He was perpetually aware that the ocean wanted in. With a muffled pop, the submarine’s alloy skin adjusted to changing sea pressure. Kun’s heart beat faster. Training and willpower were all that kept him from running to a hatch, and he took deep breaths to collect himself. Even though the air smelled like the submarine’s air filters, the extra oxygen helped Kun suppress the sensation that the hull contracted, squeezing him tighter and tighter. Environmental systems were one area that still needed work, he thought. His rational mind came back from that dismal place of fear. Kun dried his nose with a pocket kerchief. Although he had remained perfectly still during the anxious episode and projected a well-practiced collected façade all the while, he did not realize his chief officer had become aware of his unease. Captain Kun clasped his hands behind his back and meandered behind the submariners seated at the attack center terminals. Trained children, Kun thought as he patted one nervous young man on the back. Changzheng 6’s chief officer looked to a screen and cleared his throat.
“Sir,” the chief officer yelled, “The submarine is in position: 14.094 degrees north, 143.6572 degrees east.”
◊◊◊◊
The statue of President Abraham Lincoln looked pensively to the east, his unblinking gaze locked on the National Mall’s hazy distance, staring at the World War II Memorial and the Washington Monument. A gentle breeze danced across the Reflecting Pool, refreshing Jade and Richard, who shared a sandwich on the steps of the Memorial.
Jade’s university was close by. Richard worked even closer, so the couple often met for lunch here. They sat on the cool, white marble, and staked out part of the landing to eat the food Jade brought: sandwiches from home, or take-out. The meals had become a ritual of political debates, meddling in friends’ affairs, and soaking up the sun. This particular day was tropics-hot and oppressively humid, and with the Taiwan crisis, Jade and Richard had become especially grumpy.
“Taiwan is part of China,” Jade again proclaimed. “It’s even part of China’s extended continental shelf.”
“You’re right. It is Chinese. Just not authoritarian, totalitarian Chinese,” Richard replied. Rarely able to hold his tongue, even when he knew it would be best to do so, he rolled his eyes and took another bite. Probably why I ended up in the diplomatic corps, Richard weighed with a private smirk.
Jade huffed, but offered no riposte.
“It’s about political systems, not race,” Richard added, in hopes of ending this thread of the conversation. Knowing the effort had failed, he quickly took another bite of his sandwich.
“I hope we liberate the island,” Jade muttered passive-aggressively, drawing a sharp glare from her lover.
“Don’t you mean invade?” Richard retorted. He turned away, signaling he really did not want an answer, and looked to a group of schoolchildren that climbed toward the looming former president. Their children’s teacher began to read the Memorial’s bronze plaque aloud. He annunciated each word in his ‘best Lincoln:’ “Four score and seven years ago…”
“You cannot invade what is rightfully yours?” Jade pushed-back his hanging question. “And, as usual, you Americans will stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Oh, now I’m American? I thought I was just a lost Chinese. Anyway, the US belongs in the Pacific. We’ve earned the right,” Richard forced.
“The right?” she hissed.
“Stand on any Pacific beach, my darling, and the remains of our marines are beneath your sandy toes,” Richard replied with growing impatience. He wondered if their relationship would, or even could survive the so-called ‘Fourth Crisis.’ Until now, politics had been a thing of play between the couple. Suddenly, however, even though not unexpectedly, the topic had become as confrontational as the international mood. As much as Richard respected Jade, he saw her as he does most Chinese: insulated from reality by a government-controlled machine spewing propaganda under an Orwellian sham passed off as journalism. Despite living and studying abroad, Jade had promptly bought a satellite dish to pull in China Central Tele-Vision and shunned all other sources of news. Richard wondered how an otherwise academic mind could accept such one-sidedness. He blamed years of indoctrination, what he termed: ‘slavery of the mind.’ He sighed, took his last bite of lunch, and turned to view the enthusiastic teacher surrounded by a semi-circle of young students.
The teacher closed his mock Lincoln speech with, “…government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the Earth.”
