Black Star

by Robert Gandt

  Something has happened. Our life—the one you and I were planning together—has changed. Here’s the story. No spin, no flourishes.

  When you and I resumed our romance last year in Dubai, I was about to be divorced from my husband, Christopher Tyrwhitt, from whom I had been separated for a year and a half. As you know, a few weeks before the divorce was to become final, I heard from Chris’s boss in Sydney that Chris had been killed while on assignment in Baghdad. According to the official story from the Iraqi foreign ministry, he was shot by army guards while he was trespassing in a prohibited area. World Wide News, Chris’s agency, was unable to determine the real circumstances, but the story seemed plausible, knowing Chris. No body, no funeral. I was informed that my late husband was buried in Iraq.

  End of story. Enter Sam Maxwell. And a new life.

  Until now. Life is stranger than fiction, Sam. One afternoon last week a man appeared in the door of my Washington office. He looked familiar, though thinner and grayer than I remembered, but when he spoke I knew instantly who it was. My husband had returned from the dead.

  He was, quite literally, full of holes. He had been shot three times. The details of his “death” and disappearance are quite sensitive, but the U.S. government made some very complicated exchanges in order to free him from Iraq.

  Now the hard part. I am badly disoriented. Do I love you? Yes, deeply. But I am still the wife of Chris Tyrwhitt. I realize that I was wrong in some of my judgments about him. He is not the scoundrel I thought him to be (or at least as much of a scoundrel). His actions in Iraq, though he is not at liberty to discuss them in detail, were more honorable and noble than I would have dreamed.

  Chris is making no demands. He says that we can proceed with the divorce if that is my wish. He also insists that he loves me, has always loved me, and wants to remain married. I believe him.

  Please give me some time and space to work this out, Sam. I no longer know up from down. What I feel for you is real and true, but a part of me is still in love with a ghost. I don’t know if it is real or not.

  Please understand.

  With love,

  Claire

  <>

  For a solid five minutes he sat motionless, staring at the screen. The pixels on the display winked back at him like stars in a galaxy.

  That’s all they are, he thought. Pixels. Bytes. Microscopic pulses of energy. How could something so inconsequential have the power to cause him this much pain?

  He kept waiting for the anger to spew out, like steam from a cauldron. Nothing came. There was only a deadness inside him. He felt more alone than ever before in his life.

  Claire. She had entered his life when they were both young, still careless with their hearts. For reasons neither understood, they went different ways, he to the space shuttle and a new life and love; she to a career as a broadcast journalist and marriage to a dashing reporter named Chris Tyrwhitt.

  Years later, when they found each other again, it seemed like a storybook romance. He was a widower, his astronaut wife lost in a training accident. Claire was divorcing her wastrel husband. They were more in love than ever before. It seemed too good to be true.

  And so it was.

  She was right about one thing, he thought. Life was stranger than fiction. And a hell of a lot more cruel.

  For another five minutes he sat at the computer, trying to compose his jumbled thoughts. In tiny increments, the anger began to come, rising in a slow simmer. His hands returned to the keyboard. Slowly, without looking up or taking his fingers from the keys, he typed a reply.

  Date: 10 September

  From: SMaxwell.VFA36@USSRonaldReagan.Navy.mil

  To: Claire.Phillips@MBS.com

  Subj: Re: Unexpected dilemma

  Dear Mrs. Tyrwhitt—I am very sorry to hear about your problem. I am even more sorry to hear that the reappearance of your husband presents a dilemma. It can only mean that our relationship was based on shakier ground than I thought. As you know, that’s one of those things I’m not good at—figuring out relationships. Especially ours.

  You say you need time and space to work it out. Not a problem. You may have all the time and space you need.

  Please have a happy life.

  As always,

  Sam

  For a minute he stared at the message while a vat of dark emotions stirred inside him. The screen swam in his vision, pixels and lines running together in a blurry amalgam.

  He slid the mouse pointer on the screen to the SEND button.

  Don’t, said a voice inside him. He knew he was angry, bitter, jealous. Filled with irrational thoughts. Not a good time to send a message to the girl you love.

