That was eleven months ago, but it still felt like yesterday. “How many friends have I lost in this war? Too freaking many!” he thought.
Sergeant Price angrily rammed another 5.56mm round into his last magazine. He desperately fought to turn those emotions of sorrow, pain and loss into a burning rage toward the enemy that had taken so much from him. That smoldering anger had kept him alive up to this point. He’d even been awarded the Silver Star for savagely charging and taking out an enemy machine-gun position in Siberia three months earlier. In his private moments, he’d secretly wished he’d been killed so that the pain would end, but since that hadn’t happened, he’d brutally killed the occupants of the fortified position with his trench knife when his rifle jammed.
With his magazines loaded, Price reached over and grabbed six fragmentation grenades and fastened them to his chest rig, making sure he’d wrapped the pins with at least one strip of tape. He firmly believed in the power of Murphy’s Law, and he wasn’t about to be that soldier whose pin got caught on something and the grenade went off.
Now that his personal kit was ready, he made sure his rucksack was packed with three changes of socks packed in Ziploc bags, a thousand rounds of ammo, two bricks of C4, four MREs, and the rest of the stuff needed to survive for several days, in case they were unable to get a quick resupply. Fastening his last piece of equipment to his ruck, he hoped the troops hitting the beaches would be able to relieve them according to the plan. Snorting to himself, he remembered something his dad used to tell him: “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face, son.” It seemed like an apt comment at that point.
Seeing that his own equipment was ready, Price walked over to check on the eight other guys in his squad. They had nervous looks on their faces like him, but also that sense of duty and purpose as well. Like him, they had all volunteered to serve in the Rangers, to be the tip of the proverbial spear and carry out the high-risk missions. Of course, the extra $750 a month in special pay was an added bonus.
“How’s my face paint look, Staff Sergeant?” asked Specialist Michael Cochran as he finished rubbing some OD Green paint on an exposed part of his neck, lowering the small mirror he was using.
“I think if you stand still, you could pass as a tree,” Price replied, drawing a few laughs from the others and cutting the tension in the room.
One of the other privates chimed in, “Tell us this isn’t a suicide mission the brass is sending us on, Staff Sergeant.”
Specialist Alistair Waters, the squad comedian, interjected, “Since when is doing a night jump onto an occupied enemy air base a suicide mission? It would only be a suicide mission if we did it during the day — at night, it’s a walk in the park.” He got a few more chuckles from the Rangers around them.
A few minutes later, they heard the roaring sound of a C-17 pulling up near the hangar they were huddled in. After just a couple more moments, a total of four of the aircraft had positioned themselves near the hangars, their rear cargo ramps dropping down so the Rangers could load on in. Two platoons were slated to pile into each plane, giving them some extra space so they would have room to set up their parachute rigs once they got closer to the drop zone. They were going to be in the air for close to seven hours, too long to stay strapped to their rigging.
Prior to the soldiers moving to board the C-17s, several fuel trucks drove out to the planes and topped off their tanks for the flight. They’d be making one midair refueling before they reached their final destination.
They were all abuzz with adrenaline. The 2nd Battalion, 75th Rangers had been given the inglorious task of capturing the Taiwanese Air Force base just north of the city of Taitung, on the southeast side of the island. The battalion would land on and around the air base and secure the area for follow-on forces. While that was taking place, two Australian infantry battalions would land near Taitung and move in to secure it. Following their attack, the US Army’s 63rd Infantry Division would land and assist in securing the southern half of the island. Once the Rangers had secured the air base, a brigade from the 82nd Airborne would start to arrive and bring with them a series of light armored vehicles and artillery support.
“Everyone up! It’s time to load up,” yelled their platoon leader.
The Rangers dutifully carried their gear and parachute rigs with them to the transports. They’d assemble their parachute rigs once they got closer to the drop zone; until then, they’d contemplate the inevitable jump and what awaited them once they landed.
Aboard the USS Gerald Ford, Captain Patricia Fleece poured herself another cup of coffee from the hot pot in the combat information center or CIC. She was still grateful that the last massive battle she had participated in had turned into a victory, even if it hadn’t been as decisive as it could have been. If things had gone even slightly differently, she wouldn’t be standing there drinking a mug of java. She constantly remembered how lucky she was to be alive and still have command of a ship.
On the big board, she could see the destroyers and cruisers were in the process of firing their Tomahawk cruise missiles at the various land targets on the island. Above them, the Commander Air Group, or CAG, was in the process of launching the carrier’s airwing of F-35s to go in first and take out the known enemy air-defense sites. This would be quickly followed by a squadron of F/A-18s that will be conducting Wild Weasel missiles, trying to get an enemy radar to lock on them so they could fire a HAARM missile, specially designed to follow the enemy’s targeting radar to its source and destroy it. As they destroyed more and more of the Chinese’s targeting radars, their air-defense systems would crumble until they no longer posed a threat. Then, the real bombing attacks would commence.
“How much longer until the ground invasion starts?” Captain Fleece asked Admiral Cord, who was nibbling on a small sandwich the galley had brought up for the crew.
“A couple of hours,” she replied. “You see that track of aircraft that just entered our bubble in the south?” she asked, pointing to a new cluster of aircraft that were slowly making their way toward them.
“Yeah, I see it,” Fleece responded.
“That’s the lead airborne element of the Rangers,” Cord explained. “They’re going to try and seize that PLA Air Force base down in Taitung City, where those Tomahawks are about to hit. If the rest of the fleet times everything right, the first wave of Australians should be hitting the beaches near there about the same time the paratroopers hit the airport. To the north, the Marines will land near Luodong.” She spoke as if instructing a class of naval officers at Annapolis — except this was a real invasion, not some tabletop exercise. While the invasion of Luzon was the largest naval invasion since World War II, the invasion of Taiwan was significantly larger.
Admiral Cord took the last bite of her sandwich, then asserted, “I’m going to order the strike group to start moving in closer to the shore. I want our ships closer to the landing force. Do you have any objections?”
“No, I think it’s a good idea to move in closer to land in case some of our fighters sustain combat damage and need to make an emergency landing,” Captain Fleece replied. “I wasn’t too keen on being this far out from where our fighters were striking either — it limits the payload they can carry.”
“Things are about to get real crazy for the next couple of days,” said Cord, smoothing back a hair that had fallen out of her bun. “I need you to stay on top of your people. If you see someone getting too tired, swap them out for a fresh body. We’re going to have tens of thousands of soldiers and Marines landing in what will likely be a very contested landing.”