Black Star

CHAPTER 16 — RAVEN SWOOP

The Dong-jin.

Col. Zhang stood on the darkened tarmac outside his office. Yes, that had to be it. It was his worst fear come true.

They know about the stealth jet, the one they call Black Star. They’re coming for it.A hunched-over figure burst from the office door next to his, nearly running him over. Zhang seized the man’s sleeve. He recognized the panting face of the base commander, Col. Pao.

“What’s going on?” Zhang said, holding Pao back. “How did those helicopters get inside the perimeter? What’s happened to the electrical power?”

Pao yanked his arm free. “What do you think? The damned dissidents you claimed were all rounded up… well, there are more out there. They’ve sabotaged the power grid.”

Officially, Pao and Zhang were equals in rank. As base commander, Pao’s responsibility was the security and maintenance of Chouzhou, while Zhang confined himself to operational matters. But Pao understood the reality of the PLA. Zhang had powerful patrons. He could have Pao arrested and executed with a snap of his fingers.

“What happened to the air defense net?” demanded Zhang. “Why aren’t the anti-aircraft guns firing at those helicopters?”

“I don’t know. I was on my way to the—”

Pao stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth frozen open. An orange glare illuminated his face, revealing wide-open, disbelieving eyes.

Zhang whirled to see what occupied Pao’s attention. An orange pillar of flame was leaping a hundred meters into the night sky, lighting up the southwest corner of the base as if it were high noon.

Four seconds later, he heard the deep whump of the explosion.

“The fuel tanks,” he said. “The bastards are attacking the fuel tanks.”

In the orange light, they could make out the silhouette of the gunship skimming past the burning fuel depot. Two of the three huge fuel storage tanks were blazing fiercely.

“We have to save the last fuel tank,” muttered Pao. “I need troops to fight the fire.”

“Forget the tanks, you idiot,” said Zhang. “Worry about the helicopters. They’re inside your perimeter.”

Pao seemed not to hear. “We have to save the fuel for the interceptors. I must order the troops to extinguish the fire.” He yanked his arm free of Zhang’s clutch and ran back inside his office.

Zhang shook his head in disgust. The enemy was wreaking havoc at Chouzhou, and all the base commander could think of was putting out fires. Pao had a thousand troops assigned to defend his base, and he wanted to use them as firemen.

The imbecile. When this night was over, he would see to it that Pao was re-assigned to Tibet.

He climbed into his canvas-topped utility vehicle. Leaving the lights out, he drove along the semi-circular taxiway that led to the number four Dong-jin shelter. With the base under attack, he would have to dispense with the long briefing and the pre-flight target assessment. This was a wartime emergency. They must get the Dong-jins airborne immediately.

Zhang passed groups of soldiers running in various directions, all seemingly without leadership. He was nearly past the flight line when he heard the throb of rotor blades. Instinctively, he swung off the taxiway. He jumped out and ducked for cover beside the corner of a concrete revetment.

Directly over his head swept a black shape — a helicopter gunship, he realized. As Zhang watched, a fiery hail of rockets erupted from each pylon on the gunship.

Zhang followed the path of the rockets. They were aimed at the flight line where the SU-27 and F-7 fighters were dispersed. The valuable SU-27s were parked inside revetments, while the more expendable F-7s were scattered on the open tarmac.

Zhang heard the sound of running feet. Coming down the taxiway were a dozen flight-suited pilots — the alert unit— running for their jets. As they jogged past, Zhang considered yelling at them, telling them to stay away. The parked fighters were prime targets for the gunships.

He let them go. Maybe some will make it into the air, he decided. A few might actually manage to shoot back at the enemy.

The rockets struck the flight line. An explosion and a column of bright flame marked the death spot of an F-7. Then another. Two more fighters exploded.

Zhang watched from his shelter, cursing the incompetent idiots that allowed this to happen.

The helicopter swept over the flight line, then turned to come back the opposite way, firing into the revetments. An SU-27 erupted in a ball of fire. The flight line was turning into an inferno.

