“Seize it,” Zhen ordered a colonel, who saluted and ran off to supervise the final attack on the ministry. Breach teams stacked up at doorways, and Dragon Turtles fired tear gas rounds through torn building openings. Chariots opened up with their machineguns and hosed the upper floors with deadly fire. Explosives detonated and blasted steel doors from hinges. The breach teams rushed in.
Several muffled explosions ensued, accompanied by small arms fire. Soon thereafter, the colonel reported to Zhen that the building had been taken. Happy with progress so far, Zhen watched two Cub transports fly overhead, dropping more paratroopers over key sites in the city; mainly bridges and intersections. Zhen climbed back into his command vehicle and ripped paper from a printer. It said the 44th Airborne Division had seized Chiang Kai Shek International Airport, and the 45th was mopping up the last resistance at Hsinchu City’s airfield to the southwest. It added that the Republic of the Philippines had offered to host the Taiwanese government-in-exile, though the former president of Taiwan, his cabinet, and remaining legislators reportedly remained on the island, operating out of the southeastern city of Manjhou. General Zhen ordered the Chariot driver to take him back to Songshan Airport.
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With Beijing and Taipei 13 hours ahead of Washington DC, Secretary Pierce and most of the Executive Branch had taken to spending noon to midnight, local time, at work. Richard and the secretary’s staff also adhered to the new schedule. Obviously tired, Richard appeared in the secretary’s doorway. He clutched a mug of coffee and looked at the school supply clock that hung in the secretary’s office, set to Beijing/Taipei time. It is high noon in the Middle Kingdom, Richard pondered. He rapped lightly on Pierce’s open door. Although he tried to speak coherently, and despite the infusion of caffeine, he made little sense. The stream of briefs, reports, updates, dispatches to ambassadors, and calls to allies on behalf of the secretary had taken their toll.
“Get some sleep,” the secretary ordered him. “I need you crisp.”
Too tired to deal with the train, Richard decided on a cab ride home. Alighting across the street from his brownstone, he noticed a shadowed figure leaned against the gnarled trunk of an old maple tree. “Richard,” the shadow spoke in an ominous, but familiar tone. Richard smiled.
“I was just thinking about you,” he confessed.
Jade jumped out with a giggle and hugged him tightly. With her tantalizingly devious smile, she asked if she could come in.
“You live here too,” he reminded her.
“I still want you to invite me in.”
“Well, my lady, please do come in.” Richard swept his hand toward the door with exaggerated graciousness. Jade batted her eyes, raised her chin, and walked in.
They stole a kiss in the brownstone’s foyer. Richard grabbed her ass and whispered, “I want you.” She smiled as though she already knew it. They began to climb the long stairs to the first landing.
Richard’s landlady was at their apartment door, scrubbing the raised wooden panels. She stopped her frantic cleaning when she noticed the staring couple.
“What are you doing?” Richard asked. He signaled her to lower the towel that she was using to block their view of the door. She lowered it and mumbled apologies about not getting it done in time. Across the door, emblazoned in red spray-paint, was the word: ‘CHINK.’ The landlord made promises of security cameras and the installation of new locks. Richard fished his keys out and paused to read the graffito one more time. He nudged Jade into the apartment and the door slammed behind them. He did not notice the red paint staining Jade’s thumb. As the landlady was about to go, Richard re-emerged to pin a small American flag over the epithet. The door slammed again and latched with a resounding click.
“Sorry,” the landlady said to the empty hall before slinking back to her own apartment.
Richard approached his computer and sat down. The screen woke up when he tapped the keyboard. Prompted for a password, he typed it in and clicked [Enter]. However, the password box popped up again. He typed harder and faster, and then mashed his fists on the keys. Soon he picked up the keyboard and banged it on the desk.
“Richard,” Jade said. “Give it a rest.” Richard huffed, and then forced a smile. He watched as she slid off her shirt and sprawled across the bed. He relaxed with a giant sigh and went to his girl. She reached for him. He took a deep breath of her natural perfume and put his mouth to one of her dark, hard nipples. She arched her back and moaned. His hand pushed against her toned stomach and slid down, where he found her soft, wet place, and he eased two fingers inside.
