China Attacks

by Chuck DeVore

  Due to a variety of unforeseen circumstances, America’s leadership found itself confronting a very angry enemy on terms and timing not of American choosing. It would be at least two days before the first attack sub could be in place to interdict Chinese shipping. Beyond that, the nearest aircraft carrier battlegroup was a week away with reinforcements another week beyond that. America had few options—an early commitment to combat was a nightmare for the Administration. Now, the very public display of American resistance to the Chinese aggression put the policy makers in an even tougher spot. A retreat or surrender would be seriously questioned by the American public and further might erode support for any further action.

  Continued resistance, if unsuccessful, would embolden the Chinese and demoralize the public anyway. They were damned either way. To top it off, the Chinese wanted a quick answer to their surrender demands.

  The President turned to Lindley, “Bob, we need to send a negotiating team to Taiwan to deal with this crisis immediately. The team needs to be high enough ranking to deal on equal terms with the Chinese, but not so high that we risk embarrassment. The Chinese will accept a team of three. Who do we send?”

  Lindley looked at his boss, “I think I should go as your personal representative. . .”

  The President’s thoughtful demeanor seemed only a bit dulled by his lack of sleep, “Yes. Yes! And General Taylor can go as the chief military representative. Perfect!” General Taylor looked up from the table, resigned to the fate his C-in-C was giving him. “Who else?”

  “How about Maus?” Lindley asked.

  Taylor regarded the young staffer with a poker face.

  The President’s eyes drilled into the table just in front of his resting hands. “No.”

  Donna was uncomfortable with the real-time creation of the negotiating team in front of team’s potential members.

  Taylor cleared his throat, “How about Donna Klein?” Most everyone in the room looked at the analyst with surprise. Lindley raised an eyebrow and turned to whisper in the President’s ear. The President nodded. The President pushed himself back from the table and got up, making his way up the narrow set of stairs to the hallway above.

  Lindley addressed Donna, “Ms. Klein, can we see you in the hallway for a moment?” Lindley got up and walked upstairs.

  The confined spaces of the Situation Room made it difficult for Donna to get quickly upstairs. Her heart raced as she picked her way through the tangle of legs and chairs. I hope everything’s okay. What could possibly be wrong?

  She got to the top of the stairs and saw the President and his National Security Council Advisor standing there, shoulder-to-shoulder. Lindley spoke first, “Ms. Klein, I don’t think you should go to Taiwan with the negotiating team. You don’t have enough experience.”

  The President’s face betrayed a bit of hesitancy with Lindley’s words. Donna took the offensive immediately, “I respectfully disagree. Thousands of more senior analysts failed to see this coming. I did. I think I know China’s objectives—how they’ll act. I’m the woman for the job.” Donna’s face was firm and confident. She looked straight at the President. He looked straight back at her, weighing his trust in the young CIA analyst.

  The President’s gaze turned into a stare. He frowned and examined his fingernails for a moment, “Bob, I have to overrule you on this one. I still want Ms. Klein to go with you. I like her fire. The three of you will make a balanced team. Besides, she speaks fluent Chinese. If we can only send three people, you, Donna, and General Taylor are the three to send. . .”

  Lindley started to protest.

  The President put his hand on his aide’s shoulder, “Look Bob, my mind is made up on this one. I have to trust my instincts. I didn’t get to be President by always following advice.” The President smiled at Donna.

  She never really liked the man—as a leader or as a person—but at that instant, she found herself engaged by his presence and his charm—and the fact that he overruled Lindley to make her part of the team. “Thank you Mr. President, I won’t let America down.”

  * * *

  Jones had just topped off the ammo compartment and tossed the seven empty shell casings out of the turret when Alexander climbed back on the tank. Alexander grabbed the antenna with the flag on it and untied it. No sense in advertising our position now that we know the Chinese want to fight. The commander connected his CVC helmet to the tank’s intercom system. “Driver, take us down to the end of the runway to the position we have there. Stay on the grass.”

