Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “Flankers now 10 miles out. They’re supersonic,” Han told his friend.

  “Let’s get them, major,” Han’s wingman had also tasted the poison of loss.

  “AMRAAMs,” Han responded. The Taiwanese selected their advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles. The computer locked them onto targets. “My lead,” Han said. “Pam One: Fox Three.” He squeezed the stick’s trigger and the Fighting Falcon shook. The large air-to-air missile flashed from beneath the wing and raced into the orange sky on puffy smoke. Then just a dot, and then a silent fireball expanded and contracted in the distance. Smoking debris fell from within its fury, and a rolling smoke ring rose above. One down, three to go, Han counted. The Taiwanese light warplanes dashed at the Chinese heavy ones. They merged at a combined 2,000 miles-per-hour.

  “Take them down the left,” Han ordered. “We’ll turn in tight. Stay with me.”

  The enemy jets appeared, dots at first that quickly grew to intimidating silhouettes. Han heard the wind they drove, and then the fearsome roar of big, angry engines. As the Chinese Flankers approached and passed, time and speed slowed for Han. He made out the Flanker’s unique nose, the red star on the pilot’s white helmet, and the enemy jet’s wide shoulders and rear radar housing that poked from between twin-engines and tails. Violent buffeting snapped Han back, his chest vibrating from the powerful thrust. Han banked into the turn. The G-force meter shot up to nine, and the suit inflated. “Ten G’s.” Han’s view of the instruments went hazy and started to tunnel. Through distant echoes, he heard his wingman’s repeated request to slacken the turn. Han backed off, clearing his vision in time for a cognitive glance at the radar. A wheel of airplanes turned in the sky, and the little Taiwanese fighter-bombers gained position. One of the three Flankers split off and dove.

  “Stay with these two,” Han ordered. However, it was too late. His wingman had been tempted out of position. “Gan,” Han swore and kept his Fighting Falcon with the two Flankers. The Chinese cut in hard and wobbled as their low-camber wings stalled. An explosion and a hail of bits pitter-pattered on Han’s canopy.

  “Pam Two?” Realization came instead of an answer: his wingman—his friend—had just died. In that distracted moment, the Flankers popped speed brakes and slowed down so fast that Han almost flew right between them. Han instead threw the Fighting Falcon away. Although ramming the enemy might be effective, it was his job to live long enough to send at least 15 Chinese pilots into the afterlife. With his two wingmen dead, that responsibility now became 45. A midair collision seemed less acceptable than racking up such numbers, Han supposed. Too close to use the cannon, Han relaxed the turn to gain some distance. He looked to the infrared-guided Sky Sword air-to-air missiles mounted on his wingtips, and made computer inputs to wake them up. A glowing green crosshair appeared in the heads-up display, and an anxious trill flooded the cockpit. Han maneuvered and centered the floating reticle on the silhouette of a Flanker. The trill changed to a solid tone as the Sky Sword acquired the enemy’s hot engines.

  “Pam One. Fox One.” The Sky Sword streaked off to take a swing at the heavy fighter. Han saw the Flanker fold in half. Its rear fuselage separated and exploded as the canopy blew off the tumbling forward section. With the cockpit coming apart around him, the Chinese pilot ejected and parachuted into the Taiwan Strait over which the dogfight had wandered. With one Flanker left in his windscreen, Han wondered about the one he could not see. “Where are you?” he asked aloud. Han selected his last air-to-air missile. It locked and begged for release. Han pulled the trigger and the missile was a shooting star in the purple sky. Firing and forgetting, Han dropped the Fighting Falcon’s nose and hit the afterburner. He had to quickly regain his airspeed. Speed was life.

  The missing Flanker landed on Han’s six—it fell in behind his tail—and sent a spurt of cannon fire that whipped by. Han evaded and cornered at a high bank angle, came around, and saw the big Flanker again. Its engines were torch blue in the night sky. Han jerked the nose up to an extreme angle-of-attack, fired his own cannon, and sent sparkling tracers at his foe. The Fighting Falcon swayed in its unnatural position, its thin wing no longer generating lift. A whooping filled the cockpit. Then a female electronic voice affectionately known as 'Bitching Betty' announced the stall. The Fighting Falcon spun and toppled hard, slamming Han against the canopy. He purposely released the side stick and let the avionics take over. Several disorienting pitches and yaws, and the Fighting Falcon automatically recovered and returned to level flight. Han grabbed the stick and took back authority.

