Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

by Peter von Bleichert

  “Stingtown One?” Ronald Reagan’s controllers called out and repeated. No response.

  ◊◊◊◊

  A black tailless flying wing pierced Pacific skies. Named Spirit of Louisiana, it was the 21st and final Spirit strategic stealth bomber built by the United States. After a long flight from Missouri and heavy with two Massive Ordinance Penetrators; 30,000-pound bunker-busters, it was open for business. Quick bursts from the Spirit’s look-down radar built a three-dimensional picture of the Chinese naval formation. The American airmen selected the biggest ship and locked its coordinates into the targeting system. The stealth bomber’s bay doors folded open and, one after the other, two giant MOPs dropped free.

  Latticed tail fins extended, stabilizing and guiding the huge bombs as they nosed down. The bombs pierced a wisp of cloud. Below them and coming up fast was Liaoning’s flightdeck. One Chinese sailor heard a rush of air and looked up to see the two bunker busters. The first bomb hit. It ripped through the flightdeck and disappeared into the ship’s bowels. Hah, the sailor chuckled. It’s a dud. Liaoning shook and the hole in the flightdeck erupted like a volcano. The sailor and hundreds of his comrades did not live long enough to see the second MOP impact and rip into the Chinese aircraft carrier.

  Ordinance and fragments of ship hit the sea around Lake Champlain. Black and white smoke trails crisscrossed the blue sky. Ferlatto adjusted his helmet and flinched as the Gatling guns once again spewed flame. He saw a huge flash in the distance, and after a few seconds, a pressure wave arrived, slamming into his ship. Low, prolonged thunder rolled in, and a massive cloud of black smoke rose at the horizon…

  Meanwhile, Connecticut’s passive sonar array registered two very large consecutive explosions. Her captain brought the submarine shallow to peek above the surface. “We’re at 60 feet, sir. Neutral bubble,” Connecticut’s XO reported.

  “Very well. Steady as she goes and periscope up,” the captain ordered. The periscope climbed from its well, piercing the waves. He leaned in for a look.

  A column of smoke rose from Liaoning. Now she listed to port and blazes vented from gaping, jagged holes in her flight deck. Several patrol boats slowed to pull sailors, blown overboard, from the water. Liaoning heeled further to port as she felt the effects of unbalanced flooding. Connecticut’s captain considered putting a spread of torpedoes into the hapless warship when the sonarman interrupted. A destroyer had turned Connecticut’s way.

  “Take her deep, chief,” he reluctantly ordered.

  The guided-missile destroyer Qingdao hammered the water with her bow sonar, but lost Connecticut as she slipped beneath a substantial thermocline. Then, Harbin and Qingdao turned for Lake Champlain at full speed. They fired anti-ship missiles and opened up with their deck guns. Two torpedo boats—Huchuan-class semi-hydrofoils—joined the charge, spitting two torpedoes each along the axis of attack.

  “Okay, I would say they are pretty mad,” Ferlatto half-joked. “Present minimal aspect. Ready the Mark 45. I want those fast boats dead. Put two Harpoons on each of those destroyers.” Lake Champlain turned at the charging ships, her deck gun turned and elevated. The 5-inch gun recoiled and spit smoking brass casings onto the foredeck. Geysers of water erupted around the Chinese torpedo boats until rounds found them, ripping into their decks, and sinking them.

  A sailor on Lake Champlain’s bridge lowered his binoculars, turned to the captain, and reported, “Torpedo tracks. Closing fast.”

  “Sir, cruise missiles inbound,” another man announced, just as Lake Champlain’s vertical launch system loosed four Harpoons. “Likely CSS-N-8 Saccades. Subsonic profile. ACS is engaging.”

  Several Evolved Sea Sparrow Missiles departed Lake Champlain to intercept the approaching Chinese Eagle Strike anti-ship missiles.

  “Where are those torps?” Ferlatto asked.

  “Zero-one-five. Three thousand feet off. Bearing one-zero-three degrees. They’re doing about fifty knots.”

  “Okay, hard over to starboard, increase speed to flank. Let’s see if they turn with us or are straight shooters.”

  Lake Champlain turned and sped up. The Chinese torpedoes followed.

  “Goddamn it.”

  “Sir, ESSMs have missed. Sea-whizz.”

  Lake Champlain’s Phalanx close-in weapons systems found and locked on the enemy sea-skimmers. A zipping sound vibrated the bridge as the robotic Gatling guns opened up. A large explosion shook the ship. Bullets from one Phalanx met a missile and detonated its fuel and warhead.

  “Mother fu--” Another explosion, but this one shook Lake Champlain violently and knocked sailors to the cold, hard bridge deck. Thick black smoke began to infiltrate the bridge via the air circulation system. Alarms sounded and warning lights flashed. Lake Champlain had been hit. Speed dropped off rapidly, and the hull rose and fell as the wake wave caught up.

  “Torpedo terminal.”

  “Brace. Brace. Brace for impact,” Ferlatto shouted. Then an immediate, violent jarring and a bright flash rocked Ferlatto’s ship.

  At the moment Lake Champlain was lifted, broken in two, and crumpled back on herself, People’s Liberation Army Navy multirole aircraft carrier Liaoning succumbed to her wounds and slipped beneath the rippled sea. She pulled down with her over 2,000 souls.

  Qingdao ate a Harpoon that crippled her, but Harbin blasted Lake Champlain with her 100-millimeter gun. One life raft left Lake Champlain’s side just before a salvo of three Eagle Strikes slammed into her. She went down fast after that. Three hundred, twenty-five sailors went with her, Captain Anthony Ferlatto among them.

  With their mission finally accomplished and Liaoning now a future reef and fish sanctuary, the contaminated supercarrier Ronald Reagan led Task Force 24 from the area. When the Chinese departed the area, too, an Osprey tiltrotor from Essex found Lake Champlain’s lone life raft and hoisted the last of her crew to safety.

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  Richard woke from a disturbing dream and frantically scanned the dark, windowless room. Soaked with sweat, he touched his aching temples and blinked his eyes. Lying on a cot, he focused on the peeling green paint. What happened? He tried to remember. He had been with Jade, waiting for their flight. Then they were walking down the jet-way, and had reached the last corner, where folded strollers and oversized carry-ons are left. After that, nothing. Blackness. He felt a bump on his neck. An injection site? A tranquilizer dart? Richard began to panic.

  “Jade,” Richard murmured, his throat dry and hoarse. He tried to sit up and wondered if he was still in San Francisco. He scanned for details. Not even an electric outlet to tell him which country he was in. Unrestrained, Richard stood and wobbled on feet of clay. Someone outside the heavy door yelled in Chinese. It unlatched and swung open, and a People’s Liberation Army officer burst in, and shouted at someone out in the hall. He stood over Richard. His smile was a wicked curl. The Chinese officer asked for something, and got agitated when Richard did not comply. He smacked Richard, who trembled.

  “I don’t know Chinese…Mandarin,” Richard stuttered. The officer went nuts and grabbed for his pistol. Richard held his hands up in surrender and begged for his life. The officer’s snarling face smiled again. Then the Chinese officer began to laugh and slid the weapon back into its holster.

  “Sorry, Richard,” he said in perfect American English. On cue, Richard’s favorite FBI counterintelligence officer, Special Agent Jackson, waltzed in, wearing a smug smile of satisfaction.

  “Thanks, Sam,” Jackson acknowledged his counterpart in the Chinese uniform. “Richard Ling, meet Special Agent Sam Wu.” Richard deflated with exhaustion. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You have been bad, Richard. Very, very bad.” Wu left Jackson alone with Richard. “Where exactly were you going, Richard?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t really know anymore,” Richard stuttered, and sat back down on the cot. “Where is Jade?”

  “Richard, Bei Si Tiao made a deal with us. In exchange for clearing you of charges, she gave us some valuable informa
tion. Then she left the country, never to return.” Jackson handed Richard a small bottle of water. He choked it down. “Look,” the special agent continued, “I’m a father, too. There is something hardwired in our brains that makes us do anything to protect our children. It’s like with birds: One day you’re free and winging it, the next, you’re puking up worms. Know what I mean?”

  “Throwing up sounds good,” was all Richard could say. The blank look on Richard’s haggard face spurred simplification from Jackson.

