Black Star

by Robert Gandt

  Ten years in development, the Black Star was a secret known only to a dozen senior military and civilian officials and fewer than two hundred contract technicians. The initial proving flights were conducted from Groom Lake’s five-mile-long runway under cover of darkness.

  The test program was unlike anything Maxwell had seen. Because of the heavy veil of secrecy, each pilot was responsible for a specific area of testing. They didn’t compare notes, and each was kept uninformed about the others’ experiences.

  Maxwell’s job was to explore the air combat envelope—maximum rate turns, high and low speed buffet, accelerated stalls and departures from stable flight, sustained high angle-of-attack maneuvering.

  By the end of the test series, he was impressed. The Black Star wasn’t the best fighter he had ever flown—its airframe geometry and inherent instability made it a dog of a fighter—but it didn’t matter. The Black Star traded agility for stealth. This stealth fighter was to air combat what the silent submarine was to naval warfare.

  There was much he wasn’t supposed to know about the fighter, but some of it he could deduce. By the radical design, it was obvious that the jet possessed new ways to elude enemy radar and attack targets undetected.

  It wasn’t until one dawn flight over Nevada that he observed the Black Star’s most potent attribute. He was at 1,500 feet, flying down the length of Groom Lake’s long runway, about to turn downwind and land. In the pale light, he had glimpsed the shape of the second test aircraft—Eaker’s Black Star—lift from the runway and point its nose into the sky.

  Maxwell rolled his jet into a turn, keeping his eye on Eaker’s jet. Never before had he actually seen another Black Star in flight. As he brought his own jet abeam Eaker’s, a thousand feet above him, it happened.

  The Black Star disappeared.

  Maxwell blinked, thinking he had lost it momentarily in the gloom of the Nevada sky. He peered again. Nothing. Eaker and the number two Black Star had vanished.

  The truth dawned on him. He understood why the Black Star was more deadly than the most radar-elusive fighter.

  It was invisible.

  <>

  When Maxwell finished, Boyce asked, “How does it work?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know exactly. They didn’t tell us much about that. My understanding was that the composite skin had a plasma surface. An ionized gas with an electrical charge.”

  “Something they can turn on and off?”

  “Probably. Now you see it, now you don’t. That’s why I could see Eaker as he took off. When he activated the skin masking, he became invisible.”

  Boyce nodded. “Like whatever it was that shot down Dynasty One.”

  “Like whatever it was that shot me down,” said Catfish Bass. “And my wingman.”

  “Okay,” said Boyce. “If such a thing exists, all it means is that we have it, not them. Somebody explain how a country like China, where they haven’t figured out flush toilets, could have super stealth technology.”

  “Simple,” said Ashby. “The same way they have cruise missiles and super computers.”

  “Which is?”

  “They buy it. Or steal it.”

  Boyce made a face. “Or some elected asshole gives it to them.”

  “Either way. It’s quicker and cheaper than developing it themselves.”

  “What about the Russians?” Maxwell said. “They’ve been working on their own stealth jets for years. Would they pass it to China?”

  “Maybe in the old days, but probably not now,” said Ashby. “But if so, we’ve got ways of making Ivan very sorry he did it. The fact is, Russia is just as worried about China as we are. It’s pretty unlikely they would share their most valuable secrets.”

  “In the meantime,” said Catfish Bass, “their invisible stealth jet is chewing up the Taiwanese Air Force. My Taiwanese F-16 pilots will get picked off like flies.”

  “It’s not our fight,” said Boyce. He held up a computer print-out. “These are the Rules of Engagement. What they say, in essence, is that U.S. forces stay out of it. The Reagan Strike Group is supposed to keep a watchful presence out here to remind the ChiComs that we’re friends of Taiwan. Fire only if fired upon, and avoid confrontations with the PLA air force. Washington thinks Taiwan can take care of itself if we just keep them armed.”

  “That was before Black Star,” said Bass. “Now they’re hosed.”

  Boyce didn’t answer. A silence fell over the table. Boyce seemed to lapse into a trance. For a while he played with his cigar, rolling it around the table, while his eyes focused on some faraway object.

