China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  Donna blushed slightly at the attention, “Thank you sir, I like the extra work; it’s a challenge and I appreciate your confidence in me.” Donna didn’t know whether to be thankful for the return to her “normal” work routine or to be upset that her boss may have recommended a career-limiting reduction in her responsibilities. She set her jaw, “Still, if it’s all the same with you gentlemen, I’d rather continue working with the Indonesia team.”

  “No,” Mr. Scott said firmly, “I think the worst is over. China is now a part of the UN peace enforcement mission. You provided great insight on their motivations and their troop quality and strength. If you have anything to contribute to the team, you know where to find them.”

  That was final, Donna thought, no use fighting it.

  “Say, while I have the two of you here, what is going on with China these days?” Donna’s question was upbeat. “I was looking at our quarterly estimates of Chinese military strength near Taiwan over a period of three years and I was surprised to see a large and steady increase over time with an almost doubling of combat power during the spring quarter.”

  Jack Benson jumped in immediately, “Oh Donna, what are they going to do? Invade? Kill the goose that laid the golden egg for them? That Cold War paranoia thinking of yours has got to go—you don’t want us to be ridiculed again by overestimating our potential foes, do you?”

  Bradley Scott looked down at Benson, almost frowning, “Jack. . .”

  Benson looked back at Scott. The large, black, former Marine made an imposing presence. Scott was a self-made leader and analyst among an ivy-league dominated band of mostly privileged white people. If Scott made him uncomfortable, he didn’t know what to think of Donna Klein—a young, single female, beautiful, Jewish, brash—very atypical for a Company analyst. “Brad, Donna and I had this conversation a week ago. I think her belief that the Chinese might invade borders on an obsession. It’s clouding her ability to be objective. . .”

  Donna was furious. She held her reply to a low growl, “Look, Mr. Benson, just because one of your analysts doesn’t go along with the all the group think crap about China just wanting to get rich doesn’t mean her thinking is impaired. I thought independent thought was supposed to be valued around here.”

  One of Donna’s older male co-workers was heading for the coffee pot. He heard Donna reply, quickly turned on his heel, and retreated to his cubical.

  No matter what Mr. Scott claims to think now, that bastard Benson just planted a seed of doubt. For the first time since joining the CIA, Donna was seriously considering resigning.

  Mr. Scott began his soothing best, “Donna,” he said stretching out his hands, his right hand still clutching his coffee mug, “your analysis is always appreciated around here. Just take it easy. Take into account the prevailing wisdom in your reports—remember, it’s not enough for an analyst to be right, an analyst must also convince his or her audience too. If you’re correct and nobody believes you, that’s not much use to anyone, now is it?”

  Donna first shot a piercing glance at Benson, then looked at Mr. Scott, “No sir, it isn’t.”

  18

  Dragon Flight

  The cruise ship was the pride of COSCO. It normally carried some 2,300 passengers in complete comfort from Amoy to Japan twice a week.

  The ship’s captain was shocked when six health inspectors from the Maritime Safety Administration of the Ministry of the Interior showed up on the 15th and inspected his potable water tanks. “You have harmful bacteria,” they said. “For the health and safety of your passengers, you must cancel the trips leaving Amoy today for Japan and the return trip from Japan on the 17th as well as the trip back out to Japan on the evening of the 19th.” The captain had no choice but to comply. “Don’t worry, the state will refund your passengers and provide them with discount coupons for travel.”

  Their next order was even more curious. “You must immediately make for Fuzhou. There you will contact the harbor master and arrange to dock at Quay 103 by July 16th at 0300 hours. There, your ship’s tanks will be thoroughly disinfected. Under no circumstances will you be late.”

  The captain knew the men meant what they said—they left one man behind to ensure total compliance.

  The chief ferryboat captain was puzzled. On July 18, a team of five inspectors from something called the “Ministry of the Interior Maritime Safety Administration” had just given his boat a thorough going over. He suspected they wanted a bribe. He wouldn’t give it to them, of course, his boat, like most others in the area, was half owned by the Guangdong Military District. He was even more perplexed when the leader of the five men congratulated him for having such a well-maintained vessel. The last mystery these strange men left were special instructions from the Ministry of the Interior regarding two men who would present themselves at his boat tomorrow. He and his crew were to do everything they ordered without question.

