by Chuck DeVore
Brother Wang only snatched two hours of sleep; Chao didn’t sleep at all. Assembling at an open-air market only three blocks from Party headquarters, about 500 Falun Gong believers and 50 Christians (Catholics and various Protestant denominations) listened intently to “Master” Chao’s instructions. One scared looking young security officer saw the group, then scuttled off towards the Party building. Just before they were to march, Brother Wang offered a prayer for their safety and asked for God’s blessing. All 550 people bowed their heads in respect to the elder Christian leader.
By 7:05 AM, the mass of protesters gathered in front of the Party offices. A squad of grim-faced guards stood on the imposing flight of steps leading into the building. They held their assault rifles waist high, pointing them warily in the direction of the protesters.
The protesters locked arms and sat down. A few trucks, whose expected morning route was now blocked, stopped, adding to the confusion. Another squad of soldiers showed up on the stairs.
About ten minutes passed. The protesters began to sing. Curious onlookers ringed the fringe of the sitting crowd, leaving a healthy distance between themselves and the protesters.
Just as a group of 20 soldiers moved into position on the street to the left of the Party’s main entrance, a slowly snaking column of hymn-singing Christians emerged from behind a produce truck to the front of the building. The column seemed to have no end—every two seconds another person appeared from behind the truck, winding around the sitting, signing mass until a bare patch of pavement was found upon which to sit.
A platoon of 40 soldiers marched in on the street to the right. There were now almost 100 armed representatives of the Party facing off against about 1,000 unarmed believers. “Master” Chao sat cross-legged, deep in meditation. Brother Wang, sitting nearby, looked about. He had seen a face-off like this before years ago. He knew he was about to become a martyr. He sighed and began praying for the souls of the soldiers and his fellow protesters.
Wang was deep in prayer. He was at peace, ready to die, if that was God’s will. He heard shouts down the street behind him, then a shot. Before the protesters could react, Wang heard the familiar clatter of AKs on full automatic. The time had come. Maybe others will draw inspiration from our example, Wang thought as he felt, then heard, a bullet tear through the air above his head.
* * *
General Mao had shaken off the effects of the sea and was now surging forward with his men, running on pure adrenaline. He couldn’t believe he was in the middle of Amoy.
Mao was at the head of two companies totaling 220 men. Two blocks to his right and left were another company each, providing flank security for his main column. Their objective: Amoy Party headquarters.
Mao had assigned specific tasks to handpicked company commanders as well. One was to seize the radio station, another, the main telephone exchange, two more were to block the north and south roads into town—16 companies in all. Mao expected another brigade of 16 companies was about half an hour behind him from the larger Quemoy Island. The remaining force of about 1,000 men was conducting a diversionary landing on the coast to the northeast of Amoy in an attempt to seize the small fishing villages of Aotou, Lianhe and Shijing.
So far, Mao’s force had only encountered eight shocked police officers, four of them simply stood in place, hands raised, and allowed themselves to be disarmed. Of the other four, three ran from the advancing Taiwanese, the last one, surprisingly, volunteered to lead Mao’s battalion through the city to the Party complex.
The local police officer crouched down behind an idling truck. He pointed down the street, “The Party building is less than 100 meters away. A PAP company is assigned to guard it. They only have rifles and tear gas.”
Mao acknowledged this bit of data and broke squelch on the small tactical radio his radioman carried, ordering his two flanking companies to move into position before they began the assault. Mao waited patiently, constantly sweeping his gaze back and forth and up and down, looking from street level to roof-top, some ten stories up. Civilians were curiously absent.
Just above the throaty idle of the diesel truck he by which he was kneeling, Mao thought he heard the sound of singing from the direction of the Party headquarters. He frowned and ordered a soldier to switch off the ignition of the recently abandoned truck. The singing could now be clearly heard. Could this be a sign of the rebellion we heard of? A gunshot cut short Mao’s thoughts on the matter. Instinctively, he waved his men into action.
