Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “Right and high one meter,” the Taiwanese sniper’s spotter told him.

  The sniper lay across the roof of a Humvee inside the air defense site’s perimeter. He had seen the RPG’s smoke trail that led his attention straight to the apartment balcony. He then had used this trail to guide his magnified scope and settled it on the center of mass of the perpetrator. He settled the reticle of the high-powered rifle on the man’s chest. Then the sniper clicked the scope’s dials to compensate for the breeze, bullet drop, and range.

  “Send it,” the spotter said.

  The sniper rifle barked and bucked.

  700 grains of lead punched the Chinese operator in the chest, tearing through his breastplate before fragmenting. The shards of lead from the broken bullet then spread out and bored through flesh—muscle, lung tissue, and the Chinese man’s superior vena cava. Thrown backward, he fell to the floor inside the roaring fire. To be alive just a few more moments, all he was able to summon was a twisted chuckle. He realized he had landed beside his favorite chair and a picture of his mother. A cracked, melting frame was his last blurred image. He died quickly, thereafter. His purpose was done. His duty, complete. It was time to sleep.

  Along with this lone, wasted soul, other Chinese sleepers had awakened that day. He and his comrades had conducted an orchestra of mayhem at Taiwanese surface-to-air missiles sites, radar stations, and critical communications nodes.

  ◊◊◊◊

  North of the Mall’s Reflecting Pool, next to the stark Vietnam Memorial, Constitution Garden was a serene respite. It captured the city’s dirt and noise in a hedge of mature maples that swished in the early-evening breeze. Jade and Richard sat on a bench where they listened to birds twitter about their day. Richard had had the idea of sharing some dinner before her night class. He pulled two foil logs from a plastic bag and declared them ‘the best burritos in all of DC.’

  “It’s huge,” Jade marveled at the ‘little donkey’s’ girth, and accepted it with hesitation, placing it on a napkin. Intimidated by the burrito’s heft, she grabbed for a greasy tortilla chip instead. “My parents want me home,” she said with a crunch. Richard took a big bite in hopes of escaping the need to answer. “Would you ever come back to China with me?”

  “I would love to see the place someday,” Richard mumbled.

  “You know what I mean,” she continued, and shoved an entire chip into her mouth. Richard wondered if that was her idea of a marriage proposal. He shifted uneasily.

  “Jade, this is my home.” Richard looked to the garden’s small lake and the island that memorialized the 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence.

  “You do not belong here. You are Chinese,” Jade persisted.

  “No. I am Chinese-American. Don’t confuse the two.”

  “You’re not white enough to be American,” Jade stabbed. Richard rolled his eyes.

  “Look. Being American is a state of mind; a culture of liberty. It’s not about race. Don’t let a few ignorant people confuse you. You can only pity and try to educate them,” Richard lectured. Jade believed he was referring to the drunken college student they had encountered, but he actually spoke of her. There was a long silence. In that moment, Richard realized the crisis might break them. Already full, he took another bite of the burrito to occupy his mouth. Somebody nearby cursed their cell phone and a car horn blared.

  They both squinted into the low sun. Richard saluted to block the blinding glare. A black sedan honked again and weaved across grass and sidewalk, drawing curses from the after-work crowd. The car raced at Jade and Richard and then halted before their bench. A man in black with slicked-back hair and sunglasses leapt out. He greeted Richard by name, flashed credentials, and apologized for the interruption.

  “Please come with me, sir,” the US Secret Service special agent told Richard. Richard wondered if he had missed a call, and took out his cell phone. It had no reception. “Now, sir.” Richard stood and apologized to Jade, saying he would see her at home. He was then nudged through the car’s back door. Jade watched the car swerve on the grass and speed off again. She placed the unfinished remains of their picnic in a trash bin and started a lonely walk back to campus.

  Instead of going up 23rd Street, the car turned onto Constitution Avenue. Richard realized they were not going back to the State Department. He asked the driver where they were headed. The agent spoke to the rearview mirror, stating they would arrive at their destination shortly.

