Read Online Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan by Peter von Bleichert - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter von Bleichert
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runway.
Cloaked in a subtle blend of dark green and grey paint, the
Lancer was an obvious speedbird, with a long, tapered fuselage, blended swing-wings,
boxy engine inlets and distinguished moustache canards. The Lancer’s slats and slotted flaps dropped
from fully extended wings, and, with clearance to taxi, brakes released. The four turbofans throttled up and rolled the
big bomber toward the puddled runway’s threshold. Moving behind the Lancer’s large cockpit
windscreen were the shadows of four American airmen readying for flight.
The pilot/aircraft commander turned the nose wheel’s control
and steered for the runway. Seated to
his right, the second pilot/mission commander was happy to be rolling
again. He programmed the flight
computer. Crammed in behind them were
the defensive systems officer, the offensive systems officer, a small oven, and
a chemical toilet. Something in the
windscreen caught the second pilot’s eye. Several silhouettes had popped-up from behind the shore cliff and headed
for the runway. He removed mirrored
sunglasses and squinted against the glare. Then he tapped the busy pilot.
“Is that inbound traffic?” he asked, as he pointed out the
window. The pilot adjusted a sunshade
and agreed he saw what looked like small fighter planes coming in low. “Holy shit, those are missiles. Raid. Raid,” he yelled and drove the throttles forward. The Lancer surged forward and leaned hard. It made a fast turn onto the runway, found
the centerline, and roared down the runway in full afterburner.
Raw fuel pumped into hot exhaust, burning like a
blowtorch. Pushed by this controlled
violence, the Lancer bounded up to the sky. Vortices streamed off wingtips, and moist tropical air enveloped the
American bomber in a veil of contrails. It climbed out steeply, turned, and doubled back. The second pilot warned Andersen’s tower, as
the pilot slid the Lancer over the base. Like a helpless, agitated bird watching its nest pillaged by the
neighborhood cat, it began to orbit.
Lounging in Guam’s warming sun was a review of American
bombers, fighters, tankers, transports, and, within several inflatable air-conditioned
hangars, bat-winged strategic stealth bombers. The Chinese cruise missiles flew down Andersen’s long single
runway. Two climbed briefly and then dove
into the pavement. The combination of
inertia, left over kerosene, and 1,200 pounds of high explosives excavated huge
craters from the concrete. The rest of
the East Seas advanced on Andersen’s flight line, arriving over the parked
American aircraft and dropping their bomblets. A KC-46 tanker was hit, inundating adjacent airplanes and structures with
its load of burning jet fuel. Black
smoke billowed and climbed in a whirlwind of hot air. Over the carnage, Andersen’s lofty beige and
red-striped control tower peered.
Choking on thick fumes and fly ash, and with the remains of
the tower’s windows crunching beneath their feet, airmen attended to an injured
person. A controller pointed out a
single cruise missile that jumped Andersen’s outer fence. The lagging East Sea had ascended the sloping
beach, pitched up sharply to clear a cliff, and then dropped level again. It lined up with the runway centerline and,
like a flying telephone pole, skimmed over the smoldering craters that divided
the airstrip into useless halves. The East
Sea recognized the outline of Andersen’s tower and turned for it, putting the
landmark dead ahead. The tower
controller surveyed the burning field, losing the red cruise missile in thick,
black, sooty smoke. Then, the black bank
swirled and spit out the East Sea.
“It’s got a bead on us,” the controller shrilled. Some that operated the tower’s functions had
the presence of mind to dash for an exit, although most of them failed to
move. A Humvee halted in the shadow of
the tower, and an air policeman
Cloaked in a subtle blend of dark green and grey paint, the
Lancer was an obvious speedbird, with a long, tapered fuselage, blended swing-wings,
boxy engine inlets and distinguished moustache canards. The Lancer’s slats and slotted flaps dropped
from fully extended wings, and, with clearance to taxi, brakes released. The four turbofans throttled up and rolled the
big bomber toward the puddled runway’s threshold. Moving behind the Lancer’s large cockpit
windscreen were the shadows of four American airmen readying for flight.
The pilot/aircraft commander turned the nose wheel’s control
and steered for the runway. Seated to
his right, the second pilot/mission commander was happy to be rolling
again. He programmed the flight
computer. Crammed in behind them were
the defensive systems officer, the offensive systems officer, a small oven, and
a chemical toilet. Something in the
windscreen caught the second pilot’s eye. Several silhouettes had popped-up from behind the shore cliff and headed
for the runway. He removed mirrored
sunglasses and squinted against the glare. Then he tapped the busy pilot.
“Is that inbound traffic?” he asked, as he pointed out the
window. The pilot adjusted a sunshade
and agreed he saw what looked like small fighter planes coming in low. “Holy shit, those are missiles. Raid. Raid,” he yelled and drove the throttles forward. The Lancer surged forward and leaned hard. It made a fast turn onto the runway, found
the centerline, and roared down the runway in full afterburner.
Raw fuel pumped into hot exhaust, burning like a
blowtorch. Pushed by this controlled
violence, the Lancer bounded up to the sky. Vortices streamed off wingtips, and moist tropical air enveloped the
American bomber in a veil of contrails. It climbed out steeply, turned, and doubled back. The second pilot warned Andersen’s tower, as
the pilot slid the Lancer over the base. Like a helpless, agitated bird watching its nest pillaged by the
neighborhood cat, it began to orbit.
Lounging in Guam’s warming sun was a review of American
bombers, fighters, tankers, transports, and, within several inflatable air-conditioned
hangars, bat-winged strategic stealth bombers. The Chinese cruise missiles flew down Andersen’s long single
runway. Two climbed briefly and then dove
into the pavement. The combination of
inertia, left over kerosene, and 1,200 pounds of high explosives excavated huge
craters from the concrete. The rest of
the East Seas advanced on Andersen’s flight line, arriving over the parked
American aircraft and dropping their bomblets. A KC-46 tanker was hit, inundating adjacent airplanes and structures with
its load of burning jet fuel. Black
smoke billowed and climbed in a whirlwind of hot air. Over the carnage, Andersen’s lofty beige and
red-striped control tower peered.
Choking on thick fumes and fly ash, and with the remains of
the tower’s windows crunching beneath their feet, airmen attended to an injured
person. A controller pointed out a
single cruise missile that jumped Andersen’s outer fence. The lagging East Sea had ascended the sloping
beach, pitched up sharply to clear a cliff, and then dropped level again. It lined up with the runway centerline and,
like a flying telephone pole, skimmed over the smoldering craters that divided
the airstrip into useless halves. The East
Sea recognized the outline of Andersen’s tower and turned for it, putting the
landmark dead ahead. The tower
controller surveyed the burning field, losing the red cruise missile in thick,
black, sooty smoke. Then, the black bank
swirled and spit out the East Sea.
“It’s got a bead on us,” the controller shrilled. Some that operated the tower’s functions had
the presence of mind to dash for an exit, although most of them failed to
move. A Humvee halted in the shadow of
the tower, and an air policeman
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