The political officer marched into the missile launch site, as he always did, with an air of overbearing smugness. The missile technicians followed him, as they always did, looking calm and self-assured. The troops who manned the missile launcher wondered why all the fuss and attention for their unit. Rumors were rife, of course. Some suspected that theirs was a new missile type, others that a special warhead was being tested. Of course, no one told them anything.
This day, however, things were different. One of the missile technicians mounted a lift basket, the kind the soldiers from the big cities often saw being used to lift utility workers up to telephone poles and traffic lights. He then carefully maneuvered himself next to the nose cone of the erect CSS-7/M-11 short-range ballistic missile. He opened an access panel and took out an electronic box from which he connected a few wires into the unknown payload. He called down to his co-workers, working through a checklist with acronyms the soldiers didn’t understand nor dared to inquire about.
When the technician was finished, he removed the box and closed the panel, but didn’t screw it shut. He lowered himself, then handed the box over to the political officer who quickly climbed into the basket. He was almost grinning.
The political officer then repeated the missile technician’s routine. When he was done, he removed the box and shut the access panel, screwing in all five screws.
As the political officer reached the ground he called for the missile battery commander. A few words were exchanged. The commander turned to his troops and commanded them to open the camouflage netting that covered the missile and its six wheeled transporter-erector-launcher. Within moments, the netting parted down the middle, allowing the missile to face the high overcast sky.
Off to the south some of the sharper-eyed soldiers could see dozens of jet aircraft flying west towards the Mainland. They were dropping rapidly, as if in an attack profile or in a hurry to land. Since the jets were not threatening them and since they had received no warning of hostile aircraft, they ignored the aircraft returned to their work.
Soon the commander yelled for everyone to man their launch stations. The battery sergeants called off the troop roster to ensure all were accounted for. The commander, the political officer and four of the technicians climbed into the launch control van, parked just behind a small rise from the missile and its launcher. It too was covered with camouflage netting.
It was 7:59 AM on Saturday morning. For some reason the political officer had affixed a loud speaker outside the launch van. His voice counted down… “Five, four, three, two, one, fire!”
The solid rocket motor ignited immediately and the missile roared into flight, heading straight up, leaving a trail of choking white smoke. Within a few seconds the missile began to slowly tilt towards the east, looking like a small orange sun peering through the high white clouds. About 15 seconds later it disappeared behind the high cloud layer.
Inside the launch van the political officer had tuned a short wave radio to a Taiwanese station. This, of course, was exceptionally illegal for anyone to do. But, no one would dare challenge a political officer, so not a thing was said.
At one minute and ten seconds into the missile’s flight, the eastern sky faintly flashed. The radio sounded as if it had picked up a distant lightning strike, then the station it was tuned to went dead. The political officer looked at his watch, the time was 8:03:12. He picked up the radio and slowly spun the dial through the short-wave band — he picked up Beijing Radio’s broadcast. The radio receiver still worked. He was told this was a good sign.
His role in the patriotic effort to bring Taiwan back into the Middle Kingdom’s orbit was complete. In the Year of the Dragon, July 22, the dragon had finally returned. Chinese hegemony was at last at hand.
Brigadier General Mao had a most unfortunate name for a general in the ROC Army. Still, it was a measure of the society he grew up in that his name earned him an occasional jibe, but nothing more.
General Mao was close to the pinnacle of his military career. In charge of an infantry brigade on the heavily fortified island of Hsaio Quemoy, General Mao was pleased with the precautions that had been taken to meet the coming invaders.
Since the Communist Chinese began their latest series of provocations a few months ago, Taipei had seen fit to send another division of infantry to add to the four that were regularly stationed on the Quemoy Island group. In addition, military intelligence now had it from a reliable source that the PLA might actually try to invade within the next 48 hours!
General Mao was absolutely confident that his troops could beat back any invader. He had the most extensive series of bunkers and fortifications with interlocking fields of fire that 50 years of preparation could imagine. He had ammunition, food and water enough to last six months. And he had right on his side. He knew he was fighting for freedom.
He surveyed the situation map. Across the bay at Amoy he saw the 85th Infantry Division, still in the position it had traditionally occupied for the last several years. In addition, intelligence had picked up indicators that elements of two divisions from the 11th Group Army, the 71st and 73rd, had moved from their stations inland and were now in the vicinity of Amoy. These forces, combined with the Chinese forces around Fuzhou to the north, could achieve local superiority against Quemoy — assuming they were supported by the PLAAF and a massive amount of accurate artillery.
A phone rang in the command bunker, the signalman made a note in the staff journal and handed the phone to General Mao.
“General Mao speaking.”
“General Mao, this is Admiral Tin, we have indications that a sizable PLAN amphibious task force is headed your way. They were heading southeast just outside our territorial waters and are now swinging to the northeast. We estimate that they’ll violate our waters in two to three minutes. We have a task force observing them but we cannot guarantee that we will sink every last ship if it comes to a fight.”
“Is that all?”
“No general, the force is estimated to be capable of carrying approximately 7,000 troops and 150 tanks. We are also seeing a large massing of fishing boats to your west in Amoy Bay.”
“Thank you for the information, we’ll be ready. Tell the sailors to leave some of the Communists dry so we can have our turn too.” General Mao revealed a toothy, tea-stained grin. So, this was probably the culmination of months of Communist bluster and rehearsal. They had already practiced invading his five-mile long island four times since last February. Each time, the amphibious force got larger and closer to his beach defenses. Each time, they turned back. Now, with the report from intelligence, it looked like this might be the time.
The general turned to his Operations Officer. “We may finally have some unpleasant company. Order the men to increase their chemical weapons protective posture to level four (this put all men not in bunkers with overpressure filtration systems into their chemical suits with gloves and masks on). Alert all personnel, I want 100 % manning at all posts.” Thankfully, the mysterious flu from Taiwan hadn’t hit Quemoy, probably because an infected person hadn’t flown to the islands yet.
The speaker box attached to tactical landline network squawked to life, “This is Counter battery Station Four, we’re picking up inbound artillery and rocket fire. Estimated impact time: 15 seconds. Impact area: island-wide. This is huge! They must be firing ten battalions on us!”
Already, the counter battery radars had sent their data to the computers that calculated the estimated point of impact as well as the estimated location of the firing battery. If any firing battery was within range, General Mao had given standing orders to shoot back. Unfortunately, all the attacking rocket artillery was out of range. There were some tube artillery within range, though, and General Mao felt the satisfying vibrations of outgoing artillery just seconds before the incoming rounds burst on his little island.