Knowing their families and homeland had been pounded into submission by the Mainlanders, Mao’s soldiers leapt into action, eagerly seeking their afflicters. General Mao raced down the street clogged with trucks, cars, and vendors’ carts. He saw a line of enemy soldiers and crouched behind a car before realizing they were facing away from his men. Looking beyond the soldiers he saw why—they were firing at a mass of people sitting in the intersection at the foot of a large building that had to be the Party headquarters. Instantly filled with rage at the sight of butchery, Mao rose to his feet, his pistol spitting flame at the monstrous atrocity before him.
Moments later it was over. The enemy lay dead, injured or shocked into surrender. The only sounds came from the crowd with the whimpering wounded or the wailing of those who just lost a loved one. Tears began to roll down Mao’s face as he waded into the crowd, calling forth his medics to administer first aid.
Mao’s mind registered the movement of his special shock platoon as it burst into Party HQ to clear the building. The muffled sound of an occasional shot from inside the building reminded him that there was still work to be done.
Mao stopped near the center of the rapidly quieting crowd (Mao and his men were finally recognized for what they were and the surprised mob hushed in expectation). General Mao cleared his throat, then boomed forth, “We are your brothers from Taiwan! We come to help you throw off the chains of your oppressors! Join us and we can be free together!” At this, Mao threw both hands into the air and slowly rotated to a roaring crowd.
This was not quite expected, Mao thought, we must harness this momentum before the Mainlanders can recover. As he completed this thought a dignified but bloodied man walked up to Mao and put his hand on Mao’s shoulder, “You are an answer to prayer, sir. My name is Wang Ouyang. What can I do to help?”
* * *
By 8:00 AM Tuesday, the ROCs had a little more than 5,000 troops on Mainland soil. Most importantly, they had encountered little organized resistance. They even captured an entire artillery battalion, 18 guns, intact at Lianhe. Everywhere they went, enthusiastic crowds welcomed them as liberators. Soon, additional fishing boats from the Mainland were added to the effort and another 6,000 troops made it across the bay in the foggy morning hours.
General Wong was surprised at the success his landings enjoyed. His staff, knowing how extended and vulnerable they were, counseled caution. They recommended immediately fortifying the easily defensible Amoy and only sending out reconnaissance patrols to better understand the enemy’s dispositions. Wong hesitated, then thought once again of General Mao’s words and Sun Tzu, “No, we have no hope of victory if we stop now. Stopping will only give the Communists time to recover and bring sufficient force to bear to crush us no matter how strong our positions are. No. . .” he turned to his staff, “we are not fighting a war now, we’re leading a rebellion!”
Wong stroked his chin, “In fact, the worst thing we can do right now is mass our forces. Instead, we must divide our forces! Divide them and plunge headlong into every city, town and village we can reach in the next day! Listen, our follow-on forces are disorganized right now. We didn’t expect to land any more beyond the first 5,000. I want everyone here except for my deputy commander and the signal staff to fly over to the Mainland by 1000 hours. I want you 30 staff officers to choose objectives for today, tomorrow and the next day. Organize our forces on the beaches. Each of you should strive to reach towns and villages totaling no less than 10,000 people today, 20,000 peo
ple tomorrow and 50,000 the next day. Use civilian cars, buses and trucks. Fan out across the countryside. Recruit help from the populace, encourage them, organize them, seek out and destroy the Communist Party infrastructure! Speed! We must fan the flames before the storm from Beijing extinguishes them! Are there any questions?”
“Where will you be, sir?” someone asked.
Wong flashed a tea-stained grin back, “Fuzhou! Fuzhou is mine! I will be leading a column to liberate Fuzhou by Thursday morning. Who wants Shantou?”
Three fiery-eyed colonels stepped forward, hands raised.
“Now, I believe you understand my intent. Let’s go!”
One of the colonels said, “Shantou, hell, what about Hong Kong?”
“Or Guangzhou?” said another.
