Black Star

by Robert Gandt

  Bass had not barfed for over five minutes. He was feeling good enough to resume worrying. Why the hell am I being escorted by an O-6? Why the marine guard?

  After more turns and one ascent of a steel ladder, they came to a door marked FLAG INTEL; AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Walsh didn’t bother knocking. He opened the door, ushered Bass into the room, then departed.

  Bass blinked, taking in the scene. The glare of the harsh artificial light stung his eyes.

  There were five of them, peering at him like owls. One was a civilian, wearing chinos, a polo shirt, and tortoise-shell glasses. Three were dressed in khakis and flight jackets—the faded-leather things with patches and rat fur-collars that the Navy favored. One more reason to choose the Air Force.

  An older man with grey hair stood at the head of a steel conference table. He wore a black pullover sweater over his khakis with—oh shit—two stars on the epaulets.

  “I want a lawyer,” said Bass.

  “What the hell for?” said a Navy captain with wispy red hair. “You wanna sue somebody?”

  “I, uh, might be in a little trouble.”

  “Really? How come?”

  “I really wasn’t supposed to be doing—”

  “We’ve already figured out what you were doing. I just got off the sat-phone with a General Buckner at Yokota. I believe you know him?”

  Bass felt like barfing again. “Uh, may I ask what he had to say?”

  The captain, whose leather name tag identified him as “Red Boyce,” exchanged glances with the admiral. The admiral nodded.

  “He said to tell you that you might as well get a job with the Navy or Marines or the Girl Scouts—he didn’t give a damn—because he’d see to it you weren’t allowed to shovel shit in the United States Air Force.”

  “The general has a temper.”

  “So I gather. He’ll get over it when he hears about the two F-7s you shot down.”

  “It was two for two. I lost my wingman and my own jet in the fight.”

  “Yes, we know. That’s what we want to talk to you about.”

  <>

  Be strong, Charlotte Soong told herself. Do not allow them to intimidate you.

  She forced herself to take long, deliberate strides as she entered the cabinet room. She wore a traditional flowered, high-collared Chinese silk dress. Make them respect you.

  Not so many years ago, she had been regarded as a great beauty in Taipei society. Now that she had reached nearly fifty, Charlotte knew that her ample figure and stately carriage could still draw an appreciative gaze. Over her arm she carried the flowered umbrella, a talisman from the days of her marriage. The umbrella had become such a fixture that Taiwan’s political satirists invariably depicted her with it in their cartoons.

  The ministers rose to their feet. She stood for a moment at the head of the long rosewood table. She gave them a peremptory look and said, “Seats, gentlemen.”

  She spread her papers on the table before her. The first order of business was to receive reports about the effects of the war on the country.

  “Madame President,” said Ma Wang, the Foreign Minister. “Our citizens remain in good spirits, but it is not clear how long that will continue. As the missile attacks from the mainland destroy more public buildings, it will erode their morale.”

  She nodded. The Taiwanese were hardy people. For decades they had been braced for such a war with China. Now that it was here, and going reasonably well, they were proud and defiant. But she wondered how long they would support her while the Chinese missiles continued to rain down on them.

  Premier Franklin Huang spoke up from the end of the long table. His voice was accusatory, as usual. “Why are the wonderful Patriot missiles we received from our so-called American friends not stopping the Chinese weapons? Were we not led to believe that the Patriots would protect us?”

  Charlotte expected this. Instead of answering, she nodded to General Wu Hsin-chieh.

  “The Patriot air defense batteries are performing well,” said the general. “They are countering over half the incoming missiles from the mainland. That is a far better statistic than Israel experienced with Iraqi Scuds during the Gulf War.”

  “This is not Israel,” said Huang. “And China can deliver more destruction than Iraq ever dreamed of. Why are we engaged in this senseless war?”

  “We are engaged in a war of survival,” said Charlotte. “We have no choice except to win. Unless you believe that we should allow ourselves to be invaded by the PLA and made a vassal province of China. Is that your choice, Premier Huang?”

