Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  Lieutenant Pelletier watched the chute deploy and the Chinese warplane tumble away. She called in a search and rescue helicopter from Ronald Reagan and turned her Lightning II toward the open parachute and the Chinese pilot who dangled beneath it, buzzing her vanquished enemy with a high-speed victory pass. A beep got her attention. She looked down to see that more enemy airplanes had appeared on the screen. Pelletier shut down the radar, her Lightning II now damaged, low on fuel, and nearly out of missiles. She reluctantly broke for Ronald Reagan and disappeared in the glare of the late afternoon sun.

  An hour later she was fed, showered, and passed out in her rack. On the small shelf beside her bed rested a silver double frame holding pictures of her cat and her dad.

  ◊◊◊◊

  The White House glimmered in the wash of spotlights. A summer zephyr rustled oak trees. Richard breathed deep and soaked up the cool breeze. Decked out in his best suit, he waited by a fountain outside a Pennsylvania Avenue seafood & grill. Jade appeared at the top of broad, white stone steps. Her silken hair was up revealing her long neck and the pearl-white skin of her chest. She’s aglow, Richard thought as doubts of her being pregnant vanished. Richard looked Jade over.

  She wore high heels. This was the first time Richard had seen her in a pair. Her toned legs remained warm by black silk stockings. Richard choked to breathe again. She smiled like a debutante before a cotillion review, and descended the steps as gracefully as possible. Without a word, Jade and Richard came together for a long kiss. Richard held the large brass door open, and they entered the restaurant’s dining room.

  Enticing fragrances of warm bread, grilled meat, and fresh cut flowers wafted to their noses. Led to a table, they passed diners enjoying succulent duck, juicy lobster tails, and steaming risotto. Framed pictures of famous faces lined the paneled walls.

  Jade and Richard dropped napkins into their laps and picked up menus. Both agreed coming here was a wonderful idea. He looked over the appetizer list and stole glimpses of the elegant dining room.

  A young woman stood at the bar, sipping sparking water. She served as his armed backup. Her presence did not bring comfort, though, as she was just the first of many people that would follow him around for a long time to come. Contemplating such an existence left a stabbing pain in Richard’s temples. Jade’s voice snapped his attention back to the list of delicacies.

  She read the entrées aloud and commented on each with varying levels of interest. Richard decided on a blue cheese-crusted filet mignon. He picked up the wine list. Perusing the establishment’s offerings, he looked again to Jade—so beautiful and sexy. He wondered if she carried a concealed weapon, and whether she actually loved him. He wanted to know who Bei Si Tiao really was. Although he had read her unit number, real hometown, and other biographical data, the information did little to explain the creature that sat just three feet away.

  “Wow, they have oysters,” she said. “You know what they say about those.” Jade flashed a wink and broad smile. With her dimpled smirk, the smart sparkle in her eye, and her squeaky little voice, Richard realized he might yet be able to forgive Jade, and that their lives were now forever intertwined. Maybe, he supposed, she had been coerced…Maybe none of this was her fault? Maybe she really does love me. The heart got the better of the usually logical Richard Ling. Jade realized he was not sharing her excitement for their surroundings and took his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  If he answered honestly, he would say he had just come up with a plan. A waiter arrived with a basket of bread and a plate of cubed butter.

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Isn’t this great?” Richard smiled and offered her a roll.

  6: TIAMAT

  “The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon, which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.”—Sun Tzu

  Jade emerged from the Gallery Place-Chinatown Metro station and walked through Friendship Archway, an ornate gate that spanned DC’s H Street. She quickened her pace and weaved her way through the hungry lunchtime crowd, passing under colorful wish lanterns and signs adorned with Chinese characters. Prayer flags flapped in the light breeze. The professor, her handler, had failed to show for the day’s lectures. As the dean had stepped in and begun an improvised substitute lecture, Jade sneaked out of the room, and, ignoring protocol, decided to contact the professor. Thinking of Richard and fighting her instinct to turn back, she stood outside the professor’s modest apartment. Although she found the front door closed, Jade also found it unlocked. She grasped the butt of the small automatic pistol—a Walther PPK/S—that she had secreted inside her front pant pocket. She pushed the door open.