General Wong strode strongly out of the underground briefing room then turned to say, “If one of you reaches Hong Kong or Guangzhou you will most assuredly go down in history as one of the greatest Chinese military leaders of all time. As for me, I’ll settle for ‘Liberator of Fuzhou.’”
33
Last Card
Donna Klein and General Taylor were once again in the hotel near the airport. Fu Zemin had railed against them on Tuesday morning after they returned to PLA lines without the surrendered Americans. But once again, Fu was quickly occupied with more urgent matters and was forced to ignore the two Americans.
Taylor’s crypto-pager kept up a continuous stream of messages (as long as he kept it near a window) about the rapidly changing situation on the Mainland. Donna noticed that traffic at the airport diminished to half its level on Tuesday, and half again on Wednesday. By Wednesday afternoon the airport was hosting only one in-bound and one out-bound flight every half hour—and every one of those was either a 747 or a large military transport. She wished she could call the office with the observation—but she no longer had her phone and Taylor’s two-way pager no longer had enough of a charge to transmit.
Donna was in General Taylor’s room when his pager went off again. He quickly snatched it off the windowsill as he always did and ran to the bathroom to read the display near the noise of running water. He whispered, “All seaborne resupply traffic out of Fuzhou and Shantou has come to a halt now. Add that to the message an hour ago that said every airport from Shantou to Fuzhou was apparently in rebel hands and I’d say our ‘friends’ here will run out of gas in a few days.”
Donna was about to signal her agreement when the two heard a voice that made their blood run cold.
“Taylor? Klein? You in there? It’s Lindley! We need to talk!”
* * *
When General Wong made it to Fuzhou, 299 kilometers north of Amoy on the coastal highway, he could barely believe his eyes. As he and his convoy of 300 ROC soldiers and 1,000 Mainland sympathizers crossed the Min Jiang River bridge into the suburb of Louzhou on Wednesday afternoon, one body limply swung in the breeze from every lamppost and power pole. And, judging by the cheering crowds who greeted him, the bodies were probably Party members and their hated PAP enforcers. Rather than being Fuzhou’s victorious liberator, General Wong’s arrival was simply a confirmation of the obvious—that China’s affluent coastal southeast was rapidly casting off Beijing’s bonds of oppression and corruption on its own accord.
The rebellion spread to Fuzhou ahead of General Wong’s column due to a number of factors: Taiwan’s exploitive use of captured radio and television facilities to spread the news, the rapid exchange of information over the Internet to the few (mostly influential) people who had access, the lack of sufficient paramilitaries and soldiers to suppress the rebellion, the building resentment of the corrupt and arbitrary Communist rule, and, the large increase in people believing in something larger than themselves or the State in a society where no one really took the Communist line seriously anymore.
Wong took out his Republic of China sunburst flag and waved it out of the sunroof of the Japanese import his men had requisitioned from a Party official in Amoy. The crowds now lining the street went wild. Wong smiled and waved at the people. Behind his smile he thought, It is good they are enthusiastic because Beijing will soon seek to reassert its control here, then they will have to fight a determined foe.
* * *
Colonel Chu knew the situation was serious—potentially without hope. Only two hours before he spoke with a junior staff officer replacement, fresh off the plane from Guangzhou, about the situation on the Mainland. The young officer was actually relieved to be in the war zone, “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said, “I was on the last transport out before a mob overran the airport—at least here we’re winning and we know who our enemy is!” Shortly after a senior staff officer collected his new charge, Chu noticed the older man strongly warning the lieutenant about “defeatist talk” and “rumormongering.”
Chu was once again seeing the raw side of Fu Zemin—the side that was on display shortly before the neutron bombs wiped out the Taiwanese counterattack a few days ago. Part of him felt pity for the Party man, another part, contempt.
Fu barked questions at General First Class Deng, “Why are we not taking the rest of Taipei? Why have we not yet pressed south of Taichung?”
The weary warrior could only stare glassy-eyed at the Party hack, wishing that he could somehow make the snake vanish.
