by Ian Slater
“Christ!” It was Brentwood looking behind him at the tower, still rising.
“What?” the Welshman asked.
“Aussie’s arm — I forgot. Damn it!”
“He’ll be all right, boyo.”
“Should’ve sent Sal.”
“Too late now.”
“Yes,” Brentwood said. “Anyway, let’s keep them occupied down—” There was a splatter of earth against Brentwood’s uniform as a 7.62mm opened up from the well of the tower, the tower still going up like a Texas windmill.
“No wonder we couldn’t find this bastard!” Choir said, pumping another three shots into the well. There were screams and fierce yelling but the simple fact was that so long as the three men — Choir, Brentwood, and Sal — had enough ammunition they could hold down those in the well. But sooner or later the ammo would run out, and then the Chinese could swarm up and take the troop. Salvini dropped a grenade down — more screaming and more yelling than he’d heard in a ‘Frisco mah-jongg game. “Silly fuckers don’t know he’s on the tower!” Salvini said.
“Let’s keep it that way,” Brentwood said. “Look out!” A stick grenade lobbed the lip of the well. Choir calmly poked it back over with the barrel of his riot gun, then he pulled the pin on one of his own grenades, made a two-second count, and let it go. “They won’t catch that bastard!”
There was a scream that gave truth to his prediction.
“I’m almost out of ammo, lads,” Choir said. “Ten reloads and that’s it.”
“Come on, Aussie,” Sal implored.
In fact, Aussie Lewis could hardly hang on. With little or no power in his left arm he could only hold himself up by locking his legs together in a scissor hold and leaning his head forward into the right angle of the girder. Then he pushed and prodded the Play-Doh-like C4 plastique into the inside angle formed by two of the girders, using the slightly banana-shaped magazine from his Heckler & Koch as a tamp for the charge to better direct the blast in toward the beam’s angle. He then crushed the fuse’s vial of acid, which had a ten-minute count. By then the wire holding the firing pin would dissolve.
Next he put his right arm down then under the girder he was sitting on and, his Heckler & Koch slung over his shoulder, swung down, monkeylike, his boots barely touching the next girder. He repeated this two more times, his right arm now feeling the strain as he molded the second belt of plastique into an angle of steel. As he completed packing the second charge in and tamping it, he waited for a few seconds, looking at his watch, and then crushed the five-minute vial, swung down to the next girder, and from there jumped fifteen feet down to where the other three were. Salvini lifted Aussie’s good arm over his shoulder and started off down the land line back toward the FAV while Choir and Brentwood turned in a rear action, a hail of 9mm parabellum shooting forth with the darts as the ChiComs began to swarm up me steps.
“Go!” Brentwood yelled. “Go!”
Salvini wasn’t even looking back, but Aussie was able to run by himself while keeping the left arm tucked in by his side.
“Withdraw, Choir,” Brentwood said.
“Not without you, boyo!”
“Withdraw!”
Choir’s answer was to fire another three fléchette-loaded rounds at the Chinese. Salvini was back with Choir. “C’mon, you mother!” he said, firing four three-round bursts to keep the ChiComs down in the well. Suddenly he felt something falling on him. It was a flutter of leaves, a ChiCom firing too high in his excitement. Then the earth shook a second time and went into a blur, a feral roar of fire erupting about the skeletal radar mast. The tower collapsed, telescoping in on itself in a reddish-orange column of flame, then another, after which the debris of the crashing radar tower and the fire spilled onto all of those in the well, igniting the gasoline and hydraulic fluid that exploded in a final volcanic fury, spewing bluish crimson flames hundreds of feet into the sky, scorching and setting the poplars afire like giant candles in the night.
* * *
A hundred yards to go to reach the FAV and the sidecar began rattling, taking a burst from another FAV closing in on them a hundred yards to the left, a ricochet ripping open David Brentwood’s left cheek before Salvini reached forward around him, cut the throttle, and got off the pillion seat, throwing up his hands. “Don’t shoot! We’re Americans.”
“Stay where you fucking are!” a skeptical voice came.
“Mount Rushmore’s ours!” Salvini yelled.