  Finally, he looked up at the group. “I’ve got an idea.”

  <>

  It took six hours.

  First he had to run it by the Strike Group Commander, Admiral Hightree, who gave it his own cautious endorsement. From the Reagan’s comm center, the proposal flew at the speed of light, via satellite, to CincPac in Hawaii, then up the ladder to CNO, the Joint Chiefs, then the White House where it underwent the scrutiny of the National Security Council.

  The tasking order came back the same route, only slightly watered down from Boyce’s original plan.

  “Here it is,” he said, holding the document that Admiral Hightree had just given him in the flag intel compartment. “The go ahead for the great Chinese stealth sucker play.”

  Maxwell noticed Hightree giving Boyce a curious stare. Hightree was new to the Reagan Strike Group, having taken command only a month ago. The admiral had not yet been exposed to CAG Boyce when he was concocting one of his high risk operations.

  “What are the rules?” Maxwell asked. “I know they’re not giving us carte blanche.”

  “Not bad, considering the old ladies on the National Security Council,” said Boyce. He perused the tasking order for a moment. “No overflight of Chinese territorial waters, it says. Can’t argue with that. No overtly hostile actions toward PLA aircraft. That’s okay too, as long as we maintain a CAP between the strike group and the mainland. Here’s the clincher. Use of the Chameleon decoy is authorized, but it mustn’t overfly Chinese territory.”

  “Chameleon” was the working name of the new UAV-17, a single-engine, unmanned reconnaissance aircraft equipped with a configurable radar and IR signature. Using its own electronic emulation equipment, Chameleon could present itself on enemy radars and infra-red sensors as a high altitude bomber, fast-moving fighter, or a surveillance aircraft.

  “Chameleon is an expensive piece of hardware,” said Hightree. “Before I throw one of these away, you’d better tell me what you have in mind for it.”

  “What kind of intruder would get the Chinese most agitated?” said Boyce. “What would be the most likely thing to draw out the stealth jet?”

  Hightree was giving Boyce the curious stare again. “Knock off the quiz game, Red. Just tell us.”

  “EA-6B Prowler.” Boyce’s voice was growing more intense as he warmed to his subject. The Prowler was a carrier-based, four-crewmember jet with communications jamming, eavesdropping, and radar suppression capability. “The ChiComs are so goddamn paranoid, they’ll assume the Prowler is either directing an attack or stealing all their secrets.”

  “Can the decoy really do that?” asked Maxwell. “Emulate a Prowler?”

  “The ECM geeks tell me it can emulate a seagull shitting on a beach ball.”

  Hightree made a face. “That’s good enough, I guess.” He rose and checked his watch. “You and Group Ops come up with an air plan by 1300. Run it by Captain Stickney, then send it to me. If it looks doable, I’ll sign off on it.”

  When Hightree closed the door behind him, Boyce and Maxwell were alone in the compartment. Boyce settled himself back into the chair and pulled out a fresh cigar. He had already figured out that Hightree detested cigars. “Well, here we go again.”

  Maxwell recognized the tone in Boyce’s voice. “We?”

  “I need a leader for the fighters.”

  “You’ve got twenty qualified strik
e leaders in the air wing.”

  “Only one of them has ever seen the Black Star.”

  Maxwell nodded. He should have expected it. “Yes, sir. What am I supposed to do if I encounter the thing?”

  “You want the official order or the off-the-record version?”

  “Both, please.”

  “If we succeed in drawing it out, we will use all our assets to get a make on it. We’ll have every tool in our bag—IR, visual, radar, satellite imaging—to collect data and confirm the thing exists. That’s the end of your mission, and Defense Intel takes it from there.”

  “Those are my official orders. What am I really supposed to do?”

  Boyce pulled out his ancient Zippo and put a flame to his cigar. He took his time, squinting through the cloud of gray smoke, getting an ember going.

  Finally he peered over at Maxwell. “You’re supposed to kill the sonofabitch.”

  CHAPTER 8 — CHAMELEON

  Taiwan Strait

  0820, Friday, 12 September

  “Runner One-one on station,” Maxwell called.

