China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  The admiral’s eyes bugged out, “You’ve attacked Chinese shipping? Are you fricken insane?”

  Meade sighed. He remembered the surprise and the murmuring in the ranks when this admiral was appointed over the heads of more combat-oriented officers. Dunbar’s last assignment had been as head of the UN’s military observer mission in the Balkans. The appointment as CINCPAC was a plum—he was a politically well-connected officer. “Sir, if we are attacked we have the right to self-defense. We are exercising that right. Sir, my ship is dead in the water, anchored in the mouth of Kaohsiung Harbor, and almost blind and defenseless. I have almost 4,000 sailors and Marines to look after and I’m a damn speed bump in front of a full-scale Chinese invasion. . .” Meade was interrupted by a sailor.

  “Sir, the other Harrier reports inbound cruise missiles. . .”

  “How many?” Meade snapped.

  “More than he can count.”

  Meade was almost thankful for the deadly distraction, “Sir, I’ve got to go. We have inbound missiles and only one Phalanx to deal with them. I’ll have one of my staff brief you. . .” Meade handed the INMARSAT phone to a stunned lieutenant JG, “Admiral Dunbar wants to speak with you, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  The White House Situation Room was abuzz with activity. It was now midnight. The President himself had arrived on the scene from his fund-raiser in Philadelphia and was getting briefed on the latest, largest, and potentially the last crisis to confront his almost completed term.

  Jack Benson had come over from the CIA to augment the NSC staff as part of the night shift. Donna Klein would be in at 5:00 AM, get briefed by Benson on the night’s occurrences, and assist in providing the President his morning briefing. Now, however, the President was getting his crucial first assessment from exhausted advisors who had too little information to process (the White House’s classified and unclassified e-mail and Internet connections had gone down a couple of hours before, overloaded into paralysis by a crack Chinese hacker team). The room’s air was one of grim desperation—no one wanted to go down in history as starting and losing a major war with the People’s Republic of China.

  Bob Lindley, the President’s NSC advisor, still had his tuxedo on. The bow tie had disappeared hours ago. Lindley summarized the events of the day, “Mr. President, we know the following about the Taiwan Straits crisis. First, there have been American casualties. Probably 500 sailors and Marines. Second, we think China has used nuclear weapons against Taiwan. . .”

  “Nuclear weapons! My God. . .” the President put his hand to the bridge of his nose and forehead and squeezed.

  NSC staffer Maus spoke up, “Sir, they weren’t really nukes in the classic sense. They were probably designed to inflict massive electro-magnetic damage. They were exploded in space over Taiwan.”

  General Taylor interjected, “Very sophisticated use of weaponry, Mr. President. If the Chinese are using the nuclear-pumped E-bomb in this conflict it would severely impact U.S. forces and our technological superiority. We’d be reduced to fighting with Korean War-era technology if they continued using them. We’d have to respond with nuclear weapons to even the odds against their much larger army. Of course, submarines would be shielded from the effects. . .” General Taylor paused briefly, then looked at Jack Benson, “I didn’t think the Chinese had the E-bomb yet. Hell, we don’t have any in our stockpiles.”

  “But we designed a few and tested a couple in the late ‘80s,” Benson mumbled, “and a few years ago the Chinese obtained the design and test data.” He cleared his throat, “At least we know what we’re up against.”

  There was an embarrassed silence quickly broken by Lindley, “Look, gentlemen, we have a massive crisis to deal with here. Let’s not engage in recriminations. As I was saying, we think China detonated two nuclear weapons over Taiwan. These weapons severely damaged the communications, radar and computer systems on board four United States Navy ships that coincidentally happened to be in the Taiwan Strait at the time of the attack. When China launched a large anti-ship missile attack, these ships were hit and badly damaged. We think we have lost two ships, the Belleau Wood and the Dubuque. Third, a flight of four C-17s that were carrying U.S. Army troops to the UN peacekeeping mission in Indonesia are missing and presumed down in the area to the east of Taiwan. There were 104 Army and Air Force personnel on board. We have patrol aircraft out of Okinawa looking for any wreckage or survivors but we have had no luck so far. We think the emergency transmitters on board were probably disabled by the nuclear bombs. There are reports out of Japan that up to nine commercial aircraft are missing in the area too. Fourth, there are reports out of Panama, now confirmed by personnel attached to our embassy there, that the Panama Canal has been severely damaged. It will probably take months to repair. We are working to confirm reports that a Chinese freighter was involved in the accident.”