Jade and Richard stopped talking, both staring blankly into the distance, and Richard looked to his watch. Even though he still had time to spare, he announced he had to get back to the office. Jade grabbed his sleeve to keep him with her.
“I’m sorry. Do you hate me?” she asked. Although she seemingly batted her eyelashes, her eyes reddened and swelled with tears.
“Do I hate you? No. We just need to be careful with this stuff. You know, agree to disagree. Otherwise…” he raised an eyebrow and put an arm around her.
“If there is war, your country will send me home,” she said resentfully, and swallowed the lump in her throat.
“If yours doesn’t call you back first,” Richard added. He shook his head, wishing his choice of words had been more compassionate. He sighed again and hugged Jade. Despite not really believing it, he continued, “There won’t be any war.” He kissed her and started down the Memorial steps. Time to get an early jump on his afternoon of work.
Richard cancelled their dinner date, so he could work late into the evening. The secretary of state had to brief the Senate Foreign Relations Committee on the origins of the Taiwan conflict. As specialists at CIA scrambled to organize, Richard had already established himself as the subject matter expert. Unknown to most, Richard’s ethnicity was Hakka, aboriginal Austronesians that had inhabited Taiwan long before the arrival of the Han Chinese. Like most Hakka, his blood was now mostly Han, but loyalties and knowledge of the unique island culture remained undiluted. He finished the report and headed for the secretary’s office.
Secretary of State Georgiana Pierce stood at the window, watching a cop ticket a car and a public works employee clearing a storm drain outside the Old Naval Observatory. Light from the early-evening street lighting subtly flickered and flooded the office through rain-spattered bulletproof windows. It added bluish highlights to the roundness of the secretary’s face. At Secretary Pierce’s wide back, the office was an eclectic mix of African idols and retro furniture. As the direct descendant of a slave, Pierce’s traced her family tree back to a man taken from the African port of Benguela to the American colonial dock auction at Charles Town.
His bill of sale hung on her office’s wall. Dated July 20, 1750, the framed document transferred ownership of the teenager, from a French ship captain to a local landowner, a Mr. Pierce. Tattered and yellowed, the document had taken money, time, and power to acquire. She was proud that, centuries later, the descendant of this slave now filled one of the world’s most important positions. While she could never know it, Secretary Pierce had the same big moist brown eyes as her ancestor. They had the same shape and glaze as the eyes of that scared boy who stood clapped in irons on the docks of the New World. Those old eyes could lull as the secretary’s rapier intellect and wit skewered. Her love of country and American history was matched only by a passion for Creole cooking, a hobby that had contributed to her girth. As she looked out at the west side of the capital, Pierce saw Richard reflected in the office window and smiled. He had recently completed a tour of the Pacific Rim in her company. This meant he had spent untold hours inside ‘the bubble’ of her political life. He had broken bread on Special Air Mission aircraft that whisked the secretary and her entourage around the globe where she walked the balance beam on behalf of the United States. Secretary Pierce wiped the smile from her face before turning to greet Richard.
Pierce went to a stainless carafe, poured a cup of coffee, and offered it to Richard. He accepted, and took the saucer by two
hands. He smiled with the realization that she had come to like him. Sipping the hot, black brew, Richard watched as she poured her own cup and added cream and sugar before stirring the concoction quietly. Pierce thanked Richard for staying late and for all his recent work. He blushed and muttered that he had already forwarded his notes to the Under Secretary for Political Affairs. She chuckled at his modesty, and then grew seriously quiet. Richard squirmed and sipped his coffee.
“I’ll be blunt. I was raised on Ivan the Terrible, not Ming the Merciless. I’m going to need you in my ear on this one,” she confided. Richard laughed.
“Ma’am, Ming the Merciless is the villain in Flash Gordon. But the Mings actually were a Chinese dynasty.” He giggled. However, he then saw it was time to answer properly. “Secretary Pierce, I appreciate your faith. I am at your disposal.”
“Good. Now, go home,” she said, and turned to the windowpane to again address the diplomatic chess game that played in her head. Richard got up to leave, and, hopefully, salvage what was left of an evening with Jade. “You know…” she said to the window.
