Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  Richard watched the elevator indicator, which rang and lit up with every floor the ambassador passed. He ruffled his hair and loosened his tie. A nice touch, he thought. The secretary would approve. A final ding and the elevator doors slid open. Richard greeted the fuming ambassador, and extended his hand in welcome, though it was left hanging.

  “Take me to Ms. Pierce at once,” the ambassador growled. Richard’s hand went from shake-ready to pointing the way. The ambassador stomped off, and Richard shadowed him. When he reached the secretary’s office, the ambassador turned to Richard and told him to wait as if an obedient hound. Richard obeyed, but stayed within earshot.

  With fingers interlaced and eyes locked on her oak desk, Secretary Pierce did not stand as the ambassador entered. She refused to speak first. After a moment of silence, the ambassador yielded.

  “Good day, Madam Secretary,” he uttered.

  Her eyes finally came up to meet his. “No. Not a good day, Mr. Ambassador.” She gestured for him to sit.

  “I regret the circumstances of my visit,” he pronounced, and dropped into the chair. “My purpose is to give a message to your president.”

  “I would be happy to deliver it,” Secretary Pierce said, her hands still clasped as though in prayer. Ambassador Fan took out an envelope. He held it out to the American secretary of state, who did not budge. “As I said, I would be happy to deliver it.” The ambassador sat up and cleared his throat. He has practiced this, Pierce concluded. And here it comes…

  “Madame Secretary, the People’s Republic of China has been attacked by one of its own renegade provinces. In measured and legal retaliation, China has begun reunification of its lands. I have been instructed to make absolutely clear that my government views this matter as an internal security matter and will tolerate no intrusion. The United States has persisted in arming, emboldening, and defending the Nationalists, and, with this continued arrogant interference, China has now been given no other recourse than to defend itself by eliminating the tools of this interference. The People’s Republic also reserves the right to resist should the United States escalate the affair…”

  “Affair?” Secretary Pierce scoffed. “Ambassador Fan, this is not a lover’s spat. This is a very dangerous game your government is playing. Over 700 Americans are dead with hundreds more injured. Two of our aircraft carriers have been knocked out and you have attacked us without provocation.” Smiling smugly, the ambassador opened his mouth to speak. Pierce stood, leaned across her desk, and continued: “The president has authorized me to deliver a message to your government: A de facto state of war exists between our two countries. Tonight, he will formally recognize the Taipei government-in-exile and the independence of Taiwan. You and your staff are hereby ordered to leave the country. All further communication must be by red phone. Good day, Mr. Ambassador.” The secretary sat again, lowered her head, and stared at the desktop. The insulted ambassador stood and exited. Richard offered to escort him out of the building.

  “Stay, mutt. I know the way,” the ambassador snarled. Richard shrugged and entered his boss’s office.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Taipei’s sky crackled with manmade thunder. Peering up warily, Senior Master Sergeant Li reasoned that the sound was that of sonic booms. Dull thuds of distant explosions echoed through neighborhoods and rebounded off Hill 112. Masts of black smoke rose from the southeast and northwest. A blaze flared where the capital’s telephone exchange and an electrical substation once stood. Li raised binoculars and focused on the airport he was tasked with protecting. Songshan was quiet. Its air force jets were already aloft and remaining commercial airliners were stowed in hangars. Li panned toward Jhongjheng District—the civic soul of the Taiwanese capital and nation—and fixed his magnified view on the legislative Yuan, Taiwan’s parliament.

  The parliament was housed in a brick building draped in red, white, and blue bunting. A portrait of Chiang Kai Shek dangled from its tall central tower. A sandbag wall snaked through the surrounding street. Soldiers and armored vehicles loitered beneath swaying palm trees. Li focused his binoculars and wondered what had become of his government. Before the missile raid had muzzled radio and television broadcasts, journalists were reporting targeted assassinations and kidnappings, though the parliament was still able to meet and approve a declaration of war against Communist China, as well as formal independence for the island nation. Remaining legislators, along with the president and other members of Taiwan’s executive branch, reportedly have fled southeast, escaping the island to establish a government-in-exile.

  A breeze licked Hill 112. Li lowered the binoculars to savor it. Air raid sirens belatedly sounded around Taipei. Firehouse and police station bells joined the frightening cacophony. The city was sobbing, Li reflected, and then thought of his little girl. One of Hill 112’s airmen ran from the bunker and saluted. He reported to Li that several targets had entered radar range.

