Black Star

CHAPTER 2 — OPENING SHOTS

“Thank you, Mr. President. Yes, we will take your suggestion under advisement.”

Charlotte Soong hung up the phone and turned to the assembled members of her cabinet. Her cabinet. The immensity of the new role still caused her to have palpitations. Until an hour-and-a-half ago, she had been Vice President of the Republic of China, which, in the politics of Taiwan, meant almost nothing. Now she was the head of state. As never before in her life, she needed to display strength.

“The President of the United States sends his condolences,” she said to the group, which included the three senior officers of Taiwan’s military forces. “He joins us in mourning the death of President Li and his party.”

“Never mind his condolences,” said Franklin Huang, the Premier and head of the legislative Yuan. “What does he counsel you to do?”

Charlotte Soong tilted her chin and gazed at Huang. In the weeks since the election of Li and his running mate, Charlotte Soong, Franklin Huang had made no secret of his contempt for her. He was vocal in his opinion that a woman should have no role in Taiwan’s affairs of state.

“He urges restraint,” she said. “He says there is no credible evidence that the People’s Republic had any involvement in President Li’s death.”

“Does he offer an explanation of why one of our newest airliners should suddenly blow up while it was flying near the Chinese coast? Beneath the eyes of the American fighter pilots who were supposed to protect it? Does he think it was an act of God?”

At this, several ministers, including Leung Tsi-chien, Minister of Defense, gave a derisive chuckle. Leung was another who had criticized Charlotte Soong’s nomination as Vice President.

An uneasy silence fell over the ministers. She could feel the tension in the room. Huang was busy scribbling on his notepad. Next to him, Leung was whispering something in the ear of Ma Wang, the crotchety old Foreign Minister. Ma was one of the few remaining officials in Taiwan who had been born in mainland China.

They’re up to something, she told herself. Leung and Huang were schemers with a history of plotting coups in the government. What are they up to?

In the next minute she knew. Huang lowered his notepad and stepped forward. He glanced at Leung, who nodded.

Huang cleared his throat. “Mrs. Soong, we have—”

“Mind your manners, Premier Huang. You will address me as ‘Madame President.’”

Huang blinked as if he’d been slapped. “Um, yes, if you insist. In fact, that is the subject we wish to discuss.”

“You are taking much too long to do it. Please get to the point.”

Huang blinked again, then glanced over to Leung.

Leung took over. “Madame President, in this moment of crisis, it is the consensus of the cabinet that you should give consideration to… ah, yielding the authority of your office.”

Charlotte Soong kept her face expressionless. She was right. They were up to no good. “Make yourself clear, Minister Leung. What are you suggesting? That I resign from the office of President?”

“It is well known that you were chosen by Li Hou-sheng to be his Vice President because you are a woman, and the widow of a popular statesman.”

She nodded. That much was true. Her popularity had soared in the two years since Kenneth Soong, her husband and the minority party leader, was assassinated. That Beijing ordered the murder she had no doubt, but the killers were never apprehended. She had continued her husband’s cause, writing articles, making public appearances on behalf of the party he founded, and eventually running for office.

She focused on Leung. “Li Hou-sheng chose me as his successor knowing that I was qualified to be the head of state.”

“You were chosen in order to insure his election. There was never any thought that you would succeed him.”

“Never any thought by you, you mean.” She peered around the room, pausing to look each of the ministers in the eye. “Let me remind you, I am the only constitutionally elected official in this room. Each of you is an appointee who serves at my pleasure.” She fixed her eyes again on Leung. “Leung Tsi-chien, your post as Minister of Defense is the most critical position in my cabinet. If I do not have your full loyalty, I must insist on your immediate resignation.”

Leung’s eyes flashed, and he stepped forward. “Resignation? This is preposterous. You have no right to—”

“Your opportunity to resign has passed. You may consider yourself dismissed. You will leave the cabinet room immediately.”

Leung’s chest puffed out, but before he could protest he saw Colonel Tsu, the President’s chief of security, moving toward him from across the room. The unsmiling colonel wore an automatic pistol at his hip.

