“The enemy is coming,” observed the medic who attended to General Zhen.
Zhen hissed and his eyes filled with poison. If he had not dropped his sidearm, he may have shot the man for stating the unfortunate, obvious truth.
Once his wounds had been stitched and bandaged, Zhen’s hearing began to return. Zhen ripped the drip needle from his arm and dizzily stood from the cot. A doctor protested, but Zhen brushed him aside. General Zhen emerged from the hangar that housed the makeshift hospital, blinking away the bright sun of the early morning. A guard snapped to attention. Zhen walked away, back to his terminal office, where he nursed his headache with coffee. Surrounded by maps and timetables, Zhen mustered energy and reluctantly turned on a teleconferencing terminal. A green light indicated that a secure connection had been established, and that the camera and microphone functioned.
“General Zhen Zhu, reporting, sirs,” he stated firmly to the camera. The president and vice president of China appeared on the video screen, staring with hostile anticipation.
“I deeply regret to inform you that the enemy hit us with unanticipated numbers. My force has been…negated,” Zhen said, lowering his head in shame.
“Negated?” the vice president gawked. The president turned away for a moment, but turned back and pounded a fist, shaking his camera and the image on Zhen’s screen.
“General Zhen, you are hereby recalled. Return to Beijing immediately,” the president ordered, before storming off screen. The stunned vice president stared back at the general.
“There is still hope,” Zhen muttered.
“Hope? My dear general, there are over 200,000 people standing in Tiananmen Square with candles and flowers. Tell me: How is there hope?” the vice president asked.
“Sir, you must clear the square immediately. I beg this of you. And get the president to reconsider. Get him to send me another armored division. I also want follow-up strategic strikes against Guam and Hawaii.”
“By strategic strike, General Zhen, I assume you mean nuclear weapons?”
“I do. A chemical strike against Guam would suffice, however.” Zhen straightened up. A digital silence hung between the two men.
“General, listen carefully. You are recalled.”
“Yes, vice president,” Zhen conceded.
“At once. Or must we have you collected?”
“No, sir. I am recalled. I understand. I will obey,” Zhen said. He turned off the camera and video screen with a trembling hand. He touched his tender head and gabbled to himself.
◊◊◊◊
Chief Master Sergeant Li awakened in his tent as the sun rose, struggling to peek through thick forest. Among the smoky, sweet smell of a campfire was that of brewing coffee. Captain Whidby waited by his tripod-mounted laser designator. Having been up most of the night, he rubbed tired eyes. He picked at a tin of peaches, and, between bites, Whidby continued to stare through binoculars, concentrating on the airport. Li walked over to the coffee and poured them both a cup. Whidby accepted the steaming mug, thanked Li, and pressed his face to the binoculars again. Whidby spotted something of interest and removed a photograph from his thigh pocket.
“That’s him,” Whidby said, and began removing a protective cover from the business end of the laser designator. He checked battery power and turned on the contraption. Li approached and drew a sharp glance from the American that said: ‘Do not interfere.’ Whidby leaned into the laser’s sighting eyepiece. Li stole a glimpse of the photograph that balanced on the edge of the trench, recognizing the man in the photo. It was General Zhen, Politburo Military Commissioner and Supreme General of the People’s Liberation Army. Li nodded approval. Whidby looked up and took one last comparative look at the photograph, and then asked Li to confirm the target’s identity. Li took the binoculars, and, amazed with their magnification, settled on the Chinese officer on Songshan’s tarmac.
“It’s him.”
“Okay, let’s start the show.” Whidby mumbled to the breeze. Then he spoke into a radio, giving his identification and a code word.
Captain Whidby’s transmission had gone to nearby Hualien Air Base. Major Han and his Fighting Falcon took off just three minutes later and climbed over the mountains toward Taipei.
Whidby disengaged the laser’s safety and leaned back into its eyepiece. He kept Zhen in his sights, pressed a trigger, and fired an invisible pulsing beam. Li got his own pair of binoculars and fixed his magnified gaze on Songshan.
General Zhen had driven up to one of the airport’s hangars, with ‘Taiwan, Touch Your Heart’ painted across it in big, colorful letters. Two Chinese soldiers snapped to attention as the general stumbled from the vehicle, wobbled, and pressed the bloody gauze wrapped around his head.
