Black Star Rising

by Robert Gandt

  “Two of your SU-27 fighters are down, General Zhang. One pilot dead, one recovered. Both fighters lost to air-to-air missiles. Were there eye witnesses to this encounter?”

  “There was one very reliable witness.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Me. I was airborne in a Dong-jin. I observed both jets explode.”

  “So? Was it American fighters? Super Hornets from their aircraft carrier in the region, Reagan?”

  “No, General. I must report that it was something more dangerous. I have reason to believe the Americans are operating stealth jets in this region. Probably the one they call Black Star.”

  Han blinked, surprised at this news. “The jet from which our Dong-jin was, ah, adapted?”

  Zhang nodded.

  “You actually saw this Black Star?”

  “No. And that is what is most worrisome. It means their cloaking technology has evolved beyond what we acquired from them.”

  General Han sipped at his tea while he considered this news. He had seen the Dong-jin up close, but he had only a rudimentary understanding of the technology that made it invisible in daylight.

  “This would also mean that the United States has become directly involved in our dispute with Vietnam?”

  “So it would seem,” said Zhang.

  “From where are they operating these stealth aircraft? Vietnam?”

  “It is possible. I consider it more likely that they came from an aircraft carrier.”

  “The same aircraft carrier that sent the Super Hornets to engage us?”

  Zhang nodded. “The USS Ronald Reagan. In the South China Sea.”

  Han lowered his tea cup. Zhang was reporting what the Central Military Committee had already confirmed at their high command meeting yesterday in Beijing.

  He turned back to Zhang, who was helping himself to the dim sum. “The Central Military Committee has issued explicit orders. Any attempt by the Vietnamese—or anyone else—to interfere with our efforts in the Spratly Islands will be countered with military force.”

  Zhang plucked a pork dumpling with his chopsticks. “This force, I presume, is to remain covert?”

  “In the air and beneath the sea. Since the Americans have chosen to insert stealth aircraft into the region, your Dong-jin unit will play a crucial role in the air war.”

  Zhang displayed no reaction. He continued eating from the dim sum tray. He swallowed another dumpling, then picked up a spring roll. Han had to avert his eyes. Watching Zhang stuff food through the hideous slash in his face was making Han’s stomach roil.

  “The Americans have placed unmanned surveillance aircraft over Swallow Reef,” said Han. “They wish to obtain photographic evidence of the PLA occupation of the reef. The Central Military Committee has ordered us to eliminate one of the aircraft.”

  “And they want us to do it with a Dong-jin?” asked Zhang.

  “Yes. It will transmit a warning to the U.S. that they should not interfere.”

  “And when is this mission to be accomplished?”

  “Tomorrow. The targeting information will be waiting for you when you return to Lingshui.”

  They concluded their meeting, and Han escorted Zhang back to the flight line. He stood again on the broiling ramp while Zhang’s SU-27 roared down the runway and climbed into the hazy sky.

  Zhang was dangerous, thought Han, watching the speck disappear in the west. Han sensed that the day was coming when Zhang would use his Te-wu connections to try to displace him as commander of the PLA air force. Before that day came, Han would have to eliminate Zhang.

  But not yet. Not while Zhang was indispensable.

  Chapter 14 — Hawkeye

  33,000 feet

  South China Sea

  1340 Sunday, 29 April

  An easy kill.

  So easy, in fact, that Zhang had almost assigned the Global Hawk intercept to Major Tsan’s crew. There was nothing difficult about shooting down the high-flying unmanned reconnaissance jet. The slow moving UCAV had a wing span of 116 feet and weighed over twelve tons. It stood out on radar screens like an elephant in a pasture. Even though the big lumbering jet operated at an altitude of nearly twenty thousand meters—over 65,000 feet—well above the Dong-jin’s service ceiling, it was a simple pitch up maneuver.

  At the last minute he removed Tsan and assigned the mission to himself.

  He had no problem locating the target. The PLA’s coastal air defense radar had picked the jet up as it lifted from the runway at Kadena, the U.S. base on the island of Okinawa.

