China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  The helicopter closed in on the airport and began to set down across the street from the main parking lot, a vacant lot filled with mud puddles and overrun with weeds.

  They came down hard, bouncing once before settling down. The pilot switched off the rotors, and the two officers ran for the temporary command post. Behind them, camouflage netting was draped over the Huey as soon as the blades were still. The helo disappeared into the landscape, virtually invisible from above.

  In the relative safety of the pre-cast concrete walls of a small electronic components factory, Flint and Rez absorbed a quick situation update from one of Rez’s staff NCOs. The Chinese were attacking in regimental strength on Shou Shan Hill while the beach was being pounded by air strikes and overrun by at least two regiments of infantry. The Germantown was reported hit in the harbor and was on fire while the Curtis Wilbur had taken several direct hits from iron bombs on the beach. Its stern was now resting on the sand as the tide was going out (the bow was kept pointing to the sea by the anchor the skipper dropped on his way in to beach his beloved ship). From their previous successes, the Marines now held about 750 enemy prisoners of war from the failed harbor and airport attacks. There were two pieces of good news: their last temporary command post was now a crater (they decided to move after the airborne assault at the airport) and, the ROC Army was now stirring to life.

  With that, the S-3, Lieutenant Colonel Cook broke in and quickly explained that the Taiwanese had mustered a battalion of M-41D light tanks (almost 50 vehicles) in the hills only five kilometers east of the airport while almost two full battalions of the reserve 17th Infantry Division (Light) had now taken up positions on the northeast side of the runway.

  When it seemed no one was going to mention the huge fireball caused by the fuel air explosives only minutes before, Rez could no longer contain himself, “How hard did we just get hit?”

  Cook paused, “Oh, that. Well, first of all, everyone checked in A-okay. We have either landline or FM to every platoon now.” Cook was speaking excitedly, “But you didn’t see the half of it! Ten minutes ago we got hit with cluster munitions. Destroyed one of the Harriers. The FAE singed our eyebrows but the bombs actually fell short. I guess the anti-aircraft fire unnerved the pilots enough that they missed their mark. I’d imagine they’ll be back.”

  Flint needed some extra cards in his hand right about now, some good cards. He addressed Cook, “You mentioned the ROCs. How’s our liaison with them right now?”

  “Excellent. I take it you missed Captain Ho here behind you when you walked in?”

  An officer in his mid-30s walked up, hand outstretched in a Western-style greeting. “Colonel Flint. I am Captain Ho of the 17th Infantry Division. May I be of service?” The officer spoke solid English. He had an accent, but was obviously a veteran of business in the States.

  Flint didn’t have time for niceties, “You heard about the motorized hang gliders. Have you communicated that to your headquarters?”

  “Yes sir, I have.”

  “We’re running low on Marines, what can you do?”

  “We intend to put our plans into effect for repelling the enemy off our soil. We will attack at first darkness when the enemy air power is less effective. That will be three hours from now. If I may be so bold, I suggest you pull your forces off the beach and Shou Shan and consolidate at the airport. It will be very difficult for our two armies to coordinate their actions, especially at night. I would rather only kill Mainlanders on purpose than Americans by mistake.”

  Flint smiled and said, “Captain Ho, you are correct. Cook, call Colonel Bailey and tell him to pull back to the airport. Captain Ho, do you have any artillery support that can be made available to us?”

  “That can be arranged.” Ho smiled in return.

  “Cook, Ramirez—get this gentleman some good targets ASAP. Rez, how’s the enemy air-to-air ability against our Cobras?”

  “Not exceptional. I don’t think the aircraft I’ve seen so far would even try to down a Cobra.”

  “Cook, get the Cobras in the air to help our forces at the beach break contact with the enemy. Send all of them to the beach. The recon guys can handle themselves at Shou Shan. Those sailors and wounded Marines are my main concern.”

  “Roger.” Cook was already on the radio sending out the warning order to pull back.