“Nobody, not even Chairman Mao himself, enters this hangar after me,” Zhen ordered. “Understood?” The guards saluted. Zhen entered, shut the door, and locked it behind him. The guards crossed their bayonet-tipped assault rifles in a menacing ‘X.’
Zhen’s fully fueled private jet awaited inside, ready to take him from defeat, and into the hands of consequences. However, the general did not climb the narrow steps to board the jet. He instead headed for a corner of the hangar where several wooden crates were stacked against the wall. Padlocked chains wrapped one large crate. Zhen spun the lock’s combination, opened the shank, and released the chain. It ran; fell heavily, to the floor. He raised the crate’s lid and pulled a cord that tore a foil seal. Beneath padded fire blankets lay a black steel cylinder the size of a refrigerator. The cylinder, marked ‘596,’ displayed a radiation trifoil painted on its side, and a parachute container at its base.
“You are my hope,” Zhen said to the 100-kiloton hydrogen free-fall bomb.
Whidby now had his laser designator was trained on the hangar with General Zhen inside. The American centered the reticle on the structure’s big tourism slogan. Han’s Fighting Falcon arrived 20,000 feet overhead.
Han armed the big Paveway laser-guided bomb slung beneath his warplane.
General Zhen attached a cable to the bomb and plugged it into a small keypad. From his chest pocket, he removed a command authority card as well as a second card that only an authorized pilot on a nuclear bomber mission should be in possession of. Zhen entered his command code to disengage the bomb’s primary tamper safety. A hum emanated from the weapon as batteries started up its internal electronics. Zhen input the pilot’s code, and the bomb’s second tamper safety unlocked. He quickly set its controls for a ground burst. As soon as the bomb’s altimeter detected sea level—plus or minus 100 meters—a thermonuclear detonation would be triggered. There will be a great light, Zhen imagined, and the banking, commercial, industrial, and government heart of Taiwan will be incinerated. Some two million enemy citizens will die as a single glorious blast ends the Chinese Civil War once and for all. There will be victory for the Communist Party, and General Zhen’s place in history and among the pantheon of great Chinese leaders will be assured. As the radioactive fallout blows harmlessly to sea, Mother China will then care for the hundreds of thousands of injured and dying Taiwanese. The island province will then be rebuilt, and China will finally be one. And I will be a hero. General Zhen cracked a devious smile.
In the sky over Songshan, Han put his Fighting Falcon into a gentle climb and then released the Paveway. It separated from the airplane and wobbled weightlessly. Tail fins sprang into position and the Paveway nosed down. Han rolled over, dumped chaff and flares, and then dove away. The Paveway’s laser detector spotted the laser beam that splashed the hangar wall, and the small onboard guidance computer matched and verified the laser’s coded pulse. The Paveway zeroed in on the invisible light and adjusted its silent fall. The Paveway broke through wispy clouds that hung over the airport.
Zhen slowly turned the bomb’s commit key. A green light illuminated on the control panel. Zhen cackled as he started typing the hydrogen bomb’s final arming code. A gust of wind came from above, shaking the hangar. Zhen looked up.<
br />
The Paveway pierced the hangar roof and entered, uninvited. Its ton of high explosives detonated and sparked the fueled airplane within. The hangar burst, and wall and roof panels blew away and fell as leaves caught in the wind. Crackles echoed as Chinese anti-aircraft batteries fired angrily and blindly into the clear afternoon sky.
Li and the American watched the fireball rising from the airport. Neither man realized how close they had come to a mushroom cloud rising over Taipei. Tired of violence, Li rubbed his eyes. He pictured his daughter and wife, and hoped the surgical strike would help end the war and get him home. Hoping the same, Captain Whidby methodically powered down the laser designator-rangefinder and began its disassembly.
“Thanks for your hospitality,” Whidby said.
“Do you think it will all be over now?” Li asked the American Marine.
“Chief Master Sergeant, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings –an American idiom,” Whidby answered with a wink.
