Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “How are things with your girlfriend?” Secretary Pierce asked. Taken aback, Richard tried to remember if he had ever mentioned having a girlfriend.

  4: POUNCING TIGER

  “Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; Plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory.”—Sun Tzu

  General Zhen presided over Songshan Airport from his terminal office. He went over the timetable and tallied progress: the 43rd Division held Songshan Airport; the 44th: Chiang Kai Shek International Airport; and the 45th were dug in at Hsinchu Airfield southwest of Taipei. These elite units would not sit still for long, however. Zhen donned body armor and a helmet, and then headed for an armed Z-9 Haitun utility helicopter—a Chinese copy of the European-made Dolphin—that sat on the tarmac.

  The pilot engaged the helicopter’s main rotor and ducted fantail. A soldier in the open cabin offered a hand to General Zhen, and yanked him onboard. Whirring blades bit into the air, and the helicopter lifted from the asphalt, rising above Songshan. Zhen observed the capital beyond. Elements of the 44th were breaking out and blitzing southwest to the Toucian River on Taiwan’s western shore. Explosions and fireballs reflected in the windscreen, lighting up the delighted General Zhen.

  He watched as several Taiwanese Military Police units were swept aside by his forces. The Chinese armor and infantry surged toward the Toucian River. A brigade and regiment of his paratroopers had reached the shallow waterway that ran down the central mountains, flowing west to join the sea. Zhen would reinforce this line with army regulars that had poured into the captured airports.

  The Toucian’s pebbled bed was a no-man’s-land, watched over by opposing trenches. On the northern bank, several thousand Chinese paratroopers and soldiers had assembled, now hiding in shadows and among buildings, crouching inside their infantry fighting vehicles and light tanks. Newly arrived Thunder Dragon main battle tanks roamed the captured city streets at will, and the Chinese had since humped in many light and heavy mortars, pointing their tubes south toward Taiwanese positions. Zhen contemplated his map.

  Reconnaissance had said that two of the three bridges that spanned the Toucian were demolished—reduced to sagged wreckage—and only a freeway viaduct still crossed the river’s gorge. Zhen knew he had to hold the river until amphibious forces could land on the island’s south. The general looked up at the stars through the helicopter’s whirring rotors. Unable to spare time or focus to contemplate their twinkling beauty, he sighed and considered: Once the marines land, they will move north. I will push south, and pinch the Taiwanese defenders between my army and marines. Thusly, we will crush the Taiwanese in this sector. General Zhen looked to the helicopter’s cockpit console and the thermal image collected by the electro-optics bubble beneath the aircraft’s nose. The view it showed panned along the river’s southern bank. In the dark of early morning, there was little indication of what lay ahead.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Elements of Taiwan’s 6th Army now massed south of the Toucian River. These elements comprised elite armor, infantry brigades, mechanized infantry, a special warfare brigade, and the 21st Artillery Command. An infantry division had also formed up in the urban area of Jhubei City. This division was oriented for the coming fray and ready to exploit breakthroughs or block enemy counterthrusts. In command of these forces and the coming counteroffensive was Republic of China Army Major General Tek Foo Chek.

  Major General Tek sported a shaved head. His bulging arms sported tattoos with a leopard on one; and panda upon the other. These images rippled with every movement, and symbolized the duality of man, as well as the schism between Taiwan and the mainland. Tek looked hopefully to the gathering clouds. He knew the coming rain would break the humidity and conceal his army’s movements. Tek scanned the far riverbank through binoculars. His deep-set eyes flickered with anger. The enemy occupied his land, and they would pay dearly for it. Seated cross-legged upon the ground next to Tek, a soldier specialist studied a small screen.

  Its image came from a Hermes unmanned aerial vehicle that flew along the shallow river. Bought from Israel, the unmanned aerial vehicle’s camera showed the body heat of a Chinese crew, manning a machinegun position. This targeting data was being shared with the Taiwanese artillery, helicopter gunships, and fighter-bombers assigned to frontal aviation. Loud and slow, the Hermes drew Chinese flak and soon disappeared from the sky. The soldier’s screen blanked-out. Tek checked his watch, and nodded to the soldier.

  “It is time,” Tek decided. The soldier clicked a radio and transmitted a code phrase: “Pouncing Tiger.”