  His flight of fighters—four Super Hornets—had reached their CAP stations, orbiting at twenty thousand feet, one hundred miles from the coast of China. The second division was high, thirty-three thousand feet, twenty miles behind him. A hundred miles to the southeast, the Reagan Strike Group was cruising the southern Taiwan Strait.

  “Alpha Whiskey copies, Runner One-one,” answered a voice in his headset.

  Maxwell nodded. CAG Boyce, the Air Warfare Commander whose call sign was Alpha Whiskey, was now ensconced in the climate-controlled, red-lighted space of CIC—Combat Information Center—directing the action from his situational display.

  To the east, Maxwell could make out the dark land mass of Asia. The sky was the color of slate, empty and yet filled with danger. Is it out there? Will it take the bait?

  Boyce’s voice broke the silence. “Runner One-one, Alpha-Whiskey. Be advised Ironclaw is airborne.”

  “Runner One-one.” The game was on, thought Maxwell. Here comes the bait.

  “Ironclaw” was the usual call sign for an EA-6B Prowler. Today it meant something else. The Chameleon UAV—unmanned air vehicle—had just catapulted from the Reagan, cloaked in its electronic disguise.

  On station also was an E-2C Hawkeye—the Navy’s turbo-prop version of the Air Force AWACS with its own saucer-shaped radar dome mounted above the fuselage. The controllers in the Hawkeye were standing by to vector Maxwell’s fighters toward any threat—and warn him of incoming bogeys.

  Those that they could see.

  With that thought, Maxwell gazed down at his radar display. Turning southward in his orbit, he picked up the returns of his high division, fanned out in combat spread. Led by Commander Rico Flores, skipper of the VFA-34 Blue Blasters, they were responsible for high altitude threats. Maxwell’s division would deal with any low intruders.

  The space on the screen between his flight and the mainland was empty. So far the PLA was showing no curiosity about the American presence.

  The pseudo-Prowler would fly a profile just like the one a real EA-6B might take, climbing to altitude, then descending on a track parallel to the coast. Then it would turn abruptly inbound, as if it intended to penetrate Chinese airspace. As if it were hostile.

  “Ironclaw checks level, standing by for signal.”

  “Alpha Whiskey copies. Ironclaw, your signal is Oscar.”

  “Ironclaw, roger signal Oscar.” As Maxwell listened to the exchange, he had to grin. It was bogus radio dialogue for the benefit of Chinese eavesdroppers. “Signal Oscar” was a fictional execute command. Though the transmissions were on a secure channel, it wasn’t too secure. With only slightly sophisticated monitoring equipment, a skilled interpreter could intercept the communication. He would conclude that a Prowler was embarked on a mission toward China.

  Maxwell forced himself to relax. For the moment, there was nothing he could do except sit back and watch the show. He and his fighters would maintain their CAP station until the Chameleon UAV had flown its first leg, paralleling the coastline. When it reversed course and turned inland, Maxwell’s fighters would close in behind it. flying cover.

  Would the deception work?

  Maxwell could only guess how the Chameleon’s electronic masking worked. Ship-based UAVs were something new, and the ability to emulate other aircraft was even newer. If the Chameleon’s disguise was successful, Chinese air defense commanders would see what appeared to be an EA-6B Prowler entering their air space. The Prowler—the real Prowler—was a derivative of the ancient A-6 Intruder attack aircraft. Crewed by a pilot and three ECMOs—Electronic Counter-measures Officers—the twin-jet Prowler was the strike group’s prime vehicle for radar and sensor jamming, targeting, and gathering of electronic intelligence.

  Prowlers were the advance units of a deep air strike. Observing such a threat, the Chinese would have to react.

  Or so Maxwell hoped.

  “Ironclaw is checking in as fragged,” said a voice on the radio.

  “Sea Lord copies,” replied the controller in the Hawkeye. “Picture clear.”

  More bogus dialogue. The controller was informing Ironclaw that no threat was showing on the display. Maxwell wondered if anyone was listening.

  Boyce’s voice came over the frequency. “Runner One-one, Alpha Whiskey. Ironclaw is on first base. Five minutes to second.”

