Black Star

by Robert Gandt

  “No. Are you criticizing my marksmanship?”

  “No, sir. Excellent shooting.”

  “Thank you.” The cop holstered his pistol. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’ll live.” He looked at Lutz. His remaining eye was staring blindly into the evening sky. “Which is more than I can say for him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Lutz.” Maxwell hesitated, no sure how much to say, not sure if he knew the truth himself. “He’s an engineer on a classified defense project.”

  “So why was he trying to whack you?”

  “He was, ah, selling military secrets. I got in his way.”

  The cop’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, huh. So who are you? Some kind of spy catcher?”

  Before Maxwell could come up with an answer, they heard a commotion in the thicket behind them. They turned to see Claire wading through the high weeds, making her way down to them. Her elbow was bleeding, and she had grass stains on her skirt.

  She went straight to Maxwell and hugged him so tightly it made his injured ribs ache. Then she saw his wounded arm.

  “Oh, Sam, are you —”

  “It’s okay. Nothing serious.”

  “I was so frightened, Sam. I thought you were. . .” She broke down sobbing, shaking uncontrollably. For nearly a minute no one spoke while Maxwell held her, stroking her hair, letting her cry.

  Claire sniffed, wiped her eyes, then composed herself. She took a cautious look at Lutz’s body, shuddered and immediately looked away. “Is he . . . somebody you know?”

  He nodded, telling her with his eyes to leave it alone. She nodded back, but he knew Claire. She was a reporter. The questions would come later. Lots of them.

  She turned to the cop and said, “I never heard your name, officer.”

  “It’s Grover, ma’am. Sergeant Earl Grover.”

  “How did you happen to be here?”

  “That guy.” The cop nodded toward Lutz’s corpse. “I’ve seen some mean-looking dudes in my time, but he took the prize. When I saw him back at the mall, I could tell by his face that he meant to do you folks some harm. So I decided to follow him in the patrol car.”

  “You saved our lives.” Claire reached out and took his hand. “How can we ever repay you?”

  The cop looked embarrassed. He removed his cap and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He scuffed his shoe on the ground, then replanted the cap on his mat of wiry gray hair. “Well, Miss Phillips, uh, there is one small favor. . .”

  “Yes?” She looked at him expectantly.

  “Me and my wife, we both just love your TV show. Would it be possible, do you think, to get your autograph?” He produced a pad of paper and a ballpoint. “She’d just be tickled to death if. . .”

  “It would be an honor, Sergeant.”

  Maxwell stood to the side while she wrote in the cop’s notebook. Claire was a mess, he observed. Her hair was disheveled, hanging in sweaty strands over her forehead. Grass stains covered the backside of her skirt. A streak of dirt ran down the length of her fine, tapered nose.

  He almost laughed, but the ache in his ribs cut it short. This was not the cool and composed Claire Phillips seen by millions on nightly television. She looked as if she’d been flung through a hedge at fifty miles an hour, rolled like a bowling pin down a hillside, then dumped in a briar patch.

  Which, as he thought about it, was pretty much what happened.

  She caught him watching her and flashed a smile. Despite the stinging in his arm and the ache in his ribs, he felt a warm glow settle over him.

  So much had happened these past weeks, some of it good, much of it bad. Seeing Claire Phillips smile at him, dirty face and all, made it all okay. He had the sure sense that life was about to get better. Much better.

  CLASSIFIED MATERIAL—TOP SECRET

  Note: The enclosed evidence was recovered from the personal effects of Dr. Raymond Lutz, suspect in Groom Lake Research Facility security breach. Access restricted to FBI Director, Deputy Director, and designated members (list attached) of Counter Espionage Section, Las Vegas Field Office.

  /s/ Special Agent Frederic R. Swinford, Chief of Section.