“Yes?” Richard turned, but not sure he wanted her to continue.
“There were some who didn’t want to trust you with this one.” Her voice had grown husky. Richard had to think.
“Who? Why?” He replied, his voice cracking.
“Some. And, if you think about it, you already know the ‘why’ part.” She let that hang and fell quiet again. The rain took an ovation and tapped at her reflection. “Goodnight, now.”
Goodnight, ma’am,” Richard replied. As he walked down the hallway, past the portraits of former secretaries, Richard realized he knew the answer to the ‘why’ all too well.
◊◊◊◊
General Zhen sat before China’s president and the men of the Central Politburo of the Communist Party. His head was high, and his chin jutted like a shelf from between bulldog jowls. The president directed the supreme political body to vote. A majority of the hands went up, and Zhen’s was proudly among them. ‘Operation Red Dragon,’ the invasion of Taiwan, was on.
Zhen and several other non-permanent members were then dismissed. The general was last to leave the golden chamber. He strutted through the colorful mural-lined halls and snickered. Then, as he strutted farther from the guarded door, the snicker morphed into a gruff laugh.
2: RED DRAGON
“The art of war is of vital importance to the State. It is a matter of life and death, A road either to safety or to ruin.”—Sun Tzu
At Datong Air Base outside Beijing, Operation Red Dragon began just after midnight, local time. Two People’s Liberation Army Air Force H-6 Huan medium bombers held at the threshold of Datong’s main runway. Copies of Soviet Badgers, the twin-engine Chinese warplanes featured long, sleek fuselages with swept-back wings, and were painted off-white, with big, red pennant numbers just behind airliner-style cockpits. Massive red stars embellished the bombers’ tall empennages and declared for whom they fought, while tail cannons warned of a very painful sting. Ungainly birds, the Badgers sported double chins housing radar, huge air inlets at the shoulders, and antennae blisters covering the long, thin, tapering fuselages. Despite appearances, the formidable warplanes, when coupled with advanced standoff systems like the six bright red Dong Hai-10 ‘East Sea’ land-attack cruise missiles slung from each of the bomber’s wings, the Badgers proved as ferocious and sneaky as their namesake.
The cockpit radio crackled, and Datong’s controllers transmitted clearance for departure. The lead bomber’s young Chinese pilot shifted and looked to his copilot, who raised a bushy eyebrow in amazement. After being roused from sleep, they had found their bombers in the hanger, armed and fueled. The aircrews had asked questions as to the mission, and naturally assumed they were going to hit Taiwan. Over breakfast and guarded conversation, they guessed their target to be the Sky Spear missile base on Taiwan’s Dongyin Island, the installation that had fired at Fuzhou. Air Force General Piao had then arrived. He ended their meal and their suppositions with sealed codes and orders, and commanded them to go to their bombers. Hangar doors rolled open, and the old planes were kicked out of bed.
Taxiing in the moonless night, the Badgers rolled over the yellow chevrons of Datong’s runway blast area, and held at the threshold. With gloved hands, the lead Badger pilot gripped two big throttles and nudged them forward. Nestled where the wings met fuselage, two massive turbojets spooled up and shook the large airplane. The long runway’s green centerline and white edge lights shimmered in the rattling windscreen.
“Release brakes,” the pilot ordered. With a squeal, the Badger began to roll on its oversized tires. Even though encumbered by a heavy load of both fuel and weapons, the Chinese bomber accelerated quickly. Their speed increased. Marking the end of the runway, red lights appeared and drew nearer. The Badgers were loaded to slightly above maximum take-off weight, so the copilot anxiously watched the ground-speed indicator before announcing ‘V2’—take-off safety speed. The runway-end marker lights rushed at them, with the Badger still hugging the ground.
“We’re heavy. Pull back now,” the copilot urged, while tugging at his duplicate control column.