◊◊◊◊
Despite one gimpy shaft, Liaoning’s turbines drove the giant to near 30 knots. On picket guard were the destroyers Harbin and Qingdao, the frigates Maanshan, Xiangfan, and Zigong, as well as several fast patrol boats. They formed a ring of protection around the Chinese aircraft carrier, training their anti-ship missiles on the horizon. Submarines #286 and #342 struggled to keep up with the battle group, but were still available to the Chinese admiral sitting high in Liaoning’s armored superstructure. One of the group’s JZY-01 radar planes reported in. It had detected surface contacts. The Chinese ships turned toward the enemy and reported the Americans’ position to the mainland
The People’s Liberation Army fired East Winds. The medium-range ballistic missiles were tasked to saturate the area ahead of the American warships in order to corral and channel them toward a freshly sown minefield. It was the admiral’s plan that, as the Americans absorbed mine and missile hits, shore- and carrier-based aircraft would finish them off.
◊◊◊◊
The horizon was colored twilight pink, even though the sky still showed shades of dark blue and gleamed with hanging stars. US Navy Task Force 24 had slowed for replenishment some 300 miles from the Chinese carrier battle group, and the oiler Yukon steamed alongside Ronald Reagan with wires and hoses strung between the two big ships. With the transfer of aviation fuel and supplies complete, this link was severed. Yukon peeled off and opened the distance. Rear Admiral Kaylo watched from Ronald Reagan’s flag bridge.
A sailor delivered a message: The US submarine California had encountered and engaged the Chinese carrier battle group 300 miles from Ronald Reagan’s current position. Kaylo knew his combat air patrol had just knocked down a Chinese maritime patrol aircraft as well. With the news from California, he was certain they would be having full-blown combat by lunchtime. He turned back to his planning table, which displayed small blue models that represented the ships of the Task Force. Ronald Reagan held the table’s center point. The old mariner leaned over them. Kaylo’s guided-missile ships—the frigate Thach; the destroyers Gridley, Mahan, and Winston S. Churchill; the cruiser Lake Champlain; and the littoral combat ship Fort Worth—were all arrayed around the supercarrier in a diamond formation. There were several green models on the table as well, at the table’s east side; they represented Essex and the other amphibious assault ships of the group. In addition, at the table’s northern edge lurked a small, blue submarine, Connecticut. The sub steamed at the forward edge of Kaylo’s armada. Then the American rear admiral found one last small blue model and picked it up. This one was shaped like a modern day Monitor: low to the waterline and with a faceted castle. It represented Kaylo’s newest warship, the stealth guided-missile destroyer Michael Monsoor. Kaylo placed Michael Monsoor next to Connecticut on the table as these two warships sailed on a special mission. He went to the window and peered at the big cruiser that steamed nearby.
Although his stateroom was nearby, just a few passageways away, Lake Champlain’s tactical action officer had fallen asleep in the combat information center, slumped at the table next to the radio monitor. Captain Ferlatto sat in CIC as well, sipping a cup of bug juice, the Navy’s neon version of fruit punch. He was about to wake the sleeping officer when a clattering printer did it for him. The tactical action officer jumped up, ripped the paper, and then wobbled. The sailors guffawed. The TAO smiled, blinked away sleep, and read.
“What’s up?” Ferlatto asked.
“Sir, Commander, Pacific Fleet has informed us of a Chinese missile launch. Initial plots have them splashing down in our neighborhood. We should be picking them up any second now.”
Rear Admiral Kaylo ordered Ronald Reagan to come about and double back on her course, and also notified the rest of the task force about the inbound enemy rockets. The ships of the task force spread out to give the supercarrier room and prepare for a coordinated wheeling maneuver. Ronald Reagan slowed down for the turn while Lake Champlain’s radar began to scrutinize the Chinese attack.
In the guided missile cruiser’s CIC, Aegis presented a frightening picture: lines extended from the belly of China and reached for the American task force. Each represented a ballistic missile track. Mesmerized by the scene, Captain Ferlatto stood.
“My goodness,” was all Ferlatto could muster.
“Sir, SM-3s assigned to the outer kill basket,” the tactical action officer told the captain. “Gridley and Mahan’s weapons have been slaved to Aegis.” The fire control station sported a block of green lights. Its technician called out: “Weapons ready.”
“Fire at will,” Ferlatto said. He was handed a telephone. The American rear admiral planned to reassemble the ships on the leeward side of the turn and land a few airplanes. Although Rear Admiral Kaylo and the task force currently played defense, he also held a dagger behind his back: the stealth destroyer Michael Monsoor.