  There was a near flash. A Chinese Thunderclap—a dangerous heat-seeker based on stolen Israeli and Russian technology—was on the loose. Han dropped flares to offer an alternative to the Fighting Falcon’s hot engine and leading edges. Then he spotted his adversary on radar. He craned his neck to the twinkling stars, caught the Flanker’s silhouette among them, backed off the throttle and dove. The Thunderclap ignored the string of hot flares and chose instead to snuggle with the warm Fighting Falcon.

  “Pull up. Terrain,” Bitching Betty expressed with her monotone synthetic voice. Han saw the black ocean. “Pull up. Terrain,” Betty repeated. The altimeter spun toward zero. Han yanked the airplane out of the dive and dropped flares like turds of fright. The Thunderclap followed unerringly. Han pumped more flares and jerked the airplane into a plumb ascent, his slamming into the back of the seat. He felt his midsection flatten as his organs squirmed and oozed into new gravity-induced shapes. Han rolled the Fighting Falcon and looked down. The red streamer of missile thrust continued toward his falling flares. He watched as, one-by-one, the flares snuffed in the sea. The Thunderbolt’s tail fire disappeared as it impacted the water. Shifting from defense to offense, Han changed radar modes for a broad sweep and found the Flanker watching from a cloud perch on high.

  Detecting Han’s radar, the Flanker locked its own on the Fighting Falcon, and swooped back in. Han put his nose on the enemy. A spear of flame erupted from the Fighting Falcon and a ribbon of tracers reached for the Flanker. The Chinese warplane jerked away in a barrel roll, escaping the stream of explosive bullets. Approaching from behind, another airplane appeared on Han’s radar.

  “Pam One. Bo Two. On your six,” the radio crackled. An identification friend or foe code identified the radar blip as friendly. The Chinese pilot was now outnumbered—an unfamiliar and uncomfortable first—and bugged-out due west. Han realized he was soaked with sweat and shaking. He shifted in the restraints. Like its optical illusion namesake, a Mirage 2000 belonging to the 499th’s Cobras appeared beside Han’s Fighting Falcon.

  “Nice to see you, Bo Two,” Han transmitted.

  “Proceed to ALS 260.” The Mirage driver was all business. He has lost friends today, too, Han understood, all too well.

  “Your lead,” Han acknowledged. Han settled the Fighting Falcon behind his compatriot, and they both turned east toward their alternate landing strip, a six-lane highway that ran down the middle of Taiwan.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Secretary Pierce shivered in what she called ‘the tomb,’ her dedicated bunker deep beneath the Truman Building. Fourth in line for presidential succession, hers was one of many fortresses under the American capital. From this continuance of government shelter, the secretary communicated with leadership and her ambassadors, embassies, and consulates around the world. Pierce adjusted her colorful blazer against the chill. The secretary of defense and the national security advisor were before her on a video screen. She leaned across the table to adjust the small camera and microphone.

  “Better?” she asked the screen. The secretary of defense nodded. Carrying papers, Richard Ling entered the bunker. He took a seat far enough away to remain off camera.

  “Secretary Tillison. Dr. Westermark,” Pierce greeted the men. “How are the Taiwanese holding up?”

  “The Chinese have air superiority over the Strait, but most of Taiwan’s air force has survived the first blows,” the secretary of defense initiated.


  “Are we helping?” Pierce prodded. The national security advisor jumped in to explain that, with damaged air bases on Guam and Okinawa and the George Washington carrier strike group out of action, the options for assisting Taiwan had become quite limited. “How long to get Andersen and Kadena cleaned up?” Pierce asked. The secretary of defense responded that engineers were repairing the runways, and they would be reopened in about five hours.

  “The Chinese could hit them again, though,” the secretary of defense said, lifting both eyebrows. He then, more cheerfully, added that the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit was departing Japan, and that all available fast-attack submarines were being surged into theater.

  “How’s the GW?” the national security advisor inquired.