Leung knew he was defeated. He turned to fire a final menacing scowl at Charlotte Soong. “You have made a severe mistake. I promise you, you will regret this action.” As Tsu seized his elbow, he wheeled and stormed out of the cabinet room.

She waited until he was gone. She turned her gaze on Franklin Huang. “And you, Premier Huang? Must I ask for a resignation from you?”

Huang was a famous bully in Taiwan politics. He had been a formidable adversary of her husband. Appointing him as Taiwan’s Premier had been Li’s idea. It was supposed to be a gesture of reconciliation with the opposing political faction. It had been a serious mistake.

Now she would have to deal with him.

Huang met her gaze. She could see that he was weighing his options. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, Madame President. You have made your position clear.”

She looked around the table. “Any others? Speak now, or your opportunity will have passed.”

The cabinet members exchanged uncertain glances. Finally, old Ma Wang, senior of the ministers, spoke up. “Madame President, you must understand our concerns. Most of us believe that an act of war has been perpetrated on us.”

“And so do I, Minister Ma.”

Ma peered at her curiously. “But an act of war against Taiwan should not go unanswered.”

“You are quite correct. It should not.”

Ma’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you can enlighten us, Madame President.”

Charlotte Soong nodded to one of the uniformed officers, General Wu Hsin-chieh, who was the Air Force Chief of Staff and the senior military officer of Taiwan. The general stepped around the conference table and pulled down a wall-length map at the end of the room. The map covered Taiwan, the Taiwan Strait, and the coast of mainland China.

With a long pointer, the general tapped an area on the mainland. “Here,” he said, and tapped three more places, “here, here, and here, according to our latest reconnaissance, the PLA is assembling an amphibious assault force of at least 80,000 troops.”

At this, a buzz of excited conversation erupted among the ministers. It was their worst nightmare. “Amphibious force?” said Ma Wang. “That can mean only one thing. They intend to invade us.”

General Wu nodded.

“But we must do something.”

The general didn’t reply. He nodded to Charlotte Soong, who stepped in front of the map and faced the ministers. “You are correct again, Minister. We must do something. And so we are.”

Darkness was settling over the South China Sea.

Maxwell rolled his Hornet wings-level in the groove. In the dwindling light, the gray mass of the USS Reagan filled his windscreen. At the port edge of the deck, he could see the Fresnel lens — the optical glide slope indicator. The yellow “ball” was between the green datum lights on the lens, indicating that Maxwell’s Hornet was on a precise descent path to the deck.

“Hornet ball, five-point-four.”

“Roger, ball.”

The contract was made. Maxwell was reporting to the LSO — Landing Signal Officer — that he had a visual reference on the ball, and that his remaining fuel was 5,400 pounds. With his terse reply, the LSO acknowledged that he was controlling the Hornet in the groove.

Maxwell knew the voice — Lieutenant Commander Big Mac MacFarquhar, the air wing LSO. As the senior LSO aboard the Reagan, Big Mac had the job of supervising all the squadron LSOs.

“A lii — ittle powerrrrr,” called Big Mac in his soothing LSO voice. Maxwell nudged the throttles forward, adding a tiny increment of thrust.

The Hornet swept over the ramp. Maxwell kept his eyes fixed on the ball, fine-tuning his control movements, keeping the ball in the center of the lens. The Hornet slammed down on the deck. Maxwell felt himself rammed forward into the harness straps as the tailhook engaged an arresting wire.

A good pass. Not perfect, but he knew he’d snagged the three wire. Of the four arresting wires strung across the carrier’s landing deck, number three was the target. It was called a “tweener” pass — somewhere in between a fair and an OK landing grade. The fact that he had snagged the three wire would weigh in his favor as the LSOs assigned his grade.

Following the yellow-shirts’ lighted wands, he taxied the Hornet to the starboard forward deck. Behind him in rapid succession the other members of his flight — B.J. Johnson, Pearly Gates, Flash Gordon — landed and exited the wires.

