With that, the S-3, Lieutenant Colonel Cook broke in and quickly explained that the Taiwanese had mustered a battalion of M-41D light tanks (almost 50 vehicles) in the hills only five kilometers east of the airport while almost two full battalions of the reserve 17th Infantry Division (Light) had now taken up positions on the northeast side of the runway.
When it seemed no one was going to mention the huge fireball caused by the fuel air explosives only minutes before, Rez could no longer contain himself, “How hard did we just get hit?”
Cook paused, “Oh, that. Well, first of all, everyone checked in A-okay. We have either landline or FM to every platoon now.” Cook was speaking excitedly, “But you didn’t see the half of it! Ten minutes ago we got hit with cluster munitions. Destroyed one of the Harriers. The FAE singed our eyebrows but the bombs actually fell short. I guess the anti-aircraft fire unnerved the pilots enough that they missed their mark. I’d imagine they’ll be back.”
Flint needed some extra cards in his hand right about now, some good cards. He addressed Cook, “You mentioned the ROCs. How’s our liaison with them right now?”
“Excellent. I take it you missed Captain Ho here behind you when you walked in?”
An officer in his mid-30s walked up, hand outstretched in a Western-style greeting. “Colonel Flint. I am Captain Ho of the 17th Infantry Division. May I be of service?” The officer spoke solid English. He had an accent, but was obviously a veteran of business in the States.
Flint didn’t have time for niceties, “You heard about the motorized hang gliders. Have you communicated that to your headquarters?”
“Yes sir, I have.”
“We’re running low on Marines, what can you do?”
“We intend to put our plans into effect for repelling the enemy off our soil. We will attack at first darkness when the enemy air power is less effective. That will be three hours from now. If I may be so bold, I suggest you pull your forces off the beach and Shou Shan and consolidate at the airport. It will be very difficult for our two armies to coordinate their actions, especially at night. I would rather only kill Mainlanders on purpose than Americans by mistake.”
Flint smiled and said, “Captain Ho, you are correct. Cook, call Colonel Bailey and tell him to pull back to the airport. Captain Ho, do you have any artillery support that can be made available to us?”
“That can be arranged.” Ho smiled in return.
“Cook, Ramirez — get this gentleman some good targets ASAP. Rez, how’s the enemy air-to-air ability against our Cobras?”
“Not exceptional. I don’t think the aircraft I’ve seen so far would even try to down a Cobra.”
“Cook, get the Cobras in the air to help our forces at the beach break contact with the enemy. Send all of them to the beach. The recon guys can handle themselves at Shou Shan. Those sailors and wounded Marines are my main concern.”
“Roger.” Cook was already on the radio sending out the warning order to pull back.
Commander Meade stood on his bridge. The deck under his feet was at a 20-degree angle, sloping forward and to port side. He knew the ship’s stern was now out of the water due to the low tide. The fires from the four previous bomb hits were now extinguished, but the Curtis Wilbur’s hull was so shattered that she would never again freely ply the ocean swells. He now had less than 50 crewmembers remaining on board. The rest he sent to join up with the Marines and other sailors on shore. All 50 of the crew were handpicked volunteers and their sole purpose was to care and feed the 5-inch gun mount. They had already rigged up a series of portable generators to maintain power to the rapid-fire gun (the engine room was now a complete loss). The initial motorized hang glider assault caught Meade by surprise, but once he realized the nature of the threat, he decided to remain silent and hope his ship would be ignored as a lifeless hulk. It was.
Evening approached. Thunderstorms were beginning to build in the growing humidity fed from the distant typhoon. They formed inland, then began moving rapidly out to sea.
Just before 1800 hours Meade saw another flight of at least 100 hang gliders about a mile off shore. A growing thunder cell loomed over the would-be Icaruses. Lightning danced from one cloud to another, then flashed towards the ocean. A man of the sea, Meade knew what was coming and he felt pity on his enemy. Heavy, large drops of rain began to pelt the ship. At first, the bridge’s windows were untouched, the wind rising from the stern was carrying the rain out to sea at an almost horizontal angle. The men in the gliders were soon obscured by the driving rain. Within ten minutes the cell’s center had passed overhead and the rain was now pounding against the window. Microburst, Meade thought, poor bastards are fish food now.
The storm cell cleared out to sea. For a moment, the sea was devoid of a human presence. Nothing but waves breaking against the Curtis Wilbur’s bow and foam capped seas beyond. Then he saw it, a gray silhouette surging through the white caps, then another, and another. Three ships were making for the beach to his port side. The ship’s radio crackled to life. It was the Marines. The 31st MEU reported that the enemy now held the beach south of the port entrance and the dominating hill mass to the north. The sailors were to be on their own for a spell. Observing a type of radio silence since he beached his destroyer, Meade’s signalman (a 22-year-old woman actually) simply broke squelch twice to acknowledge receipt of the message (if there was something really important to transmit, Meade would have done so).
Meade called his guncrew on the intercom and told them about the targets. He ordered them to withhold fire until they were two miles off shore. Assuming they were moving at less than ten knots, it would take them about ten minutes to close to the beach. Within five minutes, Meade calculated his rapid-fire 5-inch gun could acquire all three targets and inflict critical damage on them. This would present the enemy captains with a choice: steam on and get more punishment, or turn around. If they turned tail, Meade would target and destroy their engine rooms. With the prevailing winds and currents, the ships would then drift harmlessly to the southwest (assuming they didn’t sink or explode). If they came on, he would still have a few more minutes to shoot. In the back of his mind he wondered why the ships had no escort in sight. In combat, however, one rarely questions good fortune.
The ships pressed on. A flight of three jets appeared behind them and roared on over the beach. Meade heard explosions in the distance. He winced, thinking of the jarheads he secretly admired. Peering through his binoculars, Meade could now see that the ships were large innercoastal ferries, probably used in the Pearl River region serving cities such as Hong Kong and Macau. He gave the order to open fire, starting with the ship furthest to the port (if he hit the starboardmost ship first and it caught fire, the smoke might obscure the other two — being sensitive to wind direction was one attribute of a good naval officer).
The first shot went long, sending a geyser of water high to the stern of the oncoming ferry. The second shot hit the ship’s superstructure, maybe killing the captain (Meade wondered if this was the kind of ferry that reversed direction, giving it a second bridge to the stern). The third and fourth shots hit low to the waterline right where Meade wanted them. He saw a large wave break against the ferry and the gaping hole left by his gun. The waves greedily found the opening and entered. The ferry began to founder. A warship in combat could recover from such a blow with pumping and counter-flooding. An over-laden ferry could not. By the time the Curtis Wilbur’s 5-inch gun was trained on the second ship, the first was already listing ominously forward.