Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan by Peter von Bleichert Page B
Authors: Peter von Bleichert
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a
riverside park. A cheer went up in Hill
112, but it was quickly stifled by a triple sonic boom that reverberated
through the bunker’s heavy ceiling. A
new and rapidly approaching threat presented itself: Chinese ballistic
missiles. Li hopped back to the
surface-to-air missile terminal. The
Sparrows were ready and Li ordered them released. The white interceptors flittered from the
hilltop.
“Sir, several enemy warheads are projected to impact within
three meters of our current position,” a seated airman exclaimed.
“Sparrows approaching targets,” the missile technician
reported in monotone fashion, his voice exposing a lack of confidence in the
surface-to-air missiles. “They missed.” Everyone looked to Li.
“Get ready,” was all he could offer. Shadows shifted in the dimness, sliding from
terminal chairs to the cold, coarse floor. Some put on steel pot helmets and tightened down chinstraps, while
others claimed cover beneath wooden desks. Li crouched among his cowering men. “Here they come,” the last man in his seat cried out, before leaving his
screen to dive to the floor. The jungle went
silent and then a rush of air brought two Chinese warheads to Hill 112.
Five thousand five-hundred pounds of high explosives came to
the hilltop as the missiles slammed into the air defense site’s cross-shaped
platform. Surrounding trees cracked and
toppled, and debris flew into the empty streets in Hill 112’s shadow. Tucked beneath a shelf of limestone, Hill
112’s bunker cradled Li and his men, keeping the explosive overpressure at
bay. Li shook his head to clear deafness
and lingering shock. The flatscreen,
though cracked, still worked. It showed
symbolic Chinese ballistic and cruise missiles merging with targets around the
island. Taiwan’s command and control took
several debilitating blows. Strongnet
blinked off the air.
◊◊◊◊
Major Han and his wingman circled off Taiwan’s east coast,
awaiting their turn at the tanker. Other
friendly aircraft were also nearby, stacked, packed, and racked over the
sea. Hearing a beep, Han looked to the
console between his knees. A menacing
text message from ground control scrolled across a small screen: BANDITS. LRG
ENMY FORMS, FUJIAN. It meant vast
numbers of enemy aircraft were assembling in mainland skies with the largest
congregation over the Chinese province just opposite Taiwan. With the enemy refueling now over their
territory, they would charge in behind a wall of surface-to-air missiles. Their
fighters will come first, surely to be followed by strike aircraft , Han
reasoned. Taiwan had picketed the Strait
with Aegis destroyers to thin out the onslaught. Then they will have to deal with me, Han
bristled. He positioned the Fighting
Falcon behind the big tanker and followed its director lights to close the
distance.
A prone airman in the tail of the tanker expertly guided the
fuel transfer boom into the receptacle behind Han’s canopy. The nozzle mated with a clunk and Han heard
the reassuring sound of flowing fuel. A
grey wisp streamed by Han’s canopy. He
realized it was not fuel spray, however. He looked behind and downward. Smoke blew from Taiwan’s bases and cities, gathering and thickening at
all flight levels. The transfer boom disengaged,
and Han backed off, his bird satiated, His wingman moved in to suckle at the
tanker. With both jets topped off, Han
and his buddy made room for a thirsty delta-winged Mirage 2000. They left the gas station and met up with a
third Fighting Falcon. Ground
controllers then vectored the refreshed fighter-bombers to a quadrant of sky
over Taiwan’s west coast. The three
warplanes pointed northwest and went supersonic.
The three Taiwanese Fighting Falcons hopped through a pass
on Snow Mountain, and slid down its western side. Chinese radar and surface-to-air missile
warnings warbled again. Han’s
riverside park. A cheer went up in Hill
112, but it was quickly stifled by a triple sonic boom that reverberated
through the bunker’s heavy ceiling. A
new and rapidly approaching threat presented itself: Chinese ballistic
missiles. Li hopped back to the
surface-to-air missile terminal. The
Sparrows were ready and Li ordered them released. The white interceptors flittered from the
hilltop.
“Sir, several enemy warheads are projected to impact within
three meters of our current position,” a seated airman exclaimed.
“Sparrows approaching targets,” the missile technician
reported in monotone fashion, his voice exposing a lack of confidence in the
surface-to-air missiles. “They missed.” Everyone looked to Li.
“Get ready,” was all he could offer. Shadows shifted in the dimness, sliding from
terminal chairs to the cold, coarse floor. Some put on steel pot helmets and tightened down chinstraps, while
others claimed cover beneath wooden desks. Li crouched among his cowering men. “Here they come,” the last man in his seat cried out, before leaving his
screen to dive to the floor. The jungle went
silent and then a rush of air brought two Chinese warheads to Hill 112.
Five thousand five-hundred pounds of high explosives came to
the hilltop as the missiles slammed into the air defense site’s cross-shaped
platform. Surrounding trees cracked and
toppled, and debris flew into the empty streets in Hill 112’s shadow. Tucked beneath a shelf of limestone, Hill
112’s bunker cradled Li and his men, keeping the explosive overpressure at
bay. Li shook his head to clear deafness
and lingering shock. The flatscreen,
though cracked, still worked. It showed
symbolic Chinese ballistic and cruise missiles merging with targets around the
island. Taiwan’s command and control took
several debilitating blows. Strongnet
blinked off the air.
◊◊◊◊
Major Han and his wingman circled off Taiwan’s east coast,
awaiting their turn at the tanker. Other
friendly aircraft were also nearby, stacked, packed, and racked over the
sea. Hearing a beep, Han looked to the
console between his knees. A menacing
text message from ground control scrolled across a small screen: BANDITS. LRG
ENMY FORMS, FUJIAN. It meant vast
numbers of enemy aircraft were assembling in mainland skies with the largest
congregation over the Chinese province just opposite Taiwan. With the enemy refueling now over their
territory, they would charge in behind a wall of surface-to-air missiles. Their
fighters will come first, surely to be followed by strike aircraft , Han
reasoned. Taiwan had picketed the Strait
with Aegis destroyers to thin out the onslaught. Then they will have to deal with me, Han
bristled. He positioned the Fighting
Falcon behind the big tanker and followed its director lights to close the
distance.
A prone airman in the tail of the tanker expertly guided the
fuel transfer boom into the receptacle behind Han’s canopy. The nozzle mated with a clunk and Han heard
the reassuring sound of flowing fuel. A
grey wisp streamed by Han’s canopy. He
realized it was not fuel spray, however. He looked behind and downward. Smoke blew from Taiwan’s bases and cities, gathering and thickening at
all flight levels. The transfer boom disengaged,
and Han backed off, his bird satiated, His wingman moved in to suckle at the
tanker. With both jets topped off, Han
and his buddy made room for a thirsty delta-winged Mirage 2000. They left the gas station and met up with a
third Fighting Falcon. Ground
controllers then vectored the refreshed fighter-bombers to a quadrant of sky
over Taiwan’s west coast. The three
warplanes pointed northwest and went supersonic.
The three Taiwanese Fighting Falcons hopped through a pass
on Snow Mountain, and slid down its western side. Chinese radar and surface-to-air missile
warnings warbled again. Han’s
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