  Taiwanese field cannons—M-59 Long Toms, self-propelled M-110s, and towed M-115s—opened fire from beneath trees and camouflage nets. Truck-mounted multiple launch rocket systems joined the fray, in whooshing unison. Artillery rockets and shells screamed away and landed several miles to the north, detonating over Chinese infantry and mortars that dug into the riverbank. Positioned at the front, Taiwanese forward artillery spotters refined their fire by radio, making adjustments to where the high-explosive and phosphorus rounds landed.

  Shells burst over enemy positions along the Toucian, spraying them with burning, sharp fragments. Those rounds that impacted lifted earth, rock, and flesh, and cascaded the mélange back down in a sickening rain. Illumination rounds washed Chinese armor, speeding troop carriers, and sprinting infantry with bright white light. A low thumping became discernible from the barrage’s waning, rolling explosions. This thumping echoed in the distance, and then drew closer and grew louder. Suddenly, the Taiwanese artillery fire ceased as their attack helicopters came on scene.

  Apaches: black flying tanks that kept low to the streets and spread out through the city, fluttering behind billboards and low buildings, and leaving only their rotor-top sensors to peek above such cover. The Apaches carried Hellfire anti-tank missiles on stub wings and a Chain Gun beneath armored fuselages. The lead aircraft slowed, reared to a stop, and hovered. Its gun swiveled, following the movements of its copilot/gunner’s head as he scanned the battlefield. Before advancing to cause havoc, however, the Taiwanese Apaches would have to wait until their air force had knocked out Chinese flak cannons.

  A lone Fighting Falcon swept in from the mountains, shrieking northwest along the freeway. Eight red stars adorned the Taiwanese fighter-bomber’s fuselage; each representing a confirmed kill. There was a dent in the Fighting Falcon’s empennage, a nick in its trailing edge, and a large repair patch beneath the squadron number and Taiwanese sun. The battle-worn jet carried two heat-seeking missiles, and two big cluster bombs slung beneath its wings. Where the external tank was usually mounted, the Fighting Falcon instead carried a night navigation and targeting pod. Major Han—Taiwan’s first Ace of the war—was the Fighting Falcon’s driver.

  Anti-aircraft artillery had been spotted on the north bank of the river. Han’s initial mission task was to take it out and then fly cover, protecting the ground hugging Apaches from marauding Chinese fighters. Han plugged data into the Fighting Falcon’s impact point aiming system: air speed, bomb weight, and distance to target. He dropped the airplane through rain clouds. When they parted, the silvery sliver of the Toucian River showed in the canopy. Han used it to line up for the bomb run, and then kept the targeting computer’s sliding indicators centered in the heads-up display. Flak started to burst around the jet, and Han saw muzzle flashes on the river bank. He weaved the Fighting Falcon through the fire and pressed on. The impact point aiming system showed two parallel lines that began to converge. When they met and flashed, Han pickled off the cluster bombs, a weapon his air force called ‘Ten Thousand Swords.’ There were two thumps. The airplane shook and, growing lighter, began to climb. Han pulled back on the plane’s stick. The Fighting Falcon’s nose pointed skyward and the engine flamed as Han opened the throttle.

  The spinning bombs dropped their casings and released a cargo of bomblets that dispersed and raine
d over the Chinese anti-aircraft emplacement, obliterating everything within a wide circle. Given the all clear, the Taiwanese attack helicopters went on the warpath.

  An Apache hovered behind a parked seafood truck with a smiling fish on its side. The Apache showed only its rotor-top radar to anyone on the wide boulevard, where a Chinese main battle tank clanked along, traversing its main gun and sighting sensors. The Apache’s pilot pulled back on the collective, and the helicopter rose from behind the cover, quickly firing a Hellfire anti-tank missile. The Apache dropped down again as the Hellfire skittered along the street.

  The missile met the Thunder Dragon. Its tandem warhead bypassed the blocks of explosive-reactive armor that adorned the tank’s squat, sloped turret and ripped into it. In the Chinese tank’s crew compartment, metal spalled, ricocheted around, and tore everything to pieces. The Thunder Dragon’s ammunition stores exploded. Blowout panels fluttered into the air. With its crew dead and much of its guts destroyed, the enemy tank lurched to a stop.

  The Apache rose again from behind the truck, its gun and nose sensors swinging back and forth in search of threats. Looking for a new ambush position, and with a clear field-of-fire, the Taiwanese attack helicopter dashed over the burning enemy hulk. Several blocks away, another Apache hugged the riverbed. Its rotor’s downwash blasted friendlies as they infiltrated the area.