  “Bastards,” General Taylor had been listening intently, matching every word from Lindley with what he considered truth from the briefing he received a few minutes before in the National Military Command Center. He looked up and remembered he was not in the Pentagon among his own kind, “That was no accident Mr. President. The Chinese are playing this game for keeps. That explosion was meant to do two things, slow down our Navy’s ability to reinforce the Pacific and warn us that China will do what it must to win this conflict.”

  Maus looked at the general, “That’s a big assumption for something that could be an accident.”

  The general shook his head in disbelief at the state of denial that permeated the room.

  Lindley drew in a breath and looked at the papers in front of the President, “Finally, Mr. President, we think the U.S. Marines are in Taiwan.” The President looked up in shock. “Worse yet, sir, we think the Navy and Marines have attacked and sunk Chinese shipping.”

  “They what?” the President demanded.

  “It looks like our military started a war without your permission.” Lindley looked at General Taylor.

  The President’s face lost color. He grabbed a glass of water and took a gulp, “Is that true, General?”

  The general, trained to tell it like it was, replied, “Yes, Mr. President. The Belleau Wood Amphibious Ready Group suffered an unprovoked attack in international waters. Having been attacked, the Navy and Marine forces are authorized to defend themselves. In the emergency, they retreated to the nearest safe ground to care for their casualties and await orders. Your military is doing fine, sir. They were surprised by the initial Chinese attack but they have recovered as best they can and have defended themselves admirably.”

  The President and civilian NSC staffers stared at the general like he was a man from Mars. The four uniformed NSC staffers smiled inwardly. The general was getting a first hand taste of what they had to deal with on a daily basis from this White House.

  The President looked at the dark wooden table, then locked eyes with Taylor, “What are our military options, General?”

  Taylor suppressed a sigh and looked at his Commander-in-Chief, “Not many right now. The Iraqi mobilization has tied down the Marine division stationed in Okinawa. In addition, we have most of the Army’s 1st Cavalry Division in Kuwait. Our forces in South Korea are on full alert because of the North Korean maneuvers. Most of the Army division based in Hawaii is now in Indonesia. Our nearest aircraft carrier is in the Persian Gulf watching Iraq. We have two aircraft carriers on the West Coast. One is undergoing repairs and the other just completed a nine-month cruise and is in its training cycle.”

  “What about your long range bomber fleet?” the President asked.

  “Of course, our B-2s could range targets in Taiwan from bases in America, the problem is we can’t protect them.” Taylor clenched his jaw.

  “Can’t protect them?” the President looked confused.

  “Mr. President, the B-2 is vulnerable to air-to-air attack. The Chinese have developed a system for detecting stealth aircraft. It’s not accurate enough to target one with a missile, b
ut it is good enough to scramble fighters to intercept. Without air cover from a significant force, preferably including two aircraft carriers, our B-2s cannot be safely employed against China. It will take at least ten days to assemble the forces we need to respond to China’s aggression.”

  The room was silent. Thankfully, one of the phones rang. Maus picked it up. His eyes went wide and he covered the receiver, “Mr. President, it’s the Chinese Embassy. They want to talk to you about the terms for the immediate surrender of U.S. forces on and around Taiwan.”

  The President started to reach for the phone. Lindley jumped as if snapped out of a stupor. “Wait, Mr. President. You can’t discuss surrender terms,” he turned to Maus, “Put them on hold for a moment.” Lindley turned back to the President, “Sir, no American President has ever directly negotiated the surrender of U.S. forces in the field. You don’t want to do this. It’s not right,” Lindley leaned over and hissed in the President’s face, “Sir, think of your legacy—let the general do it!”

  The President nodded and dropped his outstretched hand.

  Lindley turned to the general, “General Taylor. Take this call. Find out what the Chinese want. Stall for time. See if we can avoid the term ‘surrender’ at all costs. There’s no need to be drastic. I’m sure we can come up with a solution that’s acceptable to both sides.”