  It was best to get it over, she decided. If Huang swayed the other ministers to follow him, they would find a way to depose her. She had to deal with Huang.

  “We do not have to fight,” he said. “China has no interest in invading us. They want a peaceful relationship with Taiwan.”

  “Is it a peaceful relationship to murder our President? To mount an 80,000 man invasion force?”

  “We have no evidence that they were responsible for the President’s death. The invasion force was merely a contingency. It was not their intention to go to war.”

  “How is it you have such an understanding of China’s intentions, Franklin?”

  For the first time, Huang blinked. “I am a statesman. It is my responsibility to know such things.”

  “Do you communicate directly with Beijing, Premier Huang?”

  Huang blinked again, no longer sure of himself. “In my official capacity as Premier, I have occasion to—”

  “To talk with the enemy.” She leaned forward over the table, pressing the attack. “Is that what you do, Premier Huang? What do you reveal to them about us?”

  It was working. The other ministers were spellbound, watching the confrontation. “Of course I have official exchanges with the People’s Republic,” he said. “Nothing of a sensitive nature is discussed. It is all a matter of record. You may read the transcriptions for yourself.”

  She nodded. Actually, it was no surprise that Huang or any other official communicated with China. It was not illegal. Modern wireless communication made it possible for any citizen of Taiwan to speak with anyone on the mainland. But it served the purpose of putting Huang on the defensive.

  The crisis had passed, at least for the moment. Charlotte moved the discussions to the military situation. General Wu delivered an assessment, including attrition of aircraft and warships. Although air superiority had been achieved early in the conflict, the loss of F-16s was becoming a worrisome matter.

  Ma Wang spoke up. “I don’t understand. Why are we losing so many fighters over the strait now? Are the PLA pilots gaining some advantage over us?”

  Wu hesitated and glanced at Charlotte Soong. He waited for a signal. She gave him an imperceptible head shake. Don’t tell them.

  Ma had come close to the truth. The PLA did possess an advantage over Taiwan’s air force. An unexpected advantage. An invisible weapon—some kind of stealth craft—was decimating their fighter forces. It had been her intention to inform the cabinet about the terrifying airplane. If it weren’t destroyed, Taiwan would lose the war.

  But Charlotte Soong was a woman who trusted her intuition. Something was telling her to keep her silence. Technically, she was in violation of the constitution. Such information was supposed to be shared with her cabinet. But there was something about Huang. A feeling that still dwelled in her stomach after her clash with him.

  Who can you trust? She didn’t know. Is Huang a leak? Maybe, maybe not. It is too dangerous to take the chance of compromising the operation.

  General Wu understood her decision. “It is a matter of combat tactics,” she heard him tell the ministers. “In order to eliminate China’s ability to mount an invasion force, it was necessary to expose our fighters to heavy enemy defenses. Now that has been accomplished, and we will restrict our losses while we maintain air superiority.”

  Not a great answer, Charlotte thought, but good enough. Whether or no
t they believed it, the ministers had no choice except to accept it. Old Ma, ever the pragmatic politician, just shrugged. At the end of the table, Huang lapsed into a silent sulk. The other ministers were busy taking notes, whispering among themselves.

  Charlotte concluded the business of the cabinet. It had gone as well as she could have expected. Her leadership had been tested, and she was still in office. If the Chouzhou mission succeeded, they would applaud her decision to maintain silence. If it failed, it wouldn’t matter. Taiwan would be finished.

  She gathered her papers and rose. The ministers scrambled to their feet. The meeting was over.

  <>

  He should have figured it out, Bass thought. It was some kind of board of inquiry. Something the Navy did when they snatched Air Force exchange pilots out of the drink.

  The civilian had to be a spook. The glasses, the haircut—CIA, NSA, something like that. He didn’t have a name tag. The two-star was in charge of a bunch of ships, including the big one they were on.

  The red-haired captain seemed to be running the meeting. The other two were Navy commanders. One was obviously an intel officer. He looked like every other intel officer Bass had ever seen. Same accusing eyes, same shitty attitude.