By the flickering light of the blazes, Zhang could see the tiny figures of the pilots, still running toward the few undamaged jets. Give them credit, he thought. China produces brave pilots.

Stupid, but brave.The helicopter returned for another pass. This time Zhang noticed that it wasn’t firing rockets. Were they out of ammunition? Did it mean the pilots could reach the jets and—

Something was spewing from the helicopter. It took Zhang a moment to realize what he was seeing. They looked like tiny trinkets, glistening in the orange light as they fell to the earth. Hundreds, clattering onto the concrete, bouncing off the wings of the parked jets, littering the flight line.

The pilots were just reaching the parked jets when the first of the objects detonated. Zhang heard the Whump of an explosion. Then the scream of the decapitated pilot.

Another explosion. More screams.

Get back! Zhang wanted to yell. The gunship had littered the flight line with anti-personnel mines — little round killers with hydraulic shock absorbers. They would spring up a meter from the ground and detonate at crotch level whenever a soft target approached.

As it was doing now.

Another muffled Whump. More screams. Zhang cursed again. Chouzhou’s fighter wing had been effectively neutralized until specialists could cleanse the area of the deadly little mines.

He climbed back into his vehicle. The helicopters were sweeping the perimeter of the base, firing at targets of opportunity. None of the heavy guns were firing back. No missiles were streaking into the sky.

Grudgingly, Zhang had to admire the professionalism of the raid. The rebel pilots must be using night vision equipment. And they had to have human intelligence — spies inside Chouzhou — to inform them about the location of the missile batteries and anti-aircraft guns. They had to have inside help to knock out the power grid.

With a growing sense of anxiety, he accelerated down the taxiway. Time was running out. The helicopters hadn’t come all the way across the strait just to shoot up a SAM site and scatter some anti-personnel mines. There had to be more.

There was.

As Zhang listened, a deeper throb overrode the lighter beat of the gunships. He heard the heavy pulsing of multiple rotor blades.

More helicopters. Bigger, multi-engine machines.

Carrying what?

Zhang glanced over his shoulder. In the flickering light, he could make out the silhouettes — four big, twin-rotored machines, alighting on the apron south of the shelters. It was the off-limits, close-hold area where no one at Chouzhou was allowed except those assigned to the ultra-secret Dong-jin project. Clusters of tiny shapes were spewing out of each helicopter, quickly vanishing in the gloom of the darkened tarmac.

Zhang saw that no one was opposing the invaders. Not yet, at least. Colonel Pao had deployed most of his base defense troops to fight the fuel tank fires.

He shook his head in frustration. Tibet was too good for Pao. The idiot would face a firing squad.

He tore his attention away from the helicopters. He forced himself to think. Like an elusive solution to a puzzle, it was coming to him. The gunships had eliminated the SAM batteries and the perimeter air defenses. They had rocketed and neutralized the squadron of interceptors. They had torched the jet fuel tanks. But they hadn’t attacked the prime target at Chouzhou — the two main assembly buildings and four reinforced shelters in the northeast quadrant. The Dong-jin project.

Why? Why didn’t they just destroy it as they had the air defense system?

The answer came to him. Because they want it intact.

With that thought echoing in his mind, Zhang jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator.

Chiu hit the ground running. He didn’t stop until he had put a hundred meters between himself and the CH-47. Then he dropped to one knee and looked back toward the helicopter.

Good. They were following, staying together as he had ordered. The two Americans and the Chinese woman, running pell-mell away from the helicopter to join him and the fire team of commandos.

With the PVS-7 night vision goggles pulled down over his eyes, Chiu scanned the quadrant in front of him. In the greenish light he had a clear view of the tarmac, the helicopters, the row of shelters to the northeast. All the helos were empty now. He watched the shapes of his commandos, joined in twelve-man units, sprinting across the tarmac toward their objectives.