  Specifications: YF-27 Black Star

  Contractors: Lockheed Martin/Northrop-Grumman

  Power Plant: Two General Electric F-404-GE-F1D2 engines

  Wingspan: 41.7 (12.7 meters)

  Length: 36.2 (11.0 meters)

  Height: 9.15 feet (2.8 meters)

  Speed: High subsonic

  Ceiling: 50,000 feet (15,152 meters)

  Takeoff Weight (Typical): 46,000 pounds (15, 263 kilograms)

  Range: 750 nautical miles (1390 kilometers)

  Armament: Cannon, air-to-air missiles, internal bomb bay

  Payload: 5,200 pounds (2359 kilograms)

  Crew: Two

  Unit cost: Approximately $1.157 billion

  TOP SECRET

  *NOFORN*

  ROBERT GANDT is a former naval officer, international airline captain, and a prolific military and aviation writer. He is the author of thirteen books, including the novels The Killing Sky and Black Star Rising and the definitive work on modern naval aviation, Bogeys and Bandits. His screen credits include the television series Pensacola: Wings of Gold. His acclaimed account of the Battle for Okinawa, The Twilight Warriors (Broadway Books, a division of Random House) was the winner of the 2011 Morison Award for Naval Literature. He and his wife, Anne, live in the Spruce Creek Fly-In, an aviation community in Daytona Beach, Florida.

  Connect with him online at:

  Robert Gandt Author’s web site; Facebook fanpage; Amazon’s Robert Gandt Page ; Smashwords Author Page; Random House Author’s Page

  Here’s an excerpt from

  SHADOWS OF WAR

  next in Robert Gandt’s acclaimed naval aviation series . . ..

  Prologue

  The Man Who Didn’t Exist

  I am writing this as fast as I can. In the passageway outside my cell I hear the sound of boots. They are coming to interrogate me again.

  Though I officially died on 17 January, 1991, the body of the man known as Raz Rasmussen continues to breathe air and perform physical and mental functions. One of those functions is to write in this book. Keeping a journal is the only thing that distinguishes me from an insect or a rat.

  It is unlikely that anyone except my captors will ever read this journal. It no longer matters to me. The only purpose of writing in the book is that it forces me to think about what I did each day.

  I was interrogated yesterday. They wanted to know about the mission control computer of the F/A-18. I told them everything I knew. It is a joke, after this much time. Memory is one of the things I have lost in captivity, like teeth, hair, eyesight. Torture does not refresh memory. It kills it.

  They say they are being kind by allowing me to have this journal. And in a way, they are. Of course, they take it away from me every day to see what I have written. It must amuse them to read my notes about life in prison. I learned early in my captivity to be careful what I write. My captors are paranoid. If I write something unflattering, they drag me back to the interrogation room.

  If I believed in heaven or hell, I would have to assume that I have been sent to hell. If so, it’s not all that terrifying. Torture is an overrated method for extracting information. The truth is, pain eventually loses its power to terrify. I have learned to detach from my physical self. Since I am already a dead man, they can’t hurt me.

  This knowledge gives me an immense advantage over my captors and, for that matter, over everyone else in the world. I have nothing to hope for. Nothing to lose. Nothing to fear.

  I hear them coming now. They will ask the same old questions, and I will give the same old answers. They waste their time. I remember nothing of value. The only part of my life I recall with perfect clarity is the night I died.

  Chapter 1 — Foxbat

  Southern Iraq, 31,000 feet

  0145, 17 January, 1991

 
“Contact! Zero-four-zero, thirty-five miles, angels thirty, hot.”

  The call cut like a scythe through the radio chatter. Raz Rasmussen’s scan snapped back inside the cockpit. He squinted at the greenish radar display. Where? Zero-four-zero from whom? Is it a MiG?

  “Foxbat!” he heard someone call. “Twelve o’clock, twenty-five miles.” Someone was getting an EID—electronic identification—on the contact.

  Rasmussen’s heart rate accelerated another twenty beats. A Foxbat was a Russian-built MiG-25. He had it tagged in his own radar now, and, yeah, damn right it was a Foxbat. Nearly level, coming at them nose on. His hands began to sweat inside the flight gloves.

  “Anvil Four-one has the bogey, nose hot, twenty miles. Request clearance to fire.”

  Rasmussen recognized the voice of his flight leader, Lt. Cmdr. Gracie Allen, in the F/A-18 Hornet two miles to the left.

