Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “Who?”

  “Robby. Robert Gerardi. Can you believe it? He wanted to know if you were part of the fighting, and…” Pelletier’s father continued, although his voice was drowned out by the music in her head. For a moment, she flashed back to high school and the night of her prom. She was looking at the boy with the broken heart, the husband that might have been. Seeing his little girl taken aback, Pelletier’s father wrapped up the conversation with: “Give ‘em hell,” and the usual, “I love you. Be safe.” The video screen went black. Pelletier sat for a moment. A sailor waiting to use the kiosk cleared his throat. Pelletier gathered herself and got up.

  She made her way toward the fantail through the twists and turns of Ronald Reagan’s cramped corridors. The inescapable, maddening hum of machinery was louder than usual. She needed a moment of peace. She swung open a final hatch, felt the blast of cool air and tasted salt. Pelletier stepped out onto a wide balcony.

  The balcony hung low to the water, roofed by the flight deck, and covered with equipment and catwalks. A sailor balanced to replace a bulb in the instrument landing system, the T-shaped set of lights Pelletier and the other aviators used during landings to judge the motion of the ship. Another working sailor saw Pelletier and threw his cigarette overboard, then returned to the jet engine he had strapped to a test stand. He saluted. Pelletier waved it away. He took this to mean he could light another cigarette. Pelletier went to one of the two close-in weapon systems that protected Ronald Reagan’s rear end from sea-skimming missiles.

  She perched herself under its barrel-shaped radar and rotary cannon, and swung her boots from its base. Several stories down flowed the black water. Churned by the ship’s four gigantic propellers, organisms phosphoresced and laid a neon carpet that was both wondrous and worrying, a big, glowing arrow that pointed right at the American supercarrier. Pelletier glanced at the sailor. He had stopped pretending to work on the engine. Smoking again, he looked thoughtfully to sea. Pelletier got a tight feeling in her stomach. She decided it was time to go back to bed.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Stationary above the western Pacific, an American Defense Support Program satellite performed a graceful orbital pirouette. Squinting through a telescope, its infrared sensors detected the heat plume of ballistic missiles rising from Chinese soil. The satellite alerted the 460th Space Wing in Aurora, Colorado, which informed Strategic Command at Offutt, Nebraska.

  In the war room deep below Offutt Air Force Base, a bearish four-star general—an old WWII Mustang pilot— studied the computer-generated missile plots presented on the bunker’s screen. My hibernation den for the coming nuclear winter, he thought. “Take us to DefCon 3,” the general growled. On a colorful countdown board that went from DEFCON 5 to DEFCON 1—Armageddon—the big green number ‘4’ changed to a yellow ‘3,’ and the armed forces of the United States increased their defense readiness condition. Security zones around Midwestern Minuteman III inter-continental ballistic missile silos doubled, strategic bombers were loaded with nuclear cruise missiles and gravity bombs, and Trident missile subs—‘boomers’—were alerted that they may be needed.

  “Get SBX on this. And cue Beale…” The general ordered the beams of Sea-Based X-band radar, and the big pyramidal radar in California, swung toward China. “Those missiles could be headed our way.” The general grumbled, as he crossed thick arms.

  Off Midway Island’s shallow barrier reef, an old Japanese Val bomber rested on the sandy bottom. Upright, it sat in the water, as though still being flown by a spectral pilot. However, the old warplane dripped with rust and colorful fish congregated in its nooks and crannies. SBX floated above it on twin torpedo hulls. As if teed up for King Neptune himself, the converted oil rig had in place of its drilling tower a giant white ball. From inside this weatherproof dome, an antenna bounced powerful radio waves off the ionosphere, bent them around the curvature of the Earth, and found the boosting Chinese ballistic missiles.

  Pulling in SBX’s data, US Strategic Command analyzed trajectories with superfast computers, and confirmed that the Chinese launch was intra-theater rather than intercontinental. Impact zones were projected. They were located within the Philippine Sea, the current operating area of the George Washington carrier strike group. Word was forwarded to Hawaii, and then on to the American supercarrier.