Watching this exchange, Chu also wished things were not as they were. Unlike General Deng, however, Chu began to formulate a plan to change the situation.
Fu turned to Chu and said, “I want you to be prepared to arrest the Americans. They might come in useful in the near future if I have to get off this island.”
Fu’s statement solidified Chu’s nascent plans. “Sir, what about the American soldiers? What if we can force their surrender?”
“Eh? What do you mean Colonel? How could you possibly do what countless cycles of intimidation and negotiation failed to do?”
“Sir, I need to speak to you alone.” Colonel Chu and Comrade Fu retreated to Fu’s private office.
“Sir, Jia Battalion still has 120 effectees.”
“So? The last time you tried to get into Taipei you were cut to ribbons, what makes you think you can succeed now with less than one-third your numbers?” Fu breathed exasperation.
Chu soothingly said, “Sir, Jia Battalion is air mobile qualified. My battalion was the first battalion trained in the use of the motorized hang gliders. Once we showed the army how easy they were to operate, they decided to equip two full divisions.”
Fu’s eyes were burning with the possibilities, “Yes, yes. Continue with your proposal.”
“I propose we take 100 of Jia’s best men in 100 of the 201st Air Mobile Division’s aircraft and fly into Taipei at nightfall. Our target will be the American Ambassador’s residence. Using surprise and superior numbers we will overcome the few American soldiers there, take as many as possible prisoner, then fly back to headquarters. If your television equipment still works you can broadcast your victory to China and the world as proof of your success. Such a propaganda victory might turn the tide back in our favor!”
Fu pounced on the idea, “Chu, you are brave and brilliant and I am a genius for recognizing that fact. How soon can you be ready?”
“Thursday night. You need to request the 201st’s aircraft through General Deng as soon as possible. I also need you to request the return of Jia Battalion to my command. We need to rehearse the mission.”
“I will order General Deng to make ready the preparations!”
“And remember, sir, complete secrecy—even Deng must not know the reason for our plans. The slightest leak of information and Jia would be destroyed and all would truly be lost.”
34
A New China
Bob Lindley grilled General Taylor and Donna Klein for two hours on Wednesday afternoon, letting up only to drink water and take a painkiller for a “very bad headache.” Lindley pressed and prodded for information about the American soldiers at the Ambassador’s residence. “How many were there?” “W
hat kind of shape were they in?” “How much equipment did they have?” “Had they improved their positions much?”
Taylor played dumb, “Gee, I’m just a fighter jock, what do I know about ground combat operations?”
Donna just shook her head and said she didn’t recall anything, saying she only saw about ten soldiers and Marines.
Finally, Lindley got up to leave.
“Where are you going Bob?” Taylor asked.
Lindley began to answer, then coughed and walked out the door obviously flustered. Two Chinese soldiers immediately followed him down the darkened hall. Another soldier slammed the door shut.
“If that isn’t proof that he’s working for the other side, I don’t know what is,” Taylor said in disgust.
Donna held her hand, palm down, just in front of her throat with her fingers pointing inward. She made a short cutting motion in front of her neck signaling Taylor to shut-up. The general fell silent and looked at the floor.
“Oh hell. . .” he muttered.
“Right,” Donna said, reaching out to grab Taylor’s hand. She squeezed it tight and pulled Taylor close. “Tim, I don’t like where this is leading. I think we’ve outlived our usefulness,” she said quietly into his ear, her voice slightly trembling.
Taylor withdrew far enough from Donna to grab her shoulders. He moved his hands to her face, one hand cupping each side of her jaw. They stared into each other’s eyes then embraced as if it was their last moment together.
Twenty minutes after Lindley left Taylor’s room three Chinese soldiers beat on the door. The lead soldier demanded Taylor’s pager in broken English. Taylor tried to act as if he didn’t understand. The soldier shouted and threatened to shoot Taylor on the spot. Taylor angrily handed over his last lifeline to the outside world, disabling the little device as he did so.