About midnight the night before, a platoon from the 6th Army had towed a new Sparrow launcher and radar up the hill. The soldiers stayed to reinforce the garrison and better protect the high ground from air or ground assault. The Sparrows were set up on the platform’s remains, just beside the site’s one remaining operational anti-aircraft cannon. Hill 112’s airmen and soldiers had cleaned up most of the mess overnight, cleared fallen trees, and used the wood to buttress new perimeter trenches. A dump truck came up before first light, too, and poured its load of coarse gravel in revetments for the hilltop’s mortars and heavy machineguns. Li crushed the cigarette and raised light-enhancing binoculars from around his neck. Piercing the dimness, Li peered into the valley.
Taipei Songshan had been built where Matsuyama Airdrome—an Imperial Japanese airbase—once stood, and had evolved into a modern mid-size commercial airport. Li and the air force knew that Songshan’s proximity to the government center meant it was integral to Chinese invasion plans. So far, Li assessed, Songshan looked unscathed, and, despite surrounding blacked-out city blocks, emergency power flowed to the airport. A subordinate hurried from the bunker and gestured for Li to rejoin them inside.
In Hill 112’s bunker, a crowd had congregated around a radar terminal.
“Tell me,” Li ordered
“Senior master sergeant, this airman is tracking six mid-altitude fast movers, with another 15 high-altitude targets trailing them. Both contact groups are inbound from the northwest and bearing on our relative position,” the seated technician reported. Two blips appeared on the radar screen. The technician pointed at them. “Those are our fighters climbing out of Songshan. They are climbing to meet the raiders, he proudly deduced.” Everyone huddled in the green glow of the radar.
Two Taiwanese F-CK-1 Ching Kuos powered their way into the sky. Underpowered kludges named for a former president, the Ching Kuos raced headlong at the Vigorous Dragons. Taiwanese air controllers sent a Mirage to help even the odds.
“Ready a Sparrow,” Li ordered. Hill 112’s new surface-to-air missile quad box-launcher elevated. Dots on the radar screen represented Chinese and Taiwanese aircraft as they converged and flew about, playing out a dogfight. Intertwining puffy trails appeared in the dawn sky. Thunder echoed around eastern Taipei. Ruined Chinese and Taiwanese aircraft crashed into neighborhoods and splashed into the rivers. With both Ching Kuos down, the Taiwanese Mirage heeded a low fuel warning, dove, and turned for the east coast. More Chinese Vigorous Dragons roared over downtown, their crackling engines echoing among the nervous streets. People crouching in the heights of Taipei 101 felt the skyscraper vibrate from the close fly-by.
“Okay, our sector is clear of friendlies. Weapons free,” Li directed. The radar technician reported that high-altitude targets were coming in from the north. Some were slow, others moving fast. With only four surface-to-air missiles and limited ammunition for the anti-aircraft cannon, Li decided to engage the fast-movers with the Sparrows, and then switch over to the cannon to fire at the slower targets, what he assumed to be enemy troop transports.
Hill 112’s surface-to-air missiles bolted from the launcher and flew off. Its lone anti-aircraft cannon tilted up, and let it rip. Tongues of flame shot from its barrel and smoking brass clinked to the concrete.
Explosive rounds zipped among the big Chinese Candids and Cubs as they entered their drop zone. Hill 112’s anti-aircraft fire struck a Cub transport hauling enemy paratroopers, and then an old An-2 Colt observation biplane that carried the drop coordinator. Smoking pieces fell, as the damaged Chinese airplanes veered from the formation.
“Fast movers are still inbound. Sparrows are closing,” the missile technician declared as he watched the surface-to-air missiles ride the radar beam toward their targets. Half the control screen suffered from electronic noise, turning it a blinding greenish-white. “Enemy jamming.” Everyone watched as the blips that represented the Sparrows began to divert, turned from the true path.
Two Vigorous Dragons screamed down the river with impunity, the Chinese warplanes dwarfed by the hollow mountains of downtown Taipei. The Chinese fighter-bombers hauled two 1,000-kilogram gravity bombs. They hopped over bridge wreckage and then turned east to follow the highway. A whip of glowing cannon fire stretched from one of the hilltops ahead. Then the Chinese flight leader spotted a puff of launch smoke and ordered chaff.