  ◊◊◊◊

  White Pacific dolphins frolicked in the supercarrier George Washington’s bow wave. They vaulted acrobatically and led the gargantuan warship and its procession through the Philippine Sea. Some of George Washington’s anti-submarine warfare helicopters, early warning aircraft, and fighter-bombers perched on the deck. Just beneath their beefy landing gear was a dimly-lit and chilled environment better suited to electronics than human beings: the combat information center, or CIC.

  Vibrations from aircraft landing and launching overhead transmitted down bulkheads. The sounds melded with the murmur of sailors speaking into headset microphones while seated at computer terminals. The combat information center’s Kevlar-lined walls were covered with flat video screens that displayed anti-air, anti-surface, and anti-submarine tactical data. A strike controller communicated with planes coming and going from the ship, as four different tactical action officers watched respective warfare teams. Cold, hostile stares stayed glued to perpetually refreshing data, and each waited and watched for any threat to the George Washington.

  The air defense officer brought up a large graphic of the western Pacific on his screen. Parabolic lines represented several missile tracks reaching from China and advancing toward a large diamond that represented the carrier strike group. The officer in charge lifted a telephone and notified George Washington’s command.

  The carrier’s executive—a rear admiral with a face like an old sea chart—stood from his flag bridge chair and ordered the strike group to battle stations. Aboard ship, hatches closed and locked, and damage control parties reached their ready stations. The anti-air warfare commander observed the menacing advance of the Chinese ballistic missiles.

  “It’s up to Lake Champlain,” he said.

  Like Pallas Athena—the goddess of warfare and truth—the American guided-missile cruiser Lake Champlain bore her own buckler. Her protective shield was not of tightly woven gold tassel. Instead, it bristled with electronics and kinetics. Lake Champlain’s Aegis combat system included networked radar, powerful computers, and capable weapons. Aegis could track 100 targets out to 100 miles. Under the supervision of seasoned sailors, Aegis controlled the cruiser’s vertical launch system—the VLS—a grid of lid-covered cells on Lake Champlain’s after and forward decks. Each cell contained Tomahawk cruise missiles in the anti-ship and land-attack variety, or a Standard Missile—the US Navy’s primary long-range surface-to-air missile. Several third-generation Standard Missiles had been loaded at Pearl onto Lake Champlain. Each Standard lofted a sophisticated lightweight exo-atmospheric projectile, or LEAP, able to kill ballistic missiles at the fringes of space—a bullet to hit a bullet. Lake Champlain’s crew hustled to general quarters. Captain Ferlatto departed the bridge and rushed below to the cruiser’s combat information center.

  The Chinese missiles advanced within range of Lake Champlain’s radar, their steady approach shown as white lines on the CIC’s big blue screens. Ferlatto joined several sailors huddled around the glowing panels.

  “Update,” the tactical action officer demanded.

  “SM-3s are targeted and ready for launch, sir,” the weapons officer reported.

  “Shoot,” the officer barked. Buttons were pushed at the fire control terminal.

  A sheet of crackling flame vented from between Lake Champlain’s five-inch deck gun and her forecastle. The first Standard Missile lifted away. It roared skyward on a pillar of fire and white smoke. Aegis contacted the interceptor and guided it out. Another SM-3 fired, and then a third. An unnatural fog wrapped Lake Champlain as her surface-to-air missiles dashed for the Chinese ballistic ones.

  The East Winds skirte
d the upper mesosphere, pointed back toward Earth, and started their plunge at the ships on the Pacific. Along with the warheads, polyhedral decoys released from the East Wind’s booster buses. They would generate heat and reflect radar, confusing and drawing away the American interceptors, while the real warheads used their aerodynamic shape to generate lift, and used actuating chine tabs to swerve during their charge at the American ships.

  A sprinting Standard Missile closed with an East Wind. However, it blew across the sky and, seemingly pushed by a gust, missed. A second Standard Missile passed its target and another flew into a Chinese decoy.

  The winds purged launch smoke from around Lake Champlain’s bridge. Captain Ferlatto raised binoculars. He trained them on George Washington a mile to starboard. The supercarrier had sped up, he noticed. Awesome nuclear power shoved her through the sea. The precipice of George Washington’s bow rose like a speedboat’s as her endless hull planed. She was a stampeding elephant. Best not to get in her way, Ferlatto thought. He reminded the helmsman to mind his course. Another sailor slammed down a telephone. The sound drew the captain’s attention.

