Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “If we sink that bastard—the carrier—we could end this whole damn shooting match,” Wolff said, offering a bounty that softened the heavy risk.

  “I want to see my wife again,” the executive officer said.

  “Really?” Wolff prodded his friend. The XO chuckled and relaxed.

  “I guess it’s a good day to die,” the XO surrendered with a shrug. The two old submariners shook each other by the shoulders. Wolff looked around and saw fear in some of the young faces. He knew he had to speak to them; to address their concerns…

  “This ship is built to fight. You had better know how,” Wolff quoted Admiral Arleigh Burke. These eleven words, spoken by another man so many years ago, were the best Wolff could muster in the speech-making arena.

  Big black shadows, the American Mark 48 and Chinese Type 40 heavy torpedoes passed each other in the murk as California and Changzheng 6 moved about the deep. California’s torpedo was the first to start pinging, to look for something to hit, as Changzheng 6 guided her torpedo in. All the while, Chinese submarine #330 crept along on batteries and sidled for an attack.

  “Damn, Sierra Two is quiet,” California’s sonarman grew frustrated. “Sierra Two is now at two-zero-seven, bearing: zero-three-four.” The submariner listened again and heard trickling water in pipes. He knew this sound well, remembering it from recordings presented in training. Although he was more versed in the subtleties of Beasties Boys sampling, he would swear to God that he also knew the sounds of a Chinese submarine’s tank transfer system. Therefore, he declared, “Conn, I am calling Sierra Two a Chinese Yuan-class diesel-electric submarine. Redesignating Sierra Two as 'Yuan One.’ Yuan One is doing revolutions for three knots.” While he was in the zone, he also avowed, “designate Mike Two as a Luhu-class guided missile destroyer. Calling her Luhu One. Shang One is at one-nine-one and making eight knots and bearing zero-zero-zero. Her plant noise is coming up. Screw noise, too. Enemy torpedo approaching at 37 knots and accelerating. Shang One now bearing zero-zero-two, depth coming down to 500,” California’s sonarman summarized. Wolff ordered the wires cut on the Mark 48s he had out in the water, leaving the torpedoes to their own devices. The weapon’s machine brain took over and sought only to kill without human input. Captain Wolff ordered the chief-of-the-boat to make his depth 250 feet.

  “Make it a steep rise, and drop countermeasures,” he added.

  “Aye, sir. Fairwater planes all rise. Making my depth two-five-zero feet,” the chief-of-the-boat confirmed, and then repeated the order. The planesman pulled back on his yoke. California pitched up and began her climb through the water column. “Watch your trim; keep her on keel,” the chief coached.

  Wolff studied the center’s tactical display and ordered a speed of 12 knots. A high-pitched ping bounced off California’s hull. Wolff’s sonarman reported Helix One was in the hover and had dipping sonar in the water at zero-nine-seven some 5,000 yards away. The executive officer made a mark on the table chart, and observed that the helicopter and Chinese destroyer now had enough data to triangulate California and fire upon her.

  “Got a splash. High-pitch screws. Torpedo in the water,” the sonarman confirmed the executive officer’s projection. “Torpedo at one-zero-one on a spiral descent.”

  “Just what we need to spice things up,” Wolff said. He made calculations on ranges, speeds, and convergence points in his head. “Okay, chief. Drop countermeasures and take us on a speed course straight at that torpedo,” the commander’s voice seemed to lack the conviction or confidence it usually portrayed. The chief-of-the-boat noticed the lacking, but acknowledged nonetheless. Then, he turned the prescribed tactics into action. California’s reactor and electric motor were pushed to their limits. Two noisemakers were dumped behind as the American nuclear attack submarine made a high-speed dash for the torpedo. Sonar reported the Chinese weapon closing rapidly from 2,000 yards out.

  “Sir, if that torpedo goes active before we close the distance--” The executive officer was cut off by the skipper’s ‘don’t tell me what I already know’ look.

  “Enemy torpedo approaching. One-thousand yards and closing,” the sonarman declared. The chief-of-the-boat reported the boat was doing 40 knots on a course of zero-nine-zero.

  “Sound collision,” Wolff demanded. Inside California’s cylindrical pressure hull, crewmen prepared to fight fire, water, or both.

