“That was before Black Star,” said Bass. “Now they’re hosed.”
Boyce didn’t answer. A silence fell over the table. Boyce seemed to lapse into a trance. For a while he played with his cigar, rolling it around the table, while his eyes focused on some faraway object.
Finally, he looked up at the group. “I’ve got an idea.”
It took six hours.
First he had to run it by the Strike Group Commander, Admiral Hightree, who gave it his own cautious endorsement. From the Reagan’s comm center, the proposal flew at the speed of light, via satellite, to CincPac in Hawaii, then up the ladder to CNO, the Joint Chiefs, then the White House where it underwent the scrutiny of the National Security Council.
The tasking order came back the same route, only slightly watered down from Boyce’s original plan.
“Here it is,” he said, holding the document that Admiral Hightree had just given him in the flag intel compartment. “The go ahead for the great Chinese stealth sucker play.”
Maxwell noticed Hightree giving Boyce a curious stare. Hightree was new to the Reagan Strike Group, having taken command only a month ago. The admiral had not yet been exposed to CAG Boyce when he was concocting one of his high risk operations.
“What are the rules?” Maxwell asked. “I know they’re not giving us carte blanche.”
“Not bad, considering the old ladies on the National Security Council,” said Boyce. He perused the tasking order for a moment. “No overflight of Chinese territorial waters, it says. Can’t argue with that. No overtly hostile actions toward PLA aircraft. That’s okay too, as long as we maintain a CAP between the strike group and the mainland. Here’s the clincher. Use of the Chameleon decoy is authorized, but it mustn’t overfly Chinese territory.”
“Chameleon” was the working name of the new UAV-17, a single-engine, unmanned reconnaissance aircraft equipped with a configurable radar and IR signature. Using its own electronic emulation equipment, Chameleon could present itself on enemy radars and infra-red sensors as a high altitude bomber, fast-moving fighter, or a surveillance aircraft.
“Chameleon is an expensive piece of hardware,” said Hightree. “Before I throw one of these away, you’d better tell me what you have in mind for it.”
“What kind of intruder would get the Chinese most agitated?” said Boyce. “What would be the most likely thing to draw out the stealth jet?”
Hightree was giving Boyce the curious stare again. “Knock off the quiz game, Red. Just tell us.”
“EA-6B Prowler.” Boyce’s voice was growing more intense as he warmed to his subject. The Prowler was a carrier-based, four-crewmember jet with communications jamming, eavesdropping, and radar suppression capability. “The ChiComs are so goddamn paranoid, they’ll assume the Prowler is either directing an attack or stealing all their secrets.”
“Can the decoy really do that?” asked Maxwell. “Emulate a Prowler?”
“The ECM geeks tell me it can emulate a seagull shitting on a beach ball.”
Hightree made a face. “That’s good enough, I guess.” He rose and checked his watch. “You and Group Ops come up with an air plan by 1300. Run it by Captain Stickney, then send it to me. If it looks doable, I’ll sign off on it.”
When Hightree closed the door behind him, Boyce and Maxwell were alone in the compartment. Boyce settled himself back into the chair and pulled out a fresh cigar. He had already figured out that Hightree detested cigars. “Well, here we go again.”
Maxwell recognized the tone in Boyce’s voice. “We?”
“I need a leader for the fighters.”
“You’ve got twenty qualified strike leaders in the air wing.”
“Only one of them has ever seen the Black Star.”
Maxwell nodded. He should have expected it. “Yes, sir. What am I supposed to do if I encounter the thing?”
“You want the official order or the off-the-record version?”
“Both, please.”
“If we succeed in drawing it out, we will use all our assets to get a make on it. We’ll have every tool in our bag — IR, visual, radar, satellite imaging — to collect data and confirm the thing exists. That’s the end of your mission, and Defense Intel takes it from there.”
“Those are my official orders. What am I really supposed to do?”
Boyce pulled out his ancient Zippo and put a flame to his cigar. He took his time, squinting through the cloud of gray smoke, getting an ember going.
Finally he peered over at Maxwell. “You’re supposed to kill the sonofabitch.”
CHAPTER 8 — CHAMELEON
“Runner One-one on station,” Maxwell called.
His flight of fighters — four Super Hornets — had reached their CAP stations, orbiting at twenty thousand feet, one hundred miles from the coast of China. The second division was high, thirty-three thousand feet, twenty miles behind him. A hundred miles to the southeast, the Reagan Strike Group was cruising the southern Taiwan Strait.
“Alpha Whiskey copies, Runner One-one,” answered a voice in his headset.
Maxwell nodded. CAG Boyce, the Air Warfare Commander whose call sign was Alpha Whiskey, was now ensconced in the climate-controlled, red-lighted space of CIC–Combat Information Center — directing the action from his situational display.
To the east, Maxwell could make out the dark land mass of Asia. The sky was the color of slate, empty and yet filled with danger. Is it out there? Will it take the bait?
Boyce’s voice broke the silence. “Runner One-one, Alpha-Whiskey. Be advised Ironclaw is airborne.”
“Runner One-one.” The game was on, thought Maxwell. Here comes the bait.
“Ironclaw” was the usual call sign for an EA-6B Prowler. Today it meant something else. The Chameleon UAV — unmanned air vehicle — had just catapulted from the Reagan, cloaked in its electronic disguise.
On station also was an E-2C Hawkeye — the Navy’s turbo-prop version of the Air Force AWACS with its own saucer-shaped radar dome mounted above the fuselage. The controllers in the Hawkeye were standing by to vector Maxwell’s fighters toward any threat — and warn him of incoming bogeys.
Those that they could see.
With that thought, Maxwell gazed down at his radar display. Turning southward in his orbit, he picked up the returns of his high division, fanned out in combat spread. Led by Commander Rico Flores, skipper of the VFA-34 Blue Blasters, they were responsible for high altitude threats. Maxwell’s division would deal with any low intruders.
The space on the screen between his flight and the mainland was empty. So far the PLA was showing no curiosity about the American presence.
The pseudo-Prowler would fly a profile just like the one a real EA-6B might take, climbing to altitude, then descending on a track parallel to the coast. Then it would turn abruptly inbound, as if it intended to penetrate Chinese airspace. As if it were hostile.
“Ironclaw checks level, standing by for signal.”
“Alpha Whiskey copies. Ironclaw, your signal is Oscar.”
“Ironclaw, roger signal Oscar.” As Maxwell listened to the exchange, he had to grin. It was bogus radio dialogue for the benefit of Chinese eavesdroppers. “Signal Oscar” was a fictional execute command. Though the transmissions were on a secure channel, it wasn’t too secure. With only slightly sophisticated monitoring equipment, a skilled interpreter could intercept the communication. He would conclude that a Prowler was embarked on a mission toward China.