“Stop pulling. I am flying this airplane,” the pilot yelled. He had decided to get a bit more speed before rotating skyward. The nose wheel breached the runway-overrun area and the pilot pulled back, hard. The Badger’s main gear trucks approached the end of the strip. Beyond they could see only grass and a horizontal metal bar of marker lights. Just in time, the spinning tires left the ground. With hydraulics whining, they folded and tucked into the bomber’s belly. The doors sucked closed. The Badger was aerodynamically clean now and generated more lift. Blasting thick black ribbons of smoke, the lead Badger lumbered out as the second Chinese bomber began to roll.
The Badgers linked-up and banked south. They accelerated to 480 knots and climbed to 38,000 feet, just above standard commercial cruise altitude, and transmitted the electronic tags of passenger jets. The Chinese bombers settled into filed commercial flight-paths bound for Shanghai International Airport. Soon thereafter, both Badgers went electronically silent and dove toward the East China Sea.
The controller at Shanghai saw two transponders go dead on his radar screen. He rolled his chair to another display, where two blips reported rapidly decreasing altitude. He was about to call the airplanes, but his supervisor and a man showing military credentials told him to ignore the readout. The controller stammered for a moment, but complied when the military man’s eyes grew wide with warning.
With the Badgers now nose-down and shedding altitude fast, it took both pilots to pull each of the clumsy, fragile machines out of their dive. The plane was a hog at high-speed, barely answering frantic throttle and stick inputs, kicking and bucking all the while. They’ll bite you, too, if you’re not careful, the lead pilot thought as he felt his airplane trying to pitch over. He counteracted the force expertly. Chosen for their ability to control the Badgers, the Chinese aviators used radar altimeters to settle just 200 feet above pitch-black water and race east. Inside each cockpit, pilots opened their orders, revealing launch points and target coordinates. A somber quiet came over the Chinese aircrews.
In the windscreen, the rising sun outlined several islets on the horizon. The pilots used them to correct for deviation over the long-distance flight. The now-low altitude bombers screamed over a trawler, drawing curses from the deckhands tending their nets. They hoped they had not been recognized, or, worse, reported by these foreign fishermen. The lead Badger’s copilot flashed wing lights to tell his trailer they were nearing position.
In the bombers’ cockpits, tucked behind the flight crews, weapons officers played their instruments like mad musicians. They programmed and warmed up the load of East Sea land-attack cruise missiles. Now wing-to-wing, both Badgers began a slow, unified climb to 500 feet.
“Hurry, we’re visible,” the lead pilot said and shifted within the tight confines of his harness. The Badgers were as
stealthy as the Kremlin Church and had probably just appeared on radar screens across the region. The bombers shuddered as East Seas departed wing pylons and dropped into the slipstream. Booster packs ignited, pushed the missiles up to cruise speed, and, when burned out, fell to the sea. Then the East Seas’ stub wings deployed, inlets opened, turbofans started with a belch of black smoke, and small satellite dishes in the nose sniffed for signals. The American Global Positioning System and European Galileo constellations were now limiting their standard positioning services over the western Pacific, so the East Seas instead found the Chinese Compass and Russian Global Navigation Satellite systems. The twelve Chinese land-attack cruise missiles now knew where they were, where they were going, and the path of avoidance to get there. Their faceted skin, draped in radar-absorbent material, made them nearly undetectable. The East Seas sprinted away. Relieved of their load, the Badgers turned back. One of the cruise missiles malfunctioned and tumbled into the pink sea, but the rest of the swarm flew on.
◊◊◊◊
A leviathan traversed Pacific deeps, the Chinese nuclear attack submarine Changzheng 6, nearing the end of her long march. Captain Kun had taken Changzheng 6 from China’s Hainan Island, past a Vietnamese patrol, and out into the Philippine Sea. Steaming just above crush depth, the submarine’s hull groaned with strain. Give me the heaving, nauseating surface over this silent, steady crush, Kun thought. The other half of his brain surveyed the panorama of instruments indicating Changzheng 6’s health. A pressure tone resonated through the submarine’s metal bones. Kun’s eyelids twitched. Worrying the tic was perceptible, and in an attempt to hide it, the captain gulped the last of his jasmine tea to block his face with the clay cup. Then he cleared his throat.
Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan Page 4