  Specialist Hernandez spun up the turbine engine and eased into gear. Traveller leapt from its muddy, shallow hole and smoothly closed the distance between its old fighting position and the one a mile to the east. Alexander was always amazed at just how fast and nimble a 60-ton M1 tank could be. The tank slowly rocked back and forth as it sped up to 40 mph, leaving a rooster tail of mud and churned up grass behind it.

  Alexander unzipped his chemical protective suit a few inches and reached into his left breast pocket, pulling out the call sign cheat sheet. He palmed the little radio, “Sidewinder Five Niner, Sidewinder Five Niner, this is Thunderbolt X-ray, over.”

  “This is Sidewinder Five Niner, over.”

  “Give me your status and location, over.” The little radio’s reception was crisp and easily audible above the whine and clanking of the tank.

  Lieutenant Mundell reported back, “I found my other scouts. They’re okay. I’m attaching one MP vehicle to each scout vehicle. I’ll visually control the other scout section. That gives me six Humvees total. I’m in an alleyway running into the north side of the airport, just about lined up on the center of the runway. I’ve seen about ten lightly armed Taiwanese security forces. I don’t see any enemy and I can’t hear any vehicles except for probably yours, over.”

  “Roger, I’m heading for the east end of the runway. Recon Pingchiang Street and the bridge over the Keelung Ho River. I’ll be able to watch the Sun Yat-Sen Bridge. Report first contact, out.”

  As they approached the other end of the runway, Alexander heard what sounded faintly like a freight train overhead. Behind him the earth erupted in dirt and fire—artillery! He slammed his hatch shut and pushed it back up to the open protected position.

  The tank splashed into its easternmost pit (earlier in the day it rained at least an inch, if not more) and settled in. The tank’s profile was almost cut in half. Most importantly, its most vulnerable components, its treads, were safe behind a wall of dirt.

  Alexander set to scanning about his new position. He did a 360 in the evening light with his eyes, then took control of the turret and swung it around, looking through the TIS on three-power magnification. What he saw next made his blood run cold. Atop the Sun Yat-Sen Bridge there were two tanks and an APC. The APC had a thin, long gun tube—probably a rapid-fire 30mm gun like the one on the American Bradley IFV (Infantry Fighting Vehicle). The vehicles were moving west, closing diagonally on his position from right to left. They careened in and out of the abandoned cars clogging the bridge, occasionally clipping some or pushing them out of the way. Just behind and hovering above the tanks he saw two helicopters, probably armored HIND-D helicopters carrying an array of anti-tank weapons. As the lead tank disappeared behind the freeway embankment, presumably taking the off ramp to the airport, another rapidly moving tank took its place on the far side of the bridge.

  “Sidewinder Five Niner, Sidewinder Five Niner, this is Thunderbolt X-ray, over.”

  “Go ahead Thunderbolt X-ray.”

  “You’ve got two tanks coming from behind you off the Sun Yat-Sen Freeway, over.”

  “Roger, I can hear ‘em.”

  “Stay low. Thunderbolt X-ray, out.”

  More artillery struck a mile behind the American tank. This time, instead of the basic point detonation rounds that tear up the ground, the enemy had switched to the much more sophisticated and deadly DPICM round (Dual Purpose Improved Conventional Munitions). DPICM is a terrifying tool of modern warfare. I
nstead of containing one large warhead, a DPICM round disperses dozens of little HEAT rounds on streamers. They kill two ways: if they strike the ground, they blow up, acting as grenades, if they strike the thin armor at the top of a tank or APC, they burn through the armor and usually destroy or disable the vehicle. Two aircraft were on fire now at the other end of the airport, including one of the C-17s. Alexander thought about the artillery barrage, the enemy still thinks we’re back there, between the brief communications they received from the vehicles we killed and the images that UAV sent back before we shot it down—good, maybe this will give us the advantage of surprise for a moment.

