Traveller and its crew were now in their element — nighttime in the tank with the best night vision on the planet. Alexander worked the patch of open ground and highway bordering the river northeast of the airport. The uncharted city further to the east over the river was too dangerous and constrained for a tank to operate.
Peña had just bagged his latest victim, the fourth tank of the evening, when Alexander’s radio broke squelch, “Thunderbolt X-Ray, this is Sidewinder Five Niner, over.” The voice was hushed.
“Go ahead Sidewinder, over,” Alexander responded.
“Thunderbolt, I’m hearing some tracks due east of the airport. I think they’re fording the river.”
“Roger.” Alexander was just about to order Hernandez to move out to investigate when he saw the flickering whiteness of a far-off flare. The light streaming in through his TC’s periscope increased in intensity. Alexander looked up from the TIS scope and peered through the thick glass prism. The landscape danced under the light of at least half a dozen large flares—Traveller’s cloak of darkness was stripped away, they could be seen.
“Driver, let’s pull back behind that berm about 50 meters to the left,” Alexander ordered with some urgency.
The tank’s turbine wound up and they began to move forward. Traveller violently lurched forward and an eardrum-popping concussion swept over the crew. Alexander was knocked off his seat and barely caught himself before falling onto the back of Peña’s seat. Alexander wiped blood off his nose.
Jones started screaming, “Shit! Shit! Oh God, we’re going to die!”
“Shut the f*** up!” Peña yelled. Peña jacked himself around to look at his commander, “You okay, sir?”
Traveller shuddered again as explosions rocked the air just outside the tank.
Alexander steadied himself and looked at his gunner in the dim red light of the tank’s interior, “Yeah, I’ll be…”
“Ow! Shit! My hand!” it was Jones again, “I burned my hand on the blast door. We’re on fire! Bail-out!”
Alexander reached out and grabbed the edge of Jones’ fiberglass CVC helmet, pulling the young loader’s head toward his chest, “Stay inside! If you open the hatch now we’ll all die!”
“What’s…”
“We’ve been hit in the rear of the turret. Our ammo’s blowing up and the explosions are venting out like they’re supposed to. Now calm down and load a sabot round so we can kill the son of a bitch that shot us.” The M1IP carried 13 rounds in various nooks and crannies inside the turret itself. It wasn’t much, but it was more than enough to kill their attacker and get back to the airport (assuming the engine still worked).
Only 500 meters away from the American tank, a Chinese tank crew was celebrating. They had finally done what no tank crew had ever done in the history of warfare: killed an American M1 Abrams tank.
The disciplined crew quickly quieted down. Intelligence said there were other American tanks out there. The commander turned away from the brightly burning American tank and looked for more targets under the canopy of flares fired from four of the battalion’s mortar tubes.
Loading the main gun gave Jones an opportunity to calm down. He broke loose another sabot round and held it at the ready between his knees.
Alexander took a slow draught of air and began, “Gunner, I’m going to swing the turret around. Driver, as I do, I want you to neutral steer us around to the right. Do a 180. I want everything to happen fast. Ready?” Alexander didn’t wait for the question to be answered. He whipped the 20-ton turret around, Hernandez following quickly with the hull. There. “Gunner, sabot, tank, fire!”
Peña saw the enemy tank was almost close enough to touch. He didn’t need to lase, which was a good thing, because he noticed the laser was inoperative only seconds before. Peña pulled the trigger. Traveller gently rocked back as the 105mm gun recoiled. They were rewarded with a blinding flash as the sabot dart penetrated its target and incinerated everything combustible inside.
Alexander collapsed in a heap on pile of used small aircraft tires in the hangar Traveller was parked in. Their first night in Taiwan was very productive. The American tank’s TIS allowed his crew to identify and kill four enemy tanks without a return shot. The fifth tank almost killed them, but almost didn’t count in war. By the early morning hours, the enemy was in full retreat. Alexander failed to pursue the enemy. Not that he didn’t want to, but between his crew’s lack of rest, Traveller’s lack of fuel, lack of ammo, and battle damage, pursuit didn’t seem like a prudent option.
Thankfully, his scouts linked up with a Taiwanese tank company commander and filled the ROC officer in on the Americans’ ongoing actions. The commander had six M60A3 tanks at his disposal — tanks with the same gun and largely the same thermal system as the Americans’ M1IP. Compared to the M1, the M60A3 was a lumbering beast. But at night, in the darkened city with thermal sights, speed was not the deciding factor; hitting the target was. The Taiwanese destroyed another 12 tanks, only losing one in the fight. By morning, the immediate threat to Taipei was blunted and the Taiwanese had erected an effective defense of the city proper.
With three of Task Force Grizzly’s MPs in a Humvee standing watch, Lieutenant Colonel Alexander, Staff Sergeant Peña, Specialist Hernandez, and Private First Class Jones passed out for a well-deserved rest. They had been awake for the better part of 36 hours.
In the medium-sized Orange County city of Tustin, some 30 miles southeast of L.A., Judy Alexander pulled into her driveway. The Chevy Suburban was loaded with groceries and children. She immediately noticed the three news vans parked on the street. Three news crews stood on the sidewalk in front of her house like circling vultures.
After seeing Dan on CNN, then on all the networks earlier in the day, she had to admit she wasn’t surprised by the media finally tracking her down. Not being intellectually surprised was one thing. Actually seeing the reporters and their cameras was quite another.
The automatic garage door swung open and she immediately hit the button to close it after her. One of the reporters set foot in her garage, tripping the infrared sensor that prevents garage doors from crushing little children. The door immediately stopped. All three news crews stood there; eight people waiting expectantly.
Judy froze. She didn’t know whether to back out of the garage and flee—flee where? — or get out and face the media. She sat there. Dan Junior, age two, started to cry from his car seat. Judy settled on her plan of action.
She opened her door, “Hi there!” she said cheerfully, “Absolutely no interviews… until all the groceries are put away. If you help, I’ll be done quicker and I’ll let you conduct the interview in the house. If you’re nice, you might even get cookies and coffee.”
Not accustomed to their quarry taking the initiative and being friendly, the news crews set their equipment aside and enthusiastically pitched in. The kids, food, and cameras were inside within a few minutes.
Judy made a pot of coffee and sent the children in the backyard (for safety’s sake, she refused to let them be seen on TV). The three of them pressed their noses against the French doors, angling for a look at the reporters about to commence the interview. By mutual agreement, Judy got the reporters to agree to rotate their questioning. The result was a fairly dignified and somewhat organized interview of the wife of America’s newest hero.