The Vigorous Dragons continued to drive on their target. Contrails erupted from their canards, as the pilots pulled their machines into an abrupt climb. With afterburners ablaze, they lobbed their big bombs at their aim point: Hill 112’s bunker entrance. Hill 112’s Super Bat spit its last few rounds. The explosive projectiles bit into another Chinese transport.
“Incoming,” Li screamed. The Taiwanese dropped to the bunker floor and hugged whatever furniture and equipment they could grab. Hill 112’s army platoon scurried inside, huddled near the ground, and awaited the inevitable. Twin, massive explosions drove the bunker into blackness. Half the structure collapsed with a sickly tearing sound. Everyone inside not instantly killed was left bleeding and unconscious.
Senior Master Sergeant Li awakened to a mouth full of grit. Dry blood crusted his ears and nose. Even with his arm broken, he was luckier than the poor mangled fellow lying next to him. Crafting a splint for his twisted arm, Li touched his aching head and felt the large bump under his greasy, matted hair. He stood and swayed, and then grabbed for the steadiness of a wall. He shuffled along it as he checked on his groaning men. The hum of enemy transports infiltrated the bunker’s bent door.
Flying in ‘vics’—inverted v-formations of three planes each—the Candids and Cubs filled the sky, casting shadows that snaked over Taipei’s buildings, parks, and streets. Coordinators peeked out the nose windows of their transports and alerted jumpmasters that landmarks had been spotted. The aircrafts’ side doors opened. Jumpmasters, whipped by the slipstream, spotted the memorized curve of the river and the appropriate marker bridge. They turned to their cargo of nervous men.
“Stand in door,” a Cub’s jumpmaster barked. The paratroopers stood and lined up. Each attached his parachute’s static line to a cabin rail before they waddled into position. A green light flashed, and then stayed lit.
“Go,” the jumpmaster said, smacking the back of the lead man, who hurled himself out, arms and legs splayed. The static line yanked the parachute from its bag, deploying it to drift like a jellyfish caught in the current. The roar of Candids that also arrived over the area drowned the Cub’s whirring propellers.
The big jets lined up with Songshan’s single east-west runway and sank rapidly toward its expanse. Forming a long line, the Candids configured for landing, deployed huge flaps, and dropped multi-wheeled landing gear trucks. Around Songshan Airport, Chinese paratroopers hit the ground, cleared their parachute harnesses, and went to their gear. Little groups assembled around weapons canisters, and the Chinese paratroops got fully armed and dangerous, spreading out to establish a security perimeter. The first Candid flared and settled its bulk on the concrete.
The Candid carried the first of the Chinese mechanized forces: tracked Chariot infantry fighting vehicles that carried an anti-tank missile launcher, 30-millimeter cannon, and a squad of troopers. Other Candids swooped over Songshan and flew parallel to the runway at low altitude. Tail ramps yawned open and drogue chutes yanked cargo pallets from inside. Chinese Dragon Turtle light tanks with half-egg shaped turrets deplaned first.
Main chutes deployed, decelerated the loads, and the pallets bounced along the ground and skidded to a halt on the runway’s grass apron. Paratroopers ran to their tanks, freed them from restraints, crawled through hatches, and started them up billowing curls of black exhaust smoke. A fuel truck drove up to the armored congregation and gassed everything up, as a flatbed truck moved about, dispensing ammunition with its integral crane.
Chinese paratroopers swept through Songshan’s passenger terminal. In the ticketing area, next to a bar and bookstore, Taipei P
olice and a small contingent of soldiers made a brief stand, but were quickly quieted by concentrated gunfire and tossed grenades. The infantry fighting vehicles and light tanks moved to the airport’s fence line to cover the airlifters that continued to land and disgorge cargo before turning right around for scramble take-offs. One big Chinese transporter landed and taxied to an isolated corner of the tarmac, its ramp lowered and under heavy guard. A truck bearing a large wooden crate sped for one of Songshan’s remote hangars. With the airhead firmly established, the airborne forces expanded their perimeter.
