On Lake Champlain’s bridge, US Navy Captain Anthony Ferlatto stood between the quartermaster and lookout, his legs spread wide to brace against the roll of the ship. With squinted beady black eyes, Captain Ferlatto studied digital charts and chewed an unlit cigar. “If I ain’t chewing on this, I’ll be chewing on you,” he told those who questioned the nasty habit. The soaked cheroot occupied his mouth, and his sharp hooked nose whistled as he breathed. Ferlatto scanned the ship’s helm console and looked to the officer-of-the-deck, who gave a curt nod. The OOD knew the captain hated minced words — what he called ‘noise’—especially when a simple gesture would suffice. Ferlatto walked forward and rested a hand on the ship’s steel wall. He determined from its vibration that the cruiser’s gas turbines were at the correct power setting, and running good and healthy. He grunted with satisfaction. Ferlatto was always happy at sea. He squinted through the armored, tinted windows and looked to the other ships spread around the supercarrier.
A bit smaller than the cruiser at just over 500 feet, two guided-missile destroyers—Mahan and Paul Hamilton—steamed with George Washington and Lake Champlain. Bringing up the rear and rounding out the posse was the smallest ship of the group, the guided-missile frigate Rodney M. Davis. Ten miles ahead of this main body of ships, the nuclear attack submarine California ran 200 feet beneath the choppy surface leading the charge.
California was a 377-foot high-tensile steel shark. Although she looked like most submarines, with a hemispheric bow, dive planes, a tall sail, and a long black cylindrical hull that tapered at the stern, California went beyond common appearances to represent the cutting edge of American submarine technology. Like other boats of the new Virginia class, California sported a wide array of advanced sensors and weaponry. She could dominate shallow green and deep blue water against any submerged foe, conduct covert surveillance, deliver special forces, or pummel land and sea surface targets with cruise missiles and torpedoes. With the alignment of complex factors like availability, personal desire, rotation, and shipyard experience, Commander Max Wolff had the good fortune of being California’s very first skipper.
Commander Wolff came from a long line of submariners… German ones. His great-great-grandfather was a U-boat captain for von Tirpitz during the Great War, and his grandfather manned one for Dӧnitz. Max was born in Philadelphia a few years after his father left the rubble of Germany for the ‘Land of Opportunity.’ He graduated from the US Naval Academy in 1985, attended submarine school in Groton, Connecticut, was assigned to a Permit-class boat and, a year later, received the coveted gold dolphins, pinned on his uniform. Several boats and decades later, Wolff distinguished himself with a first command on a Los Angeles. Possessing recognized proficiency in nuclear propulsion and an instinct for submarine tactics, the stars came together for Commander Wolff, and he took command of California. With the big white hull number on her sail and her new skipper’s ethnicity, California was informally referred to as ‘Unterseeboot-781’, or, simply, ‘U-781.’ When Wolff was informed of the boat’s new nickname, it was the only time his crew had seen him smile. Used to his expressionless face and frosty steel eyes, they knew full well that behind this façade lived a deeply caring man and a consummate submariner who would give anything for those who served with him. As California sailed into dangerous waters, Commander Wolff’s inherent stoicism became amplified, leaving greetings unanswered as he finished lunch in the submarine’s wardroom.
Wolff’s tense jaw flexed and churned the soft sandwich. His crew-cut of blonde hair was spiked back to attention with a backward sweep of his hand. Wolff punched the air to look at his watch. It’s time, he thought, and stood. A pillar of a man, he headed for California’s control center. He passed and respectfully brushed with his fingertips, a brass plaque stating California’s motto: Silentium Est Aureum—‘Silence Is Golden.’ Although quiet at most speeds, California was racing at 32 knots with the rest of the carrier strike group. She was making plenty of noise and her ability to collect sounds from the water was degraded. Wolff entered the submarine’s control center. He announced his presence with an order to reduce speed and deploy the towed sonar array.
Chiayi Air Base sat on Taiwan’s northwestern coastal plain, one of the many Taiwanese military complexes that lived under the gun. Home to the 455th Tactical Fighter Wing, 4th Group, Chiayi was well within range of Chinese missiles. Like the rest of Taiwan’s air bases, Chiayi practiced alerts and scramble take-offs so its aircraft could not be caught on the ground. Since the Fourth Crisis had begun, all Taiwanese air bases had been on ground alert. On Chiayi’s flight line, Major Han Ken waited in the seat of his F-16 Fighting Falcon.
The Fighting Falcon’s look was classic: dart-tip nose, crisp and sharp edges, distinctive bubble canopy, tricycle landing gear, and an ovoid engine inlet nestled between slender wings. Like tail feathers, the notched empennage had, beneath it, a big, silver nozzle that marked the end of the engine tunnel. Although built in the 1990s, the Americans had kept Taiwan’s Fighting Falcons upgraded, making the jets practically new under the skin. Major Han proudly served as flight leader of Chiayi’s 21st Squadron; ‘The Gamblers.’ Freshly painted on the side of the warplanes the squadron’s insignia was displayed: two playing cards, the ace-of-hearts crossed by the king-of-spades. Upon the vertical tail was a blue roundel with the white sun of Taiwan with ‘455-4’s painted beneath it. Parked with Han on the tarmac were the squadron’s nine other fighter-bombers, all outfitted with external fuel tanks and air-to-air missiles. The sweating pilots suffered, strapped into their reclined seats. Beside those of ‘The Gamblers,’ the wing had 40 more Fighting Falcons ready to go, with six others getting armed and fueled within Chiayi’s shaded shelters. Even with the canopy wide open, the pilots enjoyed no breeze, and cockpit temperatures climbed.
Han tugged at his flight suit, itching through the thick fabric at the tickle of streaming sweat. A welcome air conditioning cart pulled up, and an airman snaked a flexible yellow duct into his cockpit. Cool, dry air blew over him. Relieved, Han tried to relax. Unlike the other men in his wing, he had no photos of family to stare at longingly, to pass the minutes. However, he did have Erica, Playboy’s ‘Miss August, her picture taped to his cockpit console. She accelerated time like no other. Han sighed; her ample bosom made the uncomfortable wait pass faster. The cool air seeped into his suit. Han shifted in the ejection seat and tried to stretch.
Like other young Taiwanese men, Han had been conscripted. His academic records in math and other sciences, however, allowed him to apply for a place at the Air Force Academy at Kangshan. He was accepted and, soon enough, it became clear that Han had an innate ability to fly. Shunted to fixed-wing aircraft and then jets, Han smoked anyone who tried to down him. After he had ‘shot down’ countless hotdogs in mock combat, and showed his absolute control in flight after flight, it was realized Han was an artist who worked in the medium of airspace; his brush: precise proximity flying and aerial combat maneuvers. Han, ever the doubtful prodigy, stood sweating in his flight suit as he was ordered to be the youngest pilot ever to join the air force’s ‘Thunder Tiger’ air demonstration team. After wowing air shows and dignitaries for years, all while training Taiwan’s greatest aviators, Han now had a wing of warplanes under his command.