  To hell with it. It’s over. Finito. Send it.

  His finger went to the left-click button on the mouse—

  A rap on the stateroom door.

  He hesitated, his hand on the mouse. Finally he rose and swung the door open.

  The wide bulk of Commander Bullet Alexander filled the doorway. “Sorry to bother you, Skipper. CAG wants us in the air wing office ASAP.”

  Alexander had come by his call sign naturally. He was a handsome, burly-shouldered African-American man with a shaved skull that approximated the shape of a .45 caliber round. He had come aboard a month ago as Maxwell’s new executive officer.

  “Give me a second.”

  He returned to his desk. The mouse arrow still covered the SEND button on the message screen. He saw Alexander watching him from the doorway.

  His hand hovered over the mouse key. He didn’t have to reply the message. He could let it molder there in the IN basket while he considered. Nothing had to be done now.

  Abruptly he reached down and slapped the SEND button.

  Snatching his hat off the hook on the bulkhead, he stormed out of the room. He closed the door behind him with a vicious slam.

  “Something the matter, Brick?”

  “No.” Maxwell gave him a ferocious look. “Why the hell do you think something’s the matter?”

  “Oh, no reason.” Alexander kept his eyes straight ahead. “What’s her name?”

  CHAPTER 4 — POSTER BOY

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  2155, Wednesday, 10 September

  Bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep.

  To Raymond Lutz, the incessant twittering of the half-acre of electronic slot machines sounded like music. It was natural that he would choose Caesar’s Palace to do his business. He loved it here—the glittering lights, the electronic sound effects, the underlying current of greed and hedonism.

  He followed his usual pattern. First, a drink. Lutz didn’t particularly like liquor, but it had a calming effect on him. That was something he needed at the moment.

  His eyes scanned the floor while he sipped the Scotch and water. Same crowd as always. Hicks from the Midwest, hopeful idiots blowing their vacation stash, guys with gold chains and pinkie rings impressing flashy girl friends. Hookers, hustlers, junkies, bimbos.

  A good place to get lost.

  He cruised the floor until he saw a blackjack table that looked promising. The female dealer, a cute redhead, seemed friendly enough. Only two other players sat at the table. He took a seat at the end.

  Lutz was a disciplined player, adhering to the rigid system of odds and probabilities that he had developed on his computer. After two hours of small-stakes play, he was nearly eight hundred dollars ahead. Not a big profit, but better than average. His system worked in small increments, not big hauls.

  Time for the next phase.

  He strolled down to the rows of slots, pausing to hit a five-dollar machine for a dozen losing passes. He moved on, picking up another Scotch at the small corner bar. His nerves were kicking up again. He needed calming.

  In the third row of dollar slots he came to the machine he was looking for. A chain-smoking woman who looked like she just left a Tennessee trailer park was shoving her last chip into the machine.

  Another loser.

  “Goddamn thing,” she mutter
ed, giving the machine a slap. “They’re rigged. Every damn one of them.” She walked away, still cursing.

  Lutz took her place. This one was ripe.

  He made a stack of one-dollar chips and began feeding them into the machine. Every half dozen or so passes he would get a few chips back. Finally, when his stack of chips was nearly gone, the row of oranges in the machine jiggled into alignment. Lights flashed and a warbling sound emanated from the machine. A pile of chips clattered into the tray.

  Jackpot.

  Or something close to it. Maybe fifty chips filled the tray. Lutz didn’t bother counting them. It amounted to slightly less than he had already stuffed into the machine. What the hell, that was Vegas.

  He rose and removed the chips, stuffing them into each side pocket of his sport coat. He took one last swipe of the tray with his hand, then made his way down to the big bar at the far end where a woman country singer was just cranking up.

  Not until he had settled onto a stool and was into his next drink did he allow himself to think about the chip. The micro-chip that he had smuggled from the laboratory. The one he had enclosed between the two halves of a casino dollar chip.

  He was relaxed now. The booze was kicking in, and the drop was done. Lutz felt like laughing out loud.

