“So there have been American casualties?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do now?”
“We have been attacked, we will defend ourselves until otherwise directed.”
“Does this mean you will…”
Machinegun fire punctuated Wong’s next question. It sounded like it was coming from about 300 meters away to the northeast — probably from atop the roof of one of the buildings abutting the airport. Alexander knew the Taiwanese security troops had set out a perimeter to protect the airport from a modest air assault or parachute-landing attempt. He hoped it was outbound fire even as he was climbing back on to the deck of the tank yelling over his shoulder, “Mr. Wong, I suggest you take cover!”
Someone turned up the volume on the TV and all eyes in the Situation Room were fixed on the set. “…up next, we have breaking news from Taipei, Taiwan,” the anchor said. Then a commercial came on. Most eyes turned away and someone moved to turn down the volume a notch.
“No, turn it back up,” Donna said, “I want to see this.”
The TV was beaming forth an inspirational montage of ships, aircraft and computers, “…America’s strategic trade partnership with China benefits America in many ways: a stronger economy, better jobs, more opportunity for people on both sides of the Pacific…” It was a damn ad for China on CNN! Donna was shocked, then suddenly filled with admiration at the timing and boldness of it all—The coincidence is too great, this had to be planned.
“I wonder how much money the Chinese poured into our media outlets to affect American public opinion on the eve of their war?” Donna said it loud enough that even the President looked up from his quiet conversation with Lindley. “Isn’t there an easy way to find out? Political campaign media specialists can get the data quickly — is there anyone here who can find out when the Chinese made the media buy, how much they spent and how long the spots are supposed to run for?”
Another NSC staffer, a military officer in civilian clothes, picked up Donna’s cause, “We ought to shut down those commercials right now! Our enemy is seeking to deliver propaganda right to our own people.”
Lindley spoke up, “The term ‘enemy’ is little premature…”
The President stepped on his advisor, “Still Bob, I think he’s right, call the FCC and tell them to get the stations to pull the ads. Also, get the information the young lady requested — even I’d be interested in that.”
The commercial promoting Chinese-American trade ended and the TV showed a young reporter summarizing the situation from Taipei. General Taylor started taking notes. The scene panned from the reporter to an American military officer whom he began to interview. The officer looked tired, but poised, even photogenic, ready for battle in his chemical weapons gear with an American flag occasionally fluttering into view in the near background.
“What the hell is that?” someone asked, pointing at the surfboard. The man was hushed to silence when the realization hit everyone in the room that this American officer was in Taipei and had said he had been attacked by the Chinese.
“Damn!”
Donna didn’t see who said this, although it came from close to where the President was sitting.
Machine gun fire was heard in the distance on the TV. The colonel quickly jumped aboard his tank. The camera shot followed him as he climbed through the commander’s hatch, then the picture began to shake, wildly at first, then rhythmically as the cameraman took the camera off the tripod, then shouldered it and began to back up to get a good wide-angle view. The reporter kept up a commentary as the tank’s engine could be heard starting up with a whine. Suddenly, a figure appeared at the turret roof three feet from where Colonel Alexander’s head and shoulders could be seen. The outline of a man grabbed at a machine gun mounted to the turret. Colonel Alexander pointed up. The crewman aimed the machine gun skyward and began firing. The noise level shocked the Situation Room into silence. It was very hard to adjust to the fact that this was live television and not a war movie. Not a word was spoken; everyone just stared at the TV.
“Oh my God!” the President said.
Moments after climbing into the tank, Dan saw a small unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) circling over the airport at a low altitude. Alexander yelled at his loader, “Jones, damn it, you’re supposed to be pulling air guard! Get up here and shoot the damn thing down!”
Jones popped up through his open hatch, chambered a round and acquired his target. It took about ten five second bursts, but Jones finally hit the little reconnaissance drone enough times that it sputtered silent and fell out of the sky, crashing like a large toy on the cement of the runway.
At the east end of the runway towards a couple of bridges over the Keelung Ho river, Alexander saw a green star cluster arc up and lazily separate into several green balls of fire. His scouts had just sent the signal that an enemy force was crossing the river some two kilometers from his tank. Alexander couldn’t see anything moving on Sun Yat-Sen Freeway bridge to the east. They must be coming down Pingchiang Street bridge, he thought, at six kilometers per hour I should see them in ten minutes. Dan didn’t know why he expected the Chinese to move at the doctrinal rate of march for movement in the enemy rear, but, without a lot of information, he had to make some basic assumptions. As he sat thinking about the enemy’s sophisticated used of reconnaissance drones and what exactly the downed drone may have seen and transmitted back to its controllers before being shot down, another green star cluster rose up, this time unexpectedly from the north. A two-pronged attack from the north and east. He slouched a little lower in the turret. Alexander keyed the tank’s intercom, “Keep your eyes peeled for more aircraft Jones,” he reminded his nervous young loader. Machine gun fire erupted from rooftops to the tank’s front (east) and left (north). Alexander caught movement out of the corner of his eye — one of his scout Humvees zipped onto the runway from behind the low-lying hangar buildings to the north and sped towards Traveller. Dan wished he had some working radios, but, only the sets in the tank appeared to work, and those only marginally (his crew confirmed that both of the tank’s two radios could talk to each other, but further experiments were overtaken by other, more important activities, such as boresighting the tank and digging in).
Given the pace of the scout Humvee Alexander figured there must be something in hot pursuit. He grabbed the TC’s turret yoke and slued the turret to the left. A vehicle appeared between two buildings. From the front it looked like any one of a thousand different armored personnel carriers (APCs) with a sloped front, a small turret and wheels. It was only 300 meters away.
“Jones, get below and button up. You may have work to do in a second.”
The private first class vanished and shut the hatch behind him like a prairie dog diving for cover from a hawk. Alexander was alone up top. He visually inspected his .50 caliber machine gun, then swung it around to face the nearby intruder.
He saw muzzle flashes on the turret of the APC then heard the unmistakable whooshing sound of small arms fire clearing his head by a few feet. Alexander ducked below the line of the turret and fairly screamed into his CVC mike, “Gunner! Sabot! APC! Fire!” Heavy machine gun slugs splatted against and ricocheted off the turret.
Staff Sergeant Peña had already laid the gun and lased the target (at 300 meters you had to try to miss).
As the colonel finished yelling “fire” Peña barked, “On the way!” the tank rocked slightly, the breach of the 105mm gun slammed back and ejected a large, steaming brass shell casing. The shell casing slammed against the ammo blast door with a clang. Some 300 meters away, at the same instant the casing struck the door, the enemy APC was struck by a two-foot long dart of depleted uranium traveling a mile a second. The dart easily penetrated the APC’s armor (Alexander could have killed the APC with his machine gun, but hindsight is 20–20). The super dense dart pushed aside 14 millimeters of rolled steel, vaporizing the metal in close proximity to it as well as a small amount of metal from its tip. Once the incandescent steel and uranium hit the open air of the crew compartment it oxidized, combusting everything in the APC at a temperature not too much cooler than the surface of the Sun. This inferno only lasted for the briefest of instants as the pressure in the vehicle surged, then plummeted as the sabot round traveled about 15 feet to the back of the APC and exited, creating a tremendous vacuum in its wake that sucked out much of the carbonized members of the crew. All that remained of the crew was three sets of charred boots if anyone cared to look inside after the burning hull cooled down. As the sound of the exploding APC reached the tank the shell casing hit the floor of the turret and clanged around noisily, ending up next to Peña and almost burning his left arm.