Physically and psychologically exhausted from the unwanted welcome at his door, he soon fell fast asleep. Richard slipped into a dream: a mushroom cloud rising over a burning city.
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A debate raged in the command bunkers of the American capital. Civilian and military leaders argued various measured and total responses to the Chinese attack. The president absorbed the recommendations and, with substantial Chinese nuclear forces to consider, decided on a response that respected the escalation ladder. Conventional strikes will destroy the Shaoguan missile base that had launched against the George Washington.
Shaoguan’s bunkers contained a huge store of China’s DF-21D East Winds. American leadership concurred that these specialized anti-ship intermediate-range ballistic missiles had to be taken out, and such a plan made crystal clear American willingness to hit the Chinese homeland. With the course of action set, US military leaders turned their attention to making the president’s order happen.
A stealth bomber raid was the first proposal. The B-2 stealth bombers could destroy a dispersed and forested base in exceedingly hostile air space. However, the military and political cost of losing an aircraft and its crew made that choice less than acceptable, and, with the nuclear option off the table, they settled upon a cruise missile strike. An admiral proposed the nuclear guided-missile submarine Ohio as the perfect instrument of destruction.
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Steaming out of Washington State, Ohio had already sped to the western Pacific. After three days of high-speed transit under the protection of a nuclear attack submarine, Ohio now held steady on station 100 miles south of the Korean Peninsula. A gargantuan hole in the water, the 560-foot submarine hovered just beneath the swelling surface.
Aft of Ohio’s tall sail was a swimmer delivery vehicle—a midget submersible attached like a lamprey to her steel casing—obviously not necessary to this mission. However, the sub also featured there, a field of missile tube hatch covers. A former ‘boomer’ on doomsday watch, Ohio no longer carried Trident nuclear missiles. She had instead been converted and loaded out with conventional Tomahawk land-attack cruise missiles. Trailing her extremely low frequency antenna, Ohio pulled in an encrypted message from command that was deciphered and delivered to the officers in the control room.
The emergency action message raised eyebrows, but also brought satisfied grins to Ohio’s submariners. By whispers and mumbled conversation, the crew learned the mission before the captain could make his formal announcement: Ohio was going to fire on China.
“Battle stations, missile,” the captain barked. The periscope raised, Ohio’s commanding officer leaned into its eyepiece. He did a quick scan of the horizon. “It’s raining topside, he muttered.
The mast receivers also assessed the electronic environment. “Multiple transmitters. Lots of radar. Nothing localized,” the executive officer announced. The captain then ordered the scope lowered, and strode to the weapons station. He scanned indicator lights and the status board, and watched as the seated missile technician finished programming the Tomahawks. The tech input Ohio’s current position, multiple waypoints along the flight path, and individual target coordinates, including corresponding digital landmarks. Completing his task, the tech reported missiles one through 70 were ready in all respects.
“Conn, sonar. Report all contacts,” the captain ordered. The sonar post reconfirmed the sc
ope was clear, with no surface or subsurface contacts. “Very well,” the captain said. He scanned the young faces that looked to him with anticipation and a touch of fear. The captain milked the moment and paused as he smiled wryly. “Weapons, conn. You have permission to release the weapons.” Ohio’s weapons officer took the trigger in hand, swallowed hard, and gave it a squeeze.
Despite its immensity, the American guided-missile submarine quivered as Tomahawks ejected from her steel body. For four long, vulnerable minutes, Ohio vibrated from the mass launch. Taught to whisper, gently close hatches, and never ever drop a thing, Ohio’s crew cringed at the racket. The captain stared at the deck as he suffered the long launch. If he had done his job well, no enemy submarine had sneaked up on them. If he had not, now was when Ohio would take some torpedoes amidships or astern. When the shaking stopped and the panel lights went green, the weapons officer announced the last missile as away. With that, the captain ordered the submarine secured from launch configuration and into the deep.
