Four stout hatch covers lined the torpedo compartment’s forward bulkhead, and racks of dark-green Mark 48 advanced capability heavy torpedoes covered its curved walls. A torpedoman hoisted one of the weapons from its cradle and lowered it to a track. He removed a protective cover from the torpedo’s blunt, black nose as another man unpinned the rammer that would slide the Mark 48 into the open launch tube.
“Pin out,” the torpedoman observed. The torpedo began to move forward and slide into the open tube. “Good speed,” he noted. From a dispenser at the torpedo’s tail, the technician attached the Mark 48’s umbilical to the submarine. The tube breech was sealed, and the hatch closed and locked. The tube’s indicator placard was turned around, changed from ‘Empty’ to ‘Warshot Loaded,’ and a report went to the center that tube one was ready. California’s computerized combat system talked to the torpedo and readied the weapon to swim.
“Firing point procedures, tube one,” Wolff ordered.
“Solution updated.” The boat was ready for combat, the chief-of-the-boat reported.
“Weapon and tube ready, sir,” the weapons officer confirmed.
“Okay,” Wolff acknowledged. He had trained for this moment all his life and he savored it. “Match bearings and shoot, tube one,” Wolff ordered. A button was depressed on the fire control panel and California’s air turbine pump drew in seawater to squirt the Mark 48 out. Shutter doors closed behind it, and, free of the hull, the American heavy torpedo accelerated to 55 knots. Trailing its umbilical, it rose above the thermal layer. California’s fire control technician used its seeker as an off-board sensor to update the firing solution.
“Fish is on the wire; running straight and true,” California’s fire control supervisor reported to Wolff. The sonar and fire control team confirmed the enemy submarine was maintaining course and speed, seemingly unaware of the weapon now closing on their bow.
“Bring the torpedo below the layer and activate,” Wolff told his executive. Instructions went down the wire to the Mark 48. The torpedo nosed down, penetrated and passed through the thermal convergence, and activated. High frequency sonar pinged away as the Mark-48 slowed to 40 knots.
The Russian-built Project 877 Paltus (Turbot) diesel-electric attack submarine’s new Chinese owners had named her Yuanzheng 65 in honor of the main character of the fictional historical novel, “Romance of the Three Kingdoms.” Designated by NATO as belonging to the Kilo-class, Yuanzheng 65 had raced out of the Taiwan Strait to intercept the US Navy’s Task Force 16.
“Torpedo dead ahead.” The announcement turned Chinese blood cold. Yuanzheng 65’s captain ordered ensonification bubblers. The noisemakers shot from Yuanzheng 65’s hull as she began to rise above the thermal boundary. Cursing himself for allowing his boat to be jumped, the Chinese captain wondered if he had made his last mistake. Yuanzheng 65’s sonarman believed the active weapon to be an American heavy torpedo. The captain sweated, and leaned against the pitch of the hull. Still on the wire, the American torpedo was told to ignore the noisemakers. It angled up and homed on Yuanzheng 65’s soft round belly. Then the torpedo knocked at the door.
“Conn, sonar. Large explosion to the south,” California’s sonarman announced. “I have breaking up sounds from Kilo One’s last position.” The shock wave arrived and shook California. A young submariner hooted. He was quickly silenced, however, by stern glances from the more experienced crew. Commander Wolff strolled over and pressed his weight on the respective man’s shoulders. Forced down into his seat, this petty officer regretted the impulsive and unprofessional sound.
“That was pure luck. Exploitation of a careless skipper,” Wolff whispered, although everybody in the silence of California’s control center heard his words and took them to heart. The admonished man stuttered acknowledgment. Wolff stood and ordered, “Take us up. We must share our good fortune.” California leveled 60 feet beneath the chop.
Three masts poked through the surface and rose above the sea-spray. High-resolution cameras on California’s photonics mast looked for surface contacts while the electronics mast scanned for enemy radar and the antenna mast transmitted to Lake Champlain and ComSubPac Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet. In less than five seconds, California had taken in the world above, talked to Task Force 16, reported a kill to Pearl Harbor, and pulled in updated intelligence and orders.