  “They appear to be tracking on the airport.” The two men ran together, swallowed by the hillside bunker.

  Inside, it was cool and dark. Several airmen sat at terminals, their dour faces lit green by radar screens. They monitored Hill 112’s tranche of sky, controlling the site’s anti-aircraft guns and surface-to-air missiles. Li strode to a flatscreen that displayed strategic air, land, and sea domains. The picture it presented was fearsome: hundreds of Chinese missile tracks reached for Taiwan like skeletal fingers seeking a deadly embrace. Li shifted his concerned gaze to a tactical screen.

  “Tell me,” Senior Master Sergeant Li instructed one of the air-defense technicians. The man pointed at his screen. A cluster of low-altitude plots moved south and followed the meander of the Danshui River.

  “Cruise missiles or low-level jets. A whole lot of them, sir,” the tech said. Several of the computer-generated plots disappeared as they impacted their targets or were shot down within the capital’s layered defenses. Li thought the Chinese were driving down the field deeper than they should have been able to. Eastern Taipei and Songshan Airport were the goal and, Hill 112, the goalkeeper—the city’s deepest node of guns and interceptors. Three radar plots survived the ground fire. One turned east along the Keelung River. It was now Hill 112’s responsibility. Li moved to the Sparrow surface-to-air missile terminal and examined its dedicated screen. The radar beam’s path swept around, beeping as it displayed a single blip. The technician used a wax pencil to trace the targets’ progress along the superimposed geography of the river.

  “Sparrows cannot get lock;” the frustrated airman pounded his panel. Li ordered the anti-aircraft guns activated. Called Super Bats—Super Fledermaus in German—one of Hill 112’s three Swiss-made GDF-006 anti-aircraft guns swung its twin cannons. The gun’s coaxial camera and Skyguard targeting radar aligned with the trajectory of the threat. Li studied the Super Bat’s indicators and realized that, by firing into the valley at such a low angle, they would not have long before the anti-aircraft gun was throwing shells off axis.

  “Skyguard’s hot. Super Bats are ready,” the gunner informed. On the bunker’s video screen, the gun camera tracked the cruise missile and the freeway it followed. Civilian traffic was thick, a panicked rush from the capital that had stagnated into a honking morass of stuck vehicles. The gunner looked to Li with concern. The hill’s errant 35 millimeter rounds would very likely impact the highway and rip into the civilians. Despite this likely collateral damage, Li cleared the weapon technician to engage the enemy cruise missile.

  The Super Bats’ barrels fired alternately, at a high rate, barely recoiling before the next round was sent. The Chinese Long Sword cruise missile skimmed over freeway signs and gawking drivers. A string of incendiary tracers squirted at it from Hill 112. They fell short and sprayed cars with burning metal shards that slaughtered the unlucky, leaving them belted into air-conditioned coffins. A minivan was shredded, bouncing and splitting open. Airbags deployed and the lacerated driver slumped forward, resting her mess on the now-deflating pillows. Another car
exploded and jumped from the pavement. Li’s blink was long. When he opened his eyes again, the inadvertent butchery continued on the screen.

  Homing pulses left the Super Bats’ Skyguard radar. They tracked both the outgoing rounds and the target, adjusting fire to marry the two. The fire slapped the Chinese cruise missile down, exploding it in a tumbling fireball that expelled burning propellant and wreckage into a riverside park. A cheer went up in Hill 112, but it was quickly stifled by a triple sonic boom that reverberated through the bunker’s heavy ceiling. A new and rapidly approaching threat presented itself: Chinese ballistic missiles. Li hopped back to the surface-to-air missile terminal. The Sparrows were ready and Li ordered them released. The white interceptors flittered from the hilltop.

  “Sir, several enemy warheads are projected to impact within three meters of our current position,” a seated airman exclaimed.

  “Sparrows approaching targets,” the missile technician reported in monotone fashion, his voice exposing a lack of confidence in the surface-to-air missiles. “They missed.” Everyone looked to Li.

  “Get ready,” was all he could offer. Shadows shifted in the dimness, sliding from terminal chairs to the cold, coarse floor. Some put on steel pot helmets and tightened down chinstraps, while others claimed cover beneath wooden desks. Li crouched among his cowering men. “Here they come,” the last man in his seat cried out, before leaving his screen to dive to the floor. The jungle went silent and then a rush of air brought two Chinese warheads to Hill 112.

