Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “Give these hostile waters a wide berth,” Tom, Wolff ordered.

  The XO established a course due east.

  Commander Wolff knew the war was now over for California and her crew. The American nuclear attack submarine limped from the area.

  ◊◊◊◊

  The Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning and her escorts tore through waves, steaming south directly at the American task force. In the dark of night, between the huge, merging naval formations, the last surviving submarine of the Taiwanese navy waited; Hai Hu, the Sea Tiger. The diesel-electric attack submarine waited on the surface, where she snorkeled fresh air and recharged her batteries beneath the sparkling stars. Hai Hu had just escaped an encounter with two Chinese destroyers, lived through a near hit from a light torpedo, and barely escaped a hail of depth charges. Half of the crew was dead. The other half shivered and gasped at the fresh air that breezed through compartments heavy with stale air. Perched atop the sail, the captain peered up at the Seven Stars of the Northern Dipper. A meteorite’s burning trail sparkled for a moment and a warm breeze refreshed his face.

  Hai Hu, damaged and alone, could still maneuver, and still had a half charge within her battery bank. Silhouetted against the backbone of night, the captain decided to make a last stand against the Communists. He would take his Dutch-built boat down deep and await the enemy carrier that reportedly headed their way. Once on the bottom, no one will find me, his mind slithered like an eel. Not even Mazu—Goddess of the Sea. Hai Hu’s captain took a final look at the heavens. He breathed deep the wet salty air, held and savored it, and descended into the submarine’s sail. The outer hatch shut with a ringing clank.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Jade waited for Richard in their Georgetown apartment. After finding herself under surveillance, and after coming upon the body of her murdered contact/professor, she was surprised to be still alive, and was filled with fear and regret. Sitting in a dining chair, she clutched a pistol; the very one she had considered using on herself. She had gone as far as resting the cold barrel to her forehead. Between sobs, as her finger began squeezing the trigger, she had instead chosen life and decided to face the consequences of her actions. Instead of painting a wall with her brains, Jade had decided to fire the gun on anybody other than Richard Ling who came through the apartment door. Jade perched in a chair and waited. It was then that she began to doze off.

  A crunching sound awakened Jade. She remembered where she was, as well as the granulated sugar she had spread about the door’s threshold. She observed shadows beneath the door’s transom, and brought the gun’s barrel up. Keys jingled and then slid into the lock. Jade put slight pressure to the trigger as the door swung open.

  “Jade?” Richard asked. He glanced inside, and then retreated from the gun aimed his way. He waved a white kerchief, and Jade laughed with exhaustion. She dropped the gun to the floor with a clunk, swooned and folded off the chair, collapsing to the floor. Richard rushed in. He caught and collected her limp body. Stroking her head, he whispered forgiveness, reassurances, and pledges of love. He scooped Jade up and carried her to their bed.

  Richard locked the door. As though it might burn him, he picked up the handgun with the tips of his fingers and placed it in a kitchen drawer. He moistened a towel and brought it to her, draping it across her clammy forehead, and sat beside her. Her eyes flickered open. She smiled, and her eyes closed again. Richard picked up her hand and weighed everything: fatherhood; betrayal; loyalty; career; marriage. He was convinced of what he had to do, and what it would cost him. He strode to his computer desk, brought up an airline website, and booked two tickets to San Francisco. Deciding a train was the best way to get to Dulles International Airport outside the capital, he clicked over to DC Metrorail’s website. I have to keep her safe tonight, he thought. He was unaware that his surfing was being watched. Richard got two suitcases from a closet and started packing.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Senior Master Sergeant Li and the men of Hill 112 held fast. A few of them had dressed up as civilians, and raided supermarkets and pharmacies for supplies. One man had even located a radio in an abandoned Humvee. Li used it to re-establish contact with Hengshan Command Center and to continue his reports on enemy dispositions at Songshan Airport. Li had also requested relief. Expected any time, a detachment from the 6th Army was to infiltrate up the back of the hill.

  Li had designated and deployed a small patrol to intercept and guide them into Hill 112’s perimeter, now a warren of camouflaged slip trenches, anti-personnel mines, and foxholes. Soon enough, the platoon arrived with food, water, ammunition, and a replacement radio. Li was astonished to find an American Marine with them—the first Li and his men had ever met—as well as a bunch of Taiwanese special forces. My little hill has suddenly become important, Li thought as he ate fresh rations and watched the newly arrived settle in.

