Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan (2 page)

◊◊◊◊

Having retired for the evening to his government apartment,
Zhen settled into an over-stuffed couch.
 
He lit an unfiltered cigarette, spit a bit of tobacco from the tip of his
tongue, and then gulped the last of his glass of Scotch.
 
He looked out at one of the Sea Palace’s two
lakes, and, beyond, the Imperial Palace and the Hall of Harmony.
 
With wisps of blue smoke still curled about
him in the still air, he stared far, as though in a trance.
 
The general swirled the golden alcohol about
the crystal glass before he took another sip.
 
With a deep breath and sigh, he reached for a cellular telephone and
dialed a memorized number.

Zhen reached one of his ‘Four Fiends’—a loyal cadre comprising
three men and one woman.
 
All were
equally devoted to China becoming the planet’s supreme power, and each possessed
a unique authority or skill.
 
In a loose
hierarchy beneath the ‘Four Fiends’ also awaited ‘Nine Dragons’—a rogue’s
gallery with the power and will to change the world.
 
Zhen took a deep, wheezy breath and uttered a
single code word: “
Qiongqi
,” the
Chinese word for deceit.
 
With
preordained plans set in motion, the general hung up and refilled his crystal
tumbler with single malt.

◊◊◊◊

Northeast of Beijing, in Hohhot, was a cramped and dingy
apartment.
 
Within, a thin, greasy-haired
man sat before a jury-rigged collection of hard drives, multiple flatscreens,
racked boards, and humming processors.
 
A
skilled hacker, he was one of the Nine Dragons.
 
Having received his go code, the hacker put down the telephone and typed
frantically at the computer’s keyboard.
 
He held a finger over the keyboard’s [Enter] button, and the dragon
tattoo that adorned his forearm stared; egging him on.
 
Lowering the finger with a click that resonated,
the computer screens flashed as lines of code streamed across them.
 
His program had been irretrievably launched,
and began to worm its way into cyber-space.

◊◊◊◊

Dongyin Island lay northwest of Taiwan proper and just a
veritable stone’s throw from the Chinese mainland.
 
Atop its rocky cliffs sat the Dongyong
lighthouse that broadcast a cone of light that pierced the sea fog and the black
night.
 
Near it lay ‘Sea Dragon Cave,’
across from Reclining Alligator Islet, a flat-topped rock that Taiwan’s
engineers had chosen, to drill 50 evenly spaced silos into its solid
schist.
 
Within these silos, the air
force had placed Sky Spear short-range ballistic missiles.
 
Overlooking the missile field, two Taiwanese
airmen sat in a bunker.

They worked a panel of lights and switches, and monitored
‘Strongnet,’ Taiwan’s command and control computer network.
 
One airman looked to the bunker’s small
armored window and the dark sky beyond.
 
It was 0400: time for the delivery of a breakfast of hot soup.
 
A buzzer sounded to indicate someone at the
other side of the blast door.
 
Authenticating their identity on a video screen, the supervising airman
unlocked the door and swung it open.

An attendant entered and placed a covered tray on a table.
 
He poured glasses of cold water, and then
exited the bunker.
 
The heavy door swung
closed and locked with an echoing click.
 
The airmen uncovered the bowls of soup and began to slurp it down greedily.
 
But then, an alarm shrilled and interrupted their
feast.
 
A red ceiling light began to
strobe.
 
One airman spilled soup into his
lap, and cursed and grimaced in pain as his superior rolled his chair to the
Strongnet terminal and read the order.
 
Blood drained from his face as he noted the words.
 
He scurried to a wall safe and spun the
tumbler.
 
He threw the unlocked safe door
open, grabbed a binder from inside, returned to his still-spinning chair, and
matched the Strongnet code with that listed within the binder.

“I have a valid launch code,” he yelled, and handed the
order to his colleague.
 
“Verify.” The
subordinate complied and double-checked the numbers.

“Sir, this is a valid launch code.
 
We are in launch mode,” his voice trembled.