  “Which Anvil?” answered the AWACS controller in the E-3 Sentry, on station over Saudi Arabia. There was a total of sixteen Hornets with the call sign “Anvil.” “Who’s requesting clearance to fire? What bogey?”

  “Anvil Four-one. I’ve got a bogey on my nose at twenty miles. I need clearance to—” Bleep. Another radio transmission cut him off.

  “Anvil , do you have positive ID? State your—”

  Bleep.

  Radio discipline was going to hell. No one could complete a call before somebody cut him out.

  The Foxbat was in range of the strike group.

  It was Night One of Operation Desert Storm, the largest American air combat operation since Vietnam. Coalition warplanes filled the night sky over Iraq. Everyone was hyped, and the adrenaline was crackling like electricity.

  Lt. Cmdr. Raz Rasmussen—call sign Anvil Four-three—was the second element leader of the four-ship flight. Anvil Flight’s job was to shoot HARMs—high-speed anti-radiation missiles intended to kill Iraq’s air defense radars. The mission was critical because the inbound strike aircraft — other F/A-18s, F-15s, F-111s, B-52s—depended on the HARM shooters to take out the barrage of radar-directed anti-aircraft guns and surface-to-air missile batteries.

  To Rasmussen’s right was his wingman, Anvil Four-four, a cocky second-tour lieutenant named John DeLancey. To his left was the lead element—Lt. Cmdr. Gracie Allen and his wingman, Lt. Brick Maxwell.

  Rasmussen could see Baghdad glimmering in the distance. Tiny flashes pulsed like heat lightning just above the horizon. Tracers were arcing into the sky over the city. Tomahawk missiles and F 117 Stinkbugs were already hitting the target area.

  Then Rasmussen saw something in the radar that made his blood run cold. He waited two more sweeps to be sure. Another bogey.

  Not one but two goddamn Foxbats out there. No question about it. Two targets at twelve o’clock, fifteen miles, closing fast.

  But he couldn’t shoot. Not until he’d gotten clearance. He silently cursed the idiotic Rules of Engagement. An electronic ID with the Hornet’s onboard radar was not considered accurate enough to tag a bogey as a hostile fighter. There were too many allied warplanes in the same tiny airspace.

  The tactical frequency was clogged. The AWACS controller wasn’t getting through.

  Twelve miles. The Foxbats were close enough to shoot their own—

  “Anvil Four-two is spiked!”

  Rasmussen recognized Maxwell’s voice. He was reporting that he was targeted by the MiGs’ radar. In the next instant, Rasmussen saw a tiny flash of light in the dark sky in front of him.

  A missile in the air.

  < >

  Grunting against the seven-G break turn, Maxwell felt the perspiration pour from inside his helmet.

  He knew the hard turn was taking him directly beneath the three other members of Anvil Flight. He hoped they maintained altitude so that he would pass under them a couple thousand feet.

  His RWR was warbling like a deranged parrot. Damn! A radar-guided missile—an AA-6 Acrid —and it had him locked. How did we let the MiG take the first shot?

  He hit the chaff dispenser, releasing a trail of aluminum confetti to confuse the Acrid’s radar guidance unit. Maxwell had a nagging doubt that the stuff really worked. Even Russian radars weren’t that stupid.

  Maxwell felt like a blind man. He couldn’t see the Foxbat, and he couldn’t see any of the Hornets in his flight. It was like knife-fighting in a blackened closet. With zero visual reference, he was completely on instruments.

  This Foxbat pilot was no amateur. He’d taken his shot at Maxwell, out at the far left of the six-mile wide formation. Now, if he was smart, he would try to sweep around behind the rest of the formation.

  Over his shoulder, Maxwell got a glimpse of the missile. A white torch, arcing toward him.

  Pull! Hard right and down. Beat the missile. Put the spike at your nine o’clock.

  The good news was that the AA-6 was perhaps the least maneuverable air-to-air missile the Soviets made. The bad news was it had the largest warhead.

  He rolled wings level and stabbed the chaff dispenser again.

  Brick Maxwell was a nugget—a new fighter pilot on his first squadron tour. He’d been in the squadron three months when they sailed for the Persian Gulf. This was his first combat mission.

