Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan (18 page)

“Fish is on the wire; running straight and true,”
California
’s fire control supervisor
reported to Wolff.
 
The sonar and fire
control team confirmed the enemy submarine was maintaining course and speed,
seemingly unaware of the weapon now closing on their bow.

“Bring the torpedo below the layer and activate,” Wolff told
his executive.
 
Instructions went down
the wire to the Mark 48.
 
The torpedo
nosed down, penetrated and passed through the thermal convergence, and activated.
 
High frequency sonar pinged away as the
Mark-48 slowed to 40 knots.

The Russian-built Project 877 Paltus (Turbot)
diesel-electric attack submarine’s new Chinese owners had named her
Yuanzheng 65
in honor of the main character
of the fictional historical novel, “Romance of the Three Kingdoms.”
 
Designated by NATO as belonging to the
Kilo
-class,
Yuanzheng 65
had raced out of the Taiwan Strait to intercept the US
Navy’s Task Force 16.

“Torpedo dead ahead.”
 
The announcement turned Chinese blood cold.
 
Yuanzheng
65
’s captain ordered ensonification bubblers.
 
The noisemakers shot from
Yuanzheng 65
’s hull as she began to rise
above the thermal boundary.
 
Cursing
himself for allowing his boat to be jumped, the Chinese captain wondered if he
had made his last mistake.
 
Yuanzheng 65
’s sonarman believed the
active weapon to be an American heavy torpedo.
 
The captain sweated, and leaned against the pitch of the hull.
 
Still on the wire, the American torpedo was
told to ignore the noisemakers.
 
It angled
up and homed on
Yuanzheng 65
’s soft
round belly.
 
Then the torpedo knocked at
the door.

“Conn, sonar.
 
Large
explosion to the south,”
California
’s
sonarman announced.
 
“I have breaking up
sounds from Kilo One’s last position.”
 
The shock wave arrived and shook
California
.
 
A young submariner hooted.
 
He was quickly silenced, however, by stern
glances from the more experienced crew.
 
Commander Wolff strolled over and pressed his weight on the respective
man’s shoulders.
 
Forced down into his
seat, this petty officer regretted the impulsive and unprofessional sound.

“That was pure luck.
 
Exploitation of a careless skipper,” Wolff whispered, although everybody
in the silence of
California
’s
control center heard his words and took them to heart.
 
The admonished man stuttered
acknowledgment.
 
Wolff stood and ordered,
“Take us up.
 
We must share our good
fortune.”
 
California
leveled 60 feet beneath the chop.

Three masts poked through the surface and rose above the
sea-spray.
 
High-resolution cameras on
California
’s photonics mast looked for
surface contacts while the electronics mast scanned for enemy radar and the
antenna mast transmitted to
Lake
Champlain
and ComSubPac Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet.
 
In less than five seconds,
California
had taken in the world above,
talked to Task Force 16, reported a kill to Pearl Harbor, and pulled in updated
intelligence and orders.

Wolff read the transmission, and handed it to the executive
officer.
 
The XO unfolded reading glasses
with his teeth and took a look.
 
California
was to be pulled from direct
support of the task group and make a stealth approach to the outer channel of
Dinghai Navy Base, home to the People’s Liberation Army Navy’s East Sea Fleet
headquarters.
 
The XO looked down at the computer-generated
chart that Wolff had already brought up on the tactical table.
 
Once on station, the XO continued reading,
California
was to execute her primary
objective: placement of a minefield in the waters adjacent to the enemy base;
with a secondary objective of reconnoitering vessel traffic, and eavesdropping
enemy communications.

“Take us down, Tom,” Commander Wolff muttered.

◊◊◊◊

The American supercarrier
Ronald Reagan
sailed with fair winds and following seas.
 
Her group cut a broad cobalt path through
international waters 200 miles east of Taiwan and 50 miles north of Japan’s
Ikema Island.
 