  The American unpacked and set up a tripod-mounted laser designator-rangefinder. He then unfurled camouflage netting, stringing it between bare tree branches, and mounting a small satellite dish to a splintered tree stump before aligning it with a point in the sky. The American adjusted the laser and tilted it at Songshan Airport. Feeling he watched, the Marine turned to Li. He approached the haggard looking Taiwanese airman and saluted. Li put down his food, stood, and returned the gesture. The Marine offered his hand. Senior Master Sergeant Li weakly accepted it.

  “I’m Lieutenant Shane Whidby, 1st Reconnaissance Company, 1st Marine Division, United States Marine Corps. Looks like you guys had quite a party.” Feeling better from food, drink, and a vitamin shot, Li forced a smile and adjusted the sling that supported his injured arm.

  “Senior Master Sergeant Li Rong Kai. Yes, quite a party, as you say. Why are you here?” Li asked in good English.

  “We have a special target that needs attention. Your orders are to cooperate with me. Your countrymen can confirm this. When I am done, you will head out with the Special Services Company for debriefing. You are to be relieved.” Like most US Marines, Whidby’s voice was hoarse and gravelly from a life-spent shouting.

  “Relieved?” Li asked. He remembered his order to ‘hold the hill until overrun or relieved.’ His duty had been done, Li realized. His chest inflated and he thanked the American. “Lieutenant Whidby, do you have a wife? Kids?”

  “Yes,” the American said, and smiled for the first time in days. “And I’m sure yours are fine.” The American slapped Li on the back, and then walked back to his laser. A soldier came to Li and handed him an envelope. Inside was an official letter informing Li of his promotion to chief master sergeant. Li chuckled. He could not wait to tell his wife. However, the smile faded fast, and the letter went back in its envelope and into Li’s jacket pocket.

  In the early morning mist, opposite where Chief Master Sergeant Li was finishing his breakfast, two Taiwanese operators led Hill 112’s prisoner behind the ruined bunker and off into the jungle. Unaware of standing orders to summarily execute deserters or spies, Li had brought the airman up on charges of desertion and murder, and placed him in the custody of the military police. Operators from the Nighthawks had other plans and duties for the man, however.

  The jungle became the accused’s courtroom. The chirping birds: his visitor gallery. A silenced gunshot to the neck was judgment and sentence. Burial: an unceremonious roll down a steep ravine.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Outside Hsinchu City, an old farmer found an unconscious Major Han, hanging in an orchard tree, his parachute tangled in its old limbs. The farmer brought Han home to his wife and visiting niece, who, carefully peeled away the shattered helmet and stitched up Han’s slashed scalp.

  Han woke to the warm morning sea breeze that wafted through a window. Delicate curtains danced for him. He reached for a glass of water set beside a small radio on the nightstand. His ribs hurt when he sat up. He turned on the radio.

  Broadcasting from a mobile transmitter, Taiwanese news was doing its best to cut through Chinese jamming, wit
h more squealing static than words. A knock sounded at the bedroom door.

  “Come,” Han groaned.

  The farmer’s buxom niece came in to express her new crush with hot tea and biscuits. With her cleavage in his face, she propped Han up with pillows. She stood and, with hands to hips, declared, “We have to get you strong enough to fight again.” Han swallowed some tea. “Anything else I can do?” she said, and cocked her waist. Han smiled and thanked her. He watched her behind as she left, and felt his strength return. A jet roared overhead and his heart raced. I have to get back to base, he thought. Han stood dizzily. His best chance was to get to the east coast air base at Hualien City. He would have to cross the mountains to do so. When his host, the old farmer, politely knocked and entered, Han asked to borrow the family car. The old man was happy to help, but insisted on doing the driving.

  Major Han, the farmer, and his attentive niece got into the old Swedish wagon. Refusing to let his family be split up, the farmer’s wife, daughter, and son also piled into the blue car. Even the farm mutt jumped in.