  A stunned general took the phone. He had expected to discuss military options for reinforcing Taiwan or conducting a naval blockade to deny supplies to the Chinese troops on the island—not discuss terms of surrender with a Chinese foreign service officer. What was he going to do? Tell the President to go to hell right to his face?

  25

  Fog

  Commander Meade calculated he had at most three minutes before the first of the cruise missiles spotted by the Harrier found the Curtis Wilbur. Meade smashed his fist into his palm and shook his head. If the Chinese had spotted him and targeted him with another volley of their large supersonic cruise missiles he was sure the Curtis Wilbur would succumb. His blinded Aegis air defense system and one Phalanx could only do so much. Of course, he could try to target his SM2 anti-air missiles at the threatening missiles as he did with the Chinese fighter aircraft, hoping the radar waves reflected off the missiles would be enough to give the SM2s a target to aim for. The problem was that, unlike the aircraft, he didn’t know how many missiles there were, nor did he have a good a fix on their location. Meade made a decision. Well, the Standard Missiles aren’t going to do any good sitting in their launch tubes.

  “Fire Control! I want the Aegis to illuminate to the west. I want a spread of 12 Standards, two each, running every two degrees from 262 degrees to 272 degrees. Launch with a four second separation between missiles set at the same course. Tell the Harrier to hug the waves, no use having him draw fire.”

  Commander Meade’s words sent the CIC’s activity level ratcheting up yet another notch. Half the computer stations in the critical nerve center seemed to have their guts exposed with two heavily sweating sailors working on each one. Everywhere else, sailors were trying to do their jobs with equipment of uncertain functionality.

  Not a minute after a dozen SM2s rippled out of the bow of the Curtis Wilbur, Meade heard the first indication of an inbound missile: the chaff dispenser system firing clouds of aluminum strips into the air—A lot of good that will do us while we’re dead in the water.

  There were eight missiles bearing down on the American destroyer (the SM2 volley had already downed two). They were unlike anything the Americans understood the Chinese to have in their arsenal. As with much of China’s high tech military gear, these missiles had their origins in American engineering. Relatively simple in design and concept, these missiles zeroed in on the radar emissions of a target ship. Specifically, these missiles sought out the radar signatures of the famous American Aegis System or its junior partner, the Phalanx Close In Weapon System (CIWS).

  The missiles came in, one right after the other, at 1,000 feet—very high for a missile designed to attack a ship. The employers of these missiles wanted them to be seen and engaged by the ship’s defensive systems, especially the SM2 missiles. The reason for this was two-fold: one, the missiles needed to have an active radar signal to track and target, and two, the missiles were very cheap to manufacture, costing less than one-fifth of an SM2. Thus, in a war of attrition against a high-tech opponent, the Chinese could afford to lose many missiles to the more expensive anti-aircraft missiles and still come out ahead.

  One by one, the Phalanx acquired and downed the missiles, each missile making it a little closer to the jury-rigged and now over-worked system (looking somewhat like a white R2D2 of Star Wars fame rocking wildly to and fro).

  The seventh missile detonated only 300 yards astern, its unburned fuel exploding with a frightening warmth of things soon to come. The CIWS belched its last torrent of tungsten darts and fell silent, out of ammo, its radar still tracking the last incoming missile.

  Missile number eight drew a bead on the Aegis phased array radar and dove on the Curtis Wilbur at a 45-degree angle. Only 30 yards away from the large radar panel the missile’s warhead detonated, sending thousands of steel balls hurtling forward, shredding the radar and the superstructure underneath. The unburned jet fuel in the missile ignited into a fireball, burning and peeling the Curtis Wilbur’s gray paint. Some of the burning fuel made it into the ship’s vulnerable interior; fortunately, not so much as could be quickly dealt with. Only two sailors were wounded in the attack—but the Curtis Wilbur lost its only functional Phalanx system as well as the stern Aegis radar transmitter array.

  Commander Meade decided he could use some good news right about now. He considered his career as an officer, a husband and a father. The ship’s chaplain once told him that God wasn’t much for making deals, “God, if you get me out of this one, I’ll. . .” So Meade just said, “God help us,” under his breath and drove on, not really knowing what else to do.

  A phone rang. A young and tired-looking sailor’s face broke into a broad grin, “Sir! Commander Meade! We have power to one of the shafts! We can move!”

  Meade looked up the ceiling, Thank you. He smiled. Deals or no deals, he knew he owed God big time for that one.

  Meade grabbed the phone, “Meade here, what kind of power we got?”

  “Sir,” it was Lieutenant Commander Clarke, head of engineering, “I’ve got one turbine and one shaft operational. The other shaft is beyond help. I can probably get you six, maybe seven knots. We’re working on getting another turbine up. The fuel system was scorched pretty bad by the missiles a few hours ago but we’re cannibalizing the other two turbines as fast as we can strip them of anything useful.”

  “Excellent. You earned your pay today Clarke.”

  In a curious way, mobility added to Meade’s problems. Remaining at anchor just outside of Kaohsiung Harbor was an easy decision—he could either stay there or abandon ship and move his flag to the Germantown. Now he had a choice. Stay in Taiwanese waters or make for international waters and presumed safety south of the 21st parallel. At six knots that would take no less than ten hours with the Chinese most likely trying to sink him the entire way.

  Meade’s eyes narrowed. Abandon ship, try to run, or wait for the inevitable missile strike. He looked at the navigational charts for Kaohsiung, noting the depths and calculating where it made sense to land amphibious forces—where the Marines landed, of course.

  Meade thought of a desperation maneuver the Japanese Imperial Navy tried in World War II—calculating the Americans would eventually weary of high losses, the Japanese decided to sortie the super battleship Yamato at the island of Okinawa during the American assault of that island. The Japanese hoped to beach the massive ship and create an unsinkable battleship that would then proceed to pound the U.S. invasion with its 18.1-inch guns. The Yamato never even reached sight of the island—it was quickly spotted and sunk by American aircraft. Might as well take some more of the bastards with me.

&nbs
p; Meade gave the orders: with only a skeleton crew remaining he would beach the Curtis Wilbur on Chichin Beach at high tide—stern first, bow anchors out, the ship’s lone 5-inch gun pointing defiantly to the west. Too bad they weren’t defending Okinawa today—the Japanese would really be annoyed that the Americans successfully executed one of their most valiant last-ditch naval efforts.

  Protecting the airport, the prime landing beach just south of the harbor and maintaining a force on top of the big hill overlooking Kaohsiung was a job for at least a division of 14,000 Marines. Flint had less than 2,000 and now, after the recent enemy airdrop that they repulsed, the enemy knew the Marines were there.

  Flint turned to his S-4, Major Vine: “Logie, forget about getting more beans and band-aids off the Germantown, just get all the bullets you can. I want every weapon, every stick of explosive. We’re going to find ourselves in a helluva fight here and I want everyone, even what’s left of the service company, armed to the teeth.” He smiled grimly, “This is not a humanitarian mission.”

  Every Marine was trained to be a rifleman. Vine returned the grim smile, “We’re on our way.”

  “Bring back some of those fat Navy chiefs as well. They’re not going to like it very much, but they can carry guns, too.”

  “Now you’re talking, sir!” Vine turned to go pressgang some squids into being ammo bearers. If I live through this, Vine thought, this will make a great sea story.

  * * *

  Fu Zemin swept into the Cathay Pacific office in Chiang Kai-Shek International Airport, the intelligence officer, Major General Wei, right behind him. The office and the adjoining offices of other airlines were appropriated by the commander of the Taiwan operation, General First Class Deng Yen-hsi.

  General Deng, was pacing the floor and yelling into his SATCOM phone. He nodded at the presence of the two men but continued his tirade, “You stupid dogs! I cannot believe you’ve let a division of sick foot soldiers and a brigade of tanks that isn’t even close to the area of operations prevent you from reaching your first day’s objectives!” The general listened to the reply impatiently, then lowered his voice to a growl, “I don’t care if the Americans disrupted your effort. China has given you every tool you need to succeed. In fact, you have more than enough to ensure victory. Perhaps what is needed is your own personal leadership. Why are you not at the front with your men in Kaohsiung?”