  “Destination?” Richard checked his phone again. There was still no signal. “Hey, who’s your cell carrier?” he asked the agent. This time there was no answer at all. They neared the White House. Richard cursed to himself and straightened his tie. The car passed protestors from both sides of the Taiwan issue who hurled insults at each other and the mansion. A thin blue line of police separated them.

  The car turned up Executive Avenue and approached one of the White House’s gates. The agent directed Richard to prepare identification as they stopped at the Park Service guardhouse. The window came down and the air-conditioned car quickly filled with muggy air heavily scented by fresh cut grass and roses. Richard sneezed. Continuing up the semicircular drive toward the East Wing, Richard noticed several marines on the building’s rooftop. The car pulled into the shade of the porte-cochere and stopped at an ornate pillared doorway.

  Richard and the agent passed through a metal detector built into the door frame, and entered the East Wing’s lobby. Another Secret Service agent asked if Richard was armed, though he did not wait to start patting him down. Satisfied, the agent pointed to the far door. Richard began a silent, escorted walk. An old African-American butler gave a nod and continued to wind a centuries-old grandfather clock. Richard passed an office where he noticed several computer screens that displayed Andy Warhol’s ‘Mao.’ The colorfully abstract Chinese Communist leader smiled back at frustrated American staff that repeatedly pushed Crtl-Alt-Del on their keyboards. With a pat on his shoulder, the escort pushed Richard along, inducing him to an elevator guarded by two marines in full dress.

  After a recheck of credentials, one of the marines inserted and turned a key, and the waiting elevator opened. The Marine’s bright-white gloves pointed the way. Surprised to be proceeding alone, Richard hesitated and then entered. The elevator descended slowly into the city’s bedrock before it stopped with a gentle bounce. The doors slid open at the arched basement level where Secretary Pierce waited.

  “Read.” She shoved a file at Richard. Just three lines of the Chinese action summary were enough to visibly awe the young man. She pulled him along as he continued reading, bumping him into a four-star army general as they all pushed into the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. PEOC’s heavy vault door clanged shut as senior staff settled around an oval table flanked by large video screens.

  Secretary Pierce took her seat among the group that included the president, several of the joint chiefs, and the assistant to the president for national security affairs, better known as the national security advisor. Richard found a chair among the other civilian and military aides. Settling in, he continued to read. Richard felt eyes upon him and looked up to find the army general staring. Richard nodded cordially, though he also recognized the suspicion in the man’s look. He has fought Asians before, Richard thought, probably Koreans and Vietnamese, maybe even Chinese, too. We all look the same to him. Loathing simmered beneath the general’s thin, politically correct crust. That crust had been cracked today, blown open by Chinese missiles. Richard looked away from the suspicious glare of the man he had sized up. A map of the Pacific theater came up on the screen with red marks on Guam, Okinawa, and in the middle of the Philippine Sea. Pictures of the damaged supercarrier George Washington appeared, along with still and video shots of the wrecked island air bases. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—a silver-haired admiral—began the meeting with continuity of government protocols.

  “Mr. President, NAOC has departed Omaha, and Vice President Campos is at Mount W
eather. Air Force One is standing by at Andrews. Marine One is four minutes out,” the admiral said. “We’ll have to keep this short.”

  “What do we know, Nathaniel?” President Keeley asked of his national security advisor.

  “Well, sir, before we lost contact with the Taiwanese, they were claiming the missile launch that started this whole thing was initiated from within Communist China. Their people discovered some virus that had sat dormant and undetected before activating in their defense network. A Trojan dragon, if you will.” The advisor saw the president’s tired eyes glaze over, and decided to keep it simple. “Mr. President, just after sunrise Pacific time, the Chinese hit Andersen and Kadena Air Force Bases with cruise missiles. The bases sustained heavy damage. We have suffered large losses of both lives and equipment. The George Washington was also hit with ship-homing ballistic missiles. She is limping to Manila. The supercarrier John C. Stennis was sailing from Oahu, when her reactors’ cooling pumps shut down. They got them going again, but not before the cores overheated and vented, contaminating most of her engineering spaces. Stennis is adrift and awaiting tugs.