  From almost directly beneath the target, Zhang pulled the Dong-jin into a nearly vertical climb. He obtained a lock on the big UCAV, then fired his PL-8 missile. He could have fired two missiles, just to be sure, but that would have given the enemy two chances to compute and locate the IR source.

  The heat seeking missile had no difficulty tracking the Global Hawk.

  “Impact,” announced Po. “The missile has struck the target.”

  Zhang didn’t need confirmation. Through his canopy he could see the orange-and-black smudge of the explosion high above them. The Global Hawk carried enough fuel for forty hours endurance. The ingredients of a spectacular fireball.

  “Where are the enemy fighters?”

  Several seconds passed while Po obtained a datalink update. “They have left their station, General. They appear to be inbound, accelerating.”

  The Dong-jin’s nose was almost back to the horizon. The jet was gathering speed, almost back to normal flight.

  Zhang wasn’t worried about the F/A-18s that had been flying combat air patrol near the UCAV. Even if they had obtained a fix on the source of his missile, they wouldn’t be able to detect him.

  On his center display he could see the blips of all the enemy aircraft—the four fighters in a combat spread coming directly toward him, their controlling ship in an orbit behind them.

  His mission was accomplished, Zhang told himself. The Global Hawk was dead. His business here was finished.

  Or was it? He studied the blips of the American aircraft in his display.

  He still had missiles left.

  <>

  USS Ronald Reagan

  It had to be a Dong-jin, thought Boyce.

  He stared at the situational display. Something had just hosed the RQ-4 Global Hawk UCAV over the Spratly group. Something invisible, and he had no doubt what it was.

  Boyce considered for another half minute. There was a very good chance that the Dong-jin was still in the vicinity. He had CAP fighters close by—Bullet Alexander’s four Runners—but they were useless against a Dong-jin. He had one crew—Maxwell and O’Toole—on ready alert in the enclosed Black Star bay off the hangar deck. Two more were suited up and ready as back ups.

  Boyce turned to the petty officer seated at his console. “Launch the alert crew.”

  Six and one-half minutes later, he stared down at the flight deck of the Reagan. Maxwell’s Black Star was sizzling down the track of the number one catapult.

  It took eight more minutes before they were in the vicinity of the downed Global Hawk. He heard Maxwell talking to the controller in the E2-C Hawkeye.

  “Sea Lord, Dragon One-one has a visual on the debris field.”

  “Sea Lord copies.” Boyce recognized the controller’s voice. She was a lieutenant commander named Deb Abruzzo. The Black Star and the Hawkeye were transmitting on a discrete tactical frequency. Except for the controller in the Hawkeye, none of the other airborne aircraft knew the Black Star was there

  The controller said, “Dragon One-one, the datum point on your missing bandit bears 020, thirty miles, level. That was his missile origin point, but those numbers are now—let’s see—nearly ten minutes old.”

  The datum point was the firing location of the missile that killed the Global Hawk. Boyce knew that was all they had. Even the Hawkeye’s sophisticated sensors and detectors were unable to find the Dong-jin. It could be anywhere in an eighty mile radius. It could be loitering in t
he area. Or heading back to Hainan.

  Or setting up another target.

  The thought caused Boyce to frown. He stared at the display. There were other aircraft out there. The Hawkeye, Alexander’s Runners, a pair of orbiting tankers. They were all exposed.

  Boyce keyed his transmitter. “Sea Lord, this is Battle-ax. Vector all CAP birds out of there. Now.”

  <>

  24,000 feet, South China Sea

  “Target one o’clock, eighteen kilometers, General.”

  “I have a lock,” answered Zhang. He also had a visual ID. He could see it silhouetted against the opaque surface below.

  A fat goose waiting to be shotgunned.

  For a moment Zhang considered the wisdom of this engagement. He’d just shot down an unmanned surveillance aircraft. As provocative as it might be, shooting down the Global Hawk was a legitimate response to an intruding spy plane. Zhang was following a direct order.

  This was different. Killing a manned American warplane, especially over international waters, was outside the scope of his orders. In fact, he had received specific orders not to engage the enemy’s aircraft.