  The master of the COSCO dry bulk carrier was proud of his modern vessel. Normally he carried tin ore from Thailand to be smelted and refined in Chinese factories and used eventually in his country’s burgeoning electronics industry.

  A few weeks ago, however, he received orders to go to Shantou Harbor to undergo minor modifications—modifications that appeared as if his ship was being outfitted to carry livestock.

  Questions as to his ship’s future went unanswered. When his paycheck arrived as usual, he just shrugged and figured COSCO knew what they were doing. Perhaps the market for imported beef is improving and I will be sent to Australia more often—now that’s a pleasant run!

  The pilot from the Mainland had worked for Cathay Pacific Airways for only a year. Since the re-absorption of Hong Kong back into China in 1997, Mainlanders were often placed in key positions within Hong Kong companies.

  With his Mainland ties came also a strong and loyal connection to the Communist Party. When a special request from a well-placed source came into the chief scheduler, there was little concern. The pilot from the Mainland had been flying daily between Hong Kong and Chiang Kai-Shek International in Taiwan all this week anyway, so postponing his time off by a day would make little disruption to the schedule board. The unusual part of the request was that the pilot was to fly with a new copilot, also from China proper. The new man hadn’t even had his entry paperwork completed yet, but the well-connected source insisted on his making the flight.

  * * *

  The PLA conscript almost looked forward to his time in the army. Everyone had to do it, at least for three years (well, the local Party boss’ son disappeared for a few years when he turned 18, somehow the private knew that son missed the draft). Anyway, joining the Army offered a chance to see a part of China other than his mud-paved village where there were to be seen more pigs and chickens in the street than bicycles and cars.

  And now, rousted from his bunk in the middle of the night by the bellowing platoon sergeant, he was headed to the mysterious port city of Shantou. He’d only been there once before, completely amazed by its wealth: motorcycles, cars, nice clothing—even cellular phones.

  The soldier’s platoon-mates, each loaded down with 30 kilograms of gear, completely packed the bus. There were two men to a seat. Each with their rifle in between their knees, except for private Hufang who cradled a 18 kilogram AGS-17 30mm automatic grenade launcher and the four others, sight unseen, who had the unfortunate luck to be lugging the RPD 7.62mm squad light machine gun.

  He noticed thick black cloth taped over all the windows save the driver’s. Fortunately, since he was one of the last soldiers on the bus he got to sit near the front and the only view.

  After 30 minutes of driving, the platoon sergeant stood up. He fiercely gritted his teeth and said in a low rumble, “Get quietly out of this bus and form up on me, not a sound from any of you.”

  The 19-year-old struggled to get up, get his pack, and get outside. He jumped off the bus and quickly trotted over to where his platoon sergeant was standing.

  Behind the platoon sergeant wa
s a smooth wall, perhaps about 20 meters away, somewhat reddish looking in the ambient city light. The soldier hazarded a glance over his shoulder and noticed a six-meter high wall of corrugated metal some ten meters behind him.

  As the platoon formed up, he looked straight ahead again, then followed the wall up and up until he noticed some unusual poles or booms jutting out from the wall. Sweeping his gaze swiftly to the right he realized that this was no wall at all in front of him, it was a gigantic ship of some sort. The immenseness of it held him in awe.

  The platoon sergeant firmly but softly called the platoon to attention, ordered right face, then file to the left march. First squad stepped out single file, crisply turning left one at a time, following the platoon sergeant up a ramp and into the massive ship.

  The first thing he sensed was the smell: oily, dusty, rusty. A few steps more and the private pushed through what must have been another hatch. This time noise assaulted him: the echoes of his own platoon were almost deafening. His feet crunched the floor underneath him. The floor was covered with rocks and dust. Someone ahead lost his footing and the young private fell over him in a tumble. Both men swore—but not too loudly, the platoon sergeant was easy to wrath.

