Black Star

CHAPTER 21 — EGRESS

At least the stick and throttles were in the right place. But that was all. Not much else about the Black Star’s cockpit — the four display screens, the enunciator panels with script that looked like chicken scratchings, the enumerated gauges indicating mysterious values — made much sense.

He had located the airspeed and altitude read outs — all in metric, of course. The rest was hieroglyphics to him. Like one of those movies, Maxwell thought, where the hero climbs into an alien space ship and flies it away.

Not that far from the truth. The Black Star—this Black Star, anyway — was about as alien as it got.

Another hour. Sixty more minutes — that’s how much he needed — to familiarize himself with the cockpit layout. Mai-ling could have educated him about the unintelligible Chinese instrument symbology. He would have had time to match up the layout with what he remembered from the Black Star back in Dreamland.

Now he’d do it the hard way. Cold.

“Canopy coming closed,” said Mai-ling over the intercom.

He heard the electric whine of the big Plexiglas canopy, then a clunk as it locked shut. They were enveloped in near-silence, closed off from the howl of the Black Star’s two jet engines, from the whump and clatter of the firefight taking place on the base perimeter.

“APU shut down.”

“APU shutting down,” Mai-ling replied, confirming that the auxiliary power unit was no longer on line. She sounded excited, thought Maxwell. It occurred to him that although she knew the Black Star’s systems, she wasn’t a flight crew member. The hard part — flying the jet — lay ahead of them.

“Confirm nav system initialized.”

“That’s a problem,” she said. “I put in the base coordinates, but I can’t tell whether the nav computer accepted it.”

Maxwell couldn’t tell either. The situational display looked okay to him. It would have to do.

“Fuel quantity check.”

“Eighty-three hundred kilos,” she replied. Then she did the math for him. “If it helps, that’s 18,000 pounds, plus a little.”

“Thanks.” Maxwell didn’t know the fuel burn rate of the Black Star’s engines. Somewhere around five thousand pounds per hour, he estimated. Figuring extra for take off and climb, it gave them around three hours endurance.

Through the expanding cavity in the shelter opening, Maxwell could see the expanse of Chouzhou air base sprawled out before him. The taxiway from the shelter veered forty-five degrees to the right, then joined the approach end of runway one-six. It was the closest runway — but the shortest. At the far end of the field was the east-west runway, zero-nine and two-seven. It was ten thousand feet long.

“What runway did the Black Star use when they took off at Chouzhou?”

“The long one,” she said.

“They never used one-six?”

“No. Too short. Why?”

He didn’t answer. He tried to remember how long runway one-six was. He pulled the diagram of the Chouzhou runway complex from his cargo pocket. Runway one-six was 1,980 meters in length. He did a rapid calculation and came up with a rough runway length. About 6,500 feet.

That was short, very short for a fully-loaded jet. Was it too short?

As a test pilot, he always calculated to the foot how much runway distance his jet required to lift off. Lacking data about the Chinese Black Star’s performance, he didn’t have a clue. The original Black Star, he remembered, had been sluggish in take off performance. But that was at Dreamland, some 4,000 feet above sea level, where the hot, thin air took a slice out of a jet’s performance. Chouzhou was nearly at sea level. Maybe this version would do better.

The big electro-hydraulic bi-fold door was nearly open, and through the chasm he could see flashes and eruptions of flame in the southeast quadrant, where the commando landing zone had been.

Forget the long runway. It would be runway one-six, too short or not.

“Time to leave town.” He advanced the throttles. The Black Star lurched forward, trundling along on its tall, spindly landing gear.

They rolled out of the red-lighted shelter, onto the darkness of the apron. Maxwell lowered his night vision goggles and peered into the greenish landscape ahead. He could see the curving taxiway, the distant runway, the perimeter fence beyond.

He tested the nose wheel steering, making gentle turns left and right. He tried out the brakes, tapping the pedals with his feet. The jet skittered almost to a halt, its nose bobbing downward. He had to jam hard on the right pedal to keep from slewing off the taxiway into the dirt.

“What are you doing?” said Mai-ling.”

“Testing.”

“You’re supposed to steal this thing, not test it.”

“Be quiet. You’re a systems officer, not a check pilot.”

“I’m a concerned crewmember.”

“Then be concerned and shut up.”