  The other officer, whose name tag read “Brick Maxwell,” was a tall, athletic-looking guy with a brown mustache. He had a set of penetrating blue eyes and wore a bemused grin on his face. He had the body language of a fighter pilot. Bass wondered what he flew and if he was any good.

  The captain pulled out a well-chewed cigar. He stuck it in his mouth and peered at Bass. “I’m Captain Boyce, the Air Wing Commander. The Reagan is your new home, at least until we can figure out what to do with you. Admiral Hightree here commands the strike group, and this is Mr. Ashby. He’s on loan to us from the NSA.”

  Bingo, thought Bass. A spook.

  “Commander Wentz here is the Flag Intelligence Officer. The other officer is Commander Maxwell, who commands one of my Hornet squadrons.”

  Bingo again.

  “Everything we discuss here is classified top secret, need-to-know only,” said Boyce. “Do you understand?”

  “Sir, I have a Top Secret clearance.”

  Wentz said, “We already know your security clearance. The subject matter here happens to be several levels above your clearance limit.”

  Bass nodded. Above Top Secret?

  “This falls into special category intelligence—SPECAT— meaning highly restricted and compartmentalized. You’ve been cleared at this level only for as long as it takes us to debrief you.”

  Bass nodded again.

  Wentz’s eyes bored into Bass. “This subject matter is so sensitive that its declassification review date is twenty years from now. Any disclosure or unauthorized discussion will result in trial by court martial and lengthy incarceration. If you have no questions, sign this declaration of intent and understanding.”

  He shoved a clipboard across the table.

  Bass picked it up and began signing the papers. Typical intel puke, he thought. They were all jerks.

  They took seats around the conference table. The intel officer punched the start button on a tape recorder in the center of the table. Boyce unwrapped a fresh cigar. “Your wingman,” he said. “What happened to him?”

  Bass had to think for a second, reconstructing the image he had seen behind Wing-lei’s jet just before the explosion. It still seemed like a bad dream.

  He told them what he saw.

  When he finished, Boyce and Maxwell looked at each other. Maxwell was nodding his head. “This ‘glimmer’ you call it. How far behind your wingman’s jet was it?”

  “A mile, maybe. It lasted just a second, then I saw Wing-lei’s jet blow.”

  “Any RWR alert?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Did your wingman report being spiked?”

  ”I don’t think so. I had just checked his six, looking for any threat, and that’s when I saw the. . . glimmer.”

  Everyone at the table leaned forward. “Describe it,” said Boyce.

  “Sort of a shimmering, mirage-like distortion. I just saw it for a second, out of my peripheral vision. I thought it was an aircraft at first. It might have been the heat from Wing-lei’s afterburner.”

  Boyce looked at Maxwell and nodded.

  “Did you see anything impact his jet?”

  “No. It just blew.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “Get out of Dodge. A gut move. I figured I was next. Nine-G limiter pull for the deck. It was the right move because the missile—whatever it was—missed a direct hit. I must have taken shrapnel in the tail when the prox fuse went.”

  For a moment, Boyce and Maxwell were both silent. Maxwell seemed deep in thought, focused on some faraway object.

  Boyce was on his feet. “Goddamnit, it had to be a fighter—a Flanker or another Fishbed. He sneaked into the fight and nobody saw him.”

  “Why didn’t their Hawkeye pick him up?” asked Maxwell.

  “They missed him. Maybe he entered low, then came straight up.”

  Maxwell shook his head. “Not against the E-2 radar. It’s optimized for over water ops. Besides, with that many fighter radars covering the sector, I’d give spitters a near-zero probability.”

  Boyce looked exasperated. “Okay, what then? Something got behind the F-16s without being detected and took them both out. I’d bet my ass and a box of Cohibas it’s the same something that flamed Dynasty One.”

  A silence fell over the group.

  Finally, Maxwell said, “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  Boyce stared. “Maybe. You care to elaborate?”

