Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  Zhen reached one of his ‘Four Fiends’—a loyal cadre comprising three men and one woman. All were equally devoted to China becoming the planet’s supreme power, and each possessed a unique authority or skill. In a loose hierarchy beneath the ‘Four Fiends’ also awaited ‘Nine Dragons’—a rogue’s gallery with the power and will to change the world. Zhen took a deep, wheezy breath and uttered a single code word: “Qiongqi,” the Chinese word for deceit. With preordained plans set in motion, the general hung up and refilled his crystal tumbler with single malt.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Northeast of Beijing, in Hohhot, was a cramped and dingy apartment. Within, a thin, greasy-haired man sat before a jury-rigged collection of hard drives, multiple flatscreens, racked boards, and humming processors. A skilled hacker, he was one of the Nine Dragons. Having received his go code, the hacker put down the telephone and typed frantically at the computer’s keyboard. He held a finger over the keyboard’s [Enter] button, and the dragon tattoo that adorned his forearm stared; egging him on. Lowering the finger with a click that resonated, the computer screens flashed as lines of code streamed across them. His program had been irretrievably launched, and began to worm its way into cyber-space.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Dongyin Island lay northwest of Taiwan proper and just a veritable stone’s throw from the Chinese mainland. Atop its rocky cliffs sat the Dongyong lighthouse that broadcast a cone of light that pierced the sea fog and the black night. Near it lay ‘Sea Dragon Cave,’ across from Reclining Alligator Islet, a flat-topped rock that Taiwan’s engineers had chosen, to drill 50 evenly spaced silos into its solid schist. Within these silos, the air force had placed Sky Spear short-range ballistic missiles. Overlooking the missile field, two Taiwanese airmen sat in a bunker.

  They worked a panel of lights and switches, and monitored ‘Strongnet,’ Taiwan’s command and control computer network. One airman looked to the bunker’s small armored window and the dark sky beyond. It was 0400: time for the delivery of a breakfast of hot soup. A buzzer sounded to indicate someone at the other side of the blast door. Authenticating their identity on a video screen, the supervising airman unlocked the door and swung it open.

  An attendant entered and placed a covered tray on a table. He poured glasses of cold water, and then exited the bunker. The heavy door swung closed and locked with an echoing click. The airmen uncovered the bowls of soup and began to slurp it down greedily. But then, an alarm shrilled and interrupted their feast. A red ceiling light began to strobe. One airman spilled soup into his lap, and cursed and grimaced in pain as his superior rolled his chair to the Strongnet terminal and read the order. Blood drained from his face as he noted the words. He scurried to a wall safe and spun the tumbler. He threw the unlocked safe door open, grabbed a binder from inside, returned to his still-spinning chair, and matched the Strongnet code with that listed within the binder.

  “I have a valid launch code,” he yelled, and handed the order to his colleague. “Verify.” The subordinate complied and double-checked the numbers.

  “Sir, this is a valid launch code. We are in launch mode,” his voice trembled.

  The superior ordered the control room into lockdown, isolating the room from outside air. In a cave deep beneath their feet, a generator kicked on, and took over from the island’s grid. Both men removed revolvers from a second safe, holstered them, and returned to their control panels. As in a hundred previous exercises, the Taiwanese activated missiles one through 50. Unlike in training, however, the telephone began to ring, and there was an urgent clanking rap at the thick steel door. Although one man was seemingly disturbed by this, the other ignored the noise and proceeded by the numbers.

  “Green lights. All missiles are ready to fly,” the supervisor said. The rapping at the door became ever more insistent. “Shoot anybody who comes through that door,” he pointed. The unanswered telephone continued its plea for attention. Floodlights came on and washed over the missile field where silo covers slid open and exposed the red tips of the ballistic missiles within. A soldier approached the control room window. He screamed, but the men inside could not hear his pleas. Frustrated, the soldier frantically waved his arms, gesturing that they should discontinue the launch. The airmen ignored him and proceeded with their duty. The soldier then pointed his assault rifle and sprayed the window with bullets. Although it remained intact, the window became an opaque web of unitized shards.

  “Sir, they’re shooting at us,” the subordinate stated the obvious.