The superior ordered the control room into lockdown, isolating
the room from outside air.
 
In a cave
deep beneath their feet, a generator kicked on, and took over from the island’s
grid.
 
Both men removed revolvers from a
second safe, holstered them, and returned to their control panels.
 
As in a hundred previous exercises, the
Taiwanese activated missiles one through 50.
 
Unlike in training, however, the telephone began to ring, and there was
an urgent clanking rap at the thick steel door.
 
Although one man was seemingly disturbed by this, the other ignored the
noise and proceeded by the numbers.

“Green lights.
 
All
missiles are ready to fly,” the supervisor said.
 
The rapping at the door became ever more insistent.
 
“Shoot anybody who comes through that door,”
he pointed.
 
The unanswered telephone
continued its plea for attention.
 
Floodlights
came on and washed over the missile field where silo covers slid open and
exposed the red tips of the ballistic missiles within.
 
A soldier approached the control room window.
 
He screamed, but the men inside could not
hear his pleas.
 
Frustrated, the soldier frantically
waved his arms, gesturing that they should discontinue the launch.
 
The airmen ignored him and proceeded with
their duty.
 
The soldier then pointed his
assault rifle and sprayed the window with bullets.
 
Although it remained intact, the window became
an opaque web of unitized shards.

“Sir, they’re shooting at us,” the subordinate stated the
obvious.

“They are traitors,” the superior said, with a glare at his
colleague.
 
“We expected saboteurs.
 
Stay focused, lieutenant.
 
We will fire our missiles as ordered.
 
Now, report all missiles or
I
will shoot you.”
 
The supervisor drew and cocked his revolver.

“Yes, sir,” the man stuttered, and regained his focus.
 
“Missiles one through 50: silos open and
clear.”

“Acknowledged.
 
Prepare to launch.”
 
Both men
inserted keys into their panels.
 
With a
cracking voice that momentarily revealed the human behind the cold
professional, the supervisor counted down: “Three, two, one, launch.”
 
With both keys turned, that which could not
be stopped, began.
 
Mere spectators now, they
sat back.
 
The control room began to shake
as the missiles started their launch sequence.

A large explosive detonated outside the control room’s door,
and a rocket-propelled grenade blasted through the window, killing both men
inside instantly.
 
The door jumped off its
bent hinges and slammed to the ground with a clank.
 
A flash-bang grenade was chucked into the
room.
 
An assault team stormed the room,
and the beams of gun-mounted flashlights swept the smoke-filled space.
 
A Taiwanese officer followed the team and strode
to the missile control panel.
 
He evaluated
the read-outs, and, understanding any efforts to stop the launch would be futile,
pounded his fist in frustration.
 
A hiss
and suction emitted from the nearest Sky Spear silo.

A column of sparks and flame erupted; a manmade volcano.
 
A Sky Spear burst from its protective hole
and began to climb into the sky.
 
The
missile in the next silo ignited, and within minutes, all 50 climbed from Taiwan’s
Dongyin Island.
 
The missiles pierced
low-level clouds, illuminating them from within as they arced west toward the
Chinese coast.

Minutes later, the Sky Spears dove over the shipyards,
skyscrapers, and temples of Fuzhou, China.
 
Chinese surface-to-air missiles climbed to meet them, and claimed three
of the 200-pound high-explosive warheads.
 
Forty-seven Taiwanese missiles slipped through the defenses and
impacted.
 
Several blocks of downtown
Fuzhou were carpeted with destruction and death.
 
The supersonic bombs shattered and collapsed
one commercial high rise, and with occupants tucked between sheets, immolated
several residential ones.

◊◊◊◊

A heavy summer rain had drenched the American capital.
 
Richard Ling and Zhang ‘Jade’ Jiao dined at
their favorite Cantonese restaurant in the neighborhood of Adams Morgan.
 
They sipped steaming Jasmine tea as they
awaited a break in the weather.
 
When the
downpour subsided, they agreed this was their chance to head out.
 