  “Torpedo ahead,” the chief-of-the-watch called out. Then he looked to his stopwatch and stated, “Twenty seconds to merge.” Time was some comfort; a potential to overcome before the inevitable. The sonar station announced that the second enemy torpedo had acquired California’s noisemakers and turned for them. “Fifteen seconds. All compartments report ready for collision,” the chief-of-the-boat proclaimed. Wolff patted the loyal, patriotic man on the back. He quietly ordered him to take the enemy weapon down the port side of the machine within which they rode, the machine that sustained them; kept them alive. The chief spoke to the pilot and copilot. He coaxed them to gingerly adjust their controllers. Their actions maneuvered the submarine below and to the right of the torpedo’s track.

  The whining sound of the Chinese torpedo grew louder in California’s control center. Some of the American submariners fidgeted, while others sat still. One man closed his eyes, choosing this way to await death. The sound generated by the Chinese torpedo filled the entire compartment. Its din moved down the long length of California before it faded away. The executive officer let out a nervous chuckle. As the Americans relaxed for a bit, the Chinese torpedo activated some one hundred yards behind California. Commander Wolff had gotten safely behind one torpedo and far away from the other. The remaining pursuing weapon began to run out of fuel. As it dipped in its course and began to sink, both California’s chief-of-the-boat and executive officer congratulated Commander Wolff, smacking him on the shoulders, congratulating him for turning a dangerous tactical situation around.

  Changzheng 6 released decoys and crash-dived into the icy blackness. Kun took his submarine down to 1,200 feet, close to his hull’s official crush-depth. The submarine squeaked, and a low resonance vibrated. Steel in Changzheng 6’s sail warped. It banged and popped, reshaping under growing sea pressure. Desperate to enter, water punished the blasphemy of such a manmade void. Hold together for me just a bit longer, Kun prayed, while his crewmen twitched nervously with every sound. Despite their overwhelming fear, they nonetheless kept their stations. Kun turned to his sonarman. He watched intently as the young person listened to the American torpedo that searched some 700 feet overhead.

  “The enemy torpedo is losing speed; likely at the limits of its range,” the boy reported.

  “Find our submarine, number 330. Where is it? And find me that damned American, too.” After evasive maneuvers, Captain Kun needed to rebuild his tactical picture, and he demanded the information. Kun ordered that Changzheng 6 double back while slowly decreasing depth.

  California’s control center became quiet. Commander Wolff, the executive officer, and the chief-of-the-boat all paced behind technicians seated at terminals lining the curved wall.

  “Conn, sonar. Luhu One is at zero-four-three and bearing one-nine-three. Speed: 30 knots,” the sonarman informed the officers. Active sonar slammed the ocean and reverberated through California’s hull. Like a prison guard throwing a spotlight on a nighttime escapee, the Chinese destroyer Qingdao had illuminated California with sound, pinpointing the elusive American with the powerful sonar housed in the ship’s bow stem.

  Qingdao’s warfare center lay deep within the destroyer’s pyramidal superstructure. Paneled with glowing flatscreens, the center was manned by sailors seated at terminals that showed anti-air, anti-ship, and anti-submarine warfare data. Standing on a small pedestal beside a fold-down table, Qingdao’s watch commander ordered the anti-submarine helicopter in for another attack.

  The Helix dropped its nose and bolted toward the new coordinates. It arrived quickly, lobbed its second torpedo into the water, and drop
ped into a hover before dipping its sonar for a good listen. The Helix transmitted the data back to Qingdao’s warfare center. Listening to the sonar’s microphone, the sonarman encountered a whooshing sound that he did not recognize.

  The Helix reeled in the long wire with the sonar transducer at the end. Done fishing at this spot, it readied to move to a new position. The pilot noticed a splash some 300 meters away. He watched as a white canister broached the sea surface and leapt into the air. The canister peeled apart and a puff of smoke and a streak of blue erupted.