“Stay where you fucking are, buddy!”
When they were close enough to sort it all out, there were apologies aplenty, but the apologies didn’t do anything for Aussie’s wounded arm or David’s face, which, as Choir drove over in the other FAV to meet them, was being held together by tape until they could get him back to a field hospital.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Cheng now committed his reserve battalions to the battle as Freeman’s line had seemed to falter. But Freeman had just given orders to slow down his advance, as he did not want to start mixing it up at close quarters with Cheng’s armor and troops until TACAIR — now that the sky was clearing somewhat — had a chance to inflict maximum damage.
Cheng interpreted the slowing down of Freeman’s armor, however, as a sign that his, Cheng’s, advantage of four tanks to one was starting to tell. Hurriedly he ordered up more reserves as Freeman’s echelons began to slow, throwing up a steady barrage of thick white smoke grenades from their launch tubes on both sides of their turrets.
* * *
With the falling off of the dust storm and darkness having already descended, the ChiComs’ T-59s and T-72s could be picked up by Freeman’s TACAIR — spearheaded by the A-10 Thunderbolts. With their tank-killing seven-barrel Gatling gun, its ammo drum the size of a Honda Accord, the Thunderbolts’ guns poured out seventy of their 1,350 30mm armor-piercing shells per second, the planes appearing to be in a near stall as the weakest part of the Chinese tanks, their cupolas, seemed literally to soak up the fire before bursting.
Without their radar and RAM-C, taken out by Brentwood’s SAS/D team, to pick up the low-flying Thunderbolts, the ChiCom tanks were swooped upon. In eleven minutes of the most intensive infrared A-10 attacks since and including the Iraqi War, the ChiComs lost forty-two tanks, some of them reserves. But the burning Chinese tanks added to the smoke, and soon the A-10s’ usefulness, impressive as it was, was nullified by the chemical-made fog of the battlefield and dark black exhaust of the ChiComs’ diesel engines as opposed to that of the M-1s’ clean gas turbine.
Freeman gave another order, to “Charge!”—not an order in the manual, but one that Freeman well knew would cut through static on the radio network. Soon the ChiComs and Americans were at close quarters again, mixing it up, echelon against echelon and finally tank against tank. What had been the flanks where the FAVs had been operating were now quickly being taken over by the combatants as, turrets slewing, they wheeled, skidded, and climbed the clay rise and surrounding dunes in high whine, the positions of the dozen remaining FAVs becoming more precarious in what at first sight looked like a vast crazy traffic jam.
* * *
As Choir drove, Aussie slumped in the back, holding his shoulder below the TOW mounting and next to the La Roche reporter while Brentwood insisted on manning the dash-mounted machine gun until, despite the field dressing on his face, the blood from his seeping cheek wound soaked through and caught in the slipstream. This making it impossible for him to see, he reluctantly had to give the machine gun up to Salvini while he took Salvini’s place in the right-hand litter.
T-59s and T-72s were using the infrared searchlights on the Americans, and the Americans were using their own night-vision goggles. But for all the equipment it was still a confusion with blue-on-blue mistakes on both sides, and strain and cacophony of the battle added to by the almost unbelievable din of machine guns chattering, tank cannon roaring, and the sound of tanks exploding, as the deadly fireworks of magazines blew up in towering, multihued flames, some men’s blood va
porizing in the heat, others’ literally boiling as combinations of HESH — heat solid shot-discarding Sabot, and APFSDS — armor-piercing fin stabilized discarding Sabot — rounds exploded.
Two American commanders, frustrated by the inability of their viewers to see well enough through the smoke, took up the “Israeli” position — that is, not staying “buttoned up” but standing up in the turret for a better view — only to be killed almost instantly by the machine gun fire of Chinese armored personnel carriers.
“Two aerials! Two aerials!” Cheng’s Commander Soong yelled, exhorting his men to try to pick out the command tanks. But the men of his three battalions of 180 Soviet-made T-72s, who had been hunkering down in defilade position behind the dunes’ crests before the battle, knew it would be almost impossible to pick out the two-aerial tanks. It was hard enough to see anything before you yourself were seen. And at times no one knew what the huge shadow looming in the night was — enemy or friend. Soong, glued to his periscope viewer as another round was extracted from the T-72’s autoloader’s carousel and rammed home, did not know who was winning the massive dogfight among the tanks.