An anti-air warfare team set up next to Songshan’s flight line. Snipers established overlooks on airport building rooftops. Atop the terminal, two paratroopers paid out wire from a spindle, unfolded a small satellite dish, adjusted it to a specific point in the sky, and attached the wire. A squad took up residence on the terminal’s overhang and erected a tripod to steady their Red Arrow anti-tank missile launcher. A heavy machinegun crew settled in behind a wall of newly placed sandbags, training their weapon on the airport boulevard. Chariot infantry fighting vehicles and paratroopers fanned out to the airport’s fence line while Dragon Turtle light tanks assembled on the tarmac. Chinese fighter jets circled overhead as the last of the big transports climbed out from Songshan, and a double-deck jetliner broke from behind Taipei’s northern hills.
The four-engine wide body showed its livery: Air China, and displayed the calligraphic phoenix of the national carrier on its giant tail. The jet executed a high-speed bank and lined up on Songshan’s runway. It sank fast and kicked up smoke when 20 tires met the ground. The double-decker’s weight settled and the nose dropped, putting the front wheels down with a screech. Spoilers flipped up. With a deafening roar of reverse thrust, the jet raced to the end of the runway, turned around, and stopped. Two airport staircase tractors raced over and aligned with the airliner’s lower cabin exits. Doors swung open and Chinese soldiers disembarked in two long lines. When the last man stepped off, the staircase tractors backed away and the airplane’s running turbofans spun back up. The airliner’s doors were still swinging closed when it started to roll again.
Two companies of People’s Liberation Army regulars formed up on Songshan’s flight line. Dividing into platoons, they scattered to reinforce the several hundred paratroopers already manning the outer fence. Another jetliner—a ‘China Eastern’ twin-engine wide-body—came out of the northwest, a dedicated Flanker on its wing. The airliner carried General Zhen, his squad of bodyguards, and teams of special forces.
Zhen pressed his face to the airplane’s small oval windows. It was the first time he had seen the urban expanse of Taipei. He watched vortexes swirl off the descending airplane’s winglets. As the fighter escort pulled up and away, Zhen buckled his belt and squirmed like an excited child on a first flight.
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South of Songshan Airport, Taiwanese Brave Tiger main battle tanks rumbled up Min Quan Road and marshaled for a counterattack. Souped-up Vietnam-era American Pattons, the Brave Tigers belonged to the army’s 542nd Armored Brigade. The Taiwanese tanks held shy of the airport, hiding in nearby alleys and parking lots as they awaited infantry support.
“They’re late,” the Taiwanese tank commander again checked his watch. When they get here, he mentally planned, we will break through the airport fence and destroy the enemy aircraft and armor on the airfield. The infantry will then swarm the airfield and secure key objectives around the property. Every moment the tank commander waited exposed his tanks to ambush, and the longer the Chinese held Songshan, the more equipment and men they could deliver. The tank commander looked at his watch again and got on the radio to plead for infantry. His face betrayed disappointment as he put down the headset.
“They’re not coming,” he said to the gunner who squirmed in the confines of the Brave Tiger’s hull. “They were caught in the open by enemy aircraft and cut down in the street.” The tank commander took a deep breath and scratched his crew cut. “It’s up to us.” The gunner swallowed hard. Changing the radio to the formation’s frequency, the Taiwanese commander transmitted to the other tanks. Silence ensued as the Taiwanese tankers shared a moment of collective doubt. Despite quality of machine and advanced training, they knew that to attack without infantry support would be very risky. “Start up,” the commander broadcasted.
On rubber treads as quiet as paws, the Brave Tigers emerged from hiding, and lined up on the road. Scanning the area with his fire control imaging system, the tank commander swiveled the turret and main gun.
“Now,” he ordered. The driver leaned on his throttle and lurched the lead tank into a charge. The rest of the Brave Tigers followed. Shadows moved on Songshan’s terminal roof as the Taiwanese tanks materialized on the airport’s main boulevard. A flash emanated from the terminal’s overhang.
A Chinese Red Arrow anti-tank missile arrived and hit the lead Taiwanese tank between turret and hull, stopping the tank dead. A second Red Arrow flew into another Taiwanese tank, penetrating and detonating stored ammunition and fuel, and incinerating the crew and machine in a multi-colored blaze. A third Red Arrow reached out to the next Brave Tiger, impacted, and shredded its track. Despite being immobilized, the tank’s turret swung toward the missile’s source and fired its cannon.