He was still climbing out of the cockpit when he saw Bullet Alexander, his squadron executive officer. He was wearing the standard-issue float coat survival vest and the Mickey Mouse cranial protector that was required equipment on the flight deck.

“Let me guess,” said Maxwell, stepping down on the steel deck. “CAG told you to get us down to the intel office for debriefing.” “CAG” was an extinct title that stood for “Commander, Air Group.” In the Navy’s tradition of retaining antiquated terms, it still applied to the Air Wing Commander.

Alexander kept a straight face. “Not exactly. What he said was — and I’m quoting verbatim here—‘Tell those peckerheads to get their sorry asses down here on the double.’”

Maxwell shrugged. No surprise. The world was waiting to hear why the President of Taiwan, while enjoying the protection of fighters from the Reagan’s air wing, now resided at the bottom of the South China Sea. Phones would be ringing at every military base from the USS Reagan to the White House.

He waited for his other three pilots to climb down from their jets. Wearing grim expressions, the pilots of his flight joined him. B.J. Johnson, who was the only woman pilot in the Roadrunner squadron, looked like she was going to a funeral.

With Maxwell in the lead, they descended the ladder to the O-3 level, then followed the long passageway to the intel office. No one spoke. Each pilot was alone with his thoughts. Gone was the usual jubilation, the wisecracking, the adrenaline rush of trapping back aboard a carrier at sea.

Gates broke the silence. “Are they gonna court-martial us?”

Maxwell looked over his shoulder. “What for?”

“We were supposed to get the Taiwanese President home in one piece. We blew it.”

B.J. Johnson whirled on Gates. “What do you mean? Our job was to intercept bogeys.” She jabbed a finger at Gates. “Did you tag a bogey?”

“No.”

“Nobody else did either. The goddamn Airbus just exploded. You saw it. It wasn’t our fault.” She turned to Maxwell, her voice cracking. “Isn’t that right, Skipper?”

Maxwell nodded. He could see the frustration and anger in all their faces. He gave B.J. a nudge on down the passageway. “That’s right. But don’t be surprised if nobody believes us.”

Commander Lei Fu-Sheng, captain of the Taiwanese frigate Kai Yang, watched in stunned fascination as the Harpoon missiles leaped from their launchers. He had never witnessed an actual firing of the Harpoons, and he was unprepared for the spectacle. He could see the plume of fire from each missile as it arced into the darkness. Against the black void of the Taiwan Strait, they looked like fire-tailed comets from hell.

The RGM-84L Harpoon missile had been delivered by the United States to the Taiwanese Navy as an anti-ship weapon. It hadn’t taken long for clever Taiwanese engineers to conclude that their newly acquired maritime weapons could be re-configured with different warheads and guidance software and made to behave like land-attack Tomahawk cruise missiles — a critical weapon that had been denied them by their American patrons. In its new role, the Harpoon could be directed against any coastal target, land or sea.

Including amphibious assault force depots.

As the first salvo of Harpoons flashed into the night, Commander Lei caught a flicker of light off to port. It was several miles distant, barely distinguishable in the inky blackness, but he knew it was the Kai Yang’s sister ship, Han Yang, firing her own complement of Harpoons. Taiwan possessed a total of four Cheng Kung-class guided missile frigates — all former U.S. Navy destroyers of the Perry class — and each was now on station in the Taiwan Strait, firing missiles at Chinese amphibious force depots.

“Battery one reports all missiles fired, Captain,” said the fire control officer over his sound-powered speaker. “Standing by battery two.”

Peering into the blackness, Lei tried to imagine the low-flying Harpoons skimming the sea toward the mainland. Retrofitted with GPS — Global Positioning System — guidance units, the surface-skimming Harpoons were autonomous weapons, requiring no further input from their owners. But they were subsonic missiles, nearly fifteen feet in length, vulnerable to intercept by radar-guided surface-to-air missiles as well as conventional anti-aircraft batteries. When matched against the instruments of sophisticated warfare, the Harpoon was a primitive weapon. Tonight’s success hinged on surprise — and the Air Force’s ability to take out the air defense sites.