  “Gunner, sabot, two helicopters, right helicopter first!” Alexander decided to down the trailing helicopter. Their wire-guided anti-tank weapons threatened the thinner top portions of his armor. Moreover, the helicopters would serve the enemy as valuable observation platforms. His survival hinged on stealth and speed. He couldn’t afford to have the helicopters reporting his position like the police and news choppers did back home during the innumerable L.A. freeway chases seen on local TV.

  Fortunately, one of the best ways to kill a helicopter was with a tank main gun sabot round. The sabot dart traveled so fast and with such a flat trajectory, that hitting an exposed helicopter was no more difficult than hitting a moving tank.

  Peña found his target immediately, flipped the TIS to ten-power, and lased the rotary wing aircraft to determine its distance.

  Jones stuffed a sabot round in the breach and called, “Up!” He grabbed another sabot round while the ammo blast door was open and cradled it between his knees—with two helicopters airborne he wanted to be able to load the gun a couple of seconds faster.

  “Fire!”

  “On the way!” Peña pulled the trigger and, without waiting for results, switched to three-power, found the other helicopter, narrowed the field of view back to ten-power, and lased.

  Jones yelled, “Up!” in record time—at 19, the youngest member of the crew was still very hyped.

  Alexander watched as the first helicopter keeled over and headed for the ground. He could see no smoke or evidence of damage. “Fire,” the command was almost routine now.

  “On the way!” Peña fired, and in less than one second, the sabot round struck the other helicopter square in its left engine. The shot tore apart the turbine. The combination of burning metal and fuel generated a fireball that consumed the entire aircraft. Just as this airborne fireball was heading earthward, its twin rose up from the ground just to its right. The two infernos passed each other. Both helicopters had been dispatched.

  Alexander turned his attention to the bridge. The second tank was almost off the bridge and would likely dip out of sight in a few seconds. The APC would follow less than ten seconds later. He decided to get the APC, then the third tank. With luck, he could choke off the bridge, or at least make traversing it a slower process. “Gunner, HEAT, APC,” the commander called.

  Peña smoothly went through the motions.

  Jones grabbed the appropriate round of ammo and slammed it home. The breach snapped shut with a satisfying metallic sound. Jones barked, “Up!”

  “Fire.”

  “On the way.”

  The HEAT round sped out and hit the Russian-designed and built BMP-2 tracked infantry fighting vehicle in the flank. The warhead devastated the lightly armored vehicle, killing the three crew and seven infantrymen inside.

  The Abrams tank now had three shell casings loose on the floor of its turret. The acrid smell of burnt propellant was once again filling the air. The tank crew was now one with each other and with the tank. Each crewman performed his job with little thought—to think meant delay, delay meant death. This precision was the result of intense military training, drill, repetition and discipline—all of those things a free society finds distasteful about the military. Paradoxically, it was by sacrificing a bit of their freedom that these soldiers were capable of defending freedom for themselves and their fellow citizens.

  From his open protected position just underneath his partially raised hatch Alexander called out the next fire command, “Gunner, sabot, tank.”

  Jones opened the blast door, grabbed a sabot round by its base, and rammed it home. He clicked on his intercom, “Up!”

  “Fire.”

  “On the way.”

  There were now two large fires on the bridge, one at the near end and one in the middle. Combined with the smoke of the burning helicopters, the evening battlefield was growing darker. Alexander wished for nighttime—a dark, cloudy night where his advanced TIS would give him a huge advantage over his opponents—if we can’t be seen, we can’t be killed—easily.

  The laser warning signal went off. Alexander saw movement at the far end of the bridge a mile away. He sealed his hatch shut and scanned the bridge with the TIS. Just above the cement guardrail he saw a tank turret. “Gunner, sabot, tank.”

  Jones began to load the 105mm gun.

  Suddenly, the image on the TIS blossomed white. Alexander knew that he was the only American on the battlefield to have an anti-tank capability, unless the Taiwanese were shooting at the tank, this could only mean one thing. . .