  Taiwanese army frogmen crossed the meandering shallows of the Toucian. With bowie knives and silenced gunshots, they neutralized several enemy soldiers, and disabled sapper charges set to blow the remaining bridge. Taiwanese armor surged north as a jet roared overhead.

  Major Han exited his bomb run, and climbed over the river and out to sea. He pulled the Fighting Falcon into a loop and then settled back at 3,000 feet for another strafing run on enemy positions.

  A Chinese paratrooper ran to the parapet of an apartment building’s roof. He brought a Red Tassel anti-aircraft missile to his shoulder, and centered the Taiwanese jet in the launcher’s reticle. The paratrooper flipped a switch on the launcher’s pistol grip and locked the seeker on the Fighting Falcon’s hot tailpipe, causing a bright flash as the Red Tassel launched.

  Han saw a flicker in his peripheral vision and instinctively dropped flares, before snap-rolling the jet and climbing to escape. The Chinese missile swerved to the burning decoys and exploded. Han had no time to relax. A radar warning joined the tense chorus of cockpit sounds. A quick glance at the display showed two bandits approaching from the north. Subsonic and flying nap-of-the-Earth, Han surmised they were light bombers sent to silence the devastating Taiwanese artillery, and, if he was right, that meant enemy fighters could not be far off. Han swiveled his head around.

  The rain had broken, and the cloudy, black sky admitted very little moonlight. Han turned the Fighting Falcon and activated the cannon, a gun site popping up in the heads-up display. Beside the projected site was ‘473,’ the number of rounds left in his ammunition feeder drum. A new, intermittent high-altitude plot appeared on the radarscope. That would be the fighter cover, Han considered. He continued his charge at the Chinese attack aircraft, as they crossed the river: Fantans. The supersonic, single-seat warplanes with deeply swept broad wings had been named for the old game still played in the casinos of Macau. These particular Fantans were painted white and looked like bunnies as they hopped over the hills. Han noted that the Fantans hauled external fuel tanks and very big bombs.

  “Pam One, Tally Ho,” Major Han called out. He rolled in, lined up the crosshairs, and pulled the trigger. Flames erupted from the Fighting Falcon. From on high and behind, a shadow crossed the moon.

  Arriving high above the battlefield, Chinese naval aviator Senior Lieutenant Peng observed the Taiwanese fighter emitting its tracer fire. Peng banked his big Flying Shark, and maneuvered to gain position on the enemy.

  The Fantans took hits from Han. One of the light bombers careened into his wingman. Both spun into a hill and exploded in a fireball that lit up miles of city and sky. Han turned his attention to the Chinese fighter.

  He toggled between radar modes, but found each one degraded by the weather. Han then slipped the Fighting Falcon into a dark, towering cloud. The cloud rattled Han’s airplane, and droplets tapped the bubble canopy. Hypnotic grey mist rushed past. A momentary vertigo hit him, and Han’s stomach protested with a wave of nausea. He looked down at his instruments. His head cleared and his belly settled, just in time for a blast of 30-millimeter fire from Peng’s Flying Shark.

  Peng matched every move the Taiwanese Fighting Falcon made. He twisted and rolled his Flying Shark, keeping his Taiwanese counterpart centered in the canopy-mounted infrared search and track system all the while. With his cover blown, Peng reached down and powered up his bird’s radar.

  The radar caution went off in Han’s cockpit, quickly joined by a whooping missile warning. Han cursed. This meant that a radar-guided air-to-air missile was after him, likely the capable Chinese Lightningbolt. Han rolled the Fighting Falcon inverted, dumped chaff, and then edged over into a dive. Sucked into his seat, and with his eyes graying out, Han squinted to read the vibrating altimeter. Fifteen thousand feet. Not good… The missile alarm wailed again, the sound sending a now familiar cold chill down Han’s sweaty back. He jerked the airplane left and right, chucked more decoys, and took the airplane supersonic.

  Peng’s missile veered from the metallic confetti of Han’s chaff and pointed its nose back at the Fighting Falcon, closing on the hot fire of Han’s engine nozzle. The Lightningbolt detonated and sprayed a cone of shot, small steel cubes that ripped into the Fighting Falcon’s engine and stabilizers. The rear half of Han’s airplane broke away and exploded. Slammed violently, he pulled the yellow handle between his knees.