  Five thousand five-hundred pounds of high explosives came to the hilltop as the missiles slammed into the air defense site’s cross-shaped platform. Surrounding trees cracked and toppled, and debris flew into the empty streets in Hill 112’s shadow. Tucked beneath a shelf of limestone, Hill 112’s bunker cradled Li and his men, keeping the explosive overpressure at bay. Li shook his head to clear deafness and lingering shock. The flatscreen, though cracked, still worked. It showed symbolic Chinese ballistic and cruise missiles merging with targets around the island. Taiwan’s command and control took several debilitating blows. Strongnet blinked off the air.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Major Han and his wingman circled off Taiwan’s east coast, awaiting their turn at the tanker. Other friendly aircraft were also nearby, stacked, packed, and racked over the sea. Hearing a beep, Han looked to the console between his knees. A menacing text message from ground control scrolled across a small screen: BANDITS. LRG ENMY FORMS, FUJIAN. It meant vast numbers of enemy aircraft were assembling in mainland skies with the largest congregation over the Chinese province just opposite Taiwan. With the enemy refueling now over their territory, they would charge in behind a wall of surface-to-air missiles. Their fighters will come first, surely to be followed by strike aircraft, Han reasoned. Taiwan had picketed the Strait with Aegis destroyers to thin out the onslaught. Then they will have to deal with me, Han bristled. He positioned the Fighting Falcon behind the big tanker and followed its director lights to close the distance.

  A prone airman in the tail of the tanker expertly guided the fuel transfer boom into the receptacle behind Han’s canopy. The nozzle mated with a clunk and Han heard the reassuring sound of flowing fuel. A grey wisp streamed by Han’s canopy. He realized it was not fuel spray, however. He looked behind and downward. Smoke blew from Taiwan’s bases and cities, gathering and thickening at all flight levels. The transfer boom disengaged, and Han backed off, his bird satiated, His wingman moved in to suckle at the tanker. With both jets topped off, Han and his buddy made room for a thirsty delta-winged Mirage 2000. They left the gas station and met up with a third Fighting Falcon. Ground controllers then vectored the refreshed fighter-bombers to a quadrant of sky over Taiwan’s west coast. The three warplanes pointed northwest and went supersonic.

  The three Taiwanese Fighting Falcons hopped through a pass on Snow Mountain, and slid down its western side. Chinese radar and surface-to-air missile warnings warbled again. Han’s three-ship pressed on and arrived over the island’s west coast at Taichung City. The sun was blindingly low in the sky. It will be behind the Chinese. Good planning, Han lamented. He lowered his shaded helmet visor and considered the first Chinese warplane they were likely to meet in mortal combat: the formidable J-11 Flanker.

  A kit-built Russian heavyweight, the Flanker air superiority fighter featured two big afterburning turbofans that cranked the airplane up to Mach 2. Han ran through memorized specifications: operating range: 3,200 kilometers; ceiling: 18,000 meters at 280 meters per second climb-rate. Armaments: several air-to-air missiles, including short-range infrared-guided PL-8 Thunderclaps, and beyond visual-range, radar-guided SD-10 Lightningbolts, and also an internal 30 millimeter cannon. A prickly pear indeed, Han mulled. It was time to rally the group. He clicked his radio to the designated frequency and mashed the transmit button.

  “Defenders of Taiwan: Aerial combat has always been about the warrior in the cockpit—his aggression and skill—not the number of machines facing off. Your experience and training are superior. We act in defense of home, family, friends, and freedom. Flight leaders… report.”

  “Chi.”

  “Choa.”

  “Chiang,” came back on the radio. The 21st Squadron’s Halberd, Hammer, and Spear flights had checked in.

  Han’s Pam (Shield) flight banked with him over the buildings and farms of Cingshuei Township. Immediately apparent was Ching Chuan Kang Air Base throwing up a wall of flak and tracer fire as several Chinese cruise missiles closed on the airfield and the power plant nearby. The robotic onslaught tore into the air base’s shelters, runways, and fuel tanks. East Seas overflew the power plant, and dropped metal strips on its tangle of high-voltage lines, substations, and transformers, that then overloaded with brilliant flashes. Taichung City and its environs went dark. Ching Chuan Kang’s burning aircraft, buildings, and fuel belched choking black smoke that wafted into town.

