China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  His Marines were just beginning their sixth L-Form in the last eight days. The helicopters were on the flight deck, engines warming up. The LCACs were roaring in the well decks of the Belleau Wood and the Dubuque. Ever since leaving Pattaya in Thailand he had run his men through L-Forms—intense training exercises for amphibious action. Because of the recent operations budget cutbacks they hadn’t been able to afford too many L-Forms in the past few years. Now, however, his operations were still technically under the aegis of the UN’s Timor peacekeeping funds. Any fuel and spare parts consumed now would come out of a separate pot of money and he decided to drain it dry if he could. With enough effort, he might recover half of the readiness and morale lost in Timor. L-forms were tough—doing them one day after another was a way to add the sharp steel edge back on his Marines as well as to exorcise the demons of Timor out of everyone’s mind.

  The ACE commander came up to bridge to report. “The CH-46s and CH-53s are all on deck and fueled. The Cobras are armed, and the lead planes in the Harrier Squadron are in the catapults.”

  He was followed by the Landing Craft-Air Cushion (LCAC), boats, and Assault Amphibian company commander, each of whom announced that his equipment was manned and ready. L-form was complete. His Marines were armed and ready to board their helos.

  Colonel Flint had decided against a full-blown demonstration in favor of launching a few boats and a helo or Harrier or two. Best not to be too provocative this close to the Dragon. He was just about to give the order to launch when he noticed the Combat Information Officer running up to the ship’s XO. Running?

  He slipped out of his swivel chair and went below to the Combat Information Center (CIC). He presented his ID at the door as required and entered the dimly lit room filled with computer screens, radios and plotting screens. A knot of officers stood silently clustered around one large screen he recognized as the air situation plot.

  On the screen of the air situation plot were two almost undifferentiated masses of radar returns to the west of the Belleau Wood. For a second he wondered if the ship’s radar was malfunctioning, but as the masses shifted east in unison and resolved themselves into hundreds of separate blips he realized that he was witnessing a very unfriendly act. If each of those blips represent an aircraft, then close to a thousand planes were now flying towards Taiwan. The colonel whistled softly.

  A junior naval officer heard the whistle and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, Colonel Flint, I didn’t know you were here.” The Lieutenant (junior grade) gestured at the screen. “The entire PLA air force seems to be headed our way.”

  By now Colonel Flint was completely absorbed in watching the slow-moving blips. “What’s the situation?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the screen. He could now see several smaller masses of blips heading west from various points on Taiwan.

  “Well, sir, I’m not the Combat Information Officer . . .” the lieutenant JG stammered.

  “I asked you what the situation is, not whether or not you are qualified to give it to me.” Colonel Flint started out hard, but finished soft. “Besides, I’m just a dumb ol’ jarhead, not a fancy-pants naval officer like yourself. I’m sure that you’ll bring me up to speed better than I could on my own just squinting at your screen there.”

  The young officer relaxed. “We estimate that there are at least 900 PLA aircraft, six hundred in this mass here,” he pointed at the mass of blips in the north, “and three hundred in this mass here,” he pointed at the mass of blips in the south, which were rapidly approaching their own position off Kaohsiung. “The ROC air force is preparing a welcoming party,” pointing at the smaller masses of blips heading west.”

  “And Sir, there’s more. Ten minutes ago, just before we made radar contact, we received a navigational warning from the PRC that the Taiwan Strait was closed to all north and southbound traffic south of the line 21 degrees north latitude and 25 degrees north latitude. We’re well north of 21 degrees right now, so we’re caught right in the middle of this, whatever this is.”

  “What do you mean, son?”

  “Well, you remember in 1996 during the Taiwanese presidential elections they fired short-range missiles into the ocean just north and south of Taiwan. This could be a similar effort to intimidate Taiwan or it could be . . .”

  “. . .that we’re going to find ourselves in a real shooting war,” Colonel Flint completed his sentence for him. He picked up the nearest phone and punched in the numbers for the MEU command post. His XO answered the phone. “Hank, we’ve got about a thousand Red Chinese fighters heading our way. I want all our Marines on board their helos, engines running. And get Ramirez down here to CIC on the double. I need his brains.”

  “Sir,” a third class petty officer warbled, “we’re getting a message on open channel.”

  “Put it on the overhead speaker,” the lieutenant JG ordered.

  After a crackle of static, a heavy Chinese accent intoned. “Warning to all international shipping. Warning to all international flights. You are hereby ordered to clear the Taiwan Straits at once. There is a military exercise underway. Repeat, there is a military exercise underway. The People’s Republic of China Air Force and Navy are engaged in military exercises around the province of Taiwan. Clear the Straits at once. Clear the air space over Taiwan at once. Those who disobey this order will bear full responsibility for their actions.” The message began repeating.

  “Well, Colonel Flint, what do you think we ought to do?”

  The Colonel turned and saw that the ARG captain had entered the CIC, closely followed by his CIC-OIC. “You Navy guys are the ones with the brains,” he responded. “We grunts just supply the brawn. What does Washington say about this?”

  “They know that the Chinese have demanded that the Taiwan Straits be cleared, although they are mystified that the Chinese have given us so little notice this time around. This business with the aircraft we’re sending live via MILSTAR to CINCPAC in Hawaii. So far no comments, just ‘ohhs’ and ‘ahhs’ and ‘be careful, guys.’”

  The hair on the back of Colonel Flint’s neck stood up, just like it had in ‘Nam 30 years before. He had been a 19-year-old Lance Corporal leading a squad of torn-up and scared Marines back to base after a brutal firefight. The trail had divided and he had taken the left fork—the more direct route—without thinking. That’s when his instincts began screaming danger at him. He had stopped inches in front of the tripwire that would have carved his name on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in the D.C. Mall for all time. He carefully backed up, took the right fork, and from that time forward vowed to trust his instincts whenever he got in a tight spot. And at this moment his instincts were on overload, screaming danger.

  “Captain Bright, I’ve got a feeling that the Chinese aren’t bluffing this time around. We’re about to be in the middle of a war we weren’t invited to.”

  “What do you suggest we do, Colonel?”

  “Get me a little closer to land, captain,” Colonel Flint replied with a tight smile. “My Marines don’t swim too well.”

  Captain Bright increased speed to flank and headed for the 12-mile limit – as close as they dared get to Taiwan in peacetime.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Dan Alexander of the California Army National Guard was trying to get some sleep. The flight from Ft. Polk in the C-17 began a day ago, technically two days ago since they passed the international date line, first an overnight stop in Alaska at Elmendorf AFB, then a mid-air refueling southwest of Shemya at the end of the Aleutian Island chain. They were now about to begin their second mid-air refueling west of Okinawa—nine hours into a 14-hour flight. Task Force Grizzly left Alaska at about five in the morning in the ever-light summer of the near Arctic and let the sun chase them west. By the time they reached Bandung, Indonesia, it would be about 1100 hours—11:00 AM National Guard time.

  The bench of nylon netting that passed for seating on this aircraft was starting to cut into his butt. He unstrapped himself, looked enviously at his young sno
ring troops and went forward to chat with the Globemaster’s aircrew. The loadmaster was studying a math text—was that calculus? He brushed past the loadmaster and announced himself to the flight commander, Lieutenant Colonel Giannini, “Colonel, I need to whine, my ass hurts too much to sleep, I’m bored, your service is lousy, and the flight attendant is ugly!”

  The loadmaster, hearing the last, put down his textbook and yelled above the dull roar, “Hey, sir, I resemble that remark!”

  “Seriously, what’s up colonel, tell me where we are.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Joe Giannini turned in his seat with a grin and said, “Pull up a jump seat and tell us why you’re going to Indonesia again.” He pulled off his headset and laid it on his lap.

  Alexander gratefully sat down on something resembling a real seat, “Well, you see it’s like this: people hate each other, people kill each other, journalists broadcast the carnage, Americans feel bad, the President feels the pain, and we get sent in to tell everyone to get along or else we’ll kill all of ‘em regardless of their religion or ethnicity!”

