Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan (31 page)

Hai Hu,
damaged
and alone, could still maneuver, and still had a half charge within her battery
bank.
 
Silhouetted against the backbone
of night, the captain decided to make a last stand against the Communists.
 
He would take his Dutch-built boat down deep
and await the enemy carrier that reportedly headed their way.
 
Once on
the bottom
,
no one will find me
, his
mind slithered like an eel.
 
Not even Mazu—Goddess of the Sea
.
 
Hai Hu
’s
captain took a final look at the heavens.
 
He breathed deep the wet salty air, held and savored it, and descended
into the submarine’s sail.
 
The outer
hatch shut with a ringing clank.

◊◊◊◊

Jade waited for Richard in their Georgetown apartment.
 
After finding herself under surveillance, and
after coming upon the body of her murdered contact/professor, she was surprised
to be still alive, and was filled with fear and regret.
 
Sitting in a dining chair, she clutched a pistol;
the very one she had considered using on herself.
 
She had gone as far as resting the cold
barrel to her forehead.
 
Between sobs, as
her finger began squeezing the trigger, she had instead chosen life and decided
to face the consequences of her actions.
 
Instead of painting a wall with her brains, Jade had decided to fire the
gun on anybody other than Richard Ling who came through the apartment
door.
 
Jade perched in a chair and
waited.
 
It was then that she began to doze
off.

A crunching sound awakened Jade.
 
She remembered where she was, as well as the
granulated sugar she had spread about the door’s threshold.
 
She observed shadows beneath the door’s
transom, and brought the gun’s barrel up.
 
Keys jingled and then slid into the lock.
 
Jade put slight pressure to the trigger as the
door swung open.

“Jade?” Richard asked.
 
He glanced inside, and then retreated from the gun aimed his way.
 
He waved a white kerchief, and Jade laughed
with exhaustion.
 
She dropped the gun to
the floor with a clunk, swooned and folded off the chair, collapsing to the
floor.
 
Richard rushed in.
 
He caught and collected her limp body.
 
Stroking her head, he whispered forgiveness,
reassurances, and pledges of love.
 
He
scooped Jade up and carried her to their bed.

Richard locked the door.
 
As though it might burn him, he picked up the handgun with the tips of
his fingers and placed it in a kitchen drawer.
 
He moistened a towel and brought it to her, draping it across her clammy
forehead, and sat beside her.
 
Her eyes
flickered open.
 
She smiled, and her eyes
closed again.
 
Richard picked up her hand
and weighed everything: fatherhood; betrayal; loyalty; career; marriage.
 
He was convinced of what he had to do, and
what it would cost him.
 
He strode to his
computer desk, brought up an airline website, and booked two tickets to San
Francisco.
 
Deciding a train was the best
way to get to Dulles International Airport outside the capital, he clicked over
to DC Metrorail’s website.
 
I have to keep her safe tonight
, he thought.
 
He was unaware that his surfing was being
watched.
 
Richard got two suitcases from
a closet and started packing.

◊◊◊◊

Senior Master Sergeant Li and the men of Hill 112 held
fast.
 
A few of them had dressed up as civilians,
and raided supermarkets and pharmacies for supplies.
 
One man had even located a radio in an
abandoned Humvee.
 
Li used it to re-establish
contact with Hengshan Command Center and to continue his reports on enemy
dispositions at Songshan Airport.
 
Li had
also requested relief.
 
Expected any
time, a detachment from the 6
^th
Army was to infiltrate up the back
of the hill.

Li had designated and deployed a small patrol to intercept
and guide them into Hill 112’s perimeter, now a warren of camouflaged slip
trenches, anti-personnel mines, and foxholes.
 
Soon enough, the platoon arrived with food, water, ammunition, and a
replacement radio. Li was astonished to find an American Marine with them—the
first Li and his men had ever met—as well as a bunch of Taiwanese special
forces.
 
My little hill has suddenly become important
, Li thought as he ate
fresh rations and watched the newly arrived settle in.

The American unpacked and set up a tripod-mounted laser
designator-rangefinder.
 
He then unfurled
camouflage netting, stringing it between bare tree branches, and mounting a
small satellite dish to a splintered tree stump before aligning it with a point
in the sky.
 
The American adjusted the
laser and tilted it at Songshan Airport.
 
Feeling he watched, the Marine turned to Li.
 
He approached the haggard looking Taiwanese
airman and saluted.
 
Li put down his
food, stood, and returned the gesture.
 
The Marine offered his hand.
 
Senior Master Sergeant Li weakly accepted it.

“I’m Lieutenant Shane Whidby, 1
^st
Reconnaissance
Company, 1
^st
Marine Division, United States Marine Corps.
 
Looks like you guys had quite a party.”
 
Feeling better from food, drink, and a
vitamin shot, Li forced a smile and adjusted the sling that supported his
injured arm.

“Senior Master Sergeant Li Rong Kai.
 
Yes, quite a party, as you say.
 
Why are you here?” Li asked in good English.

“We have a special target that needs attention.
 
Your orders are to cooperate with me.
 
Your countrymen can confirm this.
 
When I am done, you will head out with the
Special Services Company for debriefing.
 
You are to be relieved.”
 
Like
most US Marines, Whidby’s voice was hoarse and gravelly from a life-spent shouting.

“Relieved?” Li asked.
 
He remembered his order to ‘hold the hill until overrun or relieved.’
 
His duty had been done, Li realized.
 
His chest inflated and he thanked the
American.
 