  As its underwater housing fell back to the water, the small Stinger missile rode its booster into the sky. Once at 2,000 feet, the booster fell away and pulled an oblique parasail from the Stinger’s tail assembly. The wing-shaped parachute pointed the Stinger’s nose at the water, swinging the missile’s infrared seeker back-and-forth in a big figure eight. The Stinger found the Helix’s big, hot turbines and locked on. The parachute released, and the main motor fired. The Stinger accelerated through its dive and drove right into the Helix’s counter-rotating blades and engine pylon. Seven pounds of high explosives went off and the Chinese helicopter then became a fireball, its wreckage dropping to the sea and sinking like a rock. Next, a big Tomahawk rose from the water’s surface. The American anti-ship cruise missile configured for flight and headed for the Chinese guided-missile destroyer Qingdao.

  Commander Wolff felt he had lingered too long at missile launch depth. Although he had been able to destroy the helicopter and get in a shot in at the surface threat, this lingering had allowed both Shang One and Yuan One to get in behind his boat. California dove, picked up speed, and banked into a sharp turn. The sonarman heard the rush of several torpedo shots and called it out. Wolff ordered countermeasures.

  Four Chinese heavy torpedoes passed through the noisemakers and activated, California directly ahead. Her propeller shredded the water as she dove and turned. All four of the big torpedoes acquired the American submarine and accelerated.

  Kun brought his boat behind the fleeing American, while his comrade in #330 slowed and hung back to become the anvil to Changzheng 6’s hammer. High above the scrambling submarines and with a cruise missile headed her way, Qingdao maneuvered and prepared to defend herself.

  Qingdao ripple-fired her Red Banner short-range air defense missiles. They streaked off and trailed ropes of white smoke, leaving a puffy white cloud that enveloped Qingdao’s quarterdeck. One Red Banner collided with California’s single Tomahawk anti-ship missile, consuming it in an explosion that scattered debris and wreckage to the water. Driven on by her furious captain perched in the bridge, Qingdao rammed through the waves. The Chinese destroyer sped to close the distance on the American submarine’s likely position, where the captain planned to bring his rocket-delivered torpedoes to bear. Despite surprise and initial success, the American nuclear attack submarine was now heavily outnumbered and on the defensive.

  California leveled from the turning dive and deployed a towed decoy from the hull dispenser. The decoy broadcasted noise typical of a nuclear power plant, to acoustically tempt the Chinese torpedoes away from the submarine. It worked with the first pursuing torpedo, which zeroed on the decoy, detonated, and committed fratricide on the other Chinese weapons that ran in close proximity. The generated pressure wave caught California in the ass and shook her hard. Pipes burst and high-pressure air lines whistled, rocking California to her bones. Lights flickered and emergency lighting kicked on in the control center. Panel warning lights began to flash as system after system showed wounds. A worrisome clank broadcast into the water, and damage reports started coming in from the engine and reactor compartments. The pressure wave passed. California and her submariners quivered in its wake.

  “Come on, Cali’ girl, keep it together,” Wolff pleaded. In the red shadows, he watched the chief-of-the-boat as he scurried from station to station. Although injured, California had survived and the Chinese weapons had been destroyed. The large underwater explosion had also advantageously released billions of bubbles.

  “Ensonified area astern,” California’s sonarman announced. The sonic wall now obscured California from Changzheng 6’s listening devices, and provided the American submarine the chance to sneak away. In his usual unpredictable fashion, Wolff ordered the sub’s propeller stopped and the boat put into a stationary dive, a maneuver last practiced under the Arctic ice sheet. As the propeller slowed and stopped turning, the rhythmic clanking disappeared. This confirmed the origin of the noise: a bent shaft.

  “The boat is stationary,” the XO reported.

  “Take us down, Tom.” California dropped straight and level into the abyss.

  Changzheng 6 passed overhead. The American was not where Kun thought he was. The Chinese submarine let off a single active sonar ping.

  “Shoot,” Commander Wolff ordered. A Mark 48 departed one of California’s bow tubes. The submarine’s weapons officer had set the torpedo’s engine to run slow and shallow. The Mark 48 tipped back and started to climb through Changzheng 6’s baffles.

  Changzheng 6’s sonar screens were still flooded by residual noise. Her sonarman rebuilt the tactical picture as Kun impatiently hurried him along. The sonarman suddenly looked to the captain. A sound made him grimace as though in pain.