  After 15 minutes of standing in the dark, the private heard the sounds of another unit entering the ship. The platoon sergeant yelled to his men above the confusion, “See my red light?” The platoon sergeant held aloft his flashlight with a red lens on it. It glowed eerily in dusty hold. “Gather around it closely. Sit down. You may drink water. You may not smoke.” The sergeant’s voice grew uncharacteristically soft, “Try to sleep.”

  With that, the first year conscript from Manchuria sat down on a pile of rocks in the dark and tried to get some sleep.

  * * *

  Fu Zemin read the telegram and rocked back in his chair. His father Fu Mingjie had been shot to death in a small village in Lipu! The bandit that did the deed was already dead, captured and executed by the local authorities. In addition, more than 100 suspected accomplices were also rounded up and were being questioned at the Lipu County Jail.

  Fu thought of his privileged childhood in rural Lipu County. He and the other children of high-ranking Party officials had a special school. Later, he was sent off to Beijing to study and only came home to see his father once a year (although, at times, his father came to see him when he had business in Beijing).

  Fu couldn’t fathom why anyone would harm his father. The county had grown and prospered under his stewardship. Oh, he knew there were some malcontents that somehow escaped the excesses of the Cultural Revolution of the 60s, but these reactionaries were few and discredited.

  Fu began mourning—his father was dead. He would never live to see Fu’s rise. Never share in his son’s glory. He crumpled the telegram to his face and shed a tear.

  It was July 19th. Evidently the Party knew about this crime for a few days. Given his current classified assignment and the routing of the telegram through Beijing, it probably took a while before the authorities could track him down.

  He reflected on all his father had done for him. Providing him with the best education. Supplementing his modest income with generous gifts. Opening doors for him with the Party. His father invested in him, just like he invested in Lipu County. For his father, Fu was the future of China.

  Fu pulled himself together. He had to be at Admiral Wong’s morning situation briefing in five minutes. The invasion of Quemoy would commence in less than 24 hours. There would be last minute glitches, of course, but Fu was confident they would all be overcome.

  He could not grieve for his father now—that would have to wait until after success. And what better way to memorialize my father than to begin the process which will bring the wayward province back into the fold and make China whole again?

  Fu pushed back his chair and got up. The command bunker outside Amoy was spacious and well apportioned. Expanded over the years, the PLA knew the bunker would someday be used in actions to retake Taiwan. He looked at himself in the mirror he had installed on the back of his door and spent a few seconds grooming himself and admiring the view. His eyes were still a little red from crying moments ago, but his glasses obscured the view enough that no one would notice. No one would dare look that closely at me anyway.

  The briefing room was just down the hall. Admiral Wong’s chief-of-staff, a Lieutenant General in the PLA, was standing behind the podium, ready to begin the briefing. The general was always punctual—he never delayed a briefing for anyone—anyone with the exception of Admiral Wong.

  Admiral Wong walked into the room and sat down. Fu sat to his right. The chief-of-staff began. “Let me begin by saying that all key preparations continue on schedule.

  “The weather conditions should continue to be acceptable for amphibious operations. The heavy rain predicted for Taiwan next week may curtail some of the enemy’s flights while the fairly clear and mild conditions over the offshore islands will work to our favor. Meteorological factors are especially favorable for our planned use of chemical agents.

  “Now, then, the enemy situation. Taiwan shows no signs of moving additional forces to Quemoy. They currently have five full strength infantry divisions on the island. In addition, they have a battalion of light armor, an advanced rocket artillery battalion, and a Patriot air defense battalion. We estimate enemy strength at 43,000.

  “Friendly forces continue their orderly build-up and logistics activities. The 71st, 73rd and 85th Infantry Divisions are now in place opposite Quemoy. The 101st Artillery Regiment of the 10th Artillery Division is now occupying concealed firing positions within range of Quemoy. The 3rd Mechanized Infantry Division and the 10th Tank Division, less one regiment, are in their assembly areas around Fuzhou. By tomorrow, additional amphibious assets with arrive in the area capable of lifting one of these heavy divisions into combat per day.