  “How the hell?” the president wondered, aloud.

  “Hacked. Someone apparently had gained access to the ship’s network and got into power plant control. We assume it was the work of People’s Liberation Army information warfare units. Analysis of the attack’s digital exhaust points in that direction. It could have been much worse, though, sir. Much worse.” Everyone pictured two nuclear cores melting through the bottom of the supercarrier and exploding on contact with seawater; an atomic disemboweling. “Ronald Reagan is the last flattop we have in the Pacific right now. Hers will be the next carrier strike group to arrive in theater. On top of all this, we have experienced distributed denial of service cyber attacks on the White House and Department of Energy, and, as of five minutes ago, the cities of Boston and Atlanta have lost electrical power. It’s doubtful these blackouts are coincidence, especially since cellular service is also down on the eastern seaboard. Finally, one of our ‘recon’ satellites was blinded as it passed over China, likely hit by the ground-based laser at Tianan. We’re re-tasking other satellites to fill the gap, but we don’t have much in the way of regional reconnaissance right now,” the national security advisor lamented.

  “We have an SR-92 Blackburn departing Nevada as we speak. It’ll be over China in half an hour.” He explained that, because with its hypersonic speed and that it would be flying against the rotation of the earth, it wouldn’t take more than that. The president turned to the secretary of state. “Get our people out of Taiwan,” the president ordered.

  “Done. Sir, I recommend you establish communications with Beijing as soon as possible. Use the red phone,” Secretary Pierce advised.

  “Not until you’re safely in the air,” the army general interjected. The president sighed, deeply. The gravity of the situation weighed heavy in the room.

  “Secretary Pierce, have the Taiwanese made any formal requests of us?” the president asked. She frowned, and gestured to the national security advisor.

  “Mr. President, we are unable to contact their government, or their Ministry of National Defense.”

  An aide answered a flashing telephone. He ran to an air force general and spoke urgently into his ear. The general’s eyes widened, and he stood.

  “Mr. President, a second Chinese launch has been initiated.”

  “At us?” The president demanded.

  “It’s too early to tell if it’s intercontinental, sir. Mr. President, it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge,

  Secret Service agents entered the bunker in numbers, signifying the president’s helicopter was touching down on the White House’s South Lawn. The agents surrounded the president, and, with feet barely touching the floor, the leader of the free world was bundled to his aircraft. The meeting was over.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Rocket brigades of the People’s Liberation Army’s Second Artillery unleashed hell. East Wind ballistic missiles lifted and climbed out from fixed silos and big trucks, and East Sea and Long Sword cruise missiles departed shore launchers. The high-low missile swarm journeyed across the Strait. Taiwanese air bases, air defense sites, marshaling areas, naval depots, power plants, telephone exchanges, and railway junctions were all on the menu.

  Among Taiwan’s northern island chain was Tungyin the site of a Long White early warning radar, planted into one of the island’s weathered hillsides. The radar spotted the massive Chinese missile launch. Command in Taipei alerted, Taiwan’s ‘Plan Monastery’ initiated.

  Military police deployed into Taiwan’s major cities. Radio and television stations broadcast the locations of shelters, and reiterated the recall of all reserves and military personnel, and cancellation of all leave. Carrying last-minute shopping as they dashed home, civilians scurried about the cities, and stranded foreign tourists huddled in their hotels or at embassies. The Chinese missiles advanced. Taiwanese civilian and military air traffic control isolated over 272 radar tracks. Commercial airliners landed or diverted. Military planners calculated impact points. Taiwan’s combat aircraft came off ground alert and scrambled for the sky. Horns bellowed at Taiwan’s air force bases. At Chiayi, the bawl of the horns was followed by the base klaxon that wound up to a continuous shrill.