  “Runner One-one, roger.” Boyce was informing him that the decoy had completed its outbound leg and was flying back toward the Hornets’ CAP station. Five more minutes. When the decoy was directly beneath the Hornets, it would turn again and point its nose toward China.

  Maxwell tried to visualize the effects it would have on the mainland. Telephones would ring. Missile sites would be activated. Questions would fly like missiles through the ether. Why was a Prowler invading our space? Were the Americans in the war?

  Fighters would be scrambled.

  Maxwell punched a five minute count-down into his elapsed timer. It was vital that he fly the CAP orbit precisely so that his Hornets were on a northwesterly course when Ironclaw passed under them.

  He glimpsed it, two thousand feet below. It looked nothing like a Prowler, which had a bulbous nose, spacious cockpit, and wide, swept wings. The Chameleon was a stubby-winged craft with a long nose unmarred by a crew enclosure. Its only protuberance was a pair of ECM pods attached to its under fuselage. The decoy had a V tail and, despite its ungainly appearance, was moving at a respectable 350 knots.

  “Runner One-one tallies Ironclaw,” Maxwell called, reporting that had a visual on the decoy.

  “Alpha Whiskey, roger. You’re cleared to second base.”

  The go ahead. He rolled out of his turn above and behind the Chameleon. Right on schedule, the pilotless aircraft banked to the right and slid its nose toward the looming coastline of Asia.

  Fifty miles to the coastline. The game was on.

  The Chinese had always insisted that their territorial boundary extended further offshore than the twelve mile limit recognized by the United States. Over the years the disagreement over sovereign air space had caused some classic incidents, including a collision between a Navy EP-3 surveillance plane and a reckless Chinese F-8 pilot.

  That was then, Maxwell reflected. A time of relative peace. This was now. China was at war.

  Forty miles.

  “Ironclaw, you have multiple contacts near point alpha, one-hundred miles from you, ”

  “Ironclaw, roger. .” No surprise. Maxwell saw the same thing on his situation display. Over the mainland, near their bases. None was yet a threat.

  Fifty miles. Only three minutes from the territorial boundary. If the Chinese were going to do something—

  “Ironclaw, this is Sea Lord. Single group twenty miles southeast Alpha, hot on you.”

  “Ironclaw.”

  Maxwell saw them too. High and fast, and feet wet. “Hot” meant that their noses—and weapons—were pointed this way. Judg
ing by their profile, they were Flankers—Russian-built SU-27s.

  Damn! That wasn’t part of the game plan. He wasn’t here to get into a furball with conventional Chinese fighters. Especially Flankers, which were fifth-generation, sophisticated interceptors.

  Apparently Boyce had reached the same conclusion. “Ironclaw, Alpha Whiskey. Hotdog, hotdog. Scram east.”

  “Ironclaw, roger, hotdog.”

  “Hotdog” was the alert that they were approaching the international boundary. Maxwell saw the decoy turn to the east, on a course roughly perpendicular to the incoming bandits. He swung his flight of Hornets into position a few miles behind the decoy.

  It was an old tactic. By turning perpendicular to the threat radars—beaming, it was called—you minimized the amount of Doppler shift the Flanker pilots could see, possibly denying them a radar lock. Sometimes it worked, especially if the fighters you were up against didn’t have GCI or AWACS. Maxwell knew that multiple radars on the mainland were tracking them. In fact, he was counting on it. Either way, it displayed a non-threatening posture to the Flanker pilots.

  Forty miles to the merge. The Flankers were inside factor bandit range—the distance at which Maxwell had to regard them as a threat. He was paralleling the coastline. Did the Flankers have orders to attack American aircraft in international air space? If so, it meant China had just extended their war to include the United States.

  “Ironclaw, lean right twenty degrees,” Maxwell ordered. He was buying time. The slight offset would extend the Flankers’ time to intercept. These were not the trophies that he wanted.

  The Flankers were nose hot on the decoy. Maxwell tensed, wondering if the Flankers had committed. Would they attack the decoy or the Hornets? With their speed advantage—they were moving at about 1.8 Mach—the Flankers would be in missile range within—