Wolff read the transmission, and handed it to the executive officer. The XO unfolded reading glasses with his teeth and took a look. California was to be pulled from direct support of the task group and make a stealth approach to the outer channel of Dinghai Navy Base, home to the People’s Liberation Army Navy’s East Sea Fleet headquarters. The XO looked down at the computer-generated chart that Wolff had already brought up on the tactical table. Once on station, the XO continued reading, California was to execute her primary objective: placement of a minefield in the waters adjacent to the enemy base; with a secondary objective of reconnoitering vessel traffic, and eavesdropping enemy communications.
“Take us down, Tom,” Commander Wolff muttered.
◊◊◊◊
The American supercarrier Ronald Reagan sailed with fair winds and following seas. Her group cut a broad cobalt path through international waters 200 miles east of Taiwan and 50 miles north of Japan’s Ikema Island. On point and fresh from causing trouble were Fort Worth, Lake Champlain, and Mahan. They had rejoined the destroyers Decatur and Gridley, and the frigate Thach in a ring of steel around Ronald Reagan. With a shortage of submarines in the Pacific, the nuclear attack submarine Connecticut was sprinted to meet the newly formed carrier strike group. United States Navy Rear Admiral Norman Kaylo commanded the group from Ronald Reagan’s flag bridge.
Rear Admiral Kaylo was a rubicund, salty old seafarer with a sharp, stabbing glare. Standing over his own planning table, Kaylo noted his group had now moved within known range of China’s East Wind missiles. Although strategic reconnaissance had confirmed Ohio’s Tomahawk strike had caused extensive damage to the Shaoguan missile base, American command still assumed that several of the enemy’s specialized anti-ship ballistic missiles had survived. Kaylo went to the window and looked upon the sprawl of the supercarrier’s flight deck.
An E-2 Hawkeye tactical airborne early warning aircraft held in position at the number one catapult. Enveloped in steam, the Hawkeye belonged to Ronald Reagan’s Black Eagles squadron. Its twin eight-bladed propellers hummed, and the large radar saucer on its back rotated. A ‘green shirt’—a sailor responsible for aircraft launch and recovery—attached the Hawkeye’s nose gear to the catapult tow bar as another green shirt displayed the Hawkeye’s weight to the ‘shooter.’
The shooter served as the aircraft launch and recovery officer, a proficient aviator who manned a small control room that stood proud of the flight deck. Based on the launching aircraft’s weight, the shooter primed the catapult cylinder with steam. If the shooter were to set the wrong pressure—too much or too little—he would either rip the airplane’s front wheel clear off or slowly drag the airplane into the sea. The shooter observed dials that indicated steam shunted from the reactors was building up. The Hawkeye’s propellers reached a deafening roar as they tugged against the hold-back. The shooter saw the green shirt salute the Hawkeye’s pilot. Then the green shirt crouched down and pointed along the short runway to the ship’s bow. The shooter pressed a button. The catapult dragged the Hawkeye down the deck and flung it into the air. It sank momentarily, dipping below the lip of deck, and then powered out and climbed over the waves. Steam billowed across Ronald Reagan’s deck. Under the direction of a yellow shirted aircraft handler, a single engine twin-tailed F-35 Lighting II stealth strike fighter took position at the catapult. A ‘Charlie’ version of the US military’s so-called Joint Strike Fighter; the carrier-borne version sported beefed-up landing gear and more wing area for improved low-speed handling.
The Lightning II was a haze-grey bird accentuated by dark-grey, saw-toothed lines, her only color a hornet and ne
st emblem on the twin tails. The aircraft’s sharp lines and faceted sides were obviously stealthy in nature, and, nestled within the gold tinted canopy and wearing a sensor-covered helmet with a dark visor, the pilot appeared insect-like and alien. Her name, painted on the aircraft’s side: LT. CYNTHIA ‘CYNDI’ PELLETIER.
CYNDI—Pelletier’s call sign—was assumed by most to be an uncreative use of her first name, but instead stood for ‘Check You’re Not Dumping, Idiot.’ The moniker stemmed from her first landing at sea. Pelletier had approached the carrier with her trainer’s fuel dump valve wide open. With her trailing a stream of avgas, the carrier’s captain had forever branded her. Now, Pelletier was in charge of the Navy’s latest and greatest. The yellow-shirted deckhand formed an X with his arms, and Pelletier halted the Lightning II over the catapult’s track.