  “Afloat.” Defense gave the short answer, before elaborating that George Washington was combat-ineffective, unable to do what she did best. He said the supercarrier had made it to Manila, and Mobile Diving & Salvage Unit One had flown in to crawl over her from stem to stern. GW’s escorts—the cruiser, destroyers, frigate, and submarine—had since formed the new Task Force 16. Although two littoral combat ships—agile, stealthy, corvette-sized surface combatants—had since headed out of Singapore to join them, these paltry ships represented the only American naval assets currently near Taiwan. Pierce and the national security advisor shook their heads in disbelief, and the secretary of defense rubbed bushed eyes. “On top of all this great news, the Chinese are massing ground forces along the Taiwanese Strait, as well as near Xinjiang and Tibet,” he added.

  “They’re making sure the Indians don’t get any fancy ideas,” Pierce offered.

  “Georgie, is this little island chain worth starting a world war over?” the national security advisor asked Secretary Pierce, as his digital image tiled and flickered.

  “It is,” Pierce declared. “Taiwan is a democracy. China is a dictatorship. This is not about cheap products or tiptoeing around a creditor. We have fought many times to do what is right by our beliefs and values. Isn’t that so, Dr. Westermark?” she asked the grandson of a Holocaust survivor. Richard watched intently, more impressed with her than ever. He had had his doubts when the new administration had come to town and appointed an old political ally to head America’s diplomatic corps. Although, now, watching Secretary Pierce get all fired up and hearing the passion in her arguments, he realized she was no simple crony. Both men smiled on the video screen.

  “Okay, okay,” the national security advisor conceded. “Glad you’re on our side, Madam Secretary.” Knowing her department’s stance was clear, Pierce informed her colleagues that the Japanese had decided to sit this one out, and officially viewed the attack on Kadena Air Force Base as an attack on American soil. Their ambassador, however, had iterated his government’s policy of allowing combat operations to be launched from Japanese air and maritime space.

  “Good.” The secretary of defense welcomed the news of Japan’s acquiescence. “Taiwan needs airpower. If China dominates Taiwanese airspace, the cost of us getting back in there goes up. Anything more from State?”

  “Yes, but only by other means,” Pierce responded sternly. The men nodded understanding.

  “Right then…” On the video screen, a Pentagon emblem replaced the secretary of defense, and VC-25B’ centered on color bars took the place of the national security advisor, ending the teleconference.

  3: CENTERS OF GRAVITY

  “Let your plans be as dark as night, then strike like a thunderbolt.”—Sun Tzu

  Richard strolled to Jade’s school, hoping to make up for lost time. He planned to surprise her outside class and treat her to lunch at the campus café where they could smooth things over.

  Richard peeked through the little window on the classroom’s door. Attentive students filled the amphitheater’s lecture hall. One sneaked out a few minutes early, and Richard put his foot in the door to listen.

  “…Renaming Taiwan ‘Takasago Koku’—Highland Nation—Japanese rule of the island waffled from oppressive to paternal, and then plagued by resistance and violence,” the professor orated. Like many Asians, the professor harbored ill memories of Japanese wartime behavior. His voice trembled momentarily, revealing his latent hatred. “During the Second World War the Imperial Navy home-ported the South Strike Group on Taiwan. With America, China, and the other Pacific allies finally pushing the Japanese back to their home islands, the Imperial garrison surrendered to Chiang Kai Shek and his Nationalists in 1945. With the common enemy defeated, Communist and Nationalist Chinese immediately fell back to fighting each other, reigniting the interrupted Chinese Civil War. Since no official Chinese government existed to legally claim or administer Taiwan, the territory was placed under American stewardship. The Treaty of San Francisco--” The hall bell cut the professor off. Released from the gate like spirited race horses, a throng of young people erupted from the classroom and into the hallway. Richard flattened himself against the cold, brick wall to protect himself from the human swarm. Not seeing Jade’s shiny black hair among the bobbing heads, he peeked back inside the room.

  Jade stood at the professor’s podium, where she accepted a padded envelope that she nonchalantly tucked into her purse. Feeling Richard’s gaze, she turned. Jade did not exhibit the look of innocent joyful surprise. Instead, Richard realized, she was startled. Jade collected herself, pasted a smile on, and thanked the professor.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, as she went to Richard.

  “I thought we could get some lunch,” Richard said, eying the professor who now erased the day’s lecture notes from the whiteboard. Jade walked one step ahead and kept speed walking. Richard followed.

