The Los Angeles’ mission was simple: pass undetected into the Taiwan Strait (they’d already rode the southerly current into the passage, making only two knots against the sea); then await orders to begin sinking Chinese shipping with a priority towards heavy sea lift, then capital ships (warships). The main danger to the Los Angeles lay in China’s stated threat to mine the Strait to prevent foreign naval interference.
The skipper reread the summary of the recent naval actions in the Strait. One of the Chinese Kilo class subs drew first blood, sinking a Taiwanese diesel-electric boat. A Los Angeles class with an American crew was more than a match for the Chinese Kilo. Still, in the fairly confined spaces of the Strait, shooting and living to tell about it would be a challenge. In spite of the danger to himself and his crew, he smiled inwardly — he loved challenges as much as he loved command.
On Sunday evening the Speaker of the United States House of Representatives put out the call for an emergency session to consider a resolution for a declaration of war on China. Most of the Members were out of town in their districts and didn’t plan on being back until Monday evening. The Speaker wanted a quorum by Monday morning with a vote by Monday evening at the latest. The debate promised to be raucous and the vote by no means unanimous, but the Speaker calculated that China’s unprovoked attack on the U.S. Navy would turn enough votes away from China and its powerful business allies to force passage. Then, it would be off to the Senate and a less-certain future. The Speaker and his allies wanted a declaration of war for two reasons: first, to ride the popular wave of support for action generated by the images of the lone American tank making a stand and the news of the Navy’s horrible losses in the surprise attack; and second, to make it more difficult for the President to cut a deal with the Chinese and abandon Taiwan before China could be dealt a decisive blow.
28
Eyeball-to-Eyeball
The flight from Okinawa was thankfully short and uneventful. As the small twin-engine DIA VIP jet set down at a rainy Chiang Kai-Shek International Airport, Donna set to work counting Mainland aircraft and aircraft types (the constantly overcast weather had hampered spy satellite operations so the “Company” had asked her to do some old-fashioned spying). Donna also wryly noted that the Mainlanders had replaced the airport’s welcome signs so that the airport’s new name read Deng Xiaoping International Airport.
The aircraft came to a halt at an out of the way portion of the airport, far from any protection from the rain. Within seconds, Chinese security forces swarmed over the aircraft. When the Air Force crew popped the hatch, eight armed Chinese security officers forced their way on board. They seemed to have no mission other than to have a look around and a few minutes later, they left, leaving wet footprints and drips of water everywhere.
General Taylor and Bob Lindley were quiet. Donna noted their demeanor was probably what the Chinese wanted to shape. Both men were stunned by the unceremonious force the Chinese used to establish their unquestioned superiority in this situation. Donna knew the Chinese were trying to keep the American team off-balance and on the defensive — this would make them easier opponents to deal with.
Donna decided to break the ice, “Well, gentlemen, we know what the remainder of this mission will be like. We might as well get used to it. What’s the worst they could do to us?” Donna got up and began walking towards the open passenger exit.
“What the hell are you going to do?” Lindley asked incredulously.
“Mr. Lindley, you can simply wait here on the tarmac, if you like, but I think we should take some of our own initiative. Let’s grab our briefcases, head for the terminal, and see how far we’ll get.”
General Taylor smiled. “I like your plan.”
“This is insane!” Lindley protested, “You can’t do that!”
Donna stopped at the exit, raindrops smacking against her shoes, “Oh well, I guess we won’t get to test them this time, here comes the official welcoming party. Nice limo. And look at all those cameras…”
The Los Angeles had slowly and quietly made its way into the Taiwan Strait two hours ago. Between the ocean current and sub’s own creeping pace, they had gone only ten nautical miles. Still, it was far enough to be inside the PLAN’s first anti-sub picket line.
Not long after entering the strait the submarine picked up a message on the ELF communications set (ELF: extremely long frequency, a very slow way of communicating code with a signal that penetrates ocean waters). The coded message was simple: proceed.
Within an hour, the skipper and his crew had sunk a PLAN Jiangwei-class frigate and a Quonsha-class amphibious troop transport (capable of carrying 400 troops). They were now eluding a very determined foe who was using aircraft, helicopters, ships and technical assistance from a battery of Russian satellites to corner, then destroy them.
The commander was too busy surviving to be scared.
The hotel was only a five-minute trip from the airport. When he got to his room, General Taylor placed his satellite pager on the windowsill. Within a couple of minutes it rewarded him by vibrating (he hoped he wouldn’t have to hook it up to its antenna attachment). He grabbed it and read the message (the message would repeat itself every ten minutes for an hour). The pager’s readout said: MOBILE BAY ACTIVE. Taylor grunted approval. America was responding to China’s challenge. It wasn’t much—and the Navy was doing it, not the Air Force—but it was a start. Taylor wondered how the Chinese would react when the Americans sat down to negotiate with a wild card in their hand. Taylor stifled a big yawn, talk about Mondays — this will be the toughest Monday of my life!
After half an hour to stow their bags and change clothes, Bob Lindley, General Taylor and Donna Klein settled into the hotel meeting room to await their Chinese counterparts.
So far, everything was perfect, Fu Zemin chortled to himself. The opening video shots of the American delegation, looking small, wet and scared, would soon be triumphantly projected on televisions all across China. The embarrassing stain of China’s 1999 humiliation at the hands of America in Belgrade would soon be wiped clean and then some. Fu couldn’t wait for the “negotiations” to start.
The three Americans walked into the large hotel ballroom. Fu sat at one end of a long mahogany table. No other Chinese sat with him. Behind him stood six PLA generals, two minor Party officials, and two translators. Two television crews captured the event on tape for later broadcast to China and the rest of the world (after appropriate editing, of course). Three photographers snapped away. The Americans had simple chairs upon which to sit, Fu’s chair was heavy and ornate.
Perfect, everything was perfect, Fu marveled at his own power.
The Americans sat down. Fu looked at them: Mr. Lindley, a former lobbyist for China, now in the employ of the President himself, said to be still very sympathetic to China and not at all in favor of confrontation. By Lindley’s expression, he was clearly looking for mercy and favor from the Chinese. General Taylor, an Air Force officer, more accustomed to flying bombers on almost risk-free missions over virtually defenseless small nations—definitely not a negotiator, Fu thought. Then there was the woman, a contemptible woman from the CIA. Supposedly she knows Mandarin. Fu harumphed to himself at the thought of a white female actually being fluent in his tongue, stupid Americans with their weak notions of equality between the sexes. After we conclude the negotiations, I ought to have her arrested as a spy and…