A green shirt squatted beneath the airplane to ensure the landing gear tow bar was properly seated in the catapult shuttle. A water-cooled blast deflector popped up behind the Lightning II’s big turbofan to keep its 41,000 pounds of thrust at bay. The green shirt re-emerged and gave Pelletier a thumbs-up. Completing final checks on the airplane, Pelletier touched the cockpit’s single large liquid crystal display, and then looked up to confirm the attitude indicator was projected in the head-up display. She looked to Ronald Reagan’s short deck and the cold, unforgiving sea that lay beyond. She adjusted her back in the ejection seat and pushed her helmet against the rest. The shooter in the bubble went through final preparations.
“We’re green.” He confirmed the catapults were interlocked. “One at final, 23 forward.”
The green shirt grabbed his wrist. “Good hook.”
The shooter watched all deckhands get clear of the airplane. “Man’s out.”
The shooter was then signaled that the aircraft’s power was at military and brakes had been released. Pelletier moved all the control surfaces. Happy, Pelletier locked her neck, placed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, and saluted. After final checks by deckhands for engine problems or leaks, they gave the shooter a thumbs-up.
“Winds?” The shooter checked the wind speed gauge, and confirmed gusts across Ronald Reagan’s bow were within tolerances. “Crosswinds are good.”
The shooter confirmed that nothing was in the way of the airplane. “Clear forward.”
He pushed the big red button on the console. The shuttle release bar broke and tons of steam pressure pulled the Lightning II along the deck, accelerating it to 170 miles-per-hour in two seconds flat.
“Gone.”
Pelletier was sucked into her seat as the Lightning II shot airborne. The Lightning II accelerated, and climbed through a low cloudbank. Despite the deadly seriousness of her job, Pelletier giggled with excitement. She sucked dry air, pulled back on the stick, nudged the throttle, and rocketed skyward.
Moving at just past the speed of sound, the Lightning II settled at 40,000 feet, taking its place among Ronald Reagan’s combat air patrol. With her radar powered down to prevent detection, Pelletier linked her onboard computer with that of the Hawkeye, and tapped into the orbiting airborne early warning aircraft’s sensors. This gave her a picture of the sky, and she noted a pair of friendly aircraft patrolling at a lower altitude. They were ‘Rhinos,’ she knew, Super Hornets nicknamed for the small bump on their nose. Pelletier listened in on ship chatter. Another F-18—an older Charlie version—sat waiting on the catapult. It could get airborne in seconds. Two more Rhinos were on Alert Five, and could also be airborne with just five minutes’ notice. Time to check in, Pelletier thought. She clicked the transmit button.
“Stingtown One, on guard.”
◊◊◊◊
The morning sun peeked through the Jade and Richard’s bedroom blinds. The dusty shaft of light climbed the mattress, crossed the folds and tucks of disheveled sheets, and then over Jade’s feet. The beam reached Richard’s face. His eyes opened.
Richard arrived at the Truman Building two hours later and hunkered down for another long day of work. With Secretary Pierce’s increased reliance upon him, Richard had a whole new range of responsibilities, drawing jealous stares from co-workers. In the usually rigid hierarchy at State, the crisis had mutated the immutable. Richard had become the guy who floated around the organizational chart, a bubble that connected here and there, with dashed lines. Richard forewent a visit to the cafeteria and instead began to compile the morning reports provided by the Central Intelligence Agency and the Pentagon. He would glean data that came in from American embassies around the globe, compile and compress it, and write a summary for the secretary’s breakfast brief. He thumbed through the documents and read about operations that had transpired as he slept:
The Chinese Arctic research vessel Xue Long (Snow Dragon) had been boarded and searched by an American warship, and a joint US-Panama operation had seized Chinese container facilities located at either end of the Panama Canal and found anti-shipping mines, likely thwarting plans to disrupt canal traffic. An American warship intercepted and halted the Chinese supertanker Xin Pu Yang (New Port Ocean) just outside Malaysian waters. Her belly was full of crude from Saudi Arabia, bound for Chinese refineries, factories, power plants, and vehicles. The sea lines of communication between the Middle East and Chinese shores were long, undefended, and traversed multiple chokepoints. Richard pondered this Achilles’ heel as he began to type.