Meanwhile David Brentwood and the few remaining FAVs drove about looking for knocked-out motorcycle and sidecar units to siphon off enough gas, any hope of reaching their own refueling depots at night a slim chance at best, given the vastness of the dunes, clay flats, and a small dry salt lake bed about them where the armored battle raged in fiercely chaotic duels that would go till dawn.
The American M1A1 was more than holding its own. In fact there would be fewer American tanks remaining in the morning than Chinese because of the four-to-one ratio, but the Chinese took a terrible punishment. The victory, Freeman knew, would not go to the side who merely held its own but who could break through the other’s lines of defense.
In the end it was Freeman’s Bradley armored personnel carriers that turned the tide. The twenty-two-ton American IFV — infantry fighting vehicle — was markedly superior to the ChiComs’ 531 with its Hongjian 8 missile launcher. The Bradley’s speed of forty-one miles per hour was something to behold along with its deadly TOWs, cannon, and ball gun ports on either side. Like the M1A1, the Bradley, even over the roughest ground, could continue firing its TOWs and cannon atop an independently sprung chassis that was near perfection itself.
Through that night there was another dust storm, but this one was completely man made as over a thousand tanks and IFVs slugged it out in the darkness, the night illuminated now and then by huge white green-orange flashes, filled with the stench of cordite and the head-throbbing smell of burning diesel, tracers constantly arcing through the night, seeking the right range for the main guns. Men screamed beneath the tracks of an M-1 or T-59 bearing down on them, often their presence unknown by the tank drivers who were pressing for larger game. More sand turned to glass as molten metal jets from HEAT rounds passed through a foot of enemy armor before hitting the sand.
Gradually, by about 0314 hours, the Americans gained ground, penetrating the Chinese defenses, and at 0400 it was clear that the Chinese were withdrawing.
By 0430 there was a sudden drop-off of firing from the Chinese. By dawn they were in full retreat. Freeman kept after them, and by 0800 there were more American than Chinese tanks, the ChiCom losses being greatest in the last hour of the rout, the bodies of some of the ChiCom crews of the broken-down and burned-out hulks sitting in grotesque positions.
Freeman’s victory could not have been claimed for any particular moment, but rather the turning point, like the end of weeding a garden, suddenly happened — a few stragglers captured at will. In the final hour of the battle, eye sockets dark, eyes red with fatigue, Freeman had lost twenty-seven tanks, the Chinese, 102, not counting the Chinese APCs that had fallen easy victim to the Bradleys. And none of it would have been possible but for the SAS/D FAV charge against the guns.
* * *
Numbed by the excessive battle, few thought of what would follow — all they yearned for was rest. But Freeman was exhilarated. For him it was as if the battle had injected him with a determination to press on, though he knew that in the interest of his men he would at least have to pause. And Washington was ordering him not merely to pause but to stop and not go a step further. Even this massive tank battle, the largest since Iraq, was being cheekily described by him to Washington as a “reconnaissance in force”!
Victorious in the Gobi and standing on that golden northern plain in the China dawn, the southern wind in his face, he gazed far to the southeast. “Norton. You realize how close we are?”
“General, Washington’ll never go for it.”
“Two days, Norton. The Second Army of the United States is only two days from the prize. Beijing, Dick — beyond that Great Wall lies the heart of China. It’s within our grasp.” He turned to Norton, wild with surmise. “Within striking distance, goddamn it!”
“Sir — you’ve been moving so fast that our supply line’s dangerously overextended, and Admiral Kuang’s planned invasion hasn’t materialized.”
“I know, I know. Stopped by a goddamned typhoon!”
“He’s taking it as a sign, General. Maybe we should, too?”