Lei barked the command into his sound-powered telephone. “Fire battery two.”

Three seconds later, another blaze of light, this one from the aft quad launcher. A salvo of four more Harpoons, one after the other, leapt from the tubes.

Lei kept his eyes on the orange plumes until each missile had vanished in the murk. The Kai Yang’s primary mission was completed. The Harpoons were away. They would find their way to the targets — or be destroyed en route.

Commander Lei still could not overcome his astonishment. Taiwan attacking China! In the scramble to gather his crew, arm his ship, and rush the Kai Yang to sea, Lei had not taken the time to reflect on the gravity of the situation. Now, with his missiles soaring toward their targets on the mainland, he felt himself filled with a mixture of awe and fear.

Fourteen years. That was how long he had been an officer in the Taiwanese Navy, and for his entire career he had prepared for this moment. In every hypothetical battle scenario, he had fought the People’s Liberation Navy for control of the Taiwan Strait. In each instance, it was assumed that the PLA navy would strike first.

Now this. A pre-emptive strike by Taiwan. Why?

Staring into the black void, Lei tried to make sense of the situation. The President’s plane had gone down. That much he knew. Was China responsible?

Probably.

So who ordered the strike?

Taiwan’s politicians, at least those in the current ruling party, were known for their exaggerated sense of caution. Although Madame Soong, the Vice President, was the acting head of state, Lei could not imagine her giving such an order. Lei had met her once, during the inaugural ceremonies, and though she seemed attractive and bright enough for a woman, it was inconceivable that she could function as commander-in-chief. It had to be one of the cabinet ministers. Leung? Or perhaps Wu Hsin-chieh, the Air Force chief of staff.

God help us, thought Lei.

In the darkness over the strait, he could barely discern the outline of the lead destroyer escort, on a parallel course a thousand meters to starboard. His second escort was in trail, displaced another thousand meters to port and out of view. Except for the two hand-me-down escort vessels, the Kai Yang was on her own in a sea filled with PLA navy warships. The Taiwan Strait would soon become a killing field.

As if tuned to Lei’s thoughts, the Officer-of-the-deck, a young lieutenant, broke the silence. “Han Yang reports a sonar contact, Captain.”

Lei’s attention snapped back to the bridge. Han Yang, the Kai Yang’s missile-firing sister ship, was on station five kilometers southeast. “Get the range and bearing,” he said to the Officer-of-the-Deck. “Be quick about it.”

“They say it’s a momentary contact. Possibly spurious.”

Lei shook his head. There was no such thing as a spurious contact. Not tonight. They were all real as far as he was concerned. “Keep the channel open. Tell them we want the contact data.”

Lei silently cursed the obsolete command and control system that was common to Kai Yang and Han Yang, as well as most of the frigates in the Taiwanese Navy. Every modern navy in the world, including the PLA navy, possessed real-time data-linked exchange of information between units. Every navy except Taiwan’s. It was another item of super-sophisticated equipment the United States chose to withhold from them. It meant that whatever Han Yang’s captain was seeing on his sonar displays would have to be relayed by radio to Kai Yang.

The seconds ticked past as Lei waited for details. He paced his narrow bridge, staring into the darkness. What kind of contact was it? His own sonar operators weren’t picking up any returns. A submarine? China had four new Russian-built Project 877 Kilo class submarines as well as half a dozen indigenous Ming class boats. The Kilo class, with their diesel-electric drives and anechoic tile coating, were the stealthiest and most difficult to hunt of all undersea vessels. They were even quieter than the newer Xia class nuclear attack submarines. The Kilo class emitted almost no acoustical signature.

Don’t let it be a Kilo, thought Lei. Not yet. They had just begun to fight.

He glanced at the luminous face of his watch. His Harpoon missiles were five minutes from their targets. Only thirty kilometers. What an irony it would be if Kai Yang were sunk before its own missiles had reached their targets.