Michael Monsoor steamed at high speed. Instead of riding the waves, her pointed tumblehome hull pierced and broke them over the weather deck. The foamy wash splashed her retracted deck guns. Half as big as the supercarrier, Michael Monsoor’s faceted hull absorbed and refracted radar. It sucked in seawater that then piped around the ship to cool engine exhaust and electromechanical systems, making Michael Monsoor nearly invisible in most of the spectrum. Riding shotgun 300 feet below Monsoor was another stealthy beast: the nuclear attack submarine Connecticut. Both American warships were tasked to outflank the Chinese group’s forward element and attempt to sneak up on Liaoning. A column of seawater erupted from atop Michael Monsoor’s black monolithic superstructure. Replacing bulky antennas, the water column pulled in transmissions from Lake Champlain. The report concerned Thach. Michael Monsoor’s captain read that rising mines had hit and damaged Thach, and Chinese ballistic missiles continued their advance on the task force. In Michael Monsoor’s bridge/combat information center, a sailor announced that Liaoning’s electronic emissions had been localized, and firing point procedures for the ship’s electromagnetic rail guns were set in motion.
Horizontal sea doors on Michael Monsoor’s forward gun vaults opened. Barrels rose from the stealthy containers.
“Two bells,” the fire control technician announced. “We’re charging now.” Electricity coursed into capacitors—some 40 megajoules—and two horns sounded. “Charge has stopped.” A video screen showed the stealth destroyer’s forward deck.
Michael Monsoor’s sea-search radar activated and fed targeting information to the fire control computer. The rail guns swung over. Stabilized by gyroscopes against the pitch and roll of the hull, the guns maintained a fixed point-of-aim. The gunner closed the firing circuit, and electricity shunted to magnets that lined the gun barrels. With no telltale flash, recoil, or report, both Michael Monsoor’s deck guns discharged in unison. The projectiles were already hypersonic when they departed the gun bores. They immediately found GPS’s precise positioning service and adjusted their flight paths accordingly. The guns discharged again. Two more projectiles were sent at the Chinese.
/> The frigate Xiangfan steamed at the outer edge of Liaoning’s defenses. Suddenly, something slammed into her forecastle and shook the ship to her keel. It pierced the forecastle’s steel and penetrated to an ammunition elevator. A deep rumble emanated from within Xiangfan. A massive explosive bulged and then ripped open her decks. Flame and smoke jetted to the sky. An accompanying torpedo boat skimmed over on hydrofoils. As it neared, it slowed and settled back into the water. Deckhands prepared to pluck several of the burning ship’s sailors from the sea. Chinese diesel-electric submarine #342 had surfaced, and watched through her periscope. Disgusted and filled with hatred and the desire for revenge, the submarine dove again and leveled out at 200 feet. 342’s introduction to Connecticut was not a pleasant one:
“Submarine. American. Seawolf-class. Torpedo in the water.” These were the last frantic words spoken aboard the Chinese submarine...
Meanwhile, moving at over 1,000 miles-per-hour, Lieutenant Pelletier pulled her Lightning II through 50,000 feet. She flew at the outer boundary of Ronald Reagan’s air defense zone with two Super Hornets flying lower and 20 miles behind her. Pelletier kept her radar off and instead pulled in data from the less stealthy Super Hornets. A beeping drew her attention downward, where several bogeys had shown up on the radar screen. They failed to return identification. Therefore, the computer immediately reclassified the bogeys as bandits, and listed their approach altitude, bearing, and speed.
Six of Liaoning’s Flying Sharks rushed the Super Hornets. The Chinese heavy fighters fired off Lightningbolts at extreme range. The Super Hornets then fired back with their AMRAAM air-to-air missiles. Pelletier added four of her own AMRAAMs to the Hornet’s counterstrike. The missiles streaked off. Their smoke and vapor trails lined the sky and crisscrossed as they headed toward their opposing targets. Pelletier hit the afterburner and maneuvered her Lightning II to get in behind the Flying Sharks. The Super Hornets continued their merge with the raiders and prepared for the imminent arrival of enemy missiles. Chaff bloomed behind both aircraft formations.
Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan Page 23