On point and fresh from
causing trouble were
Fort Worth
,
Lake Champlain
, and
Mahan
.
 
They had rejoined the
destroyers
Decatur
and
Gridley
, and the frigate
Thach
in a ring of steel around
Ronald Reagan
.
 
With a shortage of submarines in the Pacific,
the nuclear attack submarine
Connecticut
was sprinted to meet the newly formed carrier strike group.
 
United States Navy Rear Admiral Norman Kaylo
commanded the group from
Ronald Reagan
’s
flag bridge.

Rear Admiral Kaylo was a rubicund, salty old seafarer with a
sharp, stabbing glare.
 
Standing over his
own planning table, Kaylo noted his group had now moved within known range of
China’s East Wind missiles.
 
Although
strategic reconnaissance had confirmed
Ohio
’s
Tomahawk strike had caused extensive damage to the Shaoguan missile base,
American command still assumed that several of the enemy’s specialized
anti-ship ballistic missiles had survived.
 
Kaylo went to the window and looked upon the sprawl of the
supercarrier’s flight deck.

An E-2 Hawkeye tactical airborne early warning aircraft held
in position at the number one catapult.
 
Enveloped in steam, the Hawkeye belonged to
Ronald Reagan
’s Black Eagles squadron.
 
Its twin eight-bladed propellers hummed, and
the large radar saucer on its back rotated.
 
A ‘green shirt’—a sailor responsible for aircraft launch and recovery—attached
the Hawkeye’s nose gear to the catapult tow bar as another green shirt displayed
the Hawkeye’s weight to the ‘shooter.’

The shooter served as the aircraft launch and recovery
officer, a proficient aviator who manned a small control room that stood proud
of the flight deck.
 
Based on the
launching aircraft’s weight, the shooter primed the catapult cylinder with
steam.
 
If the shooter were to set the
wrong pressure—too much or too little—he would either rip the airplane’s front
wheel clear off or slowly drag the airplane into the sea.
 
The shooter observed dials that indicated
steam shunted from the reactors was building up.
 
The Hawkeye’s propellers reached a deafening
roar as they tugged against the hold-back.
 
The shooter saw the green shirt salute the Hawkeye’s pilot.
 
Then the green shirt crouched down and pointed
along the short runway to the ship’s bow.
 
The shooter pressed a button.
 
The
catapult dragged the Hawkeye down the deck and flung it into the air.
 
It sank momentarily, dipping below the lip of
deck, and then powered out and climbed over the waves.
 
Steam billowed across
Ronald Reagan
’s deck.
 
Under
the direction of a yellow shirted aircraft handler, a single engine twin-tailed
F-35 Lighting II stealth strike fighter took position at the catapult.
 
A ‘Charlie’ version of the US military’s
so-called Joint Strike Fighter; the carrier-borne version sported beefed-up
landing gear and more wing area for improved low-speed handling.

The Lightning II was a haze-grey bird accentuated by dark-grey,
saw-toothed lines, her only color a hornet and nest emblem on the twin tails.
 
The aircraft’s sharp lines and faceted sides
were obviously stealthy in nature, and, nestled within the gold tinted canopy
and wearing a sensor-covered helmet with a dark visor, the pilot appeared
insect-like and alien.
 
Her name, painted
on the aircraft’s side: LT. CYNTHIA ‘CYNDI’ PELLETIER.

CYNDI—Pelletier’s call sign—was assumed by most to be an uncreative
use of her first name, but instead stood for ‘Check You’re Not Dumping, Idiot.’
 
The moniker stemmed from her first
landing at sea.
 
Pelletier had approached
the carrier with her trainer’s fuel dump valve wide open.
 
With her trailing a stream of avgas, the
carrier’s captain had forever branded her.
 
Now, Pelletier was in charge of the Navy’s latest and greatest.
 
The yellow-shirted deckhand formed an X with
his arms, and Pelletier halted the Lightning II over the catapult’s track.

A green shirt squatted beneath the airplane to ensure the
landing gear tow bar was properly seated in the catapult shuttle.
 
