Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan by Peter von Bleichert Page A

of Hill 112’s airmen ran from the bunker
and saluted.   He reported to Li that
several targets had entered radar range.
    “They appear to be tracking on the airport.”   The two men ran together, swallowed by the
hillside bunker.
    Inside, it was cool and dark.   Several airmen sat at terminals, their dour faces
lit green by radar screens.   They monitored
Hill 112’s tranche of sky, controlling the site’s anti-aircraft guns and
surface-to-air missiles.   Li strode to a
flatscreen that displayed strategic air, land, and sea domains.   The picture it presented was fearsome:
hundreds of Chinese missile tracks reached for Taiwan like skeletal fingers
seeking a deadly embrace.   Li shifted his
concerned gaze to a tactical screen.
    “Tell me,” Senior Master Sergeant Li instructed one of the
air-defense technicians.   The man pointed
at his screen.   A cluster of low-altitude
plots moved south and followed the meander of the Danshui River.
    “Cruise missiles or low-level jets.   A whole lot of them, sir,” the tech said.   Several of the computer-generated plots
disappeared as they impacted their targets or were shot down within the capital’s
layered defenses.   Li thought the Chinese
were driving down the field deeper than they should have been able to.   Eastern Taipei and Songshan Airport were the
goal and, Hill 112, the goalkeeper—the city’s deepest node of guns and
interceptors.   Three radar plots survived
the ground fire.   One turned east along
the Keelung River.   It was now Hill 112’s
responsibility.   Li moved to the Sparrow
surface-to-air missile terminal and examined its dedicated screen.   The radar beam’s path swept around, beeping
as it displayed a single blip.   The
technician used a wax pencil to trace the targets’ progress along the
superimposed geography of the river.
    “Sparrows cannot get lock;” the frustrated airman pounded
his panel.   Li ordered the anti-aircraft
guns activated.   Called Super Bats—Super
Fledermaus in German—one of Hill 112’s three Swiss-made GDF-006 anti-aircraft
guns swung its twin cannons.   The gun’s
coaxial camera and Skyguard targeting radar aligned with the trajectory of the
threat.   Li studied the Super Bat’s
indicators and realized that, by firing into the valley at such a low angle,
they would not have long before the anti-aircraft gun was throwing shells off axis.
    “Skyguard’s hot.   Super Bats are ready,” the gunner informed.   On the bunker’s video screen, the gun camera
tracked the cruise missile and the freeway it followed.   Civilian traffic was thick, a panicked rush
from the capital that had stagnated into a honking morass of stuck
vehicles.   The gunner looked to Li with
concern.   The hill’s errant 35 millimeter
rounds would very likely impact the highway and rip into the civilians.   Despite this likely collateral damage, Li
cleared the weapon technician to engage the enemy cruise missile.
    The Super Bats’ barrels fired alternately, at a high rate,
barely recoiling before the next round was sent.   The Chinese Long Sword cruise missile skimmed
over freeway signs and gawking drivers.   A string of incendiary tracers squirted at it from Hill 112.   They fell short and sprayed cars with burning
metal shards that slaughtered the unlucky, leaving them belted into air-conditioned
coffins.   A minivan was shredded,
bouncing and splitting open.   Airbags
deployed and the lacerated driver slumped forward, resting her mess on the now-deflating
pillows.   Another car exploded and jumped
from the pavement.   Li’s blink was
long.   When he opened his eyes again, the
inadvertent butchery continued on the screen.
    Homing pulses left the Super Bats’ Skyguard radar.   They tracked both the outgoing rounds and the
target, adjusting fire to marry the two.   The fire slapped the Chinese cruise missile down, exploding it in a
tumbling fireball that expelled burning propellant and wreckage into