  The door creaked and swung in, revealing the dark. She fell back on training, drawing the weapon and methodically clearing each room of the apartment. In the last room—a makeshift office and study space—she finally discovered the professor, slumped dead in his chair. A bullet had ripped through his shirt and left a small burn mark over his heart, and another bullet a clotted hole in his forehead. His face showed frozen surprise. With heart thundering and an acrid, dry taste in her mouth, Jade felt the urge to scream. However, instead, only a whimper emerged. Jade vomited and ran out of the apartment. As she stumbled down the hall stairs, Special Agent Jackson came up the opposite flight. He found the open door and the crime scene within. He called the Bureau and then his contact at city police.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Commander Wolff had come on with California’s midnight watch and stood, nursing his second big cup of black, sweet coffee. For once, somebody had made the brew the way he liked it: steaming hot and strong enough to curl nose hair. Wolff stood between the diving officer and the chief-of-the-watch. He looked to the status board.

  California drove on a speed course for a rendezvous with Task Force 24, the new designation for the merged Essex and Ronald Reagan amphibious and carrier strike groups.

  “Slow her down, chief. Let’s get the array in the water,” Wolff said between sips of coffee.

  “Aye sir,” the chief responded. “Reduce speed to eight knots. Ready the towed array.” The order was repeated several times and the hum of the reactor fell off, while the noise from the churning propeller diminished. After checks, California’s microphone-covered cable paid out from a teardrop-shaped chamber on her stern stabilizer. Almost immediately, the passive system detected a noise.

  “Conn, sonar. Faint contact,” the sonarman announced. The computer began comparing the contact’s sound to its vast signature database. While the computer worked, the sonarman began to compile an initial track. Commander Wolff and the executive officer wandered over to the sonar station. “Sounds like a big mother. At least three four-bladed propellers; maybe four,” the sonarman reported. A small laser printer churned out a report. The sonarman tore the paper off and read, “One of our Los Angeles-class boats recorded something similar in 1990, just outside the Dardanelles in the Aegean. Holy--”

  Wolff snatched the paper from the stunned submariner and read it aloud: “Admiral Kuznetsov-class multirole aircraft carrier.” He whistled like a falling aerial bomb.

  The sonarman brought up a three-dimensional graphic of the warship on a video screen, as the computer listed the aircraft carrier’s known armaments and capabilities. Wolff perused the data and gave his scalp a contemplative scratch.

  “Skipper, I have a 98 percent probability that we’re listening to a Russian flattop,” the sonarman reported.

  “You mean a Chinese flattop bought from Ukraine,” Wolff said. The XO reminded his skipper that Liaoning had last been spotted in the Yellow Sea, and had been pegged by naval intelligence as a training carrier or temporary helicopter deck. Despite this information, noise from Liaoning’s four big propellers and those of her battle group emanated from the bulkhead speaker.

  “The mother of all contacts,” California’s sonarman whispered as he listened to the mechanical music. With a greedy and devious grin, Wolff ordered the sonar station to start a
new type on the contact, and then directed the chief-of-the-watch to take California up to periscope depth. Both submariners gave their skipper a sharp, “Aye, sir.” The chief-of-the-watch began to pass orders down the chain of command.

  Wrapped in the comfortable high tech control room, it was easy to forget you were deep beneath the sea. California, however, reminded her first-timers that just two metal hulls separated them from death. She creaked, groaned, and popped during the rise, until the boat leveled at 40 feet. The electronic signal mast deployed from the sail and reached up to break the surface for a burst of communication between the submarine and a satellite orbiting overhead. Done, the mast slipped back below the surface, to be replaced by the photonics mast. This mast sent high-resolution thermal imagery to California’s control center.