A water-cooled blast deflector popped up
behind the Lightning II’s big turbofan to keep its 41,000 pounds of thrust at
bay.
 
The green shirt re-emerged and gave
Pelletier a thumbs-up.
 
Completing final
checks on the airplane, Pelletier touched the cockpit’s single large liquid
crystal display, and then looked up to confirm the attitude indicator was
projected in the head-up display.
 
She
looked to
Ronald Reagan
’s short deck
and the cold, unforgiving sea that lay beyond.
 
She adjusted her back in the ejection seat and pushed her helmet against
the rest.
 
The shooter in the bubble went
through final preparations.

“We’re green.” He confirmed the catapults were interlocked.
 
“One at final, 23 forward.”

The green shirt grabbed his wrist. “Good hook.”

The shooter watched all deckhands get clear of the airplane.
“Man’s out.”

The shooter was then signaled that the aircraft’s power was
at military and brakes had been released.
 
Pelletier moved all the control surfaces.
 
Happy, Pelletier locked her neck, placed her
tongue on the roof of her mouth, and saluted.
 
After final checks by deckhands for engine problems or leaks, they gave
the shooter a thumbs-up.

“Winds?”
 
The shooter
checked the wind speed gauge, and confirmed gusts across
Ronald Reagan
’s bow were within tolerances.
 
“Crosswinds are good.”

The shooter confirmed that nothing was in the way of the
airplane.
 
“Clear forward.”

He pushed the big red button on the console.
 
The shuttle release bar broke and tons of
steam pressure pulled the Lightning II along the deck, accelerating it to 170
miles-per-hour in two seconds flat.

“Gone.”

Pelletier was sucked into her seat as the Lightning II shot
airborne.
 
The Lightning II accelerated,
and climbed through a low cloudbank.
 
Despite the deadly seriousness of her job, Pelletier giggled with
excitement.
 
She sucked dry air, pulled
back on the stick, nudged the throttle, and rocketed skyward.

Moving at just past the speed of sound, the Lightning II
settled at 40,000 feet, taking its place among
Ronald Reagan
’s combat air patrol.
 
With her radar powered down to prevent detection, Pelletier linked her
onboard computer with that of the Hawkeye, and tapped into the orbiting
airborne early warning aircraft’s sensors.
 
This gave her a picture of the sky, and she noted a pair of friendly
aircraft patrolling at a lower altitude.
 
They were ‘Rhinos,’ she knew, Super Hornets nicknamed for the small bump
on their nose.
 
Pelletier listened in on
ship chatter.
 
Another F-18—an older
Charlie version—sat waiting on the catapult.
 
It could get airborne in seconds.
 
Two more Rhinos were on Alert Five, and could also be airborne with just
five minutes’ notice.
 
Time to check in,
Pelletier thought.
 
She clicked the
transmit button.

“Stingtown One, on guard.”

◊◊◊◊

The morning sun peeked through the Jade and Richard’s
bedroom blinds.
 
The dusty shaft of light
climbed the mattress, crossed the folds and tucks of disheveled sheets, and
then over Jade’s feet.
 
The beam reached
Richard’s face.
 
His eyes opened.

Richard arrived at the Truman Building two hours later and
hunkered down for another long day of work.
 
With Secretary Pierce’s increased reliance upon him, Richard had a whole
new range of responsibilities, drawing jealous stares from co-workers.
 
In the usually rigid hierarchy at State, the
crisis had mutated the immutable.
 
Richard had become the guy who floated around the organizational chart,
a bubble that connected here and there, with dashed lines.
 
Richard forewent a visit to the cafeteria and
instead began to compile the morning reports provided by the Central
Intelligence Agency and the Pentagon.
 
He
would glean data that came in from American embassies around the globe, compile
and compress it, and write a summary for the secretary’s breakfast brief.
 
He thumbed through the documents and read
about operations that had transpired as he slept: