by Chuck DeVore
* * *
The final briefing before the planned invasion of Quemoy was on Friday evening. Fu could barely wait for it to begin. He knew that sleep would be very hard to come by that night. Imagine how much worse it would be for the Taiwanese defenders to sleep tonight if they only knew of our plans!
Fu walked into the briefing room in the command bunker. Admiral Wong himself stood behind the podium—most unusual. He looked ill at ease. Perhaps the same pre-invasion jitters everyone else has. Fu felt somehow comforted to know that even the hardened military officers were not immune to anxiety.
The admiral cleared his throat. “All preparations are in place. Everything is ready. There are two issues, however, that concern me and greatly complicate our planning.”
Fu’s blood began to run cold—is this man going to wash his hands of a potential failure? Is he a defeatist? Fu’s antenna were up and he carefully gauged the room, looking for any facial clues that could support an understanding of what the admiral was going to say. Only the face of the intelligence officer revealed anything. He looked grimly determined.
Wong cleared his throat again, this time twice. Was he afraid? Sick? The pit of Fu’s stomach churned. Only nine hours to H-Hour and the invasion’s leader was in turmoil. Admiral Wong began slowly, “One of our signals intelligence vessels has been shadowing an American amphibious task force for the last 48 hours. The Americans came within 100 kilometers southeast of our bases on the Paracel Island group in the South China Sea.”
We all know where the Paracels are—get to the point! Fu wanted to say.
“This task force contains four U.S. Navy ships with more than 2,000 U.S. Marines on board. Intelligence expects them to be entering the Taiwan Strait just as we commence our operation. We believe the task force is carrying a U.S. Marine unit back to its base in Okinawa after a tour in Indonesia. We are uncertain as to why it is going to enter the strait; perhaps it is due to the growing strength of the typhoon that is building to the east of Luzon Island—which brings me to the second issue of concern: weather.”
Fu decided he could wait no more. This man was poisoning the atmosphere of victory with the thick mists of defeat. “Admiral Wong, surely you’re not suggesting that we allow four American ships that will be what—100 or 200 kilometers away in international waters—prevent China’s lawful actions to retake its own territory from rebellious reactionaries?” Fu arched his eyebrows expectantly at the end of his statement, inviting Admiral Wong to rise to the occasion.
The admiral paused. He knew the political officer was setting a trap for him—one does not rise to the rank of admiral in the PLAN without a deep understanding of political matters. The admiral swallowed and said in a strong, clear voice, “No comrade Fu, no one here has suggested that we call off the invasion—no one that is until you mentioned it.”
Fu rocked imperceptibly back in his chair. The admiral directly challenged him in front of the more than 30 officers of the command and staff! And he was right! Perhaps it was Fu for whom the trap was set! Fu had to quickly think of a way out of this confrontation with dignity. It was essential that he keep the confidence of the senior leadership of the operation, “Then perhaps we should ask the Foreign Ministry to invite the Americans to send an observer from their task force to watch our operations!”
The room was silent for a split second, then, thankfully, a gruff divisional commander in the back of the room realized the political officer had just made a joke and started laughing. A fraction of a second later the bunker exploded with laughter. A little too loud, Fu thought, but healthy.
Admiral Wong looked at Fu with grudging admiration. The political officer escaped injury and like a man using the martial arts, had managed to reverse a disadvantageous position and come out ahead. “Yes, comrade Fu, perhaps we could. In the event that they do not wish to watch our operation, however, I recommend that we obtain clarification from Beijing as to what our military options would be if the Americans decide to intervene. If we wait until we have to ask in battle, their answer will be too late to help us.”
“You are correct, Admiral Wong. We will both ask the question—you through the PLA command channel and I through the Party. In any event, I suspect the leadership will direct us to ignore the Americans as irrelevant. I sincerely doubt the Americans have the stomach for confronting a major power over an issue of minor significance to them.”
“Which brings us back to the weather,” the Admiral said. “Our forecasters expect the weather to hold favorable for at least 48 hours. The typhoon’s course at present is predicted to carry it over Hainan Island, well out of the zone of our operations.”
Fu folded his hands and settled in for the rest of the briefing. So, that was that. Everything is in place and the only unpredictable factor is what the Americans will do with their tiny flotilla—is four ships the best the once-mighty U.S. Navy can do? I wonder if they know about our plans or if this is random chance?
* * *
As Colonel Flint had promised, the drills continued after they left Thailand, this time involving the whole MEU. Several dozen newly minted Marines had joined the unit during its stopover in Satihip, providing an additional reason for some serious training. In addition, the unit took delivery of new helicopters to replace those lost in Indonesia.
Entering the South China Sea, the Colonel had them “take” Cam Ranh Bay and a nearby airfield in central Vietnam. The next day he turned their attention to Subic Bay and Clark Air Force base in the Philippines. The drills had gone smoothly. The MEU was near the top of its form. They would be back in Okinawa in two and a half more days, but Colonel Flint decided to get one more training exercise in.