Maxwell came jogging up, followed by Bass and the woman.

“Stay close to me,” said Chiu. “Three meters, no further.”

They all nodded. Crouching in the darkness beside him was the team of six commandos, led by a grim-faced young lieutenant named Kee. Each wore helmet-mounted NVG, and one had the PRC-119 manpack radio by which Chiu would communicate with the helicopters and his dispersed squads.

The sound of automatic fire crackled nearby. Chiu turned his head and listened. It seemed to come from the shelters several hundred meters to the north. He recognized the distinctive burp of the commandos’ H&K MP-5N submachine gun.

Excellent. On schedule, C squad was taking out the guard posts.

He nodded to the lieutenant. Without a sound, Kee and his team rose. Spread out line ten yards apart, they trotted off toward the complex at the northeast quadrant.

“Follow them,” Chiu said to the Americans. “Don’t get separated.”

Jogging along behind the commandos, he heard more bursts of automatic fire, this time from the right.

The northeastern security posts. There were posts every two hundred meters in the restricted area, and each had to be sanitized before the commandos could establish defensive positions.

It was going well, but Chiu knew their advantage was momentary. They had the cover of darkness and the NVG and, most importantly, the element of surprise. They enjoyed a numerical superiority only because the PLA forces — who outnumbered them twenty-to-one— were not yet positioned to oppose them.

Their advantage was dwindling with each passing minute. The blanket of darkness was diminished by the towering blaze of the fuel tank fires and the gathering dawn. In less than an hour, the new day would lighten the eastern horizon.

They had to find the Black Star, insert the Americans into the stealth jet, get them launched, then escape — all before the base defense brigade could organize a counter attack.

Chiu glanced over his shoulder. They were staying with him, as he had ordered. Even the woman, the Chinese defector, was trotting along in trail behind Bass and Maxwell.

As they neared the first of the two assembly buildings, he heard the sounds of the firefight from the nearest building in the complex. Staccato MP-5N bursts were mixed with the rattle of a Type 95 assault rifle — the Chinese derivative of the venerable Kalashnikov AK-47. Lieutenant Kee, leading the column, gave the signal to stop and crouch.

They huddled in the darkness, shielded from the flickering light of the burning fuel tanks by the wall of a revetment. Sporadic sounds of battle spilled out of the buildings.

The radioman waddled back to Chiu. “Building One secure, Colonel. The second still contains a platoon of security troops.”

Chiu acknowledged. He signaled for Maxwell and the other two to remain with him, huddled by the revetment wall.

A minute later, the squad leader reported that the resistance in Building Two had ended. Both assembly buildings were secure.

“Tell the D squad leader I want snipers deployed to the roofs of both buildings.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave the signal for Kee to move out. In column behind the commandos, Chiu and his group rose and headed toward Building One, where the defector told them the Black Star life support equipment shop was located.

Trotting across the open ground, Chiu glanced over his shoulder to make sure the others were staying with him. They were, Maxwell leading, with Bass and the Chinese woman close behind. Even without using his NVG, he could their shadows flitting across the surface. The blazing fuel fires were flooding the base in an orange glow.

The thought had already occurred to Chiu that the woman defector, Chen, might be leading them into a trap. Even if she were not a double agent, the accuracy of her information could still be flawed. She was the one he had been most worried about. Traitors by any other name or nationality were still traitors. They were not to be trusted.

They had no time for a random search of the complex for the Black Star and the equipment they needed to fly it.

What then?

About the woman, Chiu had reached a decision. It was possible that she had compromised the operation by seducing the American Maxwell. What information had she obtained from him?

He had already decided that her only remaining value was to point them to the Black Star. If she failed, Chiu intended to put a bullet in her head. No hesitation, no remorse. Defectors, even PLA defectors, had no claim to a long life.

The Americans were another matter. Taiwan’s survival depended on getting them into the cockpit of the Black Star. The primary purpose of the mission was to insert these two into the stealth craft. For that reason, Chiu had not allowed himself to become friendly with them. The mission was too critical to be compromised by sentimentality.