  Explosive bolts popped, and the canopy kicked free. A fist of air knocked Han unconscious. The seat harness snugged and the ejector rockets fired, lifting the seat and his limp body from the dead airplane. A drogue pulled the main parachute free. The seat fell away, and a survival pack unrolled beneath Han as he floated gently toward the darkened town.

  Peng’s Flying Shark let out a contented snarl as it turned, but then Taiwanese ground fire harassed the Chinese pilot, throwing up a hail of sparkling fire. Peng climbed his machine to escape. Hanging high in a cloud, Peng saw the twisted wreckage of his vanquished foe burning in the city streets. He spotted a helicopter low over the Taiwanese lines. Tempted to roll in on it, a surface-to-air missile warning changed Peng’s mind.

  Taiwan’s Major General Tek continued to observe operations from a Kiowa helicopter. Hovering just three feet off the ground, the Kiowa floated from behind an abandoned motor coach and provided Tek a thermal image of his main battle tanks and infantry fighting vehicles as they streamed across the bridge. Although an Apache was lost to a rocket-propelled grenade ambush, the attack helicopters had served their purpose by taking a gruesome toll on enemy armor. Furthermore, the artillery had devastated fixed Chinese positions, and with the enemy bloodied, Taiwanese armor had shown their stripes and carved out a bridgehead for infantry to storm the front.

  “Move up,” Tek spoke into the radio, and ordered the artillery to advance and gain a deeper reach into the city. For an entrancing moment, Tek watched the heavy rain that pelted the Kiowa’s windscreen. Then he saw his Brave Tiger main battle tanks and eight-wheeled CM32 Cloud Leopard infantry fighting vehicles as they sped along the freeway. A rolling wedge, the Taiwanese armor dashed across the bridge. Tek told his pilot to move to the next vantage point.

  The first Brave Tigers and Cloud Leopards sneaked across the span and fanned out. A missile tube emerged from a warehouse. It spewed a Red Arrow anti-tank missile that hit a Cloud Leopard, pierced the thin armor, blowing its turret and rear hatch off. The inferno vented, and a burning man stumbled out and collapsed. A Brave Tiger tank deployed a smoke screen and pointed its big gun at the warehouse.

  “Sir, may I fire?” the Taiwanese gunner asked.

  “For God’s sake, shoot,” the tank com
mander yelled, looking through his thermal site at the Chinese anti-tank crew as they reloaded their launcher. The tank’s cannon boomed and lurched the heavy machine in recoil. Supersonic ball-shot stippled the warehouse housing the Chinese anti-tank crew.

  “They’re dead,” the gunner morbidly observed.

  A Taiwanese Brave Tiger tank punched through the smoke bank to push the wrecked Cloud Leopard infantry fighting vehicle aside. Another Cloud Leopard emerged from the smoke screen, sped to the first intersection, and dropped its rear ramp. The squad it carried exited, and the Chinese opened fire on them. Their muzzles flashed, illuminating the black windows of surrounding buildings. The Cloud Leopard opened up with its turret machinegun as the squad fought their way to a perimeter and secured the intersection. Beyond the river’s southern bank, a small helicopter darted from behind a tree.

  Major General Tek directed the helicopter pilot to gain a bit of altitude. The small Kiowa flew up to 100 feet. A roar overhead announced the arrival of a Taiwanese Mirage. The triangular jet dove through ribbons of rain and strafed Chinese infantry caught retreating. Tek and his pilot shared a dark smile of approval at the slaughter. The pilot pointed to the screen. The heat signatures of several enemy tanks registered. A column of Chinese light and main battle tanks had rallied, and they were moving for the Taiwanese bridgehead.

  “Gunner, main gun, tank,” the commander of the lead Chinese tank ordered. “Identify CM11. Fire.” A depleted uranium penetrator left for a Brave Tiger. With a shower of blue-yellow sparks, it pierced and killed the Taiwanese tank. A TOW missile arced in and serviced the Chinese main battle tank, its commander blown out the top. Two Apaches pounced on the rallying Chinese column and raked it with Hellfires. The lead tank was dead and burning, so the Taiwanese attack helicopters shifted fire to the column’s trailing tank, trapping the rest between two shattered ogres. The Apaches then methodically butchered the rest. Although a Taiwanese Hellfire was already on the way to it, a Chinese main battle tank managed to get off a final cannon shot that ripped an Apache from the sky.