“The Port of Kaohsiung and the Kaohsiung International Airport,” he announced to his tired command staff. Everyone groaned. Two weeks of continuous drills had them all a little frayed around the edges. No one was more exhausted than the Colonel himself, who spent all his waking moments conducting the training exercises, and most of his rack time wondering what he could have done differently to save his Marines from dying needlessly in a far away land of no strategic import to America.
“But that’s in Taiwan,” his XO objected. “You know that the PRC is going to lodge a diplomatic protest if we approach their renegade province too closely, or launch Harriers and LCACs in their offshore waters.”
“Renegade province, my ass,” exploded Major Ramirez, who had developed a strong dislike for the politically correct XO. “The people of Taiwan have a democratic government and a free market economy. They’re everything that Communist China is not. I say screw the PRC.”
“That’s why you’ll never make colonel,” said the XO starchly.
Ramirez rose from his chair, more out of reflex than fight.
“Sit down, Rez,” Colonel Flint said mildly. “And Colonel Burl, let me worry about the diplomatic niceties.” Addressing the larger group, he continued, “The CATF (Captain of the Task Force) has agreed to put us about 15 miles offshore of Kaohsiung. You can all see from the map here that Kaohsiung is on Taiwan’s southwest coast. This means that we’ll be running the Straits all right, but there’s a typhoon building to the southeast that will provide a convenient cover for our actions.”
The XO looked as if he were about to speak. Colonel Flint fixed him with a glance, forcing Burl to begin studying his fingernails.
“This will probably be our last drill together, men,” Colonel Flint continued after a moment, speaking in measured tones. “For this reason alone I’d like it to be picture perfect. But there’s another reason I want you all to play this one for keeps. If China ever makes good on its threat to take Taiwan by force, they will try to take Kaohsiung early in the game. It’s the island’s best deepwater port, the key to bringing in enough PLA troops to take and hold the island. You Marines may one day have to go in with guns blazing.”
Lieutenant Colonel Burl just slightly rolled his eyes. Only Major Ramirez saw the slight, increasing his contempt for the XO another not
ch, if that was possible.
20
Dragon Strike
Donna Klein sat staring at the photograph of the COSCO bulk freighter. It was three days old. Probably taken from a ship in Shantou harbor, although the source wasn’t important. She looked at the note from the imagery analyst. It read, “Notice the top of the ship. There are piles of ore visible. Notice how the ship rides in the water, suggesting the ship is displacing less than 1/3 of its capacity.”
Their sources in Shantou had reported unusual troop movements at night for the last few nights. Same with Amoy and Fuzhou. She wondered about Chinese intentions towards Taiwan. What could they really do, anyway? They can only lift about 20,000 troops and 400 tanks into battle amphibiously. What’s going on?
Donna knew that senior leadership in Central Intelligence had been advised of an increased state of Chinese military readiness by their counterparts in Taiwan. Rumor had it that the Director himself was informed by his opposite number in Taipei that the Chinese might soon attack the offshore islands of Quemoy and Matsu. The Taiwanese were confident they could defend the islands without American assistance if the attack actually did occur.
She looked at the next photograph. This one was a black and white satellite image of an area of scattered trees. There were small white arrows pointing at six of the larger “trees.” The imagery analyst had noted, “Camouflage netting probably concealing a new tactical ballistic missile battery. Judging by the vehicle tracks leading to the netting on the lower right, this is probably a new DF-11/M-11 battery.”
Something was eating at her. Something in the conventional wisdom was wrong. She decided to call her father; this time, it would be business. She dialed, thinking intently while punching out the numbers. Rear Admiral Klein, USN (ret.), had to say, “Hello?” twice before Donna responded.
“Daddy, I have to ask you a question.”
Klein, a 68-year-old widower, immediately recognized the voice of his youngest child. Admiral Klein always delighted in a call from Donna. “Sure, sweetie, what is it?” he asked.
“Tell me again about the Second Taiwan Straits crisis. You commanded a destroyer, right? What was your chief concern, I mean, the Chinese didn’t have much of a navy at the time, did they?”
“Well, the Chinese had a fair amount of artillery and they had a huge fleet of fishing boats. We were afraid they would massively bombard Quemoy then send a swarm of infantry over on fishing boats to capture the island. They tried doing that in 1949 with 29,000 troops, but were repulsed with heavy losses. But, you know all that, why the call?”
“Daddy, did you think they would invade?”
“Not with the U.S. Navy around, I didn’t.”
Not with the U.S. Navy around. Donna’s blood ran cold. “Daddy, I have to go.” She hung up.
Admiral Klein sat back in his chair and wondered what was eating at his daughter—the call had been so short and business-like.
* * *
Communist Party advisor Fu Zemin was shocked beyond belief. He was also scared. Five military policemen had just burst into Admiral Wong’s command center and arrested the admiral, just two hours before the invasion of Quemoy was to proceed. Moments after Admiral Wong was removed from the underground bunker, the admiral’s chief-of staff was handed a message by the senior military policeman. He bowed curtly, told his staff to continue operations and then walked over to Fu.