The shell ripped into the airport terminal roof, with the impact and explosion sending up a cloud of brick shards and concrete dust. The tank’s hatch clanked open, and, burnt and bleeding, a Taiwanese soldier shimmied out. He cocked the pintle-mounted machinegun, and sprayed the airport fence with bullets. A final anti-tank missile arrived to perform the coup de grâce on the crippled man and his machine. The remaining Taiwanese tanks escaped the killing ground. They retreated for the cover of nearby shops and apartment buildings, but were then ambushed and slaughtered a block away by Chinese paratroopers armed with rocket-propelled grenades. Thick black smoke from the burning Taiwanese tanks screened Chinese movements at Songshan.
Chinese Chariot infantry fighting vehicles massed near the main gate as Dragon Turtle light tanks joined up with infantry on the airport’s tarmac. General Zhen strutted around the congregation, motivating and/or filling with fear those he approached. He went to the airport tarmac where an officer called the men to attention and saluted the approaching general. Zhen climbed onto an ammo crate.
“My sons, you have your objectives,” he boomed. Zhen jumped down and strode to an antenna-covered armored infantry fighting vehicle, entered the rear hatch, settled inside, and strapped himself in. For the umpteenth time, he studied a map of east Taipei, as he pondered tactics and fretted over the urban terrain that precluded the launching of a single thrust toward the civic center. Against better judgment, I must divide my force, he posited. I will send one column south and another to the southwest to seize the objective. The Chariots will speed ahead, survey routes, and provide information and reconnaissance for the slower infantry. The Dragon Turtles will follow the infantry fighting vehicles and overwhelm any enemy resistance.
The rail terminal, Presidential Building, Legislative Yuan, and Ministry of National Defense had all been circled in red. Objectives I will soon hold, Zhen judged. The ground trembled as the machines started up. The Chinese infantry fighting vehicles departed first, speeding south down freshly paved Dun Hua Road and followed by a cavalcade of 3,000 Chinese paratroopers and soldiers led by light tanks. As the procession made its way through the streets of Taipei, those Taiwanese brave enough to peek from windows received only polite salutes.
The leading infantry fighting vehicles pushed aside parked cars while blasting Taiwanese Military Police Command roadblocks with cannon fire. Infantry and tanks turned east, splitting into two columns: one headed for the Ministry of National Defense and the Presidential Building, and the other for the train station and parliament. Intelligence said that elements of Taiwan’s 6th Army—including the feared 152nd Dragons and 178th Tigers infantry brigades—guarded these strategic objectives. A last minute update showed infantry fig
hting vehicles from the 351st Armored Infantry Brigade among the Taiwanese defenders.
Zhen’s Chariot pulled into an alley between low buildings. A Dragon Turtle, with its thicker steel shell, lingered to shield the general and his infantry fighting vehicle. Nestled between the alley’s sheer walls, Zhen choreographed by radio the final push on Taipei’s civic center. When his colonels reported they were in position, Zhen uttered the single code word that would invoke The Chinese God of War and unleash his force on the government buildings: “Kuan Ti.” And the attack commenced.
Three Vigorous Dragon fighter-bombers rolled in and dove on Taiwan’s Ministry of National Defense, breathing fire from their cannons, spraying the ministry’s windows and wavy concrete roof with explosive bullets. Several such softening runs preceded the Chinese vehicles that then moved in on the fortress. The Taiwanese shook off the air strike and opened fire from the building, claiming a Chinese light tank and two infantry fighting vehicles with TOW anti-tank missiles. Explosions rocked the ministry grounds as Chinese engineers blew the tunnels that linked the building to sewers and the subway. Taiwan’s Ministry of National Defense was now surrounded and cut off from reinforcement and supply.
Chinese Chariots peppered the ministry building with heavy machineguns, as Dragon Turtles blasted holes in its sides with their cannons. With smoke belching from windows, the Taiwanese return fire waned. General Zhen lowered the ramp of his command vehicle and stepped from its confines. Crushing a cigarette under his boot, he looked to the battered, pockmarked building.
Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan Page 10