  Actually, it was very funny. A joke that he would never share. To think that the secrets of Groom Lake made their way, via his intestinal tract, to the tray of a slot machine where they were retrieved by a courier.

  And delivered to China.

  The adrenaline rush from the drop was beginning to kick in. He felt excited, exhilarated, and, as usual, horny. It was time for the next phase of the evening.

  He looked around, then caught the eye of the blonde in the leather skirt sitting down the bar. He knew her. She was a hooker, but a very special one. She smiled at him, and Lutz nodded a greeting. He picked up his drink and moved down the bar.

  <>

  “Do we search for survivors, Captain?” asked Lt. Yao-ming, the officer of the deck.

  Commander Lei Fu-Sheng peered through the darkness toward the eastern horizon. Fifteen kilometers away, it was still glowing orange where the Han Yang had exploded.

  “No. Let her destroyer escort sweep the area.” In truth, he doubted that they would find anyone alive. When the Han Yang took the torpedo amidships, a secondary explosion—it had to be an ordnance magazine—had split the frigate apart like a firecracker in a shoebox.

  Lei wanted this submarine. The Chinese boat commander was proving himself to be extraordinarily bold. Immediately after killing the Han Yang, he had turned and targeted Lei’s own frigate, the Kai Yang. Lei had been forced to go to flank speed, deploy his decoys, and emit maximum acoustical jamming.

  He steered a course that would take them, he hoped, directly over the killer sub.

  “Sonar contact again, Captain. Zero-four-zero, five thousand meters, contact fading. It’s definitely a Kilo.”

  Lei nodded. Even with the obsolete sonar equipment that had been delivered with the former U.S. Navy Knox-class frigate, the sonar man could distinguish that unique seven-blade propeller signature.

  A Kilo class. Which explained why the contact was fading again. The newer indigenous Ming class boats were also quiet, and they carried greater firepower, including a battery of anti-ship and land-attack missiles. But for pure murderous undetectability, nothing could touch a Kilo. The PLA navy possessed at least four of them.

  One was out there now, trying to kill them.

  As if responding to Lei’s thoughts, the sonar man yelled, “Torpedo in the water!” His voice had risen an octave. “Forty-five hundred meters, tracking two-two-zero.”

  Damn, thought Lei. The Kilo skipper was trigger happy. He was shooting for score.

  Lei leaned over the green-lighted repeater display at his console. He could see the torpedo, a wiggly yellow symbol, moving at about forty knots.

  Targeting the Kai Yang.

  But the Kilo skipper had given away his big advantage. The Kai Yang’s combat information computer could calculate a new fix on the submarine based on the launch point of the torpedo.

  “Decoys, noisemakers,” said Lei. “Now! Get the NIXIE deployed.” NIXIE was a noise-making device that streamed a hundred yards behind the frigate. It made noises intended to attract the torpedo.

  “Decoys are out, Captain. NIXIE is streaming. Acoustic jamming has commenced.”

  “Hard to port, two-eight-zero degrees. Flank speed.”

  The wiggly yellow symbol was tracking straight toward them. Lei guessed that the torpedo would not go to active tracking—using its own guidance sonar—until it had closed to within two-thousand meters.

  That suited his purposes. “Do you have a lock on the Kilo?”

  “Yes, sir, bearing zero-three-zero, 4500 meters.”

  Lei peered into his display. “Is this firing solution still valid?”

  The fire control officer looked up in surprise. “Yes, sir, but the enemy torpedo—”

  “Come starboard, three-five-zero degrees.” That would give them a good sixty degrees from the incoming torpedo. Still within the firing solution envelope.

  As the bow swung back toward the enemy sub, Lei gave the command, “Fire tubes one and two.”

  “Aye, sir.” The officer turned to his console and punched the keys, one after the other. “Tubes one and two, fire.”

  Two dull whumps, a second apart, rumbled up through the steel decks. The Mark 46 torpedoes were out of their tubes, beginning their own private search for the killer submarine.

  “Incoming, now zero-three-five, one thousand yards.” The sonarman’s voice rose to a new level. “Active homing. The torpedo is homing.”

