The squadron commander began to descend and turn slightly to the right. The 11 aircraft followed closely on their commander’s tail. Soon they were back in the thin high altitude cloud layer — ice crystals, really. A few moments later they broke through the deck. What a beautiful sight. Far below the pilot saw the west coast of the island. There was a thin line of beach with dark green everywhere. Ahead and to the right he saw a range of mountains, almost black with vegetation and moisture and largely obscured by billowing thunderclouds. It was 0755 hours.
His radio receiver crackled to life. It was the commander, “We’ll be entering enemy airspace in ten seconds. Be alert.”
The pilot caught the inbound streaks of light out of the corner of his eye. An instant later Flight One’s wingman exploded in an angry ball of molten metal and jet fuel. The commander began speaking when Flight One leader took a missile up the tailpipe and exploded. “Stay steady men. Keep the formation together,” the colonel’s voice was oddly calm, detached. This time, the explosion wasn’t as catastrophic. As the wreckage of the damaged aircraft began to fall to the rear of the formation, the pilot could see that Flight One leader’s canopy was intact. He hoped the officer would be able to parachute to safety on land. Suddenly, the last two aircraft from Flight One were engulfed in flames and spinning down to the ocean below. Four aircraft down in the space of five seconds and the enemy was nowhere to be seen!
Despite his discipline and his nationalistic feelings about Greater China, the pilot was beginning to panic. Once again, the colonel’s voice came over his helmet radio receiver, “We’re almost there men…”
A burst of rude static cut the colonel’s voice off. The static was then replaced by a loud voice saying, “Pilot’s of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force, you are invading the airspace of the democratic peace-loving people’s of the Republic of Taiwan. We are your brothers…”
The pilot was drawn to this unexpected statement for a moment, then training took over and he reached into his cockpit control panel and switched to the first alternate frequency. He heard the reassuring voice of the colonel, “…firm men, steady, we’re…” Again static hammered the frequency. The pilot cursed the infernal interference from the renegade Taiwanese.
His missile warning light came on, and an audible signal buzzed malevolently in the cockpit. He instantly forgot about the jamming from one of Taiwan’s C-130HE Sky Jam tactical command, control and communications countermeasures aircraft — he had more pressing concerns. He again cursed the unseen enemy and the enemy’s superior equipment. This was not much of a fight, he thought; he wished he could at least see and engage his enemy once before he died.
The Communists had never defeated the Republic of China Air Force (ROCAF). The ROCAF had always maintained technical superiority and, most importantly, had always trained to a higher standard than the PLAAF. The ROC pilot, just promoted to captain last week, assured himself of this as he followed his wing commander’s moves, still feeling very weak from the worst case of the flu he ever had. Still, he felt fortunate to be in the air. Fully half of the pilots in his squadron couldn’t even make it to their aircraft when word came the PLAAF was coming across the Taiwan Strait on one of their largest practice sorties yet.
A few minutes before, they had scrambled out of the Hsinchu Air Base, some 55 kilometers west southwest of Taipei in their top-of-the-line French Mirage 2000-5s. The 2000-5 could take anything in the PLAAF inventory — except the new Russian-built Su-27s, called the J-11 by the Chinese. While lacking the speed, maneuverability, and offensive punch of the J-11/Su-27, the captain knew he had four advantages his PLAAF counterparts did not: better training, better missiles, better avionics and superior electronic counter measures (ECM). He hoped the Communist Chinese were unlikely to risk any of their 50 newly purchased Su-27s over the extremely hostile air environment that Taiwan projected.
Still, he was a little concerned when he received a report that at least 20 Su-27s were seen in the air near the Taiwanese-held Matsu Islands, just off the coast of Mainland China, headed towards Taipei. He became puzzled when HQ radioed that these aircraft had turned around and were headed back to the Mainland, leaving at least 800 of the old J-6s still inbound towards Taiwan. Of these, about half were headed for the northern part of the island, vectoring in on Taoyuan Air Base and Hsinchu Air Base. He ran the engagement math: 400 J-6s against the 18 Mirage 2000-5s from Hsinchu and about 30 F-5Es from Taoyuan. We should knock down a little over 130 aircraft on the first engagement, probably losing two or three Mirages and up to half of the F-5s. Then up to 75 F-5Es from Hualien (was that base hit by the flu too?) would get into the act. Arriving a few minutes later, they’d probably get another 100 aircraft, leaving a little over 160 for the air defenders to contend with. He knew he’d draw blood today, if the Mainlanders crossed the 12-mile mark and violated Taiwanese airspace. He just didn’t know if he’d live to tell anyone about it.
Using data fed to them from the orbiting TW-3 airborne early warning aircraft (an E-2T Hawkeye, the same AEW aircraft the Americans used on their carriers), the ROCAF squadron was ordered to fly to 51,000 feet and come about to 110 degrees to intercept the enemy from above and behind. The captain’s head’s up display (HUD) showed the target squadron at 1 o’clock, below the cloud deck about 15 miles off. He could “see” four other squadrons as well on his HUD, further to the front and below this one, courtesy of his on-board radar and the enhanced radar returns from the TW-3.
The TW-3 was a key part of Taiwan’s ability to repel a PLAAF attack. Taiwan’s AWACS capability (one of only three Asian nations to have such capability along with Japan and Singapore) greatly enhanced warning time for the ROCAF. The TW-3 could detect targets hundreds of miles away and direct fighters to intercept hostile aircraft.
Their orders were simple, as soon as the lead enemy squadron passed into Taiwanese airspace they could engage at will. The new government in Taipei had been getting tired of Beijing’s continuous provocations over the past half year. Especially irksome were Beijing’s heavy-handed maneuvers during the last presidential election in March. This time, Beijing would be the one getting a message: Taiwan was not interested in reunifying with authoritarian bully under the barrel of a gun.
The captain’s radio squawked to life, his flight commander ordered him to target the leftmost enemy flight of aircraft and fire when ready. The captain moved the weapons track to the left and highlighted four target aircraft. The Mirage’s on board radar went into targeting mode and narrowed the beam to focus on the target area. He pushed the button that sent the targeting information to the four long-range French MATRA MICA radar guided missiles. He would save the two MATRA Magic II short-range infrared missiles for the close-in fight (if one called engaging up to eight nautical miles away close-in). His thumb flipped up the safety latch on top of the stick and pressed the launch button four times. With each press, he was rewarded with a smooth whoosh as the deadly accurate missile left its launch rail and streaked out towards its unseen target. He breathed a sigh of relief, maybe dogfighting with the flu wasn’t so bad after all — in any event, a little virus wasn’t about to stop him from being the first ROCAF pilot to become an ace in several decades.
Just outside the 12-mile territorial limits of Taiwan, a Chinese cruise ship was in trouble. One of five luxury passenger ships of the COSCO line based in Amoy across from Quemoy, the ship normally cruised twice weekly to Japan.