  “What I’m trying to say is: I’m not sure I blame your poor decision-making these last few days. I would add that I believe Jade lied to you about being pregnant and used that lie to manipulate you further. I hope that helps a little.” While alleviating some of Jackson’s nagging, empathic guilt, Richard took little comfort in the words. “By the way, Richard, you’re back home in DC. Come on,” Jackson said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  ◊◊◊◊

  China National Television broadcast news of a glorious sea battle with the Americans and the great victory of Chinese naval forces over the imperialist power. According to the state-controlled propaganda machine, two American aircraft carriers were afire at sea, soon to be finished off by Chinese submarines. Despite this version of the news, however, most Chinese had gotten information from western websites and Taiwanese transmitters that broadcast into the mainland. By the time Beijing released the official story, reports of disaster had spread like wildfire, and close to 1,000,000 people had gathered in Tiananmen Square and its surrounds.

  The People’s Liberation Army deployed to encircle Beijing’s city center.

  8: AFTERMATH

  “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

  The moon hung high in the young night as the Harry S. Truman carrier strike group steamed into the East China Sea. Rushed from the Persian Gulf, the American nuclear supercarrier was accompanied by the guided-missile cruisers Antietam and Bunker Hill, the guided-missile destroyer John Paul Jones, and, running near the surface and leading the way, the nuclear attack submarine New Mexico. The American ships set headings for Ronald Reagan and Task Force 24.

  Ronald Reagan was now sufficiently decontaminated to resume flight operations. Severely damaged, the destroyer Gridley had tugs alongside, shoving her along to the Philippines. With the arrival of the Harry S. Truman carrier strike group, over a half-million tons of warships were under the command of Rear Admiral Kaylo.

  Dressed in formal whites, and standing over the planning table on Ronald Reagan’s flag bridge, Kaylo positioned the three cruisers in a wedge around his two supercarriers, then put destroyers in the leading and laggard positions, the two attack subs on the flanks, and repositioned the dock landing ships and amphibious assault ship as trailers. The stealthy littoral combat ship and guided-missile destroyer brought up the rear, with the last attack submarine anchoring the entire formation. Satisfied with the positioning of his ships, Kaylo straightened his uniform.

  “Form the task force up like this,” he ordered a commander, pointing to the table. The rear admiral adjusted his cap and mentally prepared for somber duty. He made for Ronald Reagan’s hangar.

  Ronald Reagan’s number-one elevator, now suspended over the water and serving as the site of a memorial detail, was ready for duty. All available hands gathered in the hangar deck’s opening. Rear Admiral Kaylo led the service. Senior Lieutenant Peng stood among the attending aviators, marines, and sailors. One of Ronald Reagan’s search and rescue helicopters had plucked him from the sea, and his wounds had been treated. Kaylo had granted Peng’s unorthodox request to attend the memorial. He felt Peng’s presence appropriate, especially once he learned of Pelletier’s gallantry. Nevertheless, he ordered armed marines to watch Peng’s every move while outside the brig.

  Rear Admiral Kaylo read the name and rank of 162 American aviators, marines, and sailors, each followed by the toll of the watch bell. When Kaylo said: “Lieutenant Cynthia Pelletier,” Peng snapped to attention and raised cuffed hands in salute. Peng would always know this name. In the years to come, even when his own children had to refresh his fading memory, Peng would recognize the American woman who had brought him to the edge of death, and then chosen to spare his life. The honor roll complete, Ronald Reagan’s salute gun discharged. For those claimed by the sea, a wreath was thrown into the supercarrier’s wake, and the chaplain prayed for resurrection from the cold deep. The collection of American ships—now accompanied by several surviving Republic of China Navy vessels—steamed into the Taiwan Strait.

  Two weeks later…

  Jade enjoyed a scorching shower that fogged her hotel room window, obscured the sparkling towers of Singapore. She wrapped herself in a luxuriant robe and plopped into the soft clean bed, flicked her wet hair aside and turned the television to an international news report. She sighed with exhaustion and began to towel-dry her hair. For the first time in days, Jade felt like she could relax. She closed her eyes and reviewed her escape, a flight from San Francisco to Jakarta, then one to Hanoi. After a few days in the bustling city, she had then left for Singapore, arriving in the port city-state early in the evening.

  Jade’s sister had arranged for a wire transfer she expected in the morning. Delivered to the hotel’s front desk, it would provide her with a fistful of Singapore dollars. So, for now, everything is going according to plan, Jade supposed. I’m hungry. She finally heeded her growling stomach and reached for the leather-bound room service menu on the nightstand.