  The wagon struggled to climb narrow winding mountain roads. Stopping for several Taiwanese checkpoints, Han showed identification and talked his way through. The wagon crossed the central peaks, and Han and the family started down the eastern side of the island. The wagon coasted and purred happily most of the way into the valley. Forest opened to coastal plain. As the wagon leaned through a sharp turn, Han pointed at their destination: Hualien City Airport.

  The shared civilian-military airport’s runway paralleled the coast. Han spotted a Fighting Falcon as it taxied over a wide freeway and toward the base of the mountains, where there was a second runway and tunnels burrowed into the rock face. Han knew the tunnels protected airplanes, crews, fuel, and ordinance from incessant Chinese missile raids. Along with another, smaller facility to the south, enough of Taiwan’s air force had been preserved within, able to resist the onslaught. Han observed engineers patching a runway crater with gravel and fiberglass mats, while more men painted a fake crater beside it. The old wagon navigated the switchbacks into the valley and approached the base’s main gate.

  A heavy machinegun poked from a pillbox. Burly guards emerged to greet them. They checked the family’s passports and Han’s identification and flight suit. Han saluted the old farmer and shook hands with the rest of his new family. He came to the farmer’s round niece and squeezed her tight. Then Han stepped onto base.

  A Humvee quickly arrived to transport the valuable pilot inside. Once the base commander had been assured the downed airman was not an infiltrator, Han was sent to the base ward for a once-over, and then on to the mess for a square meal. With one broken rib and three others bruised, Han was wrapped tightly at the torso, and then assigned a bunk. It was not long before a noncommissioned officer arrived. His only question: “Can you fly?” Major Han assured him he was ready to get back in the cockpit.

  After pausing at a guard shack for a recheck of credentials and a canine sweep of the pickup truck, Han and his escort were then cleared to proceed into the mountain base. The roadway continued underground, and daylight faded. Short stalactites had formed along the ceiling where moist summer air chilled, condensed, and dripped. The roadway turned at a right angle and then passed an open steel door before it emptied into a vast space cut from the living rock. The man-made cavern was lined with antechambers. Each stored parked fighter-bombers: Ching Kuos, Fighting Falcons, and Mirages. The truck followed roadway markings and passed rows of aircraft in the process of re-arming, refueling, and repair. The driver stopped before a coved bay that held a worn-looking Fighting Falcon.

  “It looks as bad as you do,” Han’s escort joked. As though it were a long-lost love, Han went to the airplane. The Fighting Falcon was light grey with an orange and red sun on its tail. He patted one of its wing tip-mounted Sky Sword air-to-air missiles. Han then ran his hand along the single Paveway 2,000-pound laser-guided bomb tucked beneath the warplane’s fuselage. As the pickup truck pulled away, another air force officer walked over to brief Han.

  ◊◊◊◊

  In the deep, dark blue of the East China Sea, Hai Hu rested in the bottom mud. The Taiwanese diesel-electric attack submarine had just two hours before she had to resurface and snorkel air.

  “Come on, where are you?” the captain wondered aloud. Washed in red emergency lighting, shadows moved about the dripping dark of Hai Hu’s control center.

  “Sir,” the sonarman said. The captain scrambled against the sloping floor and went to the sonar station. “Faint surface contacts.” He pointed at his screen. “Approaching from the northwest. One contact is faster than the others. Sounds like a frigate.” The Taiwanese submariners remained motionless and silent, listening to propellers, and then the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter. “Aircraft.” Then they heard pinging. “Dipping sonar.” Then a blast of sound as the Chinese frigate Xiangfan fired off her bow sonar. If Hai Hu’s muddy disguise worked, the Taiwanese sub would appear on Chinese screens as part of the bottom topography; just a small hill.

  The Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning was turned into the wind and making way at 22 knots. In immediate attendance were the guided-missile destroyers Harbin and Qingdao, as well as the frigate Zigong. Named for the largest fresh water lake in northern China, the replenishment oiler Weishanhu brought up the rear, along with several other auxiliary types, including an intelligence trawler. The forward element of the battle group comprised the frigate Xiangfan, diesel-electric attack submarine #342, and a variety of small torpedo boats and patrol craft. The guided-missile frigate Maanshan, 50 miles away, raced to join Liaoning’s battle group. Diesel-electric attack submarine #286 trailed five miles behind Maanshan, snorkeling at the surface and running her diesels in order to catch up. Coming from another direction, Chinese submarine #111 was unaware she was being stalked from above by an American Poseidon. The Chinese submarine would never make it to Liaoning’s side.