“But I—”

She shut up. Something ahead caught her attention. Maxwell saw it too — a massive dark shape — rumbling toward them.

An armored personnel carrier. It was charging through an opening in the perimeter fence, just beyond the petroleum farm.

Illuminated in the glare of the burning fuel fires, the APC was on an intercept course. It’s turret gun was swiveling toward the Black Star.

Kee was driving too damned slow. Chiu could feel the time slipping like sand through his fingers. “Faster. Move this vehicle!”

“It’s too dangerous, Colonel. We mined this route. I have to watch for the explosive units.”

Chiu just grunted, sorry for his outburst. He didn’t believe in yelling at his troops. Kee was a good officer.

The bad news kept pouring in. Over the man-pack PRC-119 radio he heard the number one helicopter pilot report a column of armored personnel carriers three kilometers from the field perimeter. Two PLA assault helicopters had already blundered inside the base perimeter, probing for the invading party. Each had been shot down by a missile-firing Cobra gunship.

It was only a matter of minutes before the PLA overran them.

Ahead he could see the landing zone, three hundred meters away. The first two Chinooks had already lifted, carrying half the commando unit. The rest were maintaining a perimeter around the zone.

The Cobra gunships were doing their best to keep the armored column at bay, but they were taking heavy fire now. The other two Chinooks were ready to lift, waiting for Chiu and Kee and the wounded American.

Chiu could see that Bass was in bad shape. His eyes were closed, and he slipped in and out of consciousness. Before they reached Taiwan—if they reached Taiwan, Chiu corrected himself — he’d probably be administering last rites to the dying American.

Chiu had the man-pack radio in the back seat of the Bei-jung, staying in contact with the helicopters. The Cobras had done a good job of suppressing the oncoming PLA armor, but time was against them. Already the APCs had breached the perimeter, breaking through the fence south of the fuel farm.

A mortar exploded a hundred feet ahead of them, setting off two more secondary explosions from the mines.

Another mortar, this time closer to the number three helicopter. Where were they coming from? Were the PLA troops inside the fence already?

He snatched up the transceiver from the man-pack. “Whiskey One, this is Reaper,” he said, calling the lead Cobra gunship. “We’ve got incoming mortars. Can you spot them?”

After a lapse of several seconds, “Whiskey One is looking, Reaper. Troops are concentrating in Zone Two, coming out of the APCs. They’re probably setting up mortars.”

“Try to suppress them. They’re getting the range on the helos. We’ll have to—”

The next mortar exploded fifteen feet from the Bei-jung. The blast rocked the vehicle rock up on its side. Chiu heard the scrape of metal against earth, of glass shattering from the windshield.

The Bei-jung lay still. Dirt and broken glass settled onto the wreck.

It took him a moment to orient himself. He realized he was lying against the right door. Kee was atop him, writhing in pain. From the back, Bass emitted a low moan.

He untangled himself from Kee and pulled out his knife. As he tried to slash the canvas cover of the vehicle, he felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder. His collar bone. He switched hands and finished ripping away the canvas. He helped Kee climb out of the damaged Bei-jung.

Kee’s face was bleeding. He was blinded from the shattered glass of the windshield, and his left arm seemed to be broken.

With his left arm, Chiu pulled Bass out of the Bei-jung. His chest wound was bleeding again. Chiu made another compress with a piece of the slashed canvas and applied it to the wound.

For a moment he gazed around in the darkness, assessing his situation. Things had rapidly gone to hell. The Bei-jung was totaled. The left front tire was blown and steam was gushing from under the hood.

Waves of pain were radiating from his shoulder down through his left arm. Kee was ambulatory, but he couldn’t see well enough make to the helicopters without assistance. Bass would have to be dragged.

He heard more mortars, closer to the two Chinooks. The landing zone was still a hundred meters away.

From inside the vehicle came the crackle of the radio. “Reaper, Reaper, this is Whiskey Two. Come in Reaper. Do you read?”

Chiu retrieved the transceiver. “All teams, this is Reaper. Pull back to Charlie Three.” Charlie Three was the first of the two Chinooks still at Chouzhou. “Launch Charlie Three as soon as you have everyone aboard.”

“Copy that, Reaper. Where are you? Are you boarding Charlie Four?”

“We’re on our way. Be prepared to launch immediately if we don’t make it. If your position becomes threatened, go without delay. Acknowledge?”