  Maxwell started to speak, then he looked at Bass. Boyce just shrugged. “Him? He’s not going anywhere. His boss said to keep him until hell freezes over or the war is finished, whichever takes longer. Plus he just signed his life away. We own this little mercenary.”

  Bass forced a smile. Navy guys. It must come from living on boats. No booze, no women. It gave them a warped sense of humor.

  CHAPTER 7 — THE WEDGE

  USS Ronald Reagan

  Taiwan Strait

  1015, Thursday, 11 September

  “A what?” Boyce shoved the cigar back in his mouth and stared at Maxwell.

  “Stealth fighter,” said Maxwell.

  “You mean, like the F-117? Low radar signature, low observability?”

  “Never mind low,” offered Catfish Bass. “How about zero? If it was another fighter that hosed us, the thing was invisible. Not just to radar, but to the naked eye.” Bass was starting to relax now that he wasn’t going to jail. At least not immediately.

  Boyce snorted. “We went through that already. There ain’t no such animal.” He kept staring at Maxwell. “Isn’t that right, Commander Maxwell?”

  Maxwell had seen that look before. When Boyce was on to something, he was like a bloodhound sniffing the wind.

  “Stealth technology has come a long way since the F-117,” said Maxwell, choosing his words carefully “There might be a new generation.”

  “Might be, you say. Would it be anything you might know about?”

  While Maxwell hesitated, still weighing how much to say, Ashby, the civilian, spoke up for the first time. “Commander Maxwell is right. There is a new generation of stealth aircraft.” He tossed a manila folder onto the table. “There’s the record, the part that’s not included in his personnel file. When Maxwell was a test pilot, he was assigned for a year to the research facility at Groom Lake in Nevada. The place called Dreamland. He worked on a secret project codenamed Black Star.”

  At this, Maxwell cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Ashby, but that is not—”

  “It’s cleared,” said Ashby. He held up the folder, showing the TOP SECRET stencil on the cover. “This matter is now the highest priority. SecDef has given the go-ahead to use all the tools we have to find out what the Chinese are using against us. Your knowledge of Black Star is one of the tools.”


  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Boyce. “You’re telling me that Brick here knows about such an airplane?”

  “Not only knows about it. He flew it.”

  Maxwell felt Boyce staring at him. Boyce was shaking his head. “There’s no end to the things you haven’t told me.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Or anyone else. It was a black project.”

  Boyce aimed his cigar like a baton. “Another of your little side jobs when you were a space cadet. Now that we know, maybe this would be a good time for you to enlighten us about this thing called Black Star.”

  Maxwell glanced over at Ashby, who gave him a nod. He tilted back in his steel chair and twirled a pen in his hand, remembering. He let his thoughts roll back nearly five years, back to the Nevada high desert. To the place they called Dreamland.

  <>

  It looked like a wedge. A wedge on wheels.

  That had been his first impression, standing there in the fluorescent light of Hangar 501 at Groom Lake. A wedge with an attitude. The Black Star didn’t have the classical, pointy-nosed sleekness of a traditional fighter. Shimmering in the artificial light, the dark-skinned aircraft looked like an apparition. All angles and facets and blurred fixtures.

  He had to whistle in amazement. It wasn’t what he expected. Viewed from overhead, the airplane looked like a reversed kite, with an extended triangular frontal area, and a shallower, delta-shaped aft section. Oddest of all, it had no tail, no vertical stabilizer surface. Computer-commanded spoilers in the aft section of each wing gave the jet directional control.

  “It’s aerodynamically unstable,” the project director informed him. “The only thing that keeps it from self-destructing in flight is the fly-by-wire flight control system.”

  Maxwell was one of three test pilots on the Black Star. One was Joe Hynes, an Air Force lieutenant colonel and veteran test pilot from the Edwards research facility in California. The other was Frank Eaker, a contract civilian who had earned his credentials on the F-117. Maxwell himself had just completed the carrier suitability tests of the new F/A-18 Super Hornet and was already a candidate for a shuttle slot at NASA.