “We’ll stay high and check for spitters,” said Maxwell. “Spitters” were unobserved entrants to the fight.

  “But we’re in better position. We can—”

  “Cool it,” snapped Maxwell. “Just do your job.”

  Gypsy fought back her anger. She saw the Dong-jin climbing from the runway. It was accelerating, shimmering like a mirage. Begging to be shot. From where they were, high and left, they could flame him in a matter of seconds.

  But so could Otis. The Black Star was swooping from the right like a raptor after a sparrow. He had at least two hundred knots overtake speed on the Dong-jin.

  She saw the squiggly white trail of the AIM-9 Sidewinder as it left the extended launcher rail on Otis’s Black Star. It was flying a perfect curve, leaping out ahead of the flight path of the Dong-jin. Gypsy held her breath. It would be a classic missile kill. In another three seconds the proximity fuse of the warhead would—

  “It missed,” said Maxwell.

  Gypsy stared. The missile had gone dumb. It was arcing ahead of the Dong-jin, not tracking anything.

  So much for the new and improved seeker heads. The new sensors on the Black Star worked, and so did the goggles. Forget the missile seeker heads.

  The Chinese pilot had awakened to his near-death experience. The Dong-jin was in a violent turn to the right, pulling vapor trails off each wingtip.

  “Otis blew it,” said Gypsy. “We’ve got a shot at this guy now.”

  “Negative,” said Maxwell. “Otis still has him locked.”

  Gypsy seethed in the back seat. Boy scout.

  The panicked Chinese pilot’s hard turn was taking him directly across Otis’s nose. The Black Star still had a huge overtake speed on the Dong-jin. Gypsy saw the Black Star pull off to the left, crossing the trail of the Dong-jin, then back to the right, opening up the distance between him and the Chinese jet.

  Gypsy saw tracers. She remembered the argument back aboard the ship about whether to load tracer rounds in the Black Star’s Vulcan cannon. Tracers showed where your cannon bursts were going. They also revealed your position, which negated the value of the stealth cloaking.

  Ma
xwell had cast the deciding vote. They were carrying tracers.

  The tracers from Otis’s cannon were arcing out in front of the Dong-jin. Gypsy saw Otis haul the nose of the Black Star tighter into the Dong-jin’s turn.

  More tracers. Still in front.

  Another burst, and this time Gypsy saw pieces coming off the Dong-jin. It looked like confetti streaming backwards. The wedge-shaped Dong-jin slewed into a skid, streaming smoke.

  It exploded.

  “Splash one Dong-jin,” came the throaty voice of Otis McCollister. Technically, the call violated the radio silence order. No one was going to complain today. Shooting down a Dong-jin earned you a little slack.

  Gypsy watched the hulk of the Dong-jin tumble like a shattered toy. It crashed into a cultivated field, sending up a geyser of dirt and black smoke.

  There were no chutes. The Dong-jin crew had gone in with the jet.

  Good, thought Gypsy Palmer. To hell with them.

  Chapter 31 — Scissors

  USS Ronald Reagan

  South China Sea

  0640 Monday, 7 May

  “What’s the place called again?” Boyce said.

  “Huangzhu,” crackled the voice on the speaker. “A hundred kilometers north of Lingshui.”

  Boyce’s eyes went to the map of Hainan on the bulkhead. It took him a few seconds, then his finger went to it. “Okay, got it. What’s the probability it was a Dong-jin?”

  “We give it eighty percent. The IR trace on the runway matches the confirmed ID signatures we have from Lingshui.”

  The voice on the speaker phone belonged to the Director of the National Reconnaissance Office in Chantilly, Virginia. Boyce had met him once. He was a civilian named Karstadt, a career spook who had come up through the CIA’s electronic intelligence branch. The NRO managed all the U.S.’s space-based intelligence-gathering apparatus, and Boyce knew they had parked a KH13 spy satellite over Hainan. He inferred from the other snippets Karstadt had told him that the KH13 had electro-optical capability, allowing it to read the infrared reflections of jet engine exhaust on concrete—even when the jet was invisible.