  In Hai Hu’s cold center, the Taiwanese submarine’s remaining crew listened to the commotion. The sonarman studied his display, scrutinizing each noise.

  “Submarine on creep motors,” the sonarman whispered to his crewmates. Another sound grew louder, a propeller that rose and fell as it passed overhead. “That was a diesel-electric submarine, likely Ming-class,” the sonarman narrated. A sloshing sound came to dominate. The computer reported the sound as the approach of a surface contact. A moment later, the computer identified the contact as a Jiangwei II-class guided missile frigate. High-pitched whining flooded the speaker. “Probably small boats—torpedo or small guided-missile types,” he whispered. The ships at the forward edge of the Chinese battle group passed over. Their noise reached a crescendo, and then fell off and became part of the background ruckus. A new rumble started low and grew. “The big stuff’s coming,” Hai Hu’s sonarman said, adjusting knobs and dials in an attempt to filter the cacophony into distinguishable parts. He closed his eyes to sharpen hearing. “I hear several large vessels heading our way. Twin propellers. There’s also one four-propeller ship,” he said, and turned to smile at his captain. “Sir, this has to be Liaoning.” The men shuffled excitedly. It was true they may not survive, but the prospect of a final stab at the enemy’s heart was gratifying.

  The captain ordered Hai Hu’s last weapons—a brace of heavyweight torpedoes—loaded into the bow tubes. To loosen the bottom’s sticky hold on the submarine, trim tanks were flooded in alternating fashion, to rock Hai Hu from side-to-side. A storm of silt stirred, and the Taiwanese submarine slowly started to rise. The sail-mounted fairwater planes angled up and pivoted the boat bow high. Pressured air displaced water in the forward ballast tanks. She climbed steeper and faster.

  “Aft tanks still flooded. I cannot control rate of rise,” Hai Hu’s dismayed first officer reported. The men began procedures to regain control of their damaged boat. They angled down the fairwater planes and opened valves to flood the bow tanks. Although a status light showed green, the damaged valves remained
stuck closed. Hai Hu found herself on an express ride to the surface. In the dark, someone started calling off depth. Hai Hu’s pitch exceeded 50 degrees, and somebody tumbled from his chair. Hai Hu began to roll. Floors become walls. Anything or anyone not secured started to topple and cartwheel. Although he knew his broken vessel was incapable of complying, the captain ordered all-back-full, and struggled his way up to the navigation station. He whispered an order to the helmsman who now laid back like an astronaut in a space capsule. When the young helmsman grasped what he was being told, his mouth opened in disbelief. Then his face firmed up and took on a determinedly stoic countenance.

  “Sonar, go active. Call out range and bearing to largest surface contact,” the captain ordered. Hai Hu’s bow sonar lashed the water. The sonarman called out the largest return on his scope, and the helmsman moved his control yoke and pedals, swinging the planes and rudder to guide the 220-foot 3,000-ton submarine. “Tubes one and two, open outer doors.” The captain looked to the crewman who should have responded. He lay slumped and unconscious. Hai Hu rolled again, as she rocketed toward the surface.

  Liaoning plowed the water. The Chinese aircraft carrier displaced thousands of tons of seawater that continuously created a sweeping current along her sides. Beneath her, Hai Hu ascended from the deep. Ensconced in bubbles, Hai Hu penetrated Liaoning’s wash and collided with her rounded hull. The submarine’s bow dome shattered and her forward casing crumpled. Hai Hu was bowled over by the leviathan, although she imparted a second, glancing blow before she violently rolled again and breached. Hai Hu bobbed vertically in a pool of blue foam and manmade fluids. Her cracked bow had become a jagged jaw. Water rushed through the forward-most bulkheads and flooded Hai Hu, bringing her horizontal again. The Taiwanese submarine rolled over, and her sail smacked the water like a whale fluke. Hai Hu bobbed and spun in Liaoning’s turbulent wake. What was left of the Taiwanese submarine settled directly in the path of the oiler Weishanhu.