  * * *

  Commander Meade stood on his bridge. The deck under his feet was at a 20-degree angle, sloping forward and to port side. He knew the ship’s stern was now out of the water due to the low tide. The fires from the four previous bomb hits were now extinguished, but the Curtis Wilbur’s hull was so shattered that she would never again freely ply the ocean swells. He now had less than 50 crewmembers remaining on board. The rest he sent to join up with the Marines and other sailors on shore. All 50 of the crew were handpicked volunteers and their sole purpose was to care and feed the 5-inch gun mount. They had already rigged up a series of portable generators to maintain power to the rapid-fire gun (the engine room was now a complete loss). The initial motorized hang glider assault caught Meade by surprise, but once he realized the nature of the threat, he decided to remain silent and hope his ship would be ignored as a lifeless hulk. It was.

  Evening approached. Thunderstorms were beginning to build in the growing humidity fed from the distant typhoon. They formed inland, then began moving rapidly out to sea.

  Just before 1800 hours Meade saw another flight of at least 100 hang gliders about a mile off shore. A growing thunder cell loomed over the would-be Icaruses. Lightning danced from one cloud to another, then flashed towards the ocean. A man of the sea, Meade knew what was coming and he felt pity on his enemy. Heavy, large drops of rain began to pelt the ship. At first, the bridge’s windows were untouched, the wind rising from the stern was carrying the rain out to sea at an almost horizontal angle. The men in the gliders were soon obscured by the driving rain. Within ten minutes the cell’s center had passed overhead and the rain was now pounding against the window. Microburst, Meade thought, poor bastards are fish food now.

  The storm cell cleared out to sea. For a moment, the sea was devoid of a human presence. Nothing but waves breaking against the Curtis Wilbur’s bow and foam capped seas beyond. Then he saw it, a gray silhouette surging through the white caps, then another, and another. Three ships were making for the beach to his port side. The ship’s radio crackled to life. It was the Marines. The 31st MEU reported that the enemy now held the beach south of the port entrance and the dominating hill mass to the north. The sailors were to be on their own for a spell. Observing a type of radio silence since he beached his destroyer, Meade’s signalman (a 22-year-old woman actually) simply broke squelch twice to acknowledge receipt of the message (if there was something really important to transmit, Meade would have done so).

  Meade called his guncrew on the intercom and told them about the targets. He ordered them to withhold fire until they were two miles off shore. Assuming they were moving at less than ten knots, it would take them about ten minutes to close to the beach. Within five minutes, Meade calculated his rapid-fire 5-inch gun could acquire all three targets and inflict critical damage on them. This would present the enemy captains with a choice: steam on and get more punishment, or turn around. If they turned tail, Meade would target and destroy their engine rooms. With the prevailing winds and currents, the ships would then drift harmlessly to the southwest (assuming they didn’t sink or explode). If they came on, he would still have a few more minutes to shoot. In the back of his mind he wondered why the ships had no escort in sight. In combat, however, one rarely questions good fortune.

  The ships pressed on. A flight of three jets appeared behind them and roared on over the beach. Meade heard explosions in the distance. He winced, thinking of the jarheads he secretly admired. Peering through his binoculars, Meade could now see that the ships were large innercoastal ferries, probably used in the Pearl River region serving cities such as Hong Kong and Macau. He gave the order to open
fire, starting with the ship furthest to the port (if he hit the starboardmost ship first and it caught fire, the smoke might obscure the other two—being sensitive to wind direction was one attribute of a good naval officer).

  The first shot went long, sending a geyser of water high to the stern of the oncoming ferry. The second shot hit the ship’s superstructure, maybe killing the captain (Meade wondered if this was the kind of ferry that reversed direction, giving it a second bridge to the stern). The third and fourth shots hit low to the waterline right where Meade wanted them. He saw a large wave break against the ferry and the gaping hole left by his gun. The waves greedily found the opening and entered. The ferry began to founder. A warship in combat could recover from such a blow with pumping and counter-flooding. An over-laden ferry could not. By the time the Curtis Wilbur’s 5-inch gun was trained on the second ship, the first was already listing ominously forward.

  The skipper of the second ferry, reacting to the hits against the first, thought he’d try evasive action. He turned to port, presenting Meade’s gunners with a larger target. It only took eight shots to land five of them at the waterline and two in the engine room. The ferry quickly capsized. Meade actually saw little human stick figures falling off the ship as it rolled, showing its topside to the beached Americans as it settled upside-down.

  The third ferry captain pressed onward. Meade saw the spray pound off his bow and blow over his low-slung deck. Meade muttered, “If we didn’t sink the brave fool the sea probably would on his return trip.”

  The first shot hit the front of the superstructure, directly over the vehicle ramp. The gunners adjusted and. . .”

  Ka-bamm! The Curtis Wilbur shook. Two more tinny-sounding blasts shook the ship.

  Meade felt the vibrations under his feet, “What the hell?”

  The intercom cracked to life, “We’re under attack. We’re under attack from the landward side! There’s a group of infantry off our portside stern and they’re firing at us with crew served weapons.”

  Meade responded, “Get some crews up on the .50 caliber stations. Continue to engage the enemy ship. Whatever happens, don’t stop firing until he’s sunk.”

  Meade heard shots outside the bridge’s starboardside hatch. A second later several rounds pinged against the hatch and bulkhead. He unholstered the 9mm pistol he really didn’t know how to use very well. At least they’ll be close, he thought, hard to miss.

  A mile out to sea a 5-inch round exploded off the side of the ship—too high to let the heavy seas enter.

  Meade could see a group of men run towards the 5-inch turret mount. They were setting something on the deck next to the gun. “Where’s the .50 caliber crews! We have a boarding party on the bow, they’re trying to take out the gun!”

  The gun fired again. The shot fell short and exploded harmlessly in the water just in front of the ferry.

  Meade yelled, “Everyone with a personal weapon, follow me!”

  He burst out of the hatch and onto the superstructure that overlooked the main deck about ten feet below. The gun mount was about 40 feet away. He steadied his pistol on the wire railing and fired. His officers and sailors joined in behind him. Three of them had M-16s. Four of the enemy fell in the first volley. One pulled the pin on a grenade by the mount’s base and dove away. The smooth, featureless deck provided no cover and the man was quickly killed. The gun fired. Meade stood motionless, watching the ferry off in the distance. The shot hit the ferry’s bow at the waterline. Excellent!

  The grenade exploded, sending fragments into the turret’s ring and freezing it in place. A fragment found Meade’s left leg, gouging his shinbone and tearing out a piece of his calf. His pistol flew out of his hand as he caught himself on the cable of the railing. The pistol was dangling off the cable from its lanyard. Meade began to pull himself up when an explosion rocked the side of the 5-inch turret, blasting a hole the size of basketball in its thin skin. He looked up the beach and saw a Chinese anti-tank missile team reloading its wire-guided weapon mount not 150 yards away.

  A small explosion reverberated off the deck in front of the gun mount. Another crashed into the deck between Meade and the gun mount. An instant later, Meade’s ears were ringing and he felt suspended off the deck. A weird swinging sensation briefly captured his attention and overrode the dull pain he felt in his chest. He looked up. His pistol lanyard had wrapped around the cabling and he was hanging by the waist from the lanyard. He tried to grab the cabling. His hand wouldn’t move. It was strangely silent with only a light ringing in his ears. With a great effort he lifted his head up. In the distance Meade saw his final quarry sink beneath the waves. He had just enough consciousness left to smile. Commander Meade died a minute later.

  * * *

  The latest battle had not gone as well for the Marines. The airmobile infantry had hit hard and in large numbers. They were a lightly armed, but determined foe. The Chinese drove the Marines off of Shou Shan Hill, inflicting heavy casualties on the recon platoon: the Marines lost 11 men and two of four LAVs. Another five Marines were MIA. More importantly, the Chinese soldiers successfully destroyed the partially manned coastal defense emplacements along the bluff (partly staffed due to the combined effects of the chemical, electronic and biological attacks). At the beach, all the remaining LCACs had been destroyed and the field hospital had almost been overrun. If it weren’t for the Taiwanese 105mm howitzers from the reserve infantry division’s artillery battalion, they would have been killed or captured. As it was, the mixed force of Marines and Naval personnel barely broke contact with the enemy in one piece. At the beach they lost 46 Marines and 84 sailors. Another 65, mainly sailors, were unaccounted for.