  “They are traitors,” the superior said, with a glare at his colleague. “We expected saboteurs. Stay focused, lieutenant. We will fire our missiles as ordered. Now, report all missiles or I will shoot you.” The supervisor drew and cocked his revolver.

  “Yes, sir,” the man stuttered, and regained his focus. “Missiles one through 50: silos open and clear.”

  “Acknowledged. Prepare to launch.” Both men inserted keys into their panels. With a cracking voice that momentarily revealed the human behind the cold professional, the supervisor counted down: “Three, two, one, launch.” With both keys turned, that which could not be stopped, began. Mere spectators now, they sat back. The control room began to shake as the missiles started their launch sequence.

  A large explosive detonated outside the control room’s door, and a rocket-propelled grenade blasted through the window, killing both men inside instantly. The door jumped off its bent hinges and slammed to the ground with a clank. A flash-bang grenade was chucked into the room. An assault team stormed the room, and the beams of gun-mounted flashlights swept the smoke-filled space. A Taiwanese officer followed the team and strode to the missile control panel. He evaluated the read-outs, and, understanding any efforts to stop the launch would be futile, pounded his fist in frustration. A hiss and suction emitted from the nearest Sky Spear silo.

  A column of sparks and flame erupted; a manmade volcano. A Sky Spear burst from its protective hole and began to climb into the sky. The missile in the next silo ignited, and within minutes, all 50 climbed from Taiwan’s Dongyin Island. The missiles pierced low-level clouds, illuminating them from within as they arced west toward the Chinese coast.

  Minutes later, the Sky Spears dove over the shipyards, skyscrapers, and temples of Fuzhou, China. Chinese surface-to-air missiles climbed to meet them, and claimed three of the 200-pound high-explosive warheads. Forty-seven Taiwanese missiles slipped through the defenses and impacted. Several blocks of downtown Fuzhou were carpeted with destruction and death. The supersonic bombs shattered and collapsed one commercial high rise, and with occupants tucked between sheets, immolated several residential ones.

  ◊◊◊◊

  A heavy summer rain had drenched the American capital. Richard Ling and Zhang ‘Jade’ Jiao dined at their favorite Cantonese restaurant in the neighborhood of Adams Morgan. They sipped steaming Jasmine tea as they awaited a break in the weather. When the downpour subsided, they agreed this was their chance to head out. Richard paid and helped Jade with her raincoat.

  Hand-in-hand, they walked out into the drizzle and headed for the Metro station at DuPont Circle. The couple pushed through the throng of college students, pickpockets, and tourists that spilled from bars and out into the potholed streets. Richard towered lankily over the crowd. He drew the bloodshot, blue-eyed stare of an entitled college student. As the couple sauntered, Richard contemplated rumors of promotion at work.

  Born in Illinois, Richard was a proud second generation Chinese-American. He worked for the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence & Research, serving as an analyst of Chinese economic, military, and political issues, and their role in Sino-American relations. As he pored over open-source material, covert intelligence, satellite photos, and foreign newspapers Richard had continued to distinguish himself from the ranks of anonymous analysts; even those across the river at CIA. His insights had benefited the secretary of state, as well as other high-level American decision makers. All this meant Richard was in line to bec
ome Assistant Secretary of East Asian and Pacific Affairs. A colleague in administration had already confirmed the whispered rumor.

  Jade glanced at her man; pensive and inattentive as they nudged through the people. She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

  A native of Hong Kong, Jade was in DC to study international relations. She never had expected to fall in love with an American, let alone a Chinese one; an inconvenience that went against her every reason for being in the United States. Together for several months now, Jade and Richard had met beneath the grand rotunda of the Library of Congress’s Reading Room. Jade studied at one of the long wood tables. Richard was seated there, too, clacking away on his laptop. Jade had noticed his nerdy good looks, and caught him looking her way and. To, hook him, she pouted her full lips and ran fingers through her long, black hair. Then, to reel him in, she had then flickered almond-shaped green eyes. The lure of her feminine powers did not disappoint. Within minutes, Richard had nervously approached and offered a simple, ‘Hello.’ The memory of their meeting made her smile. Richard turned to Jade and suggested they stop at their favorite club for a nightcap. Still unnoticed by Richard, a staring, loutish college student crashed into him.

