“…We have 18 Sea Knights and nine Super Stallions in the operation. We sent one Huey to coordinate the operation. Priority of pickup is the artillery battery, then any CSS (Combat Service Support) assets we can find. All five LCACs remain operational too. If there are no questions, I will be followed by the S-4.”
The S-4 (Logistics Officer), Major Vine walked briskly up. “The good news is, most of the BLT’s personnel made it to shore. The bad news is, I can’t sustain them for shit. The only asset I have on shore right now is one tactical bulk fuel delivery system. I can fuel the aircraft and the tanks for a day. Fortunately, we’re not in East Timor and the level of local support ought to be sufficient to provide us fuel and food. My CSS priority is ammunition, then fuel, then spare parts. The Germantown’s damaged well deck and stern door is going to make additional equipment recovery tough. I only have very limited CSS personnel assets on shore. I have one section each of the Communications Platoon, the Landing Support Platoon and the Medical Platoon. Most of the Service Support Group and our supplies were on board the Belleau Wood when it went down. That’s all I have right now…”
There was a ruckus at the door to the CP. Flint heard a man’s voice say in heavily accented English, “I must see your commander!” Flint motioned to Rez to check on the situation while the S-1 (Personnel Officer or Adjutant) began his portion of the briefing. “We can account for 1,099 Marines and 55 Navy personnel. Captain Hill is our only confirmed casualty. Until the recovery operations are complete, I’m listing all other personnel as missing…”
Rez poked his head inside the door and motioned for Colonel Flint to step outside into the hallway. Flint began to head for the door, then turned to his staff and said, “You have 30 minutes to work on a plan to repel an airborne assault on this airport, protect Kaohsiung Harbor, and defeat an amphibious assault within a zone ten kilometers south of the southern harbor entrance.”
The man who disrupted the meeting was a small, uniformed Taiwanese officer about 50 years old. The officer was weak and coughing constantly. “Sir,” Rez said, “This is Major Heng. He is the XO of the 3rd Light Infantry Battalion, 150th Regiment of the Taiwanese Army Reserve. Major Heng, this is Colonel Flint of the United States Marine Corps, the commander of the Marines in the Kaohsiung area.”
The officer coughed violently, regained his composure, and bowed. Flint, having been stationed in Okinawa for years, bowed back. The officer said he lived nearby, and was sick in bed watching TV when the electricity went out. He found his phone dead too. When he saw the PLAAF fighters overhead, he knew the Chinese were attacking. He put on his uniform and found a member of his unit who was well enough to begin alerting the battalion of reservists by face-to-face contact. He was pleased to report that most of the reservists healthy enough to walk had reported in to the battalion’s mobilization station on their own when they saw and heard the Chinese attack. His battalion’s standing orders in a national emergency were the defense of Kaohsiung International Airport. “I would be honored,” he labored to say, “If the American Marines would participate in the defense of the airport and my homeland. I will send a liaison officer to coordinate our mutual defense plans.”
Flint smiled reassuringly at the officer, “Yes, Major Heng, we would be honored as well to work together. Our only request is that we control the seaward side of the airport. It will make it easier to maintain our lines of communications with our outlying units. We also recommend that your soldiers wear their chemical protective clothing.”
“That is our plan.” The officer turned to go.
“Before you leave. We have a man in custody who is wearing the uniform of the Republic of China. We think he is a spy. Can you send someone over here to interrogate him?”
“Yes, of course. I should tell you we have already seen PLA motorcycle scouts in the city. Pardon me, I need to go.” As if to punctuate the end of the conversation, a series of sonic booms followed by the distant sound of jets was heard. The officer slipped out and weakly mounted the back of a motor scooter. A boy no older than 15 was the driver. The boy smiled broadly at the Marines and waved as he drove off.
Flint waved at them from the door and turned to his Intel officer, “Do you think they’ll help or hurt our defense in the short term?”
“I don’t think we have a choice, it’s their country. If we clearly divide the airport — I suggest straight down the main runway, and send liaisons familiar with the unit’s plans to each other’s headquarters we ought to be okay…”
“Hey,” Flint’s eyes sparkled, “I think I have just the job for Colonel Burl.”
Rez looked back down the empty hallway, then cocked his head at his commander, “Sir, you are more devious than you look.”
“Thank you, sometimes this job can be fun.”
Just outside Flint and Ramirez heard the shouting of a Marine sergeant barking a command. Three seconds later the heavy rhythmic beat of a .50 cal machine gun echoed down the hall from outside.
Major Ramirez drew his 9mm pistol and poked his head outside. The firing “Ma Deuce” was on the roof of the building that stood next to the hangar. The machine gun was pointed skyward. Rez squinted as his eyes adjusted to the cloudy but bright sky. “Sir!” he yelled, “I see parachutes. At least…” he stopped to count, “…at least a company’s wor…” The cement pad in front of the major’s feet spit chips and white dust. He ducked back inside, “Sheee-it! Mother! Sir, alert the staff! I was right again, we’re under attack by airborne!”
Flint was already halfway down the hall, “Worthless prediction, ‘Two’. Doesn’t count — you never said when the enemy was going to attack!”
Major Ramirez didn’t have time for a retort — he was emptying half of his 14-round clip at a just-landed paratrooper whose body armor made him one tough hombre to kill. It took Rez three shots to the chest before he realized that the airborne soldier had a Kevlar vest. The Marine’s 9mm pistol rounds knocked the just-landed man off-balance. The fourth shot hit the enemy’s right forearm just as he was bringing his folding-stock assault rifle to his hip to fire. He went to his knees with a wild look of panic in his eyes. As an intelligence officer, Major Ramirez had never killed anyone before. (He had always joked that if he had to kill someone in combat it was a sure sign that his intelligence skills failed miserably.) Fortunately, as a Marine, he was trained to kill. Rez’s fifth shot hit his adversary in the face, knocking the man to the ground on his back where he lay surrounded by equipment, a shimmering drab olive parachute, and dozens of strands of nylon suspension lines.
Rez didn’t know whether to retreat into the building to get reinforcements, stay where he was to observe, or get to a roof where he might be able to help other the Marines already positioned. His indecision was answered by 60-plus tons of M1A1 tank that whined and clanked by the doorway at 25 mph.
Boom! The tank’s 120mm main gun let loose a round. A moment later there was an answering two-part blast and ball of fire capped by an inky black cloud about 200 meters away visible to the right side of the now stationary tank.
Rez’s curiosity got the best of him and he maneuvered himself in the doorway to better see the tank’s recent target without making himself a good target. The fire and smoke made it difficult to make out what the vehicle was. Two seconds later, however, there was no doubt.
Just above the burning mystery vehicle Rez saw a Russian-made BMD-3 strapped to a pallet dangling off a huge parachute heading earthward at an alarming rate. About 40 feet off the ground the underside of the pallet erupted with four giant jets of orange flame, burning the formerly wet and green grass underneath. The retro-rocket pallet slowed the vehicle and it landed gently, the released parachute billowing up and towards the Marine tank, blocking its view.