“Charlie Three copies.”

“Charlie Four copies, but Reaper, we’ll come to—”

“I just gave you orders! Stand by to launch. Reaper out.” Chiu released the transmit switch and hooked the transceiver to his belt.

“Lieutenant Kee, you will follow me. Keep a hand on my shoulder so you won’t get lost.” He bent over and seized the collar of Bass’s utilities with his good hand. He began to drag him across the ground.

Bass cried out in pain. He shook his head. “You guys won’t make it if you try to drag me along. Go on, Colonel, haul ass for the helicopters. Get out of here.”

“I won’t leave you behind,” said Chiu.

“I’ll be a prisoner. That’s my problem.”

“No, it’s my problem.”

Bass gave him a wary look. “What does that mean?”

“No prisoners.” Chiu unholstered his Beretta. “I have to kill you.” He aimed the pistol at Bass’s forehead. “Is that your choice?”

With wide, unblinking eyes, Bass peered into the muzzle of the pistol. “You’ve got a point, Colonel. Maybe I’ll just come along for the ride.”

“Good decision.” Chiu holstered the pistol and seized Bass’s collar again. He ignored the frequent moans as Bass bumped along on the uneven ground. Kee plodded along behind, hanging on to Chiu’s sleeve.

The mortar shells were landing with greater accuracy. Chiu saw Charlie Two, the second Chinook, kicking up a storm of dirt and blown debris. The big chopper lifted and tilted its nose toward the southeast fence.

From thirty meters away, Chiu saw Charlie Four’s twin rotor blades whopping the air. From the open cargo door, the crew chief saw them coming out of the darkness. He jumped out and came running to help with Bass. The American was unconscious again, limp as a bag of laundry.

Probably dead, thought Chiu. It didn’t change the problem. He still had to take the body. He couldn’t leave evidence that Americans were involved in the raid.

While the crew chief took over the burden of dragging the pilot’s body, Chiu took one last look around.

Then he looked again.

Damn! An armored personnel carrier was roaring across the field, aimed like a leviathan toward the end of the runway.

He grabbed the transceiver off his belt hook. “Whiskey One, Whiskey One, you’ve got a target, zone two, an APC.”

“That’s the opposite side of the field from us, Reaper,” said the Cobra pilot. “Too far away. We’re engaged with the armor column.”

“I don’t care what you’re engaged with. Kill the APC.” Before it kills the Black Star.

“We’ll try, Reaper, but the action is getting very hot at the LZ. The Chinooks need cover.”

Chiu wanted to scream in rage and frustration. After all this! The lost lives, the immense risk, to lose the Black Star now, when they were so close…

Another mortar shell exploded thirty feet behind them, showering them with dirt and fragments.

Then another, closer than the first. A trail of eruptions was walking across the field, tracing a route toward Charlie Four.

Chiu felt the crew chief grab him, spin him around, shove him toward the waiting Chinook. He half-ran, half-stumbled, sensing with each new explosion that it was already too late.

Uh, oh.

Through his NVG, Maxwell stared at the apparition. In the next instant he saw a flash from the APC’s gun turret — and braced himself.

The round hit twenty yards to the left of the taxiing jet. Maxwell could feel the concussion through the airframe of the Black Star.

“How the hell can they see us?” he asked over the intercom. “Didn’t you activate cloaking? I thought this thing was supposed to be zero-viz.”

“The skin cloaking doesn’t work so well on the ground. Too much IR reflection, or some kind of photonic resonance problem.”

Maxwell had no idea what she was talking about. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that the gomers in the APC could see them and they were drawing a bead on the Black Star.

The next round hit closer, only ten feet from the left wing tip.

What now? For a fleeting moment it occurred to Maxwell that he could shoot back. If he knew how. By the time they figured out how to activate the Black Star’s own weapons system — the Gatling gun or the internally-stored missiles — it would be over.

The APC was angling across the field, headed for the runway. It was clear what the driver had in mind.

He was going to block the runway.

Another round, this one just behind the right wing. The gunner was getting the range.

“How do I arm the cannon?” Maxwell yelled on the intercom.

“You have to select it on the weapons display.”

“I’ve got four screens. Which one is it?”

“Bottom right. There should be an icon for each armament store.”