If the mission failed, Chiu’s duty was clear. The Americans must not be allowed to become prisoners of the PLA. He would kill them.

From his bridge aboard the Kai Yang, Commander Lei peered into the gathering darkness.

He had a rendezvous scheduled with a tanker and a resupply ship. Only after nightfall would he undertake the risky operation of rearming and refueling. Returning to port, either to Keelung in the north or Kaohsiung in the south, was out of the question. If they weren’t caught by missiles or PLA strike jets in the naval yard, they’d be picked off by one of the submarines that were parked outside every port in Taiwan.

Out of the murk the two provisioning ships appeared. No transmissions were exchanged as they took station, one on either side of Kai Yang. To the outboard side of the tanker, the pair of destroyer escorts were lined up, bow-to-stern, to take on their own fuel. Blinking lights from each vessel were the only communication.

From the bridge of Kai Yang, Lei watched the reprovisioning with a vague uneasiness. It was an operation his crew had rehearsed a hundred times. To his port side, half a dozen lines drooped between the stores ship and Kai Yang. Containers filled with vital supplies — more Harpoons, more torpedoes, food and fresh water — wobbled across the narrow canyon between the ships, dangling from the lines.

They were headed into the wind on a southwesterly course. The four-foot swells were causing the dissimilar vessels to rise and fall in discordant rhythms. Kai Yang’s larger bow was lifting while the provisioning ship was dropping into a trough. The containers danced between the two ships like trinkets swaying on a chain.

On the starboard side, a single thick hose connected the Kai Yang to the fueling ship. In twenty minutes they would take on enough fuel to keep them at sea another five days. Lei knew he would cut his endurance by half if he were caught up in another flank speed duel with the PLA navy.

He glanced at the luminescent clock face on his console. Ten minutes into the reprovisioning. Relax, he commanded himself. There was nothing he could do except wait. He tried to focus on the dull pink void on the western horizon where the sun had set nearly an hour ago.

Commander Lei had fourteen years of service under his belt. With luck — and a favorable outcome of the war — he could expect another six years, perhaps command of a surface squadron. If all the circumstances of his career fell into supreme harmony, he might even be elevated to flag rank.

Admiral Lei Fu-Sheng.

The prospect gave him no joy. The truth was, he no longer cared about the honor and trappings of high command. The events of the past two days had forced him to consider the harsh facts of his life. He had a wife whom he hadn’t seen for more than a week of each month during their entire marriage. His two sons had grown to manhood in his absence. Neither was close to him, nor were they interested in military careers.

All because he had chosen a life of service to his country. A country that might not exist a week from now.

While this thought still played in his mind, he received the call from the surface watch officer, Lt. Fu Shing. “Radar contact, Captain.”

He was instantly alert. “Range and distance?”

“Multiple returns bearing two-nine-zero, forty kilometers, constant bearing, decreasing range. They’ve already painted us on their radar.”

Lei nodded. The hostile contacts had detected them first. No surprise, considering the archaic SPS-58 radar equipment installed on the Kai Yang. Constant bearing, decreasing range. It meant the contacts were on a direct course for Kai Yang and its two destroyer escorts.

“Does Dragon Boat have an ID?” Dragon Boat was the E-2C surveillance aircraft, overseeing the action in the strait.

“Nothing positive yet. The radar hits are definitely PLA navy, destroyer or frigate size.”

Lei shook his head in frustration. Having a mini-AWACS like the E-2C on station was a nice idea, but its effectiveness against surface targets was minimal. The big revolving parasol radome atop the E-2C was intended for use against airborne targets. What they needed was a surveillance jet like the American RC-135 Rivet Joint. Or real time satellite imagery, delivered by instant data link. Instead, they had hand-me-down junk the Americans stopped using thirty years ago.

It doesn’t matter, Lei reminded himself. This is what you have. Fight the ship!