  But such orders were subject to interpretation. He was a senior commander in the PLA air force. Was it not was his prerogative—his duty—to make tactical decisions during the fluid conditions of combat?

  General Han would be furious. Let him, Zhang decided. Han was an impotent lackey. Zhang knew how to deal with Han.

  He returned his attention to the tactical display on his center console. The little yellow triangle of the target was pulsing like a firefly in the center of the display. He felt the old excitement swelling inside him, just as it always did when he was about to pounce on an unseeing prey.

  Zhang toggled the switch that armed the number two missile station. With his left thumb he slewed the acquisition box so that it covered the pulsing yellow target symbol.

  He wrapped his finger around the firing trigger. He hesitated, taking a deep breath, savoring the moment.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  <>

  USS Ronald Reagan

  “Missile in the air!”

  At his console aboard Reagan, Boyce felt a chill run through him. It was the voice of Deb Abruzzo, the controller in the Hawkeye.

  “Who’s targeted?” someone called.

  “Say the threat zone!”

  “Runner One-one, turn to—”

  Bleep.

  “Sea Lord, say again the—”

  Bleep.

  “Flares! Flares!”

  Radio discipline had gone to hell. Everyone was stepping on each other’s radio transmissions.

  Boyce knew that each fighter was spewing a trail of flares—incendiary decoys to lure away the heat seeking missile. Even the Hawkeye had flares.

  A missile was tracking someone. Who? Boyce wondered.

  In the next moment, he knew.

  <>

  22,500 feet, South China Sea

  The explosion lit up the horizon.

  Maxwell saw the trail of flame arcing across the sky. A section of wing was blazing like a roman candle, tumbling end over end. The aft half of the fuselage was still intact, the fins on its tail clearly recognizable.

  An abrupt silence filled the tactical frequency. Over the guard channel—the emergency common frequency—sounded the warble of a locator beacon. It was an automatic signal generated when an aircraft was in distress.

  “Sea Lord, Alpha Whiskey, how do you read?”

  No answer.

  “Sea Lord, Alpha Whiskey, answer up.”

  “Alpha Whiskey, this is Blaster Four-one.” It was the voice of Spike Mannheim, the Hornet pilot who had been covering the Hawkeye. “Sea Lord is down.”

  Maxwell studied the descending wreckage. It was almost directly below him. Swooping over the debris pattern were the twin-finned shapes of the two Blue Blaster F/A-18s who had been covering the Hawkeye.

  The frequency was quiet for several seconds. Then Hightree’s voice came on the radio. “Roger that, Blaster Four-one. Blaster and Runner flights, are you engaged?”

  Good question, thought Maxwell. Hightree was asking whether they were in a furball with the bandit. “Negative,” called Bullet Alexander, leading the CAP fighters. “Runner One-one, clean. No contact, no spike.”

  “Blaster Four-one clean.”

  “Runner One-one clean.”

  No one was targeted with a hostile radar. No surprise. Whoever just killed the Hawkeye was remaining invisible.

  Seconds later, Mannheim called, “Blaster Four-one has a chute. I’ve got one chute from the Hawkeye.”

  Someone had managed to bail out. Maxwell was amazed.

  “Another chute!” called the Blaster leader. “We’ve got two good chutes.”

  “Alpha Whiskey copies the chutes. Keep counting, Blaster. Blaster and Runner flights go to RESCAP stations.”

  RESCAP fighters—rescue combat air patrol—were assigned to cover the rescue of downed airmen. It would be the job of Blaster flight to cover the SAR-search and rescue— HH-60 Seahawks as they searched for the downed crewmen. Give Hightree credit, Maxwell thought. Having just lost a high value asset—a precious E-2C command and control ship—he was putting more high value assets on the line to rescue the survivors of the Hawkeye.

  Several minutes ticked past. The spewing wreckage of the Hawkeye was splashing into the ocean below. Blaster Four-one and his wingman were still orbiting the crash site.

  Hightree’s voice came over the frequency again. “Talk to me, Blaster Four-one. Any more chutes?”

  “Negative,” said the Blaster flight lead. “I still have the two. They’re going into the water now.”