Maxwell looked at the display screen. He hated taking his eyes off the apparition out there that was trying to kill them. The screen was covered with icons, all with indecipherable hieroglyphics. Shit! He didn’t see anything that looked like a gun selector.

The APC had almost reached the edge of the runway. Maxwell was out of ideas. They were an easy, slow-moving, non-invisible target. He couldn’t shoot back because he couldn’t arm the damned gun! In ten more seconds they might as well abandon the jet because they wouldn’t have a runway to—

A rain of fire appeared from behind the APC. A flurry of small explosions danced around the vehicle.

Rockets. In the night sky they looked like sparklers raining down on the APC. Maxwell guessed that they were 2.75 inch air-to-ground rockets. An entire pod of them—fired from what?

Then he saw it. Descending like a specter out of the darkness, the dim shape of a helicopter — a Cobra gunship. From the gunship came another flash, this one larger and brighter than the 2.75 pod. A pulse of fire beamed like a laser toward the APC.

The armored vehicle erupted in an orange ball of flame. A Hellfire missile, Maxwell guessed. Only a Hellfire armor-piercing anti-tank missile could take out an APC like that. He didn’t know where the gunship came from, or how he got there in time, but Maxwell uttered a silent thanks to the pilot.

The fast-moving Cobra swept over the burning APC, passing directly in front of the Black Star, then skimmed low across the field to the LZ where the Chinooks were lifting off.

Maxwell followed the dark silhouette of the gunship. Two hundred yards in the distance, the last Chinook was kicking up a storm of dirt, its blades biting into the air as it lifted from Chouzhou.

Good. That had to be Charlie Three, the last chopper. Col. Chiu and Catfish Bass and Lt. Kee were aboard.

He saw mortar rounds landing around the Chinook. The big cargo helicopter lumbered into the air. Its nose tilted down as it gathered forward speed.

A mortar round exploded directly behind the aft rotor. One of the blades separated and whirled like a rapier across the darkened field.

As Maxwell watched, the chopper began a slow rotation to the left, rolling onto its side. A front rotor blade caught the earth, kicking up a geyser of dirt and debris.

Slowly, majestically, the Chinook rose up on its nose, then over onto its tail. In a macabre death dance, the helicopter flopped end over end for a hundred yards, shedding parts, spitting smoke and tortured metal.

Abruptly, the Chinook exploded. Magnesium and ammunition and jet fuel combined to send a billowing fireball a hundred feet into the sky.

“Oh, God,” muttered Mai-ling in the back seat. “They didn’t make it.”

Maxwell kept his eyes riveted on the inferno. He didn’t see anyone escaping, no figures emerging from the wreckage. The Cobra gunship was circling the burning hulk, firing with its twenty millimeter cannon at something in the near darkness.

He banged his fist against the front console. Goddamnit! They almost made it. Another ten seconds. Chiu, Catfish, Kee — they would have been on their way to Taiwan.

“It was my fault,” said Mai-ling. “If they hadn’t taken the time to look for me—”

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he snapped. “This is war. This is what happens. I know it’s hard, but we have to stop thinking about it. You and I have a job to do.”

Silence from the back seat. Maxwell hoped she hadn’t gone catatonic on him.

He saw the end of the runway coming up. He steered the Black Star onto the runway and aligned it with the center stripe.

He peered down the length of the darkened runway. No lights marked the edges or the end. Only the blaze of the still-burning APC illuminated the eastern edge of the concrete.

As a test pilot he had made many first flights with experimental aircraft. Every new airplane had surprises, unexpected tendencies, but he had always been ready. It was what he was trained to do.

This time was different. Never had he felt so ill-equipped to fly a new machine.

Across the field the PLA armored column had broken through the fence line and was heading at full speed for the runway. To his right, in the flood of orange light from the petroleum fires, another cluster of APCs was storming across the open field.

The destroyed Chinook was still burning like a funeral pyre.

“What are you waiting for?” said Mai-ling. “Isn’t it time to leave?”

“Range seven thousand meters,” called out the fire control officer.

Close enough, decided Commander Lei. Seven kilometers was well within the kill range of the Mark 46 torpedoes. The enemy Sovremenny destroyer was limping along at five knots, making for the Chinese coast. His search radar was still emitting, which meant he knew he was being stalked by the Kai Yang. If he could fire more Moskit supersonic missiles, he would have done so already.

Kill him. Get it over before someone comes to his rescue.