The thought struck him that he and Kai Yang were about to make history. A surface naval battle. No modern warships had engaged in a surface battle since World War II.

Of course, calling the Kai Yang a modern warship was stretching a point. If the old frigate were still in America, it would be a floating museum. Its surface search and fire control radars were inferior to the equipment on most private yachts. Originally delivered to the U.S. Navy as a destroyer in the 1940s, it had served a full career before being stricken from the list and transferred to the Taiwanese navy as a frigate.

Lei considered his situation. If he had any advantage over his Chinese adversary, it was his armament. He had Sea Sparrow air defense missiles for stand off protection. On either side he had twin turrets of five-inch, thirty-eight caliber guns. For extreme close in defense, Kai Yang was outfitted with the Phalanx M-61A1 Gatling gun system. His two destroyer escorts, Tai Yuan, and Wen Shan, were each armed with Mark 46 torpedoes and twin turrets of five-inch thirty-eights.

For offense, Lei still carried Harpoon cruise missiles, re-configured for anti-ship duty.

Or did he?

He tried to remember. Of the eight Harpoons originally stowed aboard Kai Yang, he had fired — how many? It came to him. Six, launched against targets on the mainland. The remaining two had been reserved for anti-ship attack.

“Have we loaded the Harpoons from the supply ship yet?”

“Don’t know, Captain,” The watch officer grabbed his sound-powered phone. “I’ll find out.”

“Forget it. Order the supply ships to break away. Suspend resupply and take us to general quarters.”

“Aye, Captain.” While the watch officer barked the commands into the sound-powered phone, his hand hit a mushroom-shaped knob on the OOD console. One second later, a klaxon horn sounded and a recorded voice announced in Chinese, “General quarters, general quarters. All hands man battle stations.”

Watching the crew below donning helmets and flotation jackets, scrambling to their stations, Lei nodded in approval. That was something they’d gotten good at. For most of the last two days, the crew of the Kai Yang had been running to battle stations.

“Captain, supply reports that we took three Harpoons aboard before breaking away.”

“Have them fuzed and loaded immediately.”

“Gunnery is already doing it, sir. They say they’ll be ready in five minutes.”

Lei felt a warm glow of pride for his crew. They knew they were in extreme danger. Never had he seen them perform with such cool efficiency.

“Conn, surface watch.” It was Fu Shing, the watch officer again. “We’re getting steady radar hits from the contact. He still bears two-nine-zero, range thirty kilometers, decreasing. Three distinct contacts, one emitting what we’re sure is a Russian radar. We think it’s a Sovremenny.”

Lei felt a chill sweep over him. “What probability?”

“Perhaps seventy-five percent. Dragon Boat makes the same appraisal.”

“Very well.” Lei called Fire Control. “Obtain a Harpoon firing solution for the inbound target. The largest contact.”

“Already done, Captain. He’s well within Harpoon range.”

Also well within Moskit supersonic missile range. The Sovremenny captain was taking his time. He knew his missiles could cover the distance between the ships in one third the time it took a Harpoon.

An old dictum from Lei’s academy days came to him. When you are outgunned, make sure you shoot first. He didn’t know who said it, but he believed it so much he had had it etched in brass and mounted above his desk. He still believed it. The Taiwanese navy was always outgunned. Make sure you shoot first.

“Fire the first Harpoon.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Lei shielded his eyes as the orange glow erupted from the vertical launcher on the starboard bow. It was the same fire-tailed apparition he’d witnessed the first night of the war when they launched the Harpoons against mainland targets. Through the steel bulkhead of the bridge he felt the rumble of the booster rocket that would kick the Harpoon up to near-supersonic speed before the turbojet engine took over.

Lei watched the missile leap into the sky, then level off and pursue its sea-skimming course to the northwest.

“Fire the second Harpoon.”

A moment’s pause. “Sir, that will be our last until the new ones—”

“Fire, damn it!”