  A solid tone sounded in Han’s cockpit, and a panel indicator flashed: SAM. Chinese surface-to-air missiles had been fired; Favorit and Triumf interceptors were on the way. To prevent dominance of the air by China, Han and the Taiwanese air force had to survive this first broadside, as the missiles would be followed in by Chinese fighters carrying long-range air-to-air missiles. We must get in close with the big Chinese jets; Close enough to take advantage of the Fighting Falcon’s superior climb and turn rates, Han reasoned.

  “Twenty one. SAMs terminal. Your sector,” a ground controller announced. Enemy surface-to-air missiles were now entering the 21st’s area of responsibility.

  The setting sun loomed as a giant orange ball on the western horizon. Han blinked to clear the purple spot burned into his vision. He looked down at his radar screen. A blip showed a rapidly approaching Favorit. Han caught a flash in the sunset’s corona, then distortion from the long cone-shaped missile’s superhot thrust. The three-ship of Fighting Falcons commenced well-rehearsed defensive tactics, dropping chaff canisters that blossomed into radar-reflecting clouds of zinc-coated glass fibers, and then rolling the warplanes into a steep inverted dive. Han’s G-suit inflated, squeezing blood from legs and lower torso, forcing it back to organs and brain. The threatening grey veil of unconsciousness pulled back and Han’s vision cleared. Feeling his neck would snap under the nearly hundred-pound strain, he struggled to lift his heavy head to keep eyes on the enemy missile. Han’s jet rocked and rattled. A Chinese surface-to-air missile had exploded among his chaff, though his cockpit radar warning continued to blare. Han looked to the cockpit screen and yelled orders into his oxygen mask.

  The Fighting Falcons dumped more chaff and shot off perpendicular to the axis of attack, to get behind the seekers of the Chinese surface-to-air missiles. There would be no respite. Chinese Flankers fired their Lightningbolt radar-guided air-to-air missiles. They sent three to charge Han’s three-ship. More chaff pumped to the wind, however the sophisticated missiles ignored the chaff and zeroed in on the smaller but stronger radar reflections that bounced off the
Fighting Falcons. The Chinese air-to-air missiles bent into an inhuman turn to follow the Taiwanese warplanes.

  “More chaff…” All three Taiwanese jets inked the sky. “Break.” Han pulled straight up. His wingmen banked left and right. One missile went left as its associates stayed with the decoy cloud left by the splitting jets. The left missile flicked terminal radar at the Fighting Falcon, matching moves as it slithered in. The Lightningbolt’s proximity fuse sensed the fleeing aircraft and triggered its fragmentation warhead. The blast took a bite of wing, hot; jagged barbs piercing the Fighting Falcon. The machine hemorrhaged vital fluids as the hands of the dead pilot dropped from the stick. Assuming its Falconer stricken, the airplane’s avionics took over and put it in straight and level flight. The damaged wing dragged, pulling against the computer’s attempt to counteract the force. An aileron moved, spitting the last of the dark-green, life-sustaining hydraulic fluid from its actuator. The Fighting Falcon entered a flat spin. A sickly crack, and the spar let go, freeing the wing to somersault away.

  “Come on, come on, eject,” Han pleaded with his colleague’s corpse. He spotted another inbound missile, and snap-rolled. More chaff and a steep climb. The roaring engine clawed at the sky. The Chinese air-to-air missile stayed with him. Han selected the external fuel tank and unlocked it. He rolled the Fighting Falcon upside down and pitched into a dive, releasing the teardrop tank as the airplane plunged. The near-empty container was weightless for a moment and wobbled from the sloshing avgas still inside. To the enemy missile, one radar return became two. This gave Han a 50-50 chance. We are The Gamblers. He grimaced, as he struggled against self-induced Gs. The Chinese air-to-air missile turned for the fuel tank. Han won the bet and got a kick in the pants as the Lightningbolt obliterated the decoy. Han let out a cheerful howl. Disoriented by chaff and seemingly unsure of its purpose, the last Chinese air-to-air missile passed high and flew off. Major Han called out to his wingmen to reform. Only one Fighting Falcon arrived on-wing as new symbols appeared at the upper edge of the radar screen.