“Balls!” Freeman said, moving his goggles above the peak of his general’s cap, looking uncannily like Rommel in the desert. “What in hell’s the matter with you, Dick?” His right hand was thrust in the direction of Beijing. “You’re talking like one of those fairies in Washington. I’ve told you, this country isn’t a country like ours. North and south China are at odds — and the controlling clique in Beijing is rotten to the core and the people know it. It’s a hundred Chinas that want to be rid of those commie bastards.” Then the general used one of Mao’s axioms. “ ‘Let a hundred flowers bloom!’ eh, Dick? ‘Let a hundred schools of thought contend!’ We show them the way and many’ll join us.”
“How about the Chinese army, General?”
“That’s why we have to strike fast, Dick. Before Cheng can recover from the beating we’ve given him here. Weather’s cleared.”
Overhead American fighter patrols were now tangling with Chinese Shenyangs. It was no contest—”the turkey shoot of Organ Tal.” But on the ground Cheng still had over two and a half million in arms.
“General, if you make a move on Beijing, Washington’ll have you court-martialed. Already they’re saying Beijing is seeking a cease-fire.”
“Another Yugoslav cease-fire,” Freeman said contemptuously. “Won’t last a week — if that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Alright, Norton, our supply line is overextended. I’ll say that. And we need to consolidate — you’re right there. But you tell me what I’m supposed to do if Admiral Kuang attacks in more clement weather — now that I’m this close?”
“We’d have to check with Washington, sir.”
“Cheng would have to defend on two fronts,” Freeman said.
“I don’t know, General,” Norton said cautiously. “We were sent here originally to keep the peace — not start a war.”
“We didn’t start a war. Goddamn commies started it the moment Cheng crossed over and slaughtered that Japanese defense force. We’re already in the war, Norton, or hadn’t you noticed?” He saw the worry lines creasing Norton’s face. “Well, have those Chinese bastards in Beijing kept their people down?” The general answered his own question before Norton could utter a word. “Hell, those jokers’ve been asking for it ever since Tiananmen.”
Norton didn’t answer. To take Beijing — it would be one of the fiercest battles in history. Even the idea of it took Norton’s breath away, and he sought refuge in the logistical situation.
“But you do agree, sir, that we couldn’t move yet even if we wanted to.”
“Agreed, but it won’t take us long to get back to full strength, Dick.”
Norton had been told that July and August would be the monsoon months, and that the rain would cause Freeman further pause. It would most commanders, but that was the prob
lem: Freeman wasn’t like most commanders. He’d attacked Pyongyang at night and Ratmanov Island in a blizzard. And won.
“By God, can you imagine it, Dick? For us, the American army, to be in Tiananmen Square. To raise the Stars and Stripes. To free China.” Freeman’s vision was so grand it awed and terrified Norton.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
At the most forward aid station outside Orgon Tal, where he sat with so many others waiting to be attended to, Aussie was already comforted by a medic telling him that his injury was a flesh wound, that he’d lost some blood and the shoulder would be badly bruised for a while but that he’d be all right once they stitched him up. A half hour later Alexsandra Malof, one of the few prisoners to survive the FAV attacks against the guns, was ushered in by a corporal. Aussie instinctively made room for her by him, patting the bench. Someone whose pain had got the better of him asked in a loud voice when they were going “to get out of this fucking dump.”
“Hey!” Aussie shouted, the effort hurting his shoulder, but he got everyone’s attention. “Watch the language, lads. Lady present.” He offered her the rest of his coffee, and she accepted. “Must forgive the lads, miss,” Aussie said. “They use a lot of foul language I’m afraid. Don’t go for it myself.” He extended his right hand. “Name’s Aussie Lewis.”
Alexsandra nodded. “I am Alexsandra Malof.”
Her very breathing excited him, and he watched her breasts rise and fall in a unison that mesmerized him. Finally he told her, “They’re sending us back to Khabarovsk for a bit of R and R — rest and recreation.”
“Oh yes,” she said.
“So how about you?”
“Khabarovsk also.”
“That a fact? Look, maybe we could have dinner.”
“Perhaps.” She liked the soldier’s easy friendliness, his openness, and he did not seem as uncouth as some of the others. Someone came in swearing about getting “fucking sand in my fucking contacts.”