  The sailor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in a dry swallow. He struggled to announce, “Sir, all SM-3s failed to intercept. The admiral has ordered the group to disperse.”

  The helmsman spun Lake Champlain’s wheel and the cruiser heeled in, her deck plates vibrating with increased power to the turbines. Captain Ferlatto returned his magnified gaze to George Washington. Announcing a turn with a blast from her horns, the supercarrier’s flight deck leaned to angles not seen since her shakedown cruise rudder trials. The other ships of the group added to the racket as they, too, made coordinated maneuvers. Lake Champlain and the destroyers scattered waywardly, and the group’s attack submarine, California, went deep and sped off into the gloom, distancing her from a possible thermonuclear explosion at the surface. Lake Champlain established a course perpendicular to the other warships, her turbines slammed to full power. She turned again, leaning top-heavy hard. Captain Ferlatto clamped down on his cigar, shaking his head with concern and frustration.

  “Goddamn it,” Ferlatto lashed out, pounding a fist on a panel. He stared out again at the immense yet vulnerable George Washington. Networked to and controlled by Lake Champlain’s Aegis, the destroyers Mahan and Paul Hamilton, and the frigate Rodney M. Davis ripple fired a last ditch fusillade of Evolved Sea Sparrow Missiles. In the name of self-preservation, her escorts were shunning George Washington, leaving a naked behemoth. The frigate bolted like a spooked horse that broke for blue hills. Lake Champlain turned hard again, her hulk bent and leaned as waves smacked her long sides and washed over the gunwale. Mahan and Paul Hamilton turned their sterns to one another and dispersed. The supercarrier’s airborne aircraft went high and sped from the area.

  George Washington—her flight deck clear of aircraft and personnel—wept. Her fallout wash-down system pumped seawater through hundreds of deck- and island-mounted sprayers, enveloping her in a salty mist. Water cascaded from her vertical sides. The American supercarrier became the pot of gold at the end of an ironic rainbow, her sun-baked steel cooled by the wash-down. This reduced the heat signature presented to enemy weapon’s sensors. At the very least, her captain reasoned, the water might suppress any fires. Blast, flame, and watertight doors closed, and damage control and firefighting teams stood ready. Overhead, consecutive sonic booms ripped the clear blue sky. Over 5,000 American men and women awaited their fate.

  The Chinese warheads were now hypersonic, shoving through the troposphere. They pierced and shoved aside dense air, their ablative skin glowing and flaking off. Onboard targeting systems contrasted the hot ships against the cool sea. The warheads zeroed on the largest of the thermal signatures.

  “Brace. Brace. Brace for impact,” shouted George Washington’s public announcement system. Everyone grabbed a wall or crouched to lower their center of gravity. An unusual quiet permeated the nuclear supercarrier and her crew.

  The outer casing of the first Chinese warhead separated. Tungsten flechettes, released from inside, fanned out and showered George Washington. The flechettes ignited as they ripped into the antenna tree and domed radars that crowned the supercarrier’s seven-story island. Then they entered the island and pierced PRIFLY—primary flight control—before continuing through to the next level: flight deck control. Even running out of energy, they kept going, then deformed and came apart, spraying the supercarrier’s navigation and flag bridges with their burning remains.

  George Washington’s island became a frappé of torn metal, flesh, and bone. Surviving equipment lost power. Fires started and the ship’s alarms sounded. The American rear admiral glared at his gushing gut and stared at the headless sailor slumped beside him in a chair. Then he collapsed and crashed to the vibrating steel deck. Mustering his last energy to move a thumb, he touched his beloved George Washington for the last time. The sky cracked again.

  The second surviving Chinese warhead slammed headlong into the American supercarrier’s flight deck. Crashing through its non-skid rubber and thick steel plate, it burrowed through the gallery and three-deck, all before it dropped into the hangar. Within the hangar’s open expanse, the warhead felt itself speed up, and the 660 pounds of high explosives contained by the armor-piercing jacket was triggered.