  “Air raid,” blared from the base PA. Major Han and the other pilots lowered their Fighting Falcons’ bubble canopies. Han initiated the jet fuel starter, and the single afterburning turbofan reached self-accelerating revolutions and ignited. Cockpit screens energized and flight instruments appeared as avionics booted up. Han flipped several configuration switches between his legs. He checked oil and turbine pressures; both within limits. The radio crackled as the group started checking in. With the base klaxon just reaching its crescendo, the order for a scramble departure was broadcast by the base’s tower.

  Han advanced the Fighting Falcon’s throttles and accelerated his aircraft toward Chiayi’s wide runway. The rest of the squadron’s nine fighter-bombers fell in and followed. Han turned onto the runway threshold. He swung the Fighting Falcon’s sharp beak and pointed it down the black runway’s centerline. The airplane curtsied with brakes. Two other Fighting Falcons lined up either side of Han. The helmeted pilots saluted. Han pointed to the sky and spun his hand. Exhaust nozzles opened as turbofans throttled-up. Han made a fist and held it high. Then he unclenched and flattened his hand. The first of Chiayi’s Fighting Falcons started a unified take-off. Three more warplanes immediately took position at the line and started to roll. Han’s three-ship launch rotated and powered out on afterburner. Barely off the ground, surface-to-air missile warnings blared and flashed in the cockpits as Chinese radar painted the Taiwanese warplanes.

  “We have SAM activity. Probably S-300 and 400s; Favorits and Triumfs,” Han transmitted. The Russian-made surface-to-air missiles had engagement envelopes that extended well into Taiwan. All too aware of the omnipresent threat, Han and the rest of Taiwan’s air force would use geography and tactics to mitigate the threats. Ground controllers coordinated a mass movement of aircraft to assembly areas off the east coast of Taiwan. Like a flock of migrating starlings that reeled and wheeled to avoid the predator, most of Taiwan’s combat aircraft headed for the Philippine Sea. Han and the rest of the 21st did the same, turning their Fighting Falcons east.

  Taiwan’s central mountains grew larger and closer. Han lined-up with the summit of Jade Mountain, pulled back on the stick, cleared the craggy peak, and then dropped the Fighting Falcon down the mount’s eastern face. The cockpit threat receiver stuttered and ended its chorus as Chinese radar beams were stymied dead by the highlands. Once behind the island’s rocky carapace, Taiwanese aircraft planned to refuel and reorganize to counter raiders. Han wondered if the Chinese had gotten an air defense ship to this side of his island, though he concluded this was a matter for their navy. Dots filled his radar screen in neat clusters. In the upper right of the display, Han saw the orbiting tankers
that would refuel him and his friends. Han looked left to his wingman, a captain and dear friend. They leveled out, booked over Taiwan’s east coast, and went ‘feet wet’ as the Americans say, when leaving land for sea.

  ◊◊◊◊

  A black limousine with diplomatic plates sped down Washington’s C Street. It turned into the State Department’s porte-cochere and stopped abruptly, with a squeaky lurch. Two Chinese soldiers in smart suits got out and scanned the area, taking in potential threats. With a rap on the limo’s tinted glass, an older, balding man with thick black glasses was assisted from the car. He scampered into the Truman Building with his heavily, though discretely, armed bodyguards in tow.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” the State Department doorman welcomed Ambassador Fan Wei, showing the entourage into the foyer. The diplomat’s own security could go no farther. Expecting to be greeted by the secretary of state herself, the ambassador hesitated to proceed. Looking around, Ambassador Fan gave a disapproving grunt and looked to an American security guard.

  “Third floor,” was all the guard would say to the ruffled dignitary.

  Secretary Pierce sat by her office window, warming her face in beaming sunshine. She closed her eyes. Why go meet him? She asked herself, though it was more a statement than a question. The cultural and diplomatic faux pas will make clear my disdain for the circumstances, Pierce schemed. She chuckled and absorbed more rays. She had sent Richard to wait by the third floor elevators. The ambassador would take a lonely and unceremonious walk and elevator ride, and be met by one of my subordinates, Pierce hatched. She smiled wide, her closed eyes twitched as though blinking.