  The Air Force colonel fixed Alexander with a pilot’s gaze and said, “Don’t think the mission is worth your time?”

  Alexander sighed, “Joe, I was in the L.A. Riots in ‘92. I was a company commander in the Cal Guard. As soon as we got on the scene, the rioting stopped. People would yell to us from their porches, ‘Thank God you’re here, God bless you.’ After Cold War ended and my life got busier, I wanted to quit. Every time I thought about quitting, I’d think of L.A.

  “You know the difference between Los Angeles, California and Bandung, Indonesia? You know why L.A. didn’t tear itself apart again as soon as we left town? Two words: ‘freedom,’ ‘justice.’ We may have problems in America but we have a system to fix them. It’s not perfect, but it beats the hell out of all the other systems.

  “The thing that frustrates me to no end with this deployment is the futility of it all. We’re simply going to Indonesia to stop the bloodshed. As soon as we leave, it’ll be back to bloodshed.”

  “Well,” said Joe, “I’ve almost quit a few times myself for the same reasons. I only stay for the high pay and the pretty flight attendants!” Joe yelled the last comment.

  The loadmaster looked up and made a kissy-face to his commander.

  Joe grinned, “I won’t ask!”

  “And, I won’t tell, sir!” The loadmaster went back to his book.

  “Why don’t you quit, Joe?”

  “Look, I stay in for the same reasons you do, ‘To support and defend the Constitution. . .’ professional pride, occasional job satisfaction. I know I could triple my salary working for the airlines, but then I’d just be doing a job.” Joe smiled warmly, his crow’s feet showing at the edges of his brown eyes.

  The copilot pointed out the cockpit at 10 o’clock. Joe’s face lit-up, “Hey, have you ever seen a mid-air refueling from the cockpit?”

  Dan was interested, “No. I usually catch up on my sleep on military aircraft.”

  “Look over there. That’s a KC-135 tanker out of Okinawa. He’s going to refuel the lead C-17 first. After he’s done, we’ll move up a take a long drink from the straw. It will give us enough fuel to make it the rest of the way down to Java.”

  Joe’s copilot motioned for him to put on his headset. Joe excused himself and turned to the cockpit. Within a few seconds Dan could see him toggle the intercom switch on the headset. The loadmaster stirred to life and brought Dan a headset, plugging it in as he did so. Curious, Dan listened in.

  “Tango Five-Niner, this is Okinawa Control. We have a situation in the Taiwan Strait. Amphibious Squadron 11 has reported intense military air activity in the Strait. Suggest you exercise caution. Please come about to heading one-seven-zero degrees until you clear 22 degrees north latitude. PACOM has decided we don’t need any more U.S. military assets in the area at present. Please acknowledge.”

  Joe responded, “This is Tango Five-Niner, that’s a wilco. Coming about to one-seven-zero degrees.” Joe pursed his lips and looked back at Dan, then he wrinkled his forehead in concentration.

  “Okinawa Control, this is Tango Five-Niner. What freq is the Amphibious Squadron 11 on? I’d like to give them a call.”

  Okinawa Control responded with an unencrypted voice frequency.

  “Amphibious Squadron 11, this is Tango Five-Niner, a United States Aircraft en-route to Indonesia, over.”

  “Last calling station, this is Amphibious Squadron 11, please say again last transmission, over.” The response was loud and clear.

  “Amphibious Squadron 11, this is Tango Five-Niner, a United States Aircraft en-route to Indonesia, over.”

  “United States Aircraft, please identify, over.”

  “I’m a flight of C-17s headed south out of Elmendorf, over.”

  “What are you doing on this frequency, over?”

  “We got your freq from Okinawa Control. We heard there’s some action in the neighborhood. I like to know what’s going on in the world around me, so I decided to give the Navy a call, over.”

  An older voice got on the radio, “United States C-17s, this is the USS Belleau Wood. We are picking up hundreds of aircraft flying east out of Mainland China towards Taiwan. We don’t know their intent yet, but you may wish to put some distance between Taiwan and yourself right now, over.”