  George Washington’s stowed aircraft were consumed in the detonation, and one massive blast door jumped its track, pancaking other airplanes like a junkyard compactor. The eruption exhausted at the supercarrier’s elevators and fantail, shooting out fireballs and parts of men and machines to the sea. George Washington shuddered. Black smoke spurted from air vents and portholes, and flame licked up the blackened sides of the ship as she lurched and started a dead wheel turn. The broken island’s communication with the ship became disengaged, and auxiliary steering initiated from deep within the hull. To the tumultuous din of a cycling alarm, power to the shafts was reduced. George Washington straightened out and slowed down.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Below hilltop apartments, in a field not far from the Taipei Zoo, a double perimeter of razor wire surrounded a Taiwanese air defense site. Within the berm that surrounded the site were PATRIOT surface-to-air missile launchers, antenna masts, and a radar unit. Heavy cables connected everything to a shipping container that housed an engagement control station. Inside it, Taiwanese airmen watched the skies on consoles.

  A bland, concrete condominium overlooked the site. Just one of many, inside the building, at its sixth floor, was a small but expensive apartment where a man ate a breakfast of cold rice and salted fish.

  The man listened to the radio, and to the sorrowful cries of a pipa—a four-string Chinese lute—it delivered. He drenched the day-old food in soy sauce and looked to a kit-cat clock on the wall whose eyes and tail swung back and forth, as it ticked to the top of the hour. This lone man had lived in Taipei for years and held a simple job at an electronics factory. Despite the innocuous façade he had erected, the man at the breakfast table was in fact a member of the People’s Liberation Army Special Operations Forces; an ‘operator’ in military parlance. This operator chewed his fish and spun the radio dial. He left behind the lulling pipa it broadcast and settled instead on a station full of static. The radio clicked. The white noise cleared.

  A woman began to broadcast numbers in Chinese. Her voice enunciated each as though reading a love poem. The operator’s specific identifier block was spoken, and was then followed by an activation and verification code. Momentarily stunned, he abandoned the table, went to the closet, and removed a trunk from behind piles of clothes. He lugged and set the trunk upon the sofa and unlatched it with a resounding snap.

  The operator emerged from behind wafting curtains and stepped onto the apartment’s balcony. Wearing dark protective goggles, he emerged with a loaded rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and surveyed the enemy’s air defense site from on high. Several bulbous reloads of grenade-tipped rockets, he hastily tossed onto the balco
ny’s chaise lounge. He then rested the RPG on his shoulder and raised the weapon’s metal sighting rail.

  The rail included four drill holes. The Chinese operator settled its central one on the air defense site’s radar set. Then he angled the weapon up and re-centered the radar on the next drill hole down, to compensate for distance. Happy, he squeezed the weapon’s trigger bringing forth a familiar, satisfying and friendly surge. Hot gas kicked out the launch tube and ignited the apartment’s willowy curtains. The first rocket-propelled grenade shot away.

  Fins that sprang from the grenade’s control column stabilized the missile as it flew over the fences and outer berm of the Taiwanese PATRIOT missile site, before it hit the radar dead center, shattering it with explosives and fragments. With the living room engulfed in flame behind him, the Chinese operator clicked another rocket into the launcher. A neighbor peeked around the balcony partition, choked on smoke and covered his mouth and nose before retreating from the nightmarish scene. The Chinese operator braced himself against the balcony railing and fired another grenade at the site’s control center. It hit, exploded, and tore into the trailer. After a millisecond delay, the trailer burst, its metal skin peeling back in sheets to vent the overpressure within. With a dark giggle, the operator reloaded and sent another round.

  This one went wild, slamming into the air defense site’s berm. Dirt and rock bounced. He cursed and clicked another rocket into the launcher. This one connected with the nearest PATRIOT missile station and consumed it in a massive fireball, swallowing it and the truck-mounted launcher and interceptors it contained. Elated by the spectacle of his work, the Chinese operator loaded again and fired.

  The rocket-propelled grenade whooshed away, and impacted the concrete beneath another missile station. It cooked off an interceptor that broke free and, uncommanded, shrieked toward the hillside building before it pitched up and corkscrewed into the sky. Accepting it as a salute to his masterful destruction, the Chinese operator paused to watch the missile dive and slam into the ground some miles away. Despite the raging fire in his apartment, the screams of fleeing neighbors and the sirens in the distance, the operator—high on adrenalin and rocket fumes—laughed. He did not see the puff of concrete dust kicked-up behind him.