  “Hey, watch it,” bloodshot eyes slurred. Richard pondered the hate-filled eyes and remembered the countless times he had been surrounded by white kids on the playground and worked over for being different. Richard apologized anyway and pushed on. “I’m not done with you, chonky,” bloodshot spat. Richard looked to Jade, who shrugged in ignorance of the epithet. Richard turned back to the college student, who leaned in close to intimidate. “My old man lost his job because of you people,” bloodshot stated and stabbed his finger into Richard’s sternum. Surprised to find muscle where he expected only bone, the soused student stepped back a little. Richard moved forward and filled the void.

  “I’m from Chicago,” Richard rebutted, leaning in closer and puffing his chest.

  “Ah, you’re not worth my time,” bloodshot declared, before turning away. His frat brothers saw he had retreated and, to save face, pulled him away for more shots of tequila.

  “Let’s just go,” Jade murmured, tugging at Richard. They took a few contemplative steps. “You’ll always be a foreigner here, you know? Just another ABC,” she muttered. Richard knew this term well. Like many first and second generation American-Born Chinese, his type often existed in limbo. Despite patriotism that Oscar Wilde would label vicious, Richard struggled with the alienating racism so many Americans showed him. While many called him smart and hardworking, deep down he knew his impetus for success was rooted in this dichotomy. Moments earlier, Jade and Richard had been happy to share a much-needed date. Now, they strolled silently past their favorite club. Guess there won’t be any dirty martinis tonight, Jade thought. The couple reached the Metro station. They stepped onto its steep escalator.

  Jade and Richard bumped along in the subway train and stared out through blackened windows. Richard’s inverted triangle of a face was lit intermittently by passing tunnel lamps, and his dark brown eyes reflected in the safety glass.

  Walking from Foggy Bottom/GWU station, Jade and Richard strolled along the cobblestones of Olive Street toward their place, the townhouse they had shared for several weeks now. Jade grabbed Richard’s ass, making him smile again. They paused in the yellow of a streetlamp and shared a long kiss. Walking again, their step quickened. Jade giggled with anticipation. Once through the apartment door, they began to strip each other. Richard was slow to indulge at first, seemingly preoccupied with his discouraging encounter. However, when Jade guided his hand to her moistness, he soon forgot all.

  Panting heavily, Jade slid off Richard and collapsed beside him. Now at the outer edges of sleep from the powerful, shared orgasm, Richard flashed into a dream: The world was on fire.

  “I’m hungry,” Jade declared, startling Richard awake. “You men,” she laughed. “If I were a spider, I’d sting and kill you now.” She donned a robe and went to the kitchen. Richard stirred from his cocoon of sheets, and clicked on the bedroom television with the remote. Breaking news from Taiwan came on. Richard squinted against the glare and sat up.

  “Hon,’ come here. You need to see this,” he exclaimed with urgency. Jade ambled back into the bedroom cupping a bowl of chocolate syrup-covered ice cream.

  “What is it?” she asked, as she fell into her favorite overstuffed chair. She shoveled some ice cream into her mouth.

  “Look…” Richard turned up the volume.

  A reporter explained that Taiwan had launched ballistic missiles at Communist China, killing thousands of innocent civilians in a blatant act of war. Taiwan, in turn, claimed the attack was unauthorized—the act of a rogue missile captain—and offered profuse apologies while warning China against escalation. Beijing promised retaliation for the act of terror, and to solve the Taiwan question, ‘once and for all.’ The United States had called for calm on both sides. As a prudent precaution, the American president ordered the nuclear supercarriers George Washington, John C. Stennis, and Ronald Reagan to the area. The journalist then concluded her report with, “Ladies and gentleman, the events of the last few hours are undeniable—the Fourth Taiwan Crisis has begun.”

  Jade swore in Chinese, and Richard dropped the f-bomb in English. They both looked at each other with mouths agape. Richard’s cell phone began to ring. He glanced at the flashing, vibrating thing, and then back to the news.

  “There goes the weekend,” he sighed. Richard stood and walked to the nightstand. Wanting privacy to take the call, he carried the phone into the kitchen.