“Sir, you are wanted on the secure line. Please take the call in my office.”
It happened all so fast. Fu’s knees were almost knocking together. Why had admiral Wong been arrested? Would he be next? What was wrong? In a daze, he walked into the office. The chief-of-staff shut the door behind him leaving him alone in the room. The phone was blinking. Line one was on hold. He picked up the receiver, “This is Fu.”
“You know who this is,” Fu immediately recognized the voice of the President’s Chief Military Council Advisor, Soo Wingji. “Open the pouch by the phone and read me the last line on the first page.”
Fu tore open the mail pouch, noted the document was labeled “TOP SECRET, EYES ONLY” and read the last line out loud, “. . .we are left with only one course of action.”
“You have five minutes to read this document. When you are finished, destroy it by pouring water on it. Follow its directions to the letter. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir, I understand.”
Fu’s head was still spinning when he sat down to read the document. . .
* * *
Lieutenant Colonel Chu Dugen was finally airborne. The Boeing 747-400 had left Hong Kong an hour ago for the early Saturday morning business flight (Taiwan works a five-and-a-half day week) and was cruising flawlessly to its destination with 428 heavily armed and highly trained PLA commandos. He thought of the rich irony of what they were doing: flying into a center of capitalism in the most recognizable symbols of capitalist arrogance.
The Cathay Pacific 747-400 normally carried 416 passengers in three classes. The planners of Chu’s mission entertained the notion of reconfiguring the seats to seat 460 commandos, but decided the additional manpower wasn’t worth the risk of adding another intelligence warning and indicator to the suspicious Taiwanese or the curious Americans. So, 416 commandos sat in the passenger seats while an additional 12 commandos were accommodated by the unused flight attendant seats.
Each commando sat with his personal weapon, several hundred rounds of ammunition, six grenades (fragmentation, smoke, and CS riot gas). Unlike regular PLA soldiers, most of the commandos had the benefit of Kevlar body armor with ceramic trauma plates—they could take a small caliber rifle round in the chest and live to tell about it.
In the overhead luggage containers there were rocket-propelled grenade launchers and reloads, additional supplies of plastic explosives, man-portable surface-to-air missiles, and communications gear packed in plasticized aluminum foil. In the food preparation galleys there were large tanks of pressurized incapacitating agent.
The cargo hold in the belly of the Boeing carried additional supplies of ammunition, communications gear, and anti-aircraft artillery. The commandos did not expect to use this equipment, but the planners were loath to waste any space and carrying capacity—any extra military supplies would be useful to the follow-on airlanding forces (they assumed that this 747 would never take-off again following its high-risk mission).
Mentally, Dugen was ready. Everything he had trained for was now in focus. But, one thought kept invading his mental shield. Dugen tried to push the thought away, but it crept up on him and seized him. His mother! How was she? He knew now that his father was most certainly dead. Killed as the murderous traitor he was according to the Party. But his mother—she was so gentle and passive, she could never plot to kill another. Certainly she did not deserve to die. Of course, the Party promised. . .
“Colonel Chu, Colonel Chu, look, there’s the coast. We are descending into CKS Airport. Soon we will reunite China!” It was his pimply-faced political officer. Does this man ever give up?
“Yes, Comrade Political Officer,” Dugen still used the formal address as a means to keep this pest distant and to show his men that he was more of an Army man than a Party creature. “Please be still, I am finding my center.” Dugen closed his right eye, the one on pimple-face’s side, and winked at his XO and 1st Company commander seated to his left. The political officer gazed in awe at Colonel Chu, then fell silent and looked out the window.
The commercial aircraft banked right into its final approach with destiny. It was 7:45 AM.
* * *
The PLA private was hot, tired, and sore. For three days he existed in the hold of this terrible dark ship with his comrades. He just wanted a drink of water. Then he wanted to defecate in something other than the now overflowing and reeking portable toilet across from where his platoon was sprawled across the rocks and dust of tin ore. Still, a hopeful sign, the ship’s engines had stopped two hours ago. With the stopping of the engines, however, what little circulation
there was in the hold became even sparser. He thought he was going to pass out.
Some lights actually came on in the ship’s hold. A string of incandescent bulbs protected by little plastic cages rose and fell, up and down every three meters, off into the dusty distance. Overhead about three-and-a-half meters, the private was surprised to see a metal ceiling. The metal must have been thin for he saw it warp and snap as whatever or whoever was up above moved about.
“Third Platoon!” the sound of the platoon sergeant’s voice was actually welcome, “Gather round!” The sergeant had two large water containers at his side.
“Squad leaders, gather your men’s canteens and fill them, all men must drink their entire canteens dry, then pass the canteens back to the squad leaders to be refilled. Do this silently and listen up!” The private noticed platoon-sized knots of other men also being gathered together. He was glad to be tall, occasionally he learned more about his surroundings than he would be if all he could see was the back of head of the person in front of him.
The private passed his canteen over to his squad leader.