  The picture on the screen was undeniable: the Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning and her escort group were sailing some nine miles off the starboard bow. The American submariners watched the huge grey vessel with amazement, and pointed out its bow ramp, spacious deck, and massive superstructure.

  “Okay, chief, stow the mast and take us deep,” Wolff ordered. The floor began to pitch forward. Those standing grabbed on to something, anything, as the deck became a slide. Leaning against the dive angle, Wolff shuffled to join the executive officer at the tactical table, where he plotted the enemy position on a chart. Bringing up the sonar data on a small horizontal touch screen, the two men concurred that, besides Liaoning, they were facing a couple destroyers, frigates, and patrol boats. They reluctantly agreed that enemy subs must be around as well.

  “Conn, sonar. Transient, bearing one-nine-two. Designate Sierra One,” the sonarman said, and then added, his voice becoming shrill: “High pitch screws. Torpedo in the water.”

  “All ahead full. Countermeasures stand by. Sound collision,” the executive officer barked, and the chief-of-the-boat repeated the orders. A horn started and sent men scrambling to collision and damage control stations. Sleeping crew rolled out of bunks, while others on watch shut valves and secured bulkhead hatches.

  The captain used 1MC to broadcast an order to all of California’s compartments: “Battle stations, torpedo.”

  The sonarman jumped again, and announced that another submerged contact was bearing two-zero-three.

  “What have you got, Jack?” Captain Wolff asked.

  “Sir, I heard something; sounded like a trim tank pumping out. Different bearing and range than Sierra One.”

  “Okay. Good ears, son. Designate the contact as Sierra Two. Peg it as a ‘Probsub.’” Wolff could take no chances, and declared the transient sound as a probable submarine.

  “Screws and pinging. Another torpedo in the water. This one went active right away.”

  Commander Wolff ordered flank speed. California’s reactor came up to 98 percent, shoving the submarine through the deep. The boat accelerated quickly and topped out at 42 knots. The sonarman warned the center that California was cavitating. This meant that, due to blade revolutions, millions of bubbles had formed at the propeller’s tips and were collapsing under sea pressure. These implosions coalesced into a rumble that would carry for miles.

  “Launch countermeasures,” the executive officer ordered. California’s hull ejected two small cylinders which began to effervesce. These ‘noisemakers’ added to the underwater din. “Rudder hard over.” The boat’s rudder swung to one side, keeling the boat to an extreme angle and forming a pocket of boiling water.

  “Knuckle in the water,” the sonarman called out.

  With the decoys and swirling knuckle left behind to lure the enemy torpedoes, Wolff had California slow down.

  Two Chinese heavy torpedoes passed through the curtain of bubbles created by California’s noisemakers, but neither weapon detonated. Instead, they both turned for the next sonar return in their path, speeding for the localized disturbance. Below them, in the murk, California doubled back.

  “Enemy torpedoes passing astern,” California’s sonarman announced happily. “Sir, Sierra One now identified as Chinese Shang-class nuclear attack submarine. Redesignating Sierra One as Shang One.”

  “Weapons, get me a solution on that sub,” Wolff ordered, and then added, “Torpedo room, load tubes one through four with Mark 48s.”

  The Chinese nuclear attack submarine Changzheng 6 leaned hard into her turn. Captain Kun had to use the attack center’s bulkhead for support. His weapons officer reported that both of their torpedoes had failed to impact and were now in default circular search mode. The man looked to his captain. All submariners knew that, once unleashed, torpedoes presented a danger to both friend and foe alike.

  “Sonar, keep an accurate fix on those torpedoes at all times,” Kun ordered. “Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” was the response. “Captain, submerged contact identified as an American Virginia-class nuclear attack submarine.”

  Kun nodded acknowledgment. He tried hard not to show apprehension; an apprehension imparted by having read all about this type of rather deadly American machine. Fire control announced he had a new solution. Sonar kicked in that ‘Virginia One’ was running deep and turning toward them. The young Chinese sonarman listened raptly to his headphones and glanced at the digital readout. He then heard something else; something besides the submarine. The sound was a high-pitched whine that emerged from the masking clutter.