  “What, are you boinking your teacher?” he half-joked. She stopped and turned. As usual, his joke had fallen flat. He thought their incompatible sense of humor was cultural, but she thought he was just a rude American. “Can I buy you something to eat?” Richard tried again.

  “Sure, Dick.”

  ◊◊◊◊

  In the early morning and stillness of dark at China’s Jinan Air Base, three thousand Chinese paratroopers marched on the flight line.

  “I-erh, I-erh,” they counted, one-two, one-two. The men belonged to the 43rd Airborne Division, an elite formation that traced its proud heritage back to the Korean War’s Battle of Triangle Hill. General Zhen presided over the awesome congregation, standing on a command vehicle. The base’s commander sat in its driver’s seat.

  Like a proud father watching three thousand sons, Zhen surveyed his tools for victory. Proudly, he returned salutes as they passed. The men of the 43rd were destined for Taipei’s Songshan Airport. Other airborne divisions would drop on Chiang Kai Shek International Airport as well as other smaller airfields that dotted the Taiwanese capital and its outskirts. Once these strategic positions were in Chinese hands, Taiwan’s entire 6th Army will be pinned, Zhen thought. Then the airborne divisions would break out and seize control of the island’s northern third. Zhen smirked and nodded. A sniveling emanated from the otherwise silent ranks, disturbing the general’s mental machinations.

  Zhen looked to the base commander, who called for the formation to halt. Zhen jumped from the vehicle, wearing a concerned look and, pushing through the phalanx, moved for the sound. He closed in on the racket, hearing other men as they urged the culprit to stop. The sniveling became a sniffling mumble. Finding the source of the disturbance among the engineers, Zhen pulled the young man from the line.

  “What is it, my boy?” The general put his arm around the young man with the boyish face. Zhen felt the teenager tremble.

  “I have family where we are going,” the engineer pleaded.

  “Oh oh oh, yes, yes, I understand,” the general pulled the dissenter in tight as he drew a pistol with his free hand. In a fluid motion, he placed the gun beneath the engineer’s jaw and discharged it with a loud report. Despite the bang and grotesque spray, the other men stood perfectly still. Zhen removed a handkerchief, wiped brain matter and fluid
s from an adjacent paratrooper’s face, pocketed the bloody mess, and returned to his vehicle. He climbed up and scanned the ranks, studying the men with a remorseless scowl. This lesson had been well learned, Zhen ruminated. He yelled at a passing tractor driver to clear the body from his sight. The aircraft technician, visibly shaken by the strange order, went about lifting and transporting the warm corpse. General Zhen nodded to the base commander, who ordered preparations to proceed. Zhen crossed his arms and watched the renewed dance of men and machines. He returned his concentration to Operation Red Dragon:

  The 43rd Division was tasked to fly south and form up with the 44th and 45th over the Chinese coast at Wenzhou. The entire 15th Airborne Corps would then meet its escort of fighter-bombers—glossy dark-grey delta-winged J-10 Vigorous Dragons. The Vigorous Dragons would spearhead the transports, clear the sky of any last Taiwanese fighters, and attack remaining drop zone air defenses. General Zhen cracked a crooked grin.

  Paratroopers lined up at the rear cargo ramps of big propeller-driven An-12 Cubs. The division’s light tanks, airmobile artillery pieces, and infantry fighting vehicles drove into the bellies of voluminous Il-76 Candids—strategic transports with hunched, swept-wings, four big turbofans, towering T-tails, and noses freckled with observation windows. Zhen squirmed with excitement. Despite his age and political status, the general had convinced the Politburo to let him join the division’s second wave into the drop zone. Ignoring the risk, General Zhen insisted his place was with the soldiers of the republic where he could lead from the front to instill courage, discipline, and morale. His bravado inspired the old men that ran the country, who then gave reluctant support.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Senior Master Sergeant Li’s breakfast was a boxed meal-ready-to-eat. He noted with ironic amusement that it had been manufactured in the People’s Republic of China. Finishing the MRE, he considered the cigarette it included. Li stood, stretched, and exited Hill 112’s command bunker to smoke. A passing airman gave him a light. The Chinese tobacco was stale; it popped and hissed with each draw. This was the first cigarette Li had had in months, and it made his heart pound and throat sting. Li surveyed what was left of his air defense site.