  Jade called in an order of several hors-d’oeuvre and an aperitif of gin and tonic to calm her nerves. She hung up the phone and considered the fluffy pajamas she had neatly tucked in the room’s drawers. Deciding the PJs could wait, she fell backward onto the cool quilt. The sound from the television filtered into her drowsy head. The voices became gibberish as she dozed off.

  A loud knock startled Jade from her sleep. She wiped drool away and jumped from the bed, slipped into some complementary hotel-provided slippers, and paused at the hall mirror for an adjustment of her spiked but still-damp hair. Then she opened the door for the female attendant with the cart full of goodies.

  “Room service,” the woman said in English, with a smile.

  Jade gestured her into the room.

  The attendant lifted a small table leaf and cast out fresh linen before carefully positioning polished silverware. She removed a small, green bottle of alcohol, and placed it next to some bubbling tonic, wedges of fruit, and a bucket of ice. Jade said she would eat at the bed, and the cart was wheeled to its edge. The attendant continued her duties and set a place, putting everything just right. Jade turned to the television’s picture as she waited.

  On the screen, she saw the East Room of the White House. Seated at a long table were the President of the People’s Republic of China Xu Wai Li, President of the Republic of China Bing Rong, and President of the United States William Keeley. Jade recognized the Chinese Ambassador to the United States Fan Wei and People’s Liberation Air Force General Piao Bai. Also in attendance was Taiwan’s recently promoted Lieutenant General Tek Foo Chek, the hero who rallied his army and pushed them into Taipei. Vice President Elias Campos squeezed in behind the American president, as did Secretary of State Georgiana Pierce, and National Security Advisor Nathaniel Westermark. The three presidents signed documents, exchanged pens, and shook hands. The television shot widened, and, at the periphery of the smiling, clapping congregation, Secretary Pierce pulled Richard Ling in to share in the happy moment he had ‘unofficially’ helped broker.

  Surprised, Jade smiled with delight. The British newscaster narrated and summarized that remaining Communist forces on Taiwan were now departing peacefully. Reports also mentioned widespread, peaceful demonstrations in China. Unsupported rumors abounded that the army, ordered to fire upon the demonstrators, had refused. Some soldiers reportedly stacked their weapons, stripped uniform shirts, and joined the blac
k-haired masses in their vigil. Soon thereafter, the government announced general elections would be held within one year, and a commission would sit to draft a constitution. Furthermore, Taiwan was to be recognized as an independent nation and granted a seat in the United Nations General Assembly. Statements also provided that parts of China—Tibet in particular—were now free to examine their own political status. Chinese forces appeared to be thinning on the Indian frontier as well.

  The room service attendant cleared her throat, interrupting Jade’s mesmerized stare. The attendant gestured to the table and raised a silver dome. Dim sum—literally ‘touch the heart,’ savory, steaming dumplings—were revealed. Jade remembered her appetite, but also realized her hunger had departed her. She eyed the bottle of gin, sat on the bed, unfurled a napkin, and retuned her concentration to the television. The camera caught Richard’s smiling face again. The attendant lifted the other domed silver food cover.

  On the white plate lay a Chinese pistol fitted with a suppressor. With a fluid motion in Jade’s peripheral vision the attendant picked up the gun and placed its cold metal on her temple. On the television, Richard smiled and shook hands with delegates. A tear ran down Jade’s cheek. She clutched her swollen belly. A puff of hotness, and then blackness.

  Followed by a double tap to the heart for indemnity, the single shot to the brain of Bei Si Tiao, AKA Zhang ‘Jade’ Jiao, had ended her life instantly. Her unborn child took longer to die, however. The assassin disassembled the pistol, stashed its components about her clothes, and left the smoky room. She hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle. The scene would go unnoticed until tomorrow’s checkout time.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Rear Admiral Kaylo finished watching the White House ceremony and moved to the flag bridge’s window. He marveled at the sparkling lights of Hong Kong and the fireworks that burst over its skyline. Kaylo stepped outside and breathed deep the fresh sea air. Ronald Reagan rose and fell gently in the swells. A sailor came outside and handed Kaylo a transmission from national command: CEASE ALL HOSTILITIES. MAINTAIN ALERT STATUS. END. The cessation of hostilities having been an unofficial fact for more than a week now, the command was still a welcome sight.