Once over the ice and onto land, the visibility was still good on the low, flat country but not as open as it was on the lake. Freeman moved to wedge formations, the lead tank of each platoon as the point, the others flanking it left and right a hundred yards apart to form the triangular advance.
The dust trails, it was hoped, would be dampened somewhat by the still scantily snow-covered terrain and by the early morning dew, but in the fragile ecosystem of the semidesert around the Gobi, the dust rose like mustard-colored flour, forming an enormous cloud south of Lake Hulun, and Freeman’s M1A1 leading the way, cruising at thirty-five to forty miles per hour, was followed not only by the remainder of his M1A1 and M-60 tanks but by scores of Bradley infantry fighting vehicles.
The Bradleys’ diesels were in a high whine, as opposed to the more muffled, lower-toned roar from the gas turbines of the M1A1s, the Bradleys’ turrets mounted with 25mm chain guns with a 475-round-per-minute capacity. Run by crews of three, they also carried a “deuce” of TOW — tube-launched, optically tracked, wire-guided antitank missiles. The twenty-five-ton, forty-one-miles-per-hour amphibious vehicles carried nine infantry men with port firing automatic weapons, riding it out in the armor-protected cabin.
Out forward of the main armored force, relays of three lightly armed but fast Kiowa Warrior reconnaissance choppers were darting about like dragonflies, searching for any sign of impediment, either enemy troops or natural barriers, that might have to be dealt with, as map references could not always be relied upon. In the Gobi the shapes of dunes could change overnight following a storm from the west, and in selected sites not yet on the maps, forests had been planted and watered on the desert’s edge in a desperate attempt to stop the ever-encroaching sand.
Behind the Bell two-seater Kiowas and in support of the armor were the tank-killing Apaches ready to shoot forward and kill with either laser-guided Hellfire missiles, rockets, or their below-the-nose-mounted 30mm cannon, which could deal with any enemy tanks or other targets of opportunity pointed out to them by the Kiowa spotters.
“Incoming!” the warning came as another East Wind with conventional warhead exploded overhead, taking out three tanks and a Bradley, over twenty men and over twenty million dollars worth of equipment lost in a few seconds.
Freeman knew he couldn’t take this too much longer before his force was decimated, and standing up in the cupola he lifted his ten-power binoculars, looking for possible revetment areas in some hilly country off to his left, a continuation of semidesert and dune.
Everyone was asking where the hell the B-52s were. Some were yelling in their tanks that the old man should have waited before moving, but other voices countered by arguing Freeman’s point that to keep the initiative he had to drive south quickly if he was to outflank the Manchurian reserves.
The Manchurians reserves, in particular Shenyang’s Sixteenth Group Army of fifty-two thousand men, were moving faster than Freeman had anticipated. In part it was because they had been bored, and no matter what the danger, soldiers of any army welcome some activity after long, dull hours at the rear. Besides, in the sparse grasslands and semidesert, the PLA’s motorcycle and sidecar battalions could move at speed, each pinion seat carrying another soldier in addition to the rider and the machine gunner or antitank missile operator in the sidecar. Simultaneously, all trains and civilian traffic had been commandeered by Cheng, who was using Freeman’s deliberate policy of not bombing the villages and towns to his, Cheng’s, advantage, by using every route that led south and west to Erenhot.
Because of the absence of serviceable roads leading west out of Manchuria, Cheng knew, and he knew that Freeman must know, that no substantial PLA flank action could be mounted against Freeman’s southward-headed column until he got further south. Cheng would have to stop him further down in the Gobi’s dunes around the railhead of Erenhot, and so it was to Erenhot, the railhead on the border of China’s Inner Mongolia and Mongolia, that many of the reserves from Beijing’s Sixty-fifth Army Group were now being sent.
The Shenyang armies, including towed artillery, were able to reach the dunes faster by being able to cut directly west through Chifeng and Duolun. Meanwhile Cheng was receiving the news that Freeman’s armored division was being pounded by the missiles from Turpan. Anticipating the coming battle, Cheng allowed himself a rare smile of satisfaction. Did the American general think he was the only one who read Sun Tzu and understood how all war is deception? Did the American think that he, Cheng, was asleep?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Unfazed by the nonappearance of the Harriers, keeping the big planes on course, Ebony Leader, now that his flight had been attacked, switched from in-plane to intercell radio. It was 0753 and there was a strong headwind against them. “Ebony Leader to Gold and Purple,” Air Commander Thompson called. “Will start ‘to-go’ count at one hundred twenty seconds before ERT — at oh-seven-five-six plus twenty-one seconds. I will release bombs at end of radar nav’s fifteen-second count and on his—”
“We’ve been hit!” a surprised voice came over the intercom, Thompson ignoring it, carrying on, his tone tense but controlled.
“Targeting radar’s out!” the same voice cut in.
Again the AC kept talking, refusing to be interrupted, even as he took account of what he’d just heard. “We’ll be visible bombing then,” he instructed the other two cells. “Drop on my ‘pickle’ signal. Acknowledge!”
“Bogeys… three o’clock… coming in high. Mach one point two. New bandits. Configurations MiG-29s. Repeat, MiG-29s.”
“Gold Leader to Ebony Leader. Acknowledge.” The lone plane in Purple also acknowledged.
“Radar nav,” Ebony Leader called. “You read me? We drop on your call and your call only. Okay?”
“Affirmative, Skipper!” But the air commander had difficulty hearing him over the thundering of the engines and more hammering as the bandits’ cannon tore into several of the other B-52s, the latter continuing to jettison flares, radar-emitting dummies, and chaff to foil the MiGs’ heat- or radar-seeking missiles.
“Bogeys closing…” Ebony One’s electronics warfare officer yelled. “Splitting. Two for our nose, two for the tail. Get ‘em, Murphy!” The tails of six of the remaining seven B-52s seemed to explode, tracers arcing out from them in long, easy, orange curves, the curves closer now in a cone of fire against the oncoming ChiComs, one barbette out of action, its gunner dead.
Then the bombers were out of cloud again.
“Angels — five o’clock! Angels five o’clock! Harriers!”
“ ‘Bout fucking time!”
Far below, the pilots could see the rugged, deep defiles of the Tien Shan Mountains, crooked-edge wedges of black, fringed with ice cream snow, the silver streaks of streams seen one moment, lost the next, then flat, mustard-colored desert terrain far to the northwest around Turpan, the four MiGs making another turn.
At 0753 plus eleven seconds, the SAM missile radars-twenty miles away around Turpan — were picked up by Ebony’s EWO. The fighters were coming in from the starboard side from a distance of four miles, firing air-to-air missiles, the slower but higher Harriers coming down to meet them. Ebony One’s copilot took over chaff and flare control, Thompson, as air commander, keeping Ebony One steady, leading the rest of his wing, flashes of light all about him, and the powerful stench of sweat.
At 0753 plus sixteen seconds Ebony One’s navigator informed the radar navigator, “Final GPI — counters are good.”
“Roger.”