  “Torpedo,” he squealed. “It is running fast.”

  Kun calmly and quietly thanked the sonar station, before he strolled over to the defensive console to order countermeasures. In the torpedo room, submariners loaded a countermeasures device into the small tube in the compartment’s ceiling, locked the hatch, and pulled a lever to eject it into the water.

  “Full right rudder. Down 20 degrees. Bring us to one-five-zero meters and fire a torpedo down the angle of attack,” Kun said calmly, as though he had just ordered lunch. Kun rested his arms behind his back, determined to be an example of grace under pressure. No one saw his arms shake subtly. Breaking protocol, Changzheng 6’s first officer snapped a salute. Then he repeated the orders and turned to the weapons operator.

  “Put one right down the path of that torpedo. Do it quickly,” he told a subordinate, who scrambled to make it happen.

  Most of California’s bridge officers congregated at the control center’s weapons station. Passive sonar detected a faint noise.

  “Sierra Two bearing one-zero-six. No accompanying plant noise. Sir, I think Sierra Two is an SSK,” California’s sonarman speculated.

  Wolff sighed and looked to his executive officer. The XO scrunched his forehead. Both men knew that fighting a nuclear boat is hard enough without adding a near-silent diesel-electric to the mix. This took the melee to a completely new level of danger. The crooked smile on his XO’s face told Commander Wolff what he already knew: that the decision rested on his shoulders.

  “Power up the active sonar,” Wolff said. He had rationalized that the enemy already knew California was there. The executive officer could only nod agreement as his own mind swam with adrenalin-fueled aggressiveness plus an equal part survival instinct. The spherical array in California’s bow energized. “Hammer.”

  Steam bubbles formed on California’s bow dome. With a low frequency WHOMP, the active sound signal sped through the black water, its waves bounced off Changzheng 6 and Chinese submarine #330, and then returning to California like a loyal dog. California’s sonar station received accurate enemy ranges, bearings, and fire control solutions for her computer to chew on.

  “Conn, sonar. Shang One is at zero-one-nine; bearing one-eight-five. Sierra Two now at one-seven-zero; bearing two-two-two. Both are making turns for about nine knots,” California’s sonarman reported. A red light flashed on the submariner’s console. “High frequency sonar at zero-four-seven. Dipping sonar in the water. Designate as ‘Mike One,’” the sonarman added. His voice betrayed the increased stress imparted by the complex tactical situation.

  At the dark surface of the Eas
t China Sea, high above the sparring submarines steamed the Liaoning and her battle group. The Chinese ships turned away from the submerged enemy contact, although they left behind the destroyer Qingdao and her Helix anti-submarine helicopter to run interference.

  The hovering Helix churned the circle of sea below it as it raised its dipping sonar.

  “That would be a Chinese helicopter,” Captain Wolff remarked. In his mind’s eye, he formed a three-dimensional picture of the battle space: At a depth of 600 feet, California was 12,000 yards south of the Chinese submarines that were staggered at depths of 300 and 600 feet, respectively. Wolff had a Mark 48 on the wire. It ran straight and true at 350 feet. Shang One—the Chinese nuclear attack boat—fired a torpedo right back their way. In addition, they had to contend with a helicopter overhead.

  “Conn, sonar. Surface contact. Probable destroyer. Designate ‘Mike Two.’ Identify Mike One as a Helix anti-submarine warfare helicopter. Redesignating Mike One as ‘Helix One.’” Refined information appeared on the control center board.

  “We’ve really stepped on a hornet’s nest. Recommend we back off, sir,” California’s executive officer gave unsolicited advice. After all, the XO’s job was to be a cautious counter to the commander’s aggressiveness. Wolff took a deep breath and explained that, if they could pick their way through the enemy submarines, they would be able to get at the carrier.