Richard paid and helped Jade with her
raincoat.

Hand-in-hand, they walked out into the drizzle and headed
for the Metro station at DuPont Circle.
 
The couple pushed through the throng of college students, pickpockets,
and tourists that spilled from bars and out into the potholed streets.
 
Richard towered lankily over the crowd.
 
He drew the bloodshot, blue-eyed stare of an
entitled college student.
 
As the couple
sauntered, Richard contemplated rumors of promotion at work.

Born in Illinois, Richard was a proud second generation Chinese-American.
 
He worked for the State Department’s Bureau
of Intelligence & Research, serving as an analyst of Chinese economic,
military, and political issues, and their role in Sino-American relations.
 
As he pored over open-source material, covert
intelligence, satellite photos, and foreign newspapers Richard had continued to
distinguish himself from the ranks of anonymous analysts; even those across the
river at CIA.
 
His insights had benefited
the secretary of state, as well as other high-level American decision
makers.
 
All this meant Richard was in
line to become Assistant Secretary of East Asian and Pacific Affairs.
 
A colleague in administration had already
confirmed the whispered rumor.

Jade glanced at her man; pensive and inattentive as they nudged
through the people.
 
She leaned in to kiss
his cheek.

A native of Hong Kong, Jade was in DC to study international
relations.
 
She never had expected to
fall in love with an American, let alone a Chinese one; an inconvenience that went
against her every reason for being in the United States.
 
Together for several months now, Jade and
Richard had met beneath the grand rotunda of the Library of Congress’s Reading
Room.
 
Jade studied at one of the long
wood tables.
 
Richard was seated there,
too, clacking away on his laptop.
 
Jade had
noticed his nerdy good looks, and caught him looking her way and. To, hook him,
she pouted her full lips and ran fingers through her long, black hair.
 
Then, to reel him in, she had then flickered
almond-shaped green eyes.
 
The lure of
her feminine powers did not disappoint.
 
Within minutes, Richard had nervously approached and offered a simple, ‘Hello.’
 
The memory of their meeting made her
smile.
 
Richard turned to Jade and suggested
they stop at their favorite club for a nightcap.
 
Still unnoticed by Richard, a staring, loutish
college student crashed into him.

“Hey, watch it,” bloodshot eyes slurred.
 
Richard pondered the hate-filled eyes and
remembered the countless times he had been surrounded by white kids on the
playground and worked over for being different.
 
Richard apologized anyway and pushed on.
 
“I’m not done with you, chonky,” bloodshot
spat.
 
Richard looked to Jade, who shrugged
in ignorance of the epithet.
 
Richard
turned back to the college student, who leaned in close to intimidate.
 
“My old man lost his job because of you
people,” bloodshot stated and stabbed his finger into Richard’s sternum.
 
Surprised to find muscle where he expected
only bone, the soused student stepped back a little.
 
Richard moved forward and filled the void.

“I’m from Chicago,” Richard rebutted, leaning in closer and
puffing his chest.

“Ah, you’re not worth my time,” bloodshot declared, before
turning away.
 
His frat brothers saw he
had retreated and, to save face, pulled him away for more shots of tequila.

“Let’s just go,” Jade murmured, tugging at Richard.
 
They took a few contemplative steps.
 
“You’ll always be a foreigner here, you
know?
 
Just another ABC,” she muttered.
 
Richard knew this term well.
 
Like many first and second generation
American-Born Chinese, his type often existed in limbo.
 
Despite patriotism that Oscar Wilde would
label vicious, Richard struggled with the alienating racism so many Americans
showed him.
 
While many called him smart
and hardworking, deep down he knew his impetus for success was rooted in this
dichotomy.
 
Moments earlier, Jade and
Richard had been happy to share a much-needed date.
 
Now, they strolled silently past their
favorite club.
 
Guess there won’t be any dirty martinis tonight
, Jade thought.
 
The couple reached the Metro station.
 
They stepped onto its steep escalator.