  Colonel Flint was bruised, but he hardly considered himself battered for what could have happened. And now, the Taiwanese were preparing a counterattack.

  He owed a lot to the crew of the Curtis Wilbur. The last transmission from the overrun ship still haunted him. The female seaman calmly reported the loss of her skipper and the destruction of three large ferries bearing enemy troops. She then reported the ship had been boarded and that she could hear the enemy outside the bridge. The sound of demolitions blasting through a hatch was the last anyone heard from the Curtis Wilbur.

  It was now 1900 hours local. With the situation somewhat stabilized, Lieutenant Colonel Cook turned to his commander, “Sir, I forgot to tell you,” he began with a broadening smile, “While you were out burning up fuel, you’ll never guess what we managed to do. Remember that phone we lifted off the enemy scout? It works fine. We were able to get a call through to PACOM. They wanted to talk to you ASAP.”

  Flint narrowed his eyes, “I don’t remember needing to ask your permission to fly one of my helicopters, Cook. Now, give me my new cell phone and I might forget your comment. We can use some help.” Flint, his crow’s feet a little deeper with levity, snatched the SATCOM phone away from his S-3.

  “Just push this button here, sir, it’s a redial,” Cook said.

  The phone rang once, “Pacific Command,” a male voice said.

  “Colonel Flint here. . .”

  Outside, an enemy jet was tearing across the sky making it sound like the Marines were inside an envelope being ripped open.

  “Stand-by, we’re patching you through to the General Keagan.” Flint heard some clicks. A few seconds of static and a voice Flint recognized as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff came on the line. (The first Marine Corps General ever to be made Chairman of the joint chiefs, General Keagan was a hard-nosed warrior.) “What’s your situation Colonel?”

  “I am commanding combined elements of the 31st MEU and the Belleau Wood ARG in the Kaohsiung area of southern Taiwan. All four ships of the group have been sunk or severely damaged. My Marines have taken about 350 casualties. We have about 600 sailors ashore as well. We have killed, captured or sunk about 12 enemy battalions and at least four transport ships. I think we have seriously disrupted enemy war plans in our sector but we probably can’t withstand another
coordinated assault. I am consolidating my forces at Kaohsiung International Airport where we are under aerial attack. Local ROC forces are attempting to gain contact with the enemy.”

  In the White House Situation Room the President and several staffers listened transfixed to the Colonel’s briefing to General Keagan in Kosovo. They regarded the speakerphone on the table’s center with unwelcome frowns.

  A familiar folksy southern accent came over the line, interrupting Flint. There was nothing friendly about the tone. “Colonel . . .uh . . .Flint, I believe it is. I understand that you and some of your Marines are ashore on Taiwan.”

  The President himself, Flint thought. In different circumstances he would have been amused. Damn, it must be five or six in the morning in Washington.

  “Yes, sir.” Flint was instantly on guard. Never trust someone in authority when they ask you a question to which they already know the answer.

  As if to punctuate Flint’s reply, the crackling explosions of cluster munitions could clearly be heard in the distance. A moment later there was a large, reverberating explosion. A Marine at the door yelled, “There goes one of the airport’s fuel tanks!”

  If the President heard the explosion, he was unmoved, “Who in the hell gave you permission to do that? You know the island is off limits to American troops. What is Beijing going to think?”

  “Sir. . .?” Colonel Flint stopped himself and another explosion thankfully muffled his insubordinate response. He started again, “We didn’t really have any choice, Mr. President. The Chinese sunk our ships.”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line. A sonic boom shook a broken piece of glass loose from the window in the factory’s front office.