  “Roger. We’ll keep our eyes peeled. If we can do anything for you, let us know. We’ll monitor this freq. Tango Five-Niner, out.”

  * * *

  For the last three days the missile sat erect on its mobile launcher, a large, eight-wheeled vehicle that looked vaguely like a fire truck, underneath a huge spreading canopy of camouflage netting held aloft by 20 meter high poles. From the air, the missile site would look like the canopy of a giant, leafy tree. It blended in quite well with the surrounding terrain near the rocky Chinese coast.

  The political officer marched into the missile launch site, as he always did, with an air of overbearing smugness. The missile technicians followed him, as they always did, looking calm and self-assured. The troops who manned the missile launcher wondered why all the fuss and attention for their unit. Rumors were rife, of course. Some suspected that theirs was a new missile type, others that a special warhead was being tested. Of course, no one told them anything.

  This day, however, things were different. One of the missile technicians mounted a lift basket, the kind the soldiers from the big cities often saw being used to lift utility workers up to telephone poles and traffic lights. He then carefully maneuvered himself next to the nose cone of the erect CSS-7/M-11 short-range ballistic missile. He opened an access panel and took out an electronic box from which he connected a few wires into the unknown payload. He called down to his co-workers, working through a checklist with acronyms the soldiers didn’t understand nor dared to inquire about.

  When the technician was finished, he removed the box and closed the panel, but didn’t screw it shut. He lowered himself, then handed the box over to the political officer who quickly climbed into the basket. He was almost grinning.

  The political officer then repeated the missile technician’s routine. When he was done, he removed the box and shut the access panel, screwing in all five screws.

  As the political officer reached the ground he called for the missile battery commander. A few words were exchanged. The commander turned to his troops and commanded them to open the camouflage netting that covered the missile and its six wheeled transporter-erector-launcher. Within moments, the netting parted down the middle, allowing the missile to face the high overcast sky.

  Off to the south some of the sharper-eyed soldiers could see dozens of jet aircraft flying west towards the Mainland. They were dropping rapidly, as if in an attack profile or in a hurry to land. Since the jets were not threatening them and since they had received no warning of hostile aircraft, they ignored the aircraft returned to their work.

  Soon the commander yelled for everyone to man their launch stations.
The battery sergeants called off the troop roster to ensure all were accounted for. The commander, the political officer and four of the technicians climbed into the launch control van, parked just behind a small rise from the missile and its launcher. It too was covered with camouflage netting.

  It was 7:59 AM on Saturday morning. For some reason the political officer had affixed a loud speaker outside the launch van. His voice counted down. . . “Five, four, three, two, one, fire!”

  The solid rocket motor ignited immediately and the missile roared into flight, heading straight up, leaving a trail of choking white smoke. Within a few seconds the missile began to slowly tilt towards the east, looking like a small orange sun peering through the high white clouds. About 15 seconds later it disappeared behind the high cloud layer.

  Inside the launch van the political officer had tuned a short wave radio to a Taiwanese station. This, of course, was exceptionally illegal for anyone to do. But, no one would dare challenge a political officer, so not a thing was said.

  At one minute and ten seconds into the missile’s flight, the eastern sky faintly flashed. The radio sounded as if it had picked up a distant lightning strike, then the station it was tuned to went dead. The political officer looked at his watch, the time was 8:03:12. He picked up the radio and slowly spun the dial through the short-wave band—he picked up Beijing Radio’s broadcast. The radio receiver still worked. He was told this was a good sign.

  His role in the patriotic effort to bring Taiwan back into the Middle Kingdom’s orbit was complete. In the Year of the Dragon, July 22, the dragon had finally returned. Chinese hegemony was at last at hand.

  * * *

  Brigadier General Mao had a most unfortunate name for a general in the ROC Army. Still, it was a measure of the society he grew up in that his name earned him an occasional jibe, but nothing more.

  General Mao was close to the pinnacle of his military career. In charge of an infantry brigade on the heavily fortified island of Hsaio Quemoy, General Mao was pleased with the precautions that had been taken to meet the coming invaders.