They were in dangerous waters. Kai Yang and her two destroyer escorts were within thirty miles of the mainland. Dawn was arriving. Already the sun was cracking the horizon in the direction of the Asian continent. The PLA would come to aid of the stricken destroyer with more destroyers, submarines, aircraft perhaps.

It was time to kill the damned thing and run for the western side of the strait.

But something — an inner voice — was warning him. Be careful. Perhaps they no longer care about the Sovremenny. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe they wanted the Kai Yang.

Get it over.

“Ready tubes one and two.”

“Aye, ready one and two.”

Lei heard the gurgling sound of water filling the launching tubes. He could use his remaining Harpoons to dispatch the wounded destroyer, but the inner voice was coming in louder now. You’re deep inside enemy waters. Save your missiles.

“Forward tubes ready to fire, sir.”

Lei peered into the gray murk ahead of the Kai Yang. He knew now why he had waited this long to deliver the coup de grace to the Sovremenny.

He wanted to see it die.

Lei had dreamed of such a moment for his entire career. In this, one of the rare surface naval engagements of modern history, he wanted to experience close-up the din and thunder of battle. To see the Sovremenny destroyer blow apart like the fueling ship it had destroyed with its Moskit missile.

A stupid sentiment. Think of your ship and crew. Get it over.

“Fire one and two.”

“Aye, Captain, fire tubes one and two.”

He heard the familiar, satisfying rumble of the Mark 46 torpedoes, three seconds apart, leaping into the sea like greyhounds after a hare.

Four minutes.

While he waited, Lei paced his bridge, growing more uncomfortable with the quickly approaching dawn. They’d been lucky. He and the crew of the Kai Yang had survived three days of war. How many enemy warships had they sunk? Five? Or was it six?

Had the PLA navy figured out that one obsolescent frigate, the Kai Yang, was methodically destroying their mighty fleet? If so, they would be coming after him with all their knives drawn.

“Both torpedoes on active guidance now, Captain.”

He nodded, forcing himself not to stare at the situational display on his console. The torpedoes were autonomous now. They would find the target or—

“Impact!” called out the sonar man. “Torpedo one has struck the target.”

Three seconds later, “Torpedo two impact. I’m getting secondaries — the Sovremenny is breaking up. I’ve got separating returns.”

For a fleeting moment Lei wished he had waited, pressed the attack to visual range. It would be an exquisite pleasure to see the enemy destroyer blowing herself into pieces.

No. It was time to run for the safety of the eastern strait. At the moment his crew was flushed with their splendid victory over the Sovremenny, but that would wear off soon. They were tired, drained from the unrelenting pressure of combat.

“Steer 170 degrees, maintain speed. Remain on battle stations until—”

“Radar contact! Incoming, low altitude, low speed.”

Low speed? What could it be? “Do you have an electronic ID?”

“I’m checking with the Hawkeye. It must be a—” The technician’s voice cracked. “Another contact! Two-five-zero, range a thousand meters. The track looks nearly vertical.”

Lei snapped his attention to the situational display. What the hell was going on? A slow-moving contact, low on the water. A helicopter? And then something else — inbound and nearly vertical.

Vertical? It could only be one thing. But that didn’t make sense.

Three seconds later, he heard the technician’s voice again. “Incoming weapon,” said the technician. “A missile or a bomb.”

“From where? That’s impossible. Is there an aircraft up there?”

The technician shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing.”

Lei tried to make sense of the situation. What kind of bomb? Radar guided? No, they’d have picked up the emissions from the guidance unit. It had to be infra-red or GPS.

“Hard to starboard!” he commanded. “Flank speed. Ready the Phalanx batteries.”

He knew it was futile, trying to evade a precision guided bomb, trying at the same time to get a snap lock on a vertical target with the CIWS — Close In Weapons System. But he had to try.

How could a bomb suddenly appear from an empty sky? It had to have been released by an aircraft. Why hadn’t they gotten an alert from the multitude of air defense radars scanning the area?

By now, each head on the bridge was tilted up, peering toward the southwest. From both Phalanx turrets came the deep moan of the Gatling guns putting up a hail of penetrator shells.

Lei knew it was a gesture of defiance. A feeling of inevitability had settled over him. They had been luckier than they had any right to expect. Now their luck had run out.

He gripped the handrail and waited for the bomb to hit his ship.