  ◊◊◊◊

  On the San Diego embarcadero, near the Spanish colonial revival Santa Fe Depot, and past the tall masts of the Maritime Museum’s full-rigged sailing ship, Star of India, a white pickup truck pulled up outside a tall glass hotel. Wearing US Navy dress white, Lieutenant Cynthia Pelletier hopped out of the pickup and blew a last kiss to its driver, her dad. He smiled widely and told her to be safe, and that he was very proud of her.

  The hotel’s bellhop took Lieutenant Pelletier’s sea-bag from the truck and nearly collapsed under its weight. He shuffled off, groaning, maneuvering the unwieldy canvas sausage to a luggage cart. Out of breath, he directed Pelletier to the front desk. She entered the air-conditioned lobby and tucked her short blond hair behind a smallish ear. Her long bare legs carried her quickly past the gawking concierge who slammed his open jaw shut. Pelletier placed her plain handbag on the cold marble check-in counter, and pulled a reservation confirmation from the bag’s side pocket. When her green eyes locked on the manager, he flushed for the first time in years. She’s too pretty to be a sailor, he thought.

  Pelletier had grown up surrounded by Colorado’s saw-toothed and snow-peaked mountains. At a young age, she had traded a love of horses for that of airplanes. While others her age swooned for Tom Cruise, she instead was seduced by the movie’s other star: the big swing-wing F-14 Tomcat fleet defense fighter. Cindy would sit on her pink bike at the end of her driveway and pretend the asphalt was the steel deck of an aircraft carrier. Cindy’s best friend would stand beside her and salute. This signaled Cindy to start pedaling. She would pump the pedals as hard as her skinny legs could manage, and got the bike up to speed. Trailing sparkly streamers from the handlebars, Cindy’s bike would hit a makeshift plywood ramp and go airborne. These were her first imaginary carrier take-offs. She cherished those few weightless moments before the bicycle hit the ground again. Often sent tumbling through the brambles, she always had a righteous laugh, and did it all again and again.

  Years later, she had found her teenage sweetheart, and fell harder than those bicycle wipeouts. He had proposed on the dance floor at their senior prom. She turned him down and left him in the flicker of the disco ball, with the thump of music and a broken heart filling his chest. Although she was handed true love, Cindy wanted more from life: Cindy wanted wings. With a bit of help from her father, she put herself through college and earned a degree in aeronautics.
With diploma in hand, Cindy went right to the navy recruiter. He immediately showed her where to sign.

  United States Naval Officer Candidate Cynthia Pelletier had then gone on to Officer Candidate School at Naval Station Newport, Rhode Island. There she had endured the Marine Corps’ ‘House of Pain,’ and earned a healthy fear of drill instructors, and a place at Primary Flight Training. Now a distinguished naval aviator, Lieutenant Pelletier accepted her hotel card key. She headed upstairs for room service and a few hours of sleep.

  Early the next morning, Lieutenant Pelletier trailed another bellhop. He lugged her sea-bag, as she strolled through the hotel’s lobby doors and out into the cool pre-dawn dark. Pelletier breathed in the moist salty air and looked at the seagulls that were already awake and complaining as they wheeled above. Attracted more by Cindy’s splendor than by the bellhop’s wave, a taxi screeched to a stop beside her, and the driver emerged to open the car’s door. He was unkempt and reeked of old cologne. Pelletier stated her destination: “North Island Naval Air Station,” and took a deep breath before shuffling into the car. She quickly lowered the windows to aerate the interior, and, in the side mirror, watched the driver cram her sea-bag into the taxi’s trunk.

  They passed the venerable aircraft carrier Midway on Harbor Drive, and then the Marina and Gaslamp districts of Old San Diego. The taxi turned onto Highway 75 and crossed the elegant blue ribbon of viaduct that linked Coronado Island to the city. The sun began to rise, tinting the morning sky deep purple. In the distance, Pelletier spotted the white-barreled towers and red witch hat-shaped roofs of the beachside Hotel Del Coronado. The taxi passed Coronado Island’s Tidelands Park and turned onto 4th Street. Pelletier thought about her ship: USS Ronald Reagan. This would be the first time she was to serve aboard the nuclear supercarrier, and she would be doing it in the navy’s newest airplane. With fifth generation aircraft trickling into the fleet, Pelletier was one of the first to learn and fly the new jets. One of the stealthy machines awaited her on North Island’s flight line. She would fly it out to meet the carrier.