Ohio’s Tomahawks tore above the ocean’s rippled surface. The cruise missiles wore a dark-grey, energy-absorbing coating, and their noses and bodies were faceted to reflect radar. They passed an invisible marker, the first of their GPS waypoints, and turned to the southwest. As the Tomahawks neared the Chinese coast, they maneuvered again to minimize exposure to densely layered air defenses. Once over the beach, the cruise missiles dove in and out of valleys and jumped through mountain passes. One Tomahawk’s engine failed, and it careened into trees, surfing along the canopy before degrading into segments by thick branches. In the darkness, a startled Chinese shepherd glanced up and watched a flight of many unidentified flying objects passing overhead.
At Shaoguan missile base, an artillery officer checked on security patrols that emerged from dense trees. He scolded a soldier for an unbuttoned tunic, but then his attention was diverted to a rushing sound. Then, an anti-aircraft battery peppered the sky. Flinching at its reports, the officer spotted the first of the American cruise missiles.
The Tomahawks swept in at treetop level. They peeled off for individual structures, and, one-by-one, slammed into command bunkers, flew into missile shelters, and lit off fuel tanks. A siren serenaded as the Chinese base was laid to waste. The surrounding woods were drought-dry and would burn for days.
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US Navy Task Force 16 rounded Shihmen Point at the northern tip of Taiwan, the Taipei metropolitan area off to port. Placed under the command of Captain Ferlatto, TF16 was short an aircraft carrier. It consisted of the cruiser Lake Champlain; the destroyers Paul Hamilton and Mahan; the littoral combat ships Coronado and Fort Worth; and the nuclear attack submarine California. California sped ahead of the task force’s surface ships, and then drifted and listened, ready to destroy anything in TF16’s way. Soon, California’s sonar heard the surface ships’ thunder as they approached. Lake Champlain powered up her phased array radar, and soon Ferlatto was awed by the juicy choice of airborne targets populating the ship’s combat information center displays.
“Who do you want to shoot first, skipper?” The commander’s cocky question was redundant as Aegis had already prioritized the plots and had decided for them. Ferlatto folded his arms and stepped back into the shadows, allowing the anti-air warfare officer to do what he did best.
Two Chinese Badger bombers cruised on maritime patrol west of Taiwan. Belonging to the People’s Liberation Army Air Force’s 4th Bomber Regiment, they were loaded with East Sea anti-ship cruise missiles. They swept ahead with chin-mounted radar and found weak reflections on the horizon. The Badgers turned in and readied their missiles.
“There,” Lake Champlain’s electronic warfare technician pointed at the radar screen. “Weak signal, low on the horizon.” The flickering dot became solid. “Inbound contact. Two on the same bearing.” On the screen, four small dots were born from two big ones. They sped toward the task force. “Vampires. Vampires. Fast movers inbound.”
“Tracking four,” another sailor added. Four dots appeared on his tactical screen, and began skipping toward the ships.
Deck mortars sent canisters aloft from the American ships. The canisters burst, and spread radar-spoofing metallic clouds over the task force. The destroyer Mahan fired at the Badgers, while Paul Hamilton shot at the inbound cruise missiles. One East Sea was taken out by an Evolved Sea Sparrow Missile, however the other three Chinese anti-ship missiles locked on target, with two tracking Lake Champlain, and the other, Mahan. The East Seas got in close fast.
Lake Champlain brought one of her SeaRAM turrets to bear. Rolling Airframe Missiles burst from the box launcher, and zoomed off over the water. They collided with two East Seas. Mahan’s Phalanx Gatling guns built a wall of tungsten before the last enemy missile. The East Sea slammed into this wall and exploded, creating a shockwave that rocked Mahan to the keel. Lake Champlain guided Sea Sparrows into the Badger bombers, tumbling them from the sky, to disintegrate in high-speed impacts with the water and sprinkling their bits to the bottom. The American cruiser’s combat system re-prioritized the 33 enemy targets it tracked over Taipei, and assigned each a weapon: a Sea Sparrow or the longer-ranged Standard Missile. The task force readied for a massed launch.
Over Taipei, flashes and sparkling showers showed where 29 Chinese aircraft had been blotted from the sky. Doing the hit and run, Ferlatto ordered Task Force 16 to wheel east and increase speed. In addition, he read orders that would send the task force’s nuclear attack submarine off toward the west.