  “Our deception plan continues on schedule as well. The 37th Infantry Division from the 12th Group Army has successfully positioned itself in Fuzhou. This division traveled during daylight and made no attempt to conceal its movement or its heavy equipment. We intend it to dilute the Taiwanese focus on Quemoy by making them think the 37th has been moved into position to reinforce an effort to take Matsu Island.

  “Our operational plans continue unchanged. We expect to begin the assault with a bombardment of Quemoy Island and Hsiao Quemoy Island on the morning of July 20th at 0800 hours. We will use rocket-delivered chemical munitions as well as high explosive, delayed fuse HE, and dual-purpose improved conventional munitions in the bombardment. We expect to draw counter battery fire at which point we will begin to eliminate the enemy’s artillery in a counter battery duel. The amphibious force of 7,500 troops of 73rd Infantry Division supported by the 103rd Tank Regiment of the 10th Tank Division will begin the invasion of Quemoy at 0810 hours.

  “Supporting the operation will be 1,600 aircraft of the PLAAF. We will not directly engage the islands’ air defenses, but rather will fly to the east of the islands and interdict any enemy aircraft that sortie from Taiwan. We can easily maintain air superiority in these waters at acceptable rates of exchange. Once our artillery knock out the air defenders on Quemoy, we will then move our air power into a direct support role.

  “That summarizes the current situation. Should any of you commanders or senior staff have questions at this point, ask them now so that others may benefit. If the question truly only applies to your unit, we may choose to the answer the question later, after this briefing ends.”

  Fu looked past the chief-of-staff and sought the solace of his own world. In a day he would be a hero or a fool. Perhaps it was better Father didn’t live to see this day. . .

  19

  Eagle Flight

  Lieutenant Colonel Dan Alexander, California Army National Guard, reviewed the deployment schedule one more time. So many things to do, so little time. He cleared his head. On the verge of spending more than seven months in-country and it comes down to a mad rush to pack.


  Alexander, XO of Task Force Grizzly, was activated for Indonesian peacekeeping duty along with more than 2,000 of his fellow Golden State Guardsmen some two months before. He would soon board the massive C-17 Globemaster with his M-1 tank Traveller and spend the better part of the next 24 hours flying to Bandung, Indonesia, scene of some of the most vicious ethnic and religious violence in that troubled nation.

  After linking up with the Pakistani battalion at the airport, Alexander’s advance party would send an “all clear” to Ft. Polk (where the Guardsmen trained up for six weeks) signaling the clearance to begin flying in the rest of Task Force Grizzly on giant C-5 Galaxies.

  The flight to Indonesia would begin mid-day Thursday. The first leg would take the advance party non-stop to Elmendorf AFB in Alaska. One in-flight refueling would enable the four heavily laden Globemasters to make it to Alaska. On Friday morning at about 0400 hours, the four Globemasters would take off, graze the Aleutian Island chain, cross the international date line, refuel north of Japan, refuel again southwest of Okinawa, then land, 14 hours later, in Bandung Indonesia.

  The jet lag for the last portion of the flight would be tough. In 14 hours of flight they’d lose a day but chase the sun the entire way, landing at 1000 hours on Saturday in Indonesia. As he always did on military aircraft, Dan planned to sleep as much as possible.

  As he repacked his duffel bag (one of two), Dan reflected on his opinion of the deployment. In the intensity of training and preparing for the mission he hadn’t the time or the luxury to think of why he was going—why he was leaving his wife and children behind and letting his private law practice die on the vine. Dan knew the mission had a noble intent. What he doubted was that there would be any lasting impact from his efforts. They’d keep a lid on the killing while they were deployed, but eventually, America would lose patience or be called elsewhere to execute a more pressing mission. In the end, Dan knew he would be risking life and limb and financial hardship for nothing. He thought about the people who ordered him on this mission, I wonder if they know what they’re doing to the military? The force that won the Cold War and defeated the fourth largest army in the world with an intense air campaign and 100 hours of fighting on the ground is slowly being ground to dust by the strain of constant deployments—Heaven help us if a real enemy emerges in the next few years.