“Lieutenant Whidby, do you
have a wife?
 
Kids?”

“Yes,” the American said, and smiled for the first time in
days.
 
“And I’m sure yours are
fine.”
 
The American slapped Li on the
back, and then walked back to his laser.
 
A soldier came to Li and handed him an envelope.
 
Inside was an official letter informing Li of
his promotion to chief master sergeant.
 
Li
chuckled.
 
He could not wait to tell his
wife.
 
However, the smile faded fast, and
the letter went back in its envelope and into Li’s jacket pocket.

In the early morning mist, opposite where Chief Master
Sergeant Li was finishing his breakfast, two Taiwanese operators led Hill 112’s
prisoner behind the ruined bunker and off into the jungle.
 
Unaware of standing orders to summarily
execute deserters or spies, Li had brought the airman up on charges of
desertion and murder, and placed him in the custody of the military
police.
 
Operators from the Nighthawks had
other plans and duties for the man, however.

The jungle became the accused’s courtroom.
 
The chirping birds: his visitor gallery.
 
A silenced gunshot to the neck was judgment
and sentence.
 
Burial: an unceremonious
roll down a steep ravine.

◊◊◊◊

Outside Hsinchu City, an old farmer found an unconscious
Major Han, hanging in an orchard tree, his parachute tangled in its old limbs.
 
The farmer brought Han home to his wife and
visiting niece, who, carefully peeled away the shattered helmet and stitched up
Han’s slashed scalp.

Han woke to the warm morning sea breeze that wafted through
a window.
 
Delicate curtains danced for
him.
 
He reached for a glass of water set
beside a small radio on the nightstand.
 
His ribs hurt when he sat up.
 
He
turned on the radio.

Broadcasting from a mobile transmitter, Taiwanese news was
doing its best to cut through Chinese jamming, with more squealing static than
words.
 
A knock sounded at the bedroom
door.

“Come,” Han groaned.

The farmer’s buxom niece came in to express her new crush
with hot tea and biscuits.
 
With her
cleavage in his face, she propped Han up with pillows.
 
She stood and, with hands to hips, declared, “We
have to get you strong enough to fight again.”
 
Han swallowed some tea.
 
“Anything
else I can do?” she said, and cocked her waist.
 
Han smiled and thanked her.
 
He
watched her behind as she left, and felt his strength return.
 
A jet roared overhead and his heart raced.
 
I have
to get back to base
, he thought.
 
Han
stood dizzily.
 
His best chance was to
get to the east coast air base at Hualien City.
 
He would have to cross the mountains to do so.
 
When his host, the old farmer, politely knocked
and entered, Han asked to borrow the family car.
 
The old man was happy to help, but insisted
on doing the driving.

Major Han, the farmer, and his attentive niece got into the
old Swedish wagon.
 
Refusing to let his
family be split up, the farmer’s wife, daughter, and son also piled into the
blue car.
 
Even the farm mutt jumped in.

The wagon struggled to climb narrow winding mountain
roads.
 
Stopping for several Taiwanese checkpoints,
Han showed identification and talked his way through.
 
The wagon crossed the central peaks, and Han
and the family started down the eastern side of the island.
 
The wagon coasted and purred happily most of
the way into the valley.
 
Forest opened
to coastal plain.
 
As the wagon leaned
through a sharp turn, Han pointed at their destination: Hualien City Airport.

The shared civilian-military airport’s runway paralleled the
coast.
 
Han spotted a Fighting Falcon as
it taxied over a wide freeway and toward the base of the mountains, where there
was a second runway and tunnels burrowed into the rock face.
 
Han knew the tunnels protected airplanes,
crews, fuel, and ordinance from incessant Chinese missile raids.
 
Along with another, smaller facility to the
south, enough of Taiwan’s air force had been preserved within, able to resist
the onslaught.
 
Han observed engineers
patching a runway crater with gravel and fiberglass mats, while more men painted
a fake crater beside it.
 
The old wagon
navigated the switchbacks into the valley and approached the base’s main gate.

A heavy machinegun poked from a pillbox.
 
Burly guards emerged to greet them.
 
They checked the family’s passports and Han’s
identification and flight suit.
 
Han
saluted the old farmer and shook hands with the rest of his new family.
 
He came to the farmer’s round niece and squeezed
her tight.
 
Then Han stepped onto base.

A Humvee quickly arrived to transport the valuable pilot
inside.
 
Once the base commander had been
assured the downed airman was not an infiltrator, Han was sent to the base ward
for a once-over, and then on to the mess for a square meal.
 
With one broken rib and three others bruised,
Han was wrapped tightly at the torso, and then assigned a bunk.
 
It was not long before a noncommissioned
officer arrived.
 
His only question: “Can
you fly?”
 
Major Han assured him he was
ready to get back in the cockpit.

After pausing at a guard shack for a recheck of credentials
and a canine sweep of the pickup truck, Han and his escort were then cleared to
proceed into the mountain base.
 
The
roadway continued underground, and daylight faded.
 
Short stalactites had formed along the
ceiling where moist summer air chilled, condensed, and dripped.
 
The roadway turned at a right angle and then
passed an open steel door before it emptied into a vast space cut from the
living rock.
 
The man-made cavern was
lined with antechambers.
 
Each stored
parked fighter-bombers: Ching Kuos, Fighting Falcons, and Mirages.
 
The truck followed roadway markings and passed
rows of aircraft in the process of re-arming, refueling, and repair.
 
The driver stopped before a coved bay that
held a worn-looking Fighting Falcon.