“Active contact,” the OOD reported. “Han Yang reports a target — definitely a submarine — zero-three-zero degrees, four thousand meters.”

Lei felt a cold chill run through him. That put the contact between Han Yang and Kai Yang. His own sonar array was still showing nothing.

It had to be a Kilo. If it were a noisy Ming class, they would have identified it already. Who was he tracking?

In the next minute, he knew. To the southwest, an orange glow lit the blackened sea. For several seconds, Lei could see the line of the horizon as a pulse of flame boiled into the sky. In the glow of the fireball, he saw a familiar silhouette.

Han Yang. In its death pyre, the guided missile frigate was tearing itself apart. As its ordnance magazines exploded, flaming debris pierced the sky like roman candles.

Stunned, Lei stared at the blazing spectacle. Within seconds, Han Yang’s bow separated from the hull and slipped from view into the churning sea. Her destroyer escorts were racing like greyhounds to the location of the original contact.

“Sonar contact, captain. Two-two-zero, five thousand meters.”

Lei’s attention went to the repeater display at his own console. Yes, there it was. He could see it winking yellow in the green screen. That distinctive seven-bladed propeller signature identified it as a Kilo class.

It had just torpedoed the Han Yang.

“Deploy decoys,” Lei ordered. “Commence acoustical jamming.”

“Aye, sir.”

The sonar decoys were designed to simulate the signatures of Kai Yang and her escorts. If the submarine put more torpedoes in the water, they might be fooled into tracking the decoys.

Or they might not. Lei had never placed much faith in defensive devices like decoys and acoustical jammers. The best way to deal with a killer submarine was to engage him. Put him on the defensive. Then kill him.

“Ready torpedo tubes.”

“Aye, captain. Torpedoes loaded and ready.”

It was going worse than Boyce expected. He gnawed on his cigar, keeping his silence while he watched the debriefing of the Hornet pilots.

“What happened to the Airbus?” asked the Strike Group Commander, a rear admiral named Jack Hightree.

Brick Maxwell answered. “I don’t know, Admiral.”

For several seconds, a silence fell over the flag conference space. Along one side of the long steel table sat the other three pilots, Gates, Gordon, and Johnson, all looking like prisoners on death row. Next to the admiral was the flag intelligence officer, an owlish-faced commander named Harvey Wentz.

Boyce could see the strain of the long mission in Maxwell’s face. His eyes were red-rimmed, the lines of the oxygen mask still etched on his face.

Captain Red Boyce was the Reagan’s Air Wing Commander. He remembered how he had stuck his neck out several months ago, picking Maxwell to be the skipper of the VFA-36 Roadrunners over half a dozen more experienced candidates. He knew that Maxwell was regarded by many in the air wing to be a carpetbagger — a former test pilot and astronaut who hadn’t paid his dues.

As it turned out, he’d been right about Maxwell. Since taking command of the Roadrunners, he had distinguished himself by shooting down three MiGs and leading two successful alpha strikes against Middle East targets.

Maxwell was the kind of officer who knew how to follow orders — but knew how to call an audible change when they got in the way of the mission. He was the officer Boyce tapped for the most delicate jobs.

Like escorting Dynasty One.

“I don’t get it, Commander Maxwell,” said Wentz, the intelligence officer. “You were there watching the jetliner go down, and you say you don’t what happened?”

“That’s exactly what I said. I saw the right engine explode. I can’t explain what caused that to happen.”

“Didn’t you see anything suspicious, a visual or electronic return in the vicinity?”

He paused for a moment, remembering. “Yes, I thought I saw something — but it was so momentary I couldn’t be sure it was real.”

Wentz looked like a hound sniffing the air. “Oh? What was it?”

“Something in my peripheral view. Just a flicker, maybe a reflection on the canopy. When I looked again it was gone.”

“Why didn’t you report it?” Wentz’s voice had an accusatory edge to it.