  “Torpedo,” he screamed. Kun ordered countermeasures and full speed on the motor. Changzheng 6 accelerated. The American torpedo’s electromagnetic coil detected the Chinese submarine’s metal hull. Its high-explosive warhead and remaining fuel blew up, forming a bubble jet that expanded into Changzheng 6’s propeller. The blades bent, a vertical stabilizer cracked off, and a welded hull seam yielded to the overpressure. Freezing seawater entered the shaft stuffing box and began to flood the aft engineering spaces. The executive officer ordered the pumps activated and the transfer of water to the ballast tanks.

  “Blow it overboard,” Changzheng 6’s executive ordered, pressing his kerchief to the bleeding gash on Kun’s forehead.

  “The pumps can’t keep up,” someone announced in the flickering compartment light.

  Seawater entered the submarine’s machinery compartment. The high temperature gas-cooled nuclear reactor scrammed when its systems shorted. With the reactor shutting down and only batteries left to power backups, Changzheng 6 slowly began to sink backward.

  Despite noisy protests from the propulsor duct, California came up to six knots. Her sonarman confirmed the position of the explosion, while listening to the sinking Chinese submarine.

  Changzheng 6 tipped onto her side. Captain Kun and his executive landed on a pile of dead and dying men. The shattering hull emanated a crystalline resonance. It sounds like breaking glass. This recognition was Kun’s very last thought.

  A muffled thud emanated from the deep, coming through California’s bulkhead speaker. Wolff contemplated the fate of the Chinese submariners. Training told him that, in an implosion, the sea entered so quickly that air within the hull ignited and burned. He shook the horrific thought, and offered a quick, silent prayer for the vanquished men.

  “Where is that diesel-electric? And get me an update on that goddamned destroyer.” Wolff had been forced to kill, and was angry about it. Angry at the idiots that started this scrap. And angry at those who let the US Navy degrade to the point where the Chinese actually believed they could control the Pacific, thus placing his boat and crew in harm’s way.

  “Splashes. Multiple torpedoes in the water. They’re diving to different depths and starting to search,” California’s sonarman reported. “Luhu One has turned away and is speeding up; same course as the rest of the Chinese battle group.”

  Wolff crawled into his enemy’s head. The destroyer captain knows one of their submarines was dead, so he’s putting a bunch of ordinance between him and me, and heading back to his buddies, Wolff estimated.

  “Yuan One?” Wolff asked, worried about that which he could not see. People’s Liberation Army Navy submarine #330 announced her continued presence with a torpedo shot.


  Over the clatter of California’s damage, the sonarman heard the high-speed counter-rotating propellers of the Chinese weapon, and alerted California’s conn.

  “Countermeasures. All rise,” Wolff had now ordered noisemakers and the fairwater planes set for a steep ascent. Then he ordered a torpedo sent right back at his rival. Although she may not be able to maneuver, California could still bite, Wolff resolved.

  “Torpedo just went active,” sonar declared.

  “Can you identify?” Wolff demanded.

  “Sounds to me like a Chinese Type 40 heavy, sir.”

  Wolff turned to the XO and asked, “Hey, Tom, what’s the search frequency of that fish?”

  Reading his skipper’s mind, the XO went to the sonar station, looked over the weapon’s specifications, and set the advanced sonar sphere in California’s bow dome to match the wavelength of the search sonar on the Chinese weapon.

  “Hammer,” Wolff ordered, and the XO pushed the button. California blasted sound into the water. The noise cancelled seeker transmissions from #330’s torpedo and saturated its receiver with hundreds of false targets. Confused, the Chinese heavy torpedo began to veer from California.

  California’s Mark 48 activated just 40 yards off #330’s bow. Using staccato pings, the 48 slammed into the Chinese submarine’s forward hull, exploding on contact. The shock wave shattered the high-tensile steel and opened #330’s pressure hull to the sea. A supersonic liquid juggernaut approached the submarine’s control room and rammed its bulkhead hatch. The door warped and burst from its frame, shot across the bridge, and pulverized everything in its way. A jagged hole marked where #330’s bow dome used to be. The Chinese submarine flooded and began a final plunge. Her ruin crash-landed on a deep rocky outcropping and, in the aftermost compartment, twelve Chinese submariners lit oxygen-generating candles and exchanged stories of loved ones. One-by-one, however, they succumbed to foul air and freezing temperatures.