  Maxwell shook his head. Two out of five crew aboard the E-2C. He wondered who didn’t make it out.

  Boyce’s voice crackled over the discrete frequency. “Dragon One, Battle-ax. The datum point on your missing bandit bears 020, fifteen miles, level. That was his missile origin point,. The numbers are two minutes old.”

  “Dragon One copies,” Maxwell answered.

  “I’m plugging it in now,” said O’Toole from the back seat. “Looking for an IR return in that sector.”

  None of the pilots swirling around the wreckage of the Hawkeye knew the Black Star was there. The presence of the Black Stars aboard Reagan was still a secret.

  “Hey, we’re getting something,” announced O’Toole. “Not much signature, but something. It’s on your display, Brick.”

  Maxwell peered at the multi-function display on the right console. It was selected to show infra-red returns from one of the six IR sensors mounted in the skin of the Black Star. The screen looked blank. Nothing there but—

  He saw it. A curly red line, like a sine wave. It was on the twenty mile range circle.

  Then it disappeared.

  “I had something at two o’clock,” said Maxwell. “It popped up and—whoa, there it is again.”

  “That’s our guy,” said O’Toole.

  “Get a dolly update. Make sure we haven’t got friendlies out there.”

  It took ten seconds. “No one in that sector, Brick. It’s gotta be the bandit.”

  “Terrific. Except he’s not emitting now.”

  “He’s a stealth jet, right? We were lucky to get any IR signature. Keep closing on him. We’ll pick him up again.”

  Maxwell cranked the Black Star’s nose twenty degrees to the right and added thrust, notching up the airspeed. The tiny IR trace from the Dong-jin had to come either from his exhaust or some minuscule reflection from his forward quarter.

  “Ten miles, ten o’clock,” called O’Toole. Maxwell could hear the excitement in the wizzo’s voice. “He’s crossing right to left.”

  On the weapons select panel, Maxwell had already armed a pair of AIM-9X Sidewinder heat seeking missiles. The Black Star’s flush-mounted IR sensor linked its signal to the Sidewinders’ seeker heads until the missiles were off their rails and flying on their own. Then the Sidewinders would go on
their own search-and-destroy missions.

  Before Maxwell could fire, the red trace faded.

  He stabbed the REFRESH button. Still nothing. Shit. What now? The Chinese pilot might be going through his own target acquisition process. About to shoot again.

  Maxwell hesitated. He could fire a missile anyway, letting it track on memory until the seeker head picked up a fresh signal. It was dangerous because, once launched, the Sidewinder would lock onto any heat-emitting signal.

  Let it. He squeezed the trigger. Then squeezed it again.

  He felt the rumble of the firing sequence. In the space of one and a half seconds, the right weapons bay door opened, the missile rack extended into the slipstream, the Sidewinders roared one after the other into the sky ahead.

  Then a smooth stillness again. Each missile was flying its own zigzag path, searching for a target.

  One missile stopped zigzagging and veered hard to the left.

  “Bingo,” said O’Toole. “We have a lock.”

  <>

  “Missiles inbound!”

  Po’s shrill voice cut like a knife through the stillness of Zhang’s cockpit. “Seven o’clock, heat seeking missiles!”

  Zhang stared at his own display. It was impossible. None of the enemy F/A-18s was in a position to fire missiles.

  He rolled the Dong-jin into a left vertical bank and pulled hard. In a conventional fighter he would be dispensing flares—old-fashioned decoys—to thwart the missile. The Dong-jin carried no decoys. It was immune to radar-guided and heat seeking missiles.

  But there was a missile coming at them. He glimpsed it, but just for a second. It was in a pursuit curve, like a cheetah tracking a gazelle.

  Zhang kept the Gs on, turning hard into the path of the missile, trying to make it overshoot. Po’s labored breathing sounded like the gasps of a dying man.

  By the time Zhang had completed ninety degrees of the turn, he knew what had happened.

  Nothing. The missile no longer had guidance, and it had gone ballistic. It would rocket off into empty space until its fuel was gone. The advanced stealth technology of the Dong-jin had prevailed.