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California slipped silently through the water. Her shrouded propeller made turns for seven knots. In the vacuum of space instead of the black crush of Earth’s oceans, California’s command and control center would be the bridge of a starship. Its science was far from fiction, however, and the bank of video screens that wrapped the long room showed environmental, navigation, power plant, sonar, and weapon systems, not galaxies, cloaking devices and warp drives. American submariners manned their outward facing terminals, and, out front and surrounded by dedicated screens, were two young men in bucket seats who drove the boat with joysticks: California’s planesman and helmsman. Commander Wolff ordered that a bathythermograph sensor be launched from the submarine’s ejector tube.
The sonar watch supervisor reported a thermal—a sound-reflecting boundary between upper warm and lower cool water—at 100 feet. Wolff planned to take advantage of this acoustic membrane and bring his boat up to run just below the layer. California’s burly, tattooed chief-of-the-boat paced behind the center’s seated submariners. He was, in turn, overseen by the officer-of-the-deck. Wolff and the XO leaned over the tactical table that displayed a line, marking the boat’s course and summary data, including bearing, course, depth, and speed.
Sonar arrays mounted along California’s long lateral axis, and on her sail and forward hull, pulled in sound for the submarine’s sonar system and, along with the big active array in the bow dome, could map the seafloor, localize minefields, pin-point the quietest of enemy submarines, and track far-off ships in transit. The computer heard something, and a red light blinked on California’s sonar station console. The sonarman leaned in to scrutinize the display. Called the waterfall, it showed all ambient noise in the form of cascading bars that represented bearing, frequency, and range of a sound’s origination. The sonar technician reported the contact to his supervisor, and began the classification and identification routine.
“Conn, sonar,” the sonar watch supervisor broke the control center’s quiet. “Faint, submerged contact bearing three-one-zero. Designate: Sierra One.”
Wolff and the XO moved to the sonar station. The officer-of-the-deck wandered over, too. The computer compared the new noise with a catalog of known signatures as the sonarman tried his best to discern a blade count.
“What do we have?” Wolff prodded his sound team.
“The screw sounds Russian to me; blade tip imperfections. No pump noise. Could be an SSK running on batteries, sir.”
The sonar technician had deduced they were listening to a diesel-electric submarine.
“Water beneath the keel?” Wolff asked.
“Two hundred, thirty feet,” The XO replied. “Someone’s in a hurry,” he quipped. The contact, though quiet, was on a speed course and sacrificing stealth for speed. If it was a diesel-electric boat, its passive sensors would be degraded, making it harder to hear California.
“He’s rushing right at us,” Wolff licked his chops.
“Hey, that’s fine with me,” The XO countered. He preferred his enemies careless.
“Put us in a hover,” Wolff told the XO. “And bring us just above the thermocline. Do it smartly.” Wolff’s glare said it all: you will be in a world of shit if they hear us.
“Conn, sonar. Sierra One classified as diesel-electric attack submarine,” the sonar supervisor announced. “She’s making turns for 18 knots.”
“Fire control, begin localization and tracking,” the officer-of-the-deck ordered. The tracking team began their target motion analysis.
“Sierra One is bearing three-one-five; course one-eight-zero; depth holding at 200 feet; range now 3,000 yards,” fire control reported.
“Conn, sonar. Sierra One identified as Kilo-class diesel-electric attack submarine. Redesignating Sierra One as Kilo One.”
“Steady as she goes.” The chief-of-the-boat watched the helmsman and planesman level the boat at 70 feet. Now above the thermal layer with her acoustic cloak in place, California’s propeller turned lazy and quiet, just enough to maintain steerage in the current, and creep her long hull along. Her course zigzagged. This action enhanced bearing rates and ranging on the plot. Wolff readied to joust with his counterpart, and ordered California to battle stations, torpedo. The chief-of-the-watch sounded the general alarm. Crewmen scurried to their posts.
“Skipper, we have a firing solution,” the XO informed.
“Very well, input presets.”
“Fire control, Conn. Make selections for Mark 48 ADCAP, and input presets,” the executive officer ordered. “Weapons, make tube one ready in all respects.” The chief-of-the-boat repeated the orders and made sure they were followed. Beneath their feet, the submariners in California’s torpedo room sprang into action.
Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan Page 11