  Lei watched the yellow symbol on his display begin a curving pursuit path toward its quarry.

  “Hard starboard, zero-three-zero,” he commanded. He saw the face of the helmsman blanch as he received the order. They were turning into the approaching torpedo.

  Lei studied the advancing yellow symbol in the display. Everything depended on his skill—and the Kai Yang’s agility. Despite her age and obsolescence, the Kai Yang was a nimble warship. She could slice through the water with almost the same agility as the destroyer escorts.

  For the next ten seconds, no one on the bridge of the Kai Yang breathed. The frigate was heeling hard to port, still in a maximum-rate turn. Lei steadied himself with one hand on the brass hand rail, leaning against the tilt of the deck.

  It was all a matter of timing now, making the incoming torpedo overshoot its pursuit curve. The torpedo was racing toward the Kai Yang at over forty knots, turning, matching the arcing course of the frigate, coming closer. . .

  It missed the stern of the Kai Yang by twenty meters. Lei tensed himself, waiting for the proximity detonation.

  No detonation.

  A cheer went up on the bridge. Lei took a deep breath, then returned his attention to his pair of Mark 46 torpedoes. They were running in trail, both arcing to the right, picking up the bearing of the Kilo’s last contact.

  Lei tried to put himself in the shoes of the Kilo skipper. What would you do? What would you be thinking? The Kilo captain would know that his torpedo had missed. Perhaps he expected it and was prepared to fire another. Or else he knew he had overplayed his hand by taking a shot at a frigate. Would he go silent?

  Lei knew. This sub commander was a risk-taker. He’ll shoot again if he gets the chance. Don’t give it to him.

  “Command active guidance. Snake search mode.”

  “Aye, Captain.” The fire control officer initiated the torpedoes’ active sonar guidance systems.

  In snake search mode, the torpedoes would follow a serpentine course, probing the sea with their own active sonars. Lei knew he was activating the torpedoes’ on-board seeking units dangerously early. It meant that the Mark 46s became autonomous predators in search of a target—any target, friend or foe.

  It was a risk he had to take. If the Kilo skipper was thinking about ano
ther shot, he had to be discouraged, threatened into remaining passive.

  “Contact fading on the Kilo,” called out the sonar man.

  Lei nodded. The Kai Yang’s ancient sonar equipment was losing the target. But he could see in the display that the Mark 46s were tracking. Still pinging. Still tracking something.

  Hurry, urged Lei. Find him. The Kilo was out there somewhere in the black water, waiting, watching with his own passive sonar.

  Then he saw it. The first Mark 46. Deviating from its undulating path. Veering off at a thirty degree angle to the right.

  “Lock on,” called out the sonar man. Lei could see by the young man’s face that he was hearing the frantic pinging of the torpedo’s guidance unit.

  The second torpedo veered to the right, following the course of the first.

  Lei held his breath again, counting the seconds. Three. . . four. . . five. . .

  “Torpedo impact!” yelled the sonar man. His voice had a triumphal ring.

  “Second torpedo impact.”

  The fire control officer looked over at Lei and raised his fist. “We got the bastard.”

  Lei turned to peer out into the darkness ahead of Kai Yang. There was nothing to see except whitecaps against a field of blackness. No horizon, no stars, no sign of life. Somewhere in the invisible depths, sixty men were experiencing violent death.

  Lei felt no compassion for them. These were the same men who killed the crew of the Han Yang. Who would have killed Kai Yang if he had given them the chance.

  The officer of the deck nudged Lei’s arm. “Shall we take station and search for survivors, Captain?”

  “No, Lieutenant, we will not. To hell with them.”

  <>

  Colonel Zhang Yu made a show of ignoring the explosions outside. As the yellow lights of his bunker flickered, he lit a Golden Orchid cigarette. He sat back in his padded chair and exhaled a stream of smoke.

  Another warhead impacted the concrete fortification of his bunker. Zhang forced himself not to wince. At this moment, it was critical that he reveal no sign of anxiety to the officers and technicians inside his headquarters.