“There was no time. A couple of seconds later, the Airbus blew up. The four of us did a sweep of the sector. There was nothing out there. Nothing visual, nothing on the radar. The Rivet Joint confirmed it.”

Wentz scribbled on his legal pad. “Let me get this straight, Commander. You’re saying you think something out there — some spurious target you lost contact with — may have shot down the Airbus?”

“What the hell is this?” Maxwell snapped. “A debriefing or an inquisition?”

“You said you saw something, but you failed to report it.”

Maxwell was leaning forward in his chair, nearly close enough to seize Wentz’s windpipe. Boyce gave him a kick under the table. “Knock it off,” he said to Wentz. “Everybody chill out for a moment. Brick and his flight just finished a tough mission and we’re all a little uptight.”

From the end of the table, Admiral Hightree said, “This may save us a lot trouble.” He slid a two-inch thick document across the table. Its cover bore the title: UNCONTAINED FAN JET FAILURES.

A fan jet was a high bypass engine that developed most of its thrust through the “fan,” the huge front stage compressor. It was the type of powerplant used on all modern jetliners.

Hightree said, “This just came in from Defense Intel. It’s a study NASA put together a couple of years ago. The airline industry has had sixteen of these failures in the past decade. Most of the time when one of these big fan jets comes apart it does some damage but the jet lands okay. But in a worst-case scenario, if the shrapnel happened to rip through a fuel tank in the wing or some other vital part…”

“Kabloom,” said Boyce.

Hightree nodded. “Once in a blue moon an airplane blows up for no good reason. Like TWA 800 in 1996. Sometimes it’s an internal failure, sometimes a freak accident. Sometimes we never know.”

For several seconds, no one spoke. The thick document lay on the table between them like a lab specimen.

“So that’s the company line?” said Maxwell. “They’re going to say Dynasty One just blew up?”

Hightree shrugged. “It’s plausible.”

Boyce looked at Maxwell. “You were there. Do you believe it?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t either.” Boyce removed his cigar and looked around the room. “It had to be the ChiComs. I can’t explain how, but I know in my gut the little bastards did it.”

“With what, CAG?” said Pearly Gates. He and B.J. Johnson and Flash Gordon sat in a row on one side of the table. “Some kind of stealth fighter? A no-seeum missile?”

Boyce shook his head. “If we were talking about a western country, or Russia or Israel, I’d say it was possible. China, no way. With the exception of the SU-27s they got from Russia, their home-grown fighters couldn’t beat the Albanian Air Force.”

“Maybe they’ve gotten technology from Russia we don’t know about.”

At this, Wentz came out his funk. “That’s been checked out with NSA and CIA, and they’re quite certain the Russians don’t have such a thing. Even if they did, we feel sure they wouldn’t pass it to the Chinese.”

Admiral Hightree spoke up. “The fact is, it doesn’t matter what you believe. International politics will determine what happened. The United States wants to head off a war between China and Taiwan, and if it means signing off on a cockamamie accident theory, that’s what they’re going to do.”

“What about the Taiwanese?” asked Maxwell. “Do they buy the accident theory?”

“They have no choice,” said the admiral. “Taiwan can’t attack China without the support of the United States. China won’t attack Taiwan as long as the United States supports Taiwan. Like it or not, we’re caught in the—”

The red telephone on the bulkhead — the direct line from CIC–Combat Information Center — was jangling.

The admiral snatched up the phone. As he listened to the voice from CIC, his brow seemed to lower over his eyes. “Hell, yes! Send the order. Tell group ops I’m on my way to the bridge.”

Even before Hightree could hang up, the voice of the Bosun’s Mate was booming over the public address. “General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations. This is not a drill.”

He headed for the door, grabbing his float coat from the rack on the bulkhead.

“What’s going on, Admiral?” asked Boyce.

“Get to your stations,” said Hightree, opening the door. “Disregard everything I said about heading off a war. Missiles are launching from both sides of the Strait.”

“Are we in it?”

“We’ll know in a few minutes. We’ve got bogeys inbound, seventy miles.”