An hour later, the secretary of state closed her office door, removed a bran muffin and a double latté from a brown paper bag, and started to read Richard’s report. With some food and caffeine in her, she went to work.
As midday in the American capital arrived, Secretary Pierce, Richard Ling, and several other aides and department heads again found themselves seated in the bunker beneath the Truman Building. Video screens displayed the deputy director of central intelligence and an army general. Secretary Pierce opened the meeting.
“Good morning, gentlemen. We, at State, have filed a resolution with the UN condemning the Communist invasion--”
“Won’t the Chinese just veto it?” the general at the Pentagon interrupted immediately and with obvious contempt.
“Yes. Or abstain from voting. Despite a potential Chinese veto, we want the resolution filed. We believe this will help build diplomatic pressure on Beijing,” the secretary continued. “Thailand and the Philippines have offered access to their bases, and the Japanese continue to be cooperative. As you know, the Australians have begun their own reconnaissance flights over the area, and are sharing their information. Thirty-seven American citizens—tourists and students mostly—have been evacuated from Taiwan via the American Institute, our de facto embassy. We have ordered all Chinese tourists and students out of the United States, and Air China has been denied landing rights within our territory. We helped move the Taiwanese government to Taitung City on the island’s eastern shore, and have plans to spirit them to the Philippines should the need arise. How’s the president holding up?” the secretary asked.
“Tired of hiding in the sky,” the general said with a smile. “Okay. My turn. The Reagan carrier strike group and the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit are approaching Taiwanese waters. We’re beginning to implement our long distance blockade, and have stopped several of their tankers and cargo ships. They’re calling us pirates, of course,” the bearish general chuckled. “The PLAAF has secured an air corridor over the Strait, as well as superiority over the northern third of Taiwan. They have 33,000 men—three airborne divisions—already on the island, and hold major airfields at Hsinchu, Taipei, Taoyuan, and Yilan Counties.” As the secretary listened, Richard slipped a political map of Taiwan in front of her and pointed out the counties in the north of the island. “Although Taiwan’s army remains largely intact in the southern half of the island, anytime it tries to move north, bam, it gets turned back by Chinese air power. Right now, Taiwan’s air force is scattered to highways and eastern bases, but retains substantial hardware and pilots. In the Taiwanese capital,” the general grumbled, “the Commies are
moving in on the civic center. We think they’re attempting a decapitation, trying to get capitulation without having to occupy the whole shebang. We’re seeing enemy preparations for a trans-Strait amphibious assault, too.” The general rubbed tired eyes.
The deputy director of intelligence, dressed in a dark suit and his grey hair slicked back, leaned over his Langley office desk, and stated the Chinese amphibious assault would take place at Penghu County in the Strait, as well as at the strategic Port of Mailiao on Taiwan’s western coast. He talked about resistance forming in Taiwan, and rumors of dissent within the People’s Liberation Army and Politburo.“We are infiltrating agents into Taiwan, building resistance, and providing intelligence,” he added.
The general—a man pulled fifty different ways—asked if there was anything else. The three executives realized they were done. After exchanging pleasantries, the video screens blued out.
Richard’s cell phone beeped. A text had just arrived from an old college buddy, now over at the Department of Treasury. Richard shared the information he had just gained, with the secretary.
“There has been a massive sell-off in T-bills by the Chinese and Russians,” Richard informed Secretary Pierce. “But the dollar seems to be holding steady, and the Europeans and Japanese are taking up some of the slack. Cell service appears to be back up, too.” He held his phone up and smiled. Pierce put an arm around his shoulder, and asked Richard to join her for lunch. They strolled toward the elevator. When it arrived, Richard gestured for the secretary to go in first.
“After you,” he smirked, revisiting a long-time shared joke, “it could be dangerous.”
Pierce smiled and stepped in. The door slid shut and the cabin jerked, bouncing as it rose.
Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan Page 12