  “Just stay cool, pal,” his best friend in the squadron, Raz Rasmussen, had told him before the mission. They were walking across the darkened flight deck toward their jets. “Stick with ol’ Raz. This is gonna be a walk in park.”

  Some walk in the park. Maxwell felt like he was getting mugged. If he lived through this, he’d tell Raz he was full of shit.

  The warbling in the RWR changed pitch, then ceased altogether. Over his shoulder Maxwell saw the white torch of the Acrid. It was veering to the left, behind him. Going for the chaff. Hey, the stuff worked! Thank you, God.

  Where was the rest of Anvil Flight? Above him somewhere. Close.

  Where?

  He saw the flash of another missile launch.

  < >

  Screw the Rules of Engagement.

  The AWACS had still not identified the bogey as a bandit. By definition, a bogey was an unidentified target. A bogey didn’t become a bandit until he was identified as a bona fide hostile aircraft.

  Rasmussen wasn’t waiting any longer. He didn’t need any more identification. One of the bogeys had just taken a shot at Maxwell. That made him a bona fide, no shit bandit that needed killing

  His AIM-7 Sparrow missile leaped from its rail like a runaway freight train and went scorching into the night sky.

  He keyed the microphone to transmit a “Fox One,” call, signaling the launch of a radar-guided missile.

  Bleep. He was cut out again.

  The radio chatter was overwhelming. Hornet pilots were calling bogeys, yelling for clearance to fire, blocking each other’s transmissions. It sounded like feeding time in the monkey cage.

  Then he caught a flash of light in his peripheral vision. Another missile launch. Who?

  “Anvil Four-four, Fox One.” He recognized the voice of DeLancey, his wingman.

  Rasmussen saw DeLancey’s missile arcing off into the sky, in the trail of his own Sparrow missile.

  Two seconds later, Rasmussen saw an orange blob appear at his eleven o’clock position, slightly low. The blob pulsed like an amorphous creature, then turned into a trail of fire.

  His Sparrow missile had killed the Foxbat.

  Then another explosion. A white flash ignited briefly inside the flames of the destroyed Foxbat. DeLancey’s missile had targeted the same MiG.

  Before he could key his microphone, he heard DeLancey’s triumphant voice. “Anvil Four-four, Splash One!”

  A flash of anger swept over Rasmussen. DeLancey was taking credit for a MiG he didn’t kill. When they got back to the ship he would—

  Something else was out there. A bright blue torch where the Foxbat had been.

  The second Foxbat. He was seeing the bright afterburner plumes of two Tumansky afterburners. The Foxbat had just seen his partner get
hosed and he was getting out of Dodge.

  Or was he?

  The plumes vanished. Where did he go?

  Rasmussen was still searching with his radar, scanning the empty sky for the missing Foxbat when he heard the sudden screaming of his own RWR. A wave of fear swept over him.

  He knew where the Foxbat had gone.

  < >

  Captain Tariq Jabbar shoved the throttles of his MiG-25 up to the afterburner detent. The extra thrust of the big Tumansky engines felt like the kick of a mule.

  He hated giving away his presence with the glow of the burner plumes, but he needed to close the distance between him and the oncoming Americans. Speed was his only defense. Speed was life.

  The enemy fighters had just obliterated his friend and squadron commander, Lt. Col. Tawfiq Al-Rashid, with a radar-guided missile. The fireball had nearly blinded Jabbar, causing him to hunker in his seat, waiting for the next missile. The one that would kill him.

  Instead, the second missile followed the first. Both had struck Al-Rashid’s MiG-25.

  “Make your peace with Allah,” Al-Rashid had told him back at Al-Taqqadum air base before they took off. “We will be joining him tonight.”

  Jabbar had just nodded. He had no illusions about his longevity as a fighter pilot in the Iraqi Air Force. The war with America was about to begin, and his life expectancy could be measured in minutes.

  Soon after take off he had been shocked to see on his radar the armada of aircraft sweeping northward toward Baghdad. As it turned out, Al-Rashid was the first to join Allah.

  As Jabbar flashed past the oncoming American fighters, he pulled the throttles out of the afterburner detent and hauled the nose of the MiG-25 up and around in a hard turn, back toward their tails.