  A second after the thermal image of the tank was momentarily obscured, a piercing, horrible sound grated against the outside of the tank, causing the massive vehicle to jump, then vibrate briefly like a struck gong. A Chinese Type 85-II tank with its 125mm main gun fired a sabot round at the American tank. The shot hit the Abrams on the front of its turret, where the thickness of the armor had the equivalent effectiveness of more than three feet of steel. The Chinese tungsten dart impacted Traveller and deflected just enough to cause the dart’s long, thin shaft to shatter. The fragments hurdled onto the tank’s exterior, gouging small holes in the metal surface.

  Jones only hesitated for an instant. In the back of his mind he knew they had been hit. He also knew that he was still alive and had a job to do. Modern tank warfare is violent and sudden. Until he was killed or injured, he’d stay at his station and load his gun. “Up!” Jones cried with the grin of a teenager who has just realized he cheated death and once again feels like he just might be invincible.

  Peña ranged the enemy tank. On one level, he simply went through the steps he knew so well. On another level, his brain processed the fact that they had been hit and that, so far as he could tell, all their systems were still functional—for this, he was thankful. If they had lost a system, the laser rangefinder for instance, he would have compensated for it automatically, without thought. “On the way!”

  The American sabot round with its extremely hard depleted uranium bolt shot out and struck the Chinese tank on the front of its turret in the same general spot as the Chinese tank had hit its enemy. There, all similarity of outcome ended. The superior American ordnance impacted the inferior Chinese armor (armor that was adequate by regional standards but wasn’t nearly as advanced as that sported by the M1). The metal dart penetrated through the bolted-on reactive armor boxes (meant only to defeat HEAT rounds and anti-tank missiles) and began to push aside the case hardened steel. When it reached the hard but brittle ceramic laminate, it simply pulverized it and drove on, only somewhat dented for the effort. Once the dart reached the last of the armor, it had shed many flakes of now white-hot uranium. When this material reached the tank’s crew compartment the result was spectacular, if predictable. The overpressure caused by the rapidly expanding gasses in the exploding tank caused the fifteen ton turret gun assembly to pop off the tank’s hull, up and over the bridge’s guard rail, and go crashing down to the river bank below.

  Before being destroyed, the Chinese tank commander did manage to radio his battalion commander and advise him of the enemy tank and its location. The commander’s attached battery of six self-propelled 122mm howitzers was just coming to a halt on a secondary school playfield about three kilometers away. When called, they would be able to suppress or kill the enemy armor.

  Alexander considered his situation. He
knew the enemy had artillery support—fairly quick responding and accurate artillery support. He also knew the enemy had another bridge they could cross just a kilometer down river from the Sun Yat-Sen Bridge. This bridge was not visible from his current location but he knew his scouts were there. Finally, the enemy had managed to cross at least two tanks on to his side of the river. While his small contingent of scouts and MPs might manage to keep enemy infantry off of his tank if he pulled them back in, he knew that by himself from his current location, he could not keep enemy armor and artillery off of them. It was time for bold action. “Driver! Guide on the gun, move out!”

  Specialist Hernandez launched Traveller out of its shallow hole and simply followed the direction that the gun tube pointed. Colonel Alexander threw open his hatch and went to name tag defilade. Speed would be his primary means of protection now—and while traveling 20 to 40 mph through city streets, he needed more visibility than he could get with the hatch closed.

  “Sidewinder Five Niner, Thunderbolt X-ray, over.”

  The little radio’s response was barely perceptible, “This is Sidewinder Five Niner, over.” Mundell was whispering.

  “Sidewinder Five Niner, I’m heading north alongside the river bank. I’m going to pass under the bridge. What’s your situation, over?”

  “My vehicles are just south of the freeway embankment, I’m dismounted with some of my crew under the freeway overpass on Pingchiang Street. I see two tanks covering for a least a company of BMPs that are coming up in a coil about 300 meters north of the freeway. They’re moving off of Pingchiang Street bridge. I don’t see the infantry dismounting yet, over.”

  Alexander narrowed his eyes in concentration, “Roger. You have any smoke grenades?”