Bright Star

Chapter 8

Banking slightly to the left, the pilot of the E-2 Hawkeye AWACS began the northbound leg of his orbit. Cruising at a speed of three hundred miles per hour and at an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, the E-2 was monitoring air and naval activity off the Egyptian and Libyan coast. The aircraft commander was under strict orders to maintain a position at least two hundred miles from the coast in an effort to keep U.S. personnel and aircraft from becoming involved in a sudden flare-up. Even at that range, however, the APS-125 radar, linked to an advanced radar processing system, was able to monitor everything that flew or floated within a range of three hundred miles. That included a Soviet Ilyushin 76 Mainstay airborne warning and control aircraft operating to the west near Benghazi. Like the Hawkeye, it was watching and reporting.

Inside the Hawkeye, the crew of five went about their tasks. They were three hours into their current mission with sixty minutes to go before being relieved. Though the Hawkeye was capable of being refueled, allowing it to remain on station longer, the crew was ready for a break: unlike the earlier patrol, this one was boring, and their coffee had run out long ago.

After several near-confrontations between Egyptian and Libyan aircraft earlier in the evening, the level of activity had dropped off. Activity in the last three hours had been limited to a flight of two Egyptian fighters that scrambled from the airfield at Mersa Matruh and the sailing of several missile boats. Unlike before, the Libyans did not respond by scrambling their own aircraft. Even when the Egyptian fighters made a high-speed run toward the Libyan border, the Libyans did nothing. Watching the activity, the combat information officer commented dryly that perhaps the Libyans were finally settling down in an effort to defuse the situation. Since the assassination attempt, the leaders of the two countries had been waging a war of words, using the media of the Western world as their battleground. The crew of the Hawkeye didn't mind. So long as the leaders of both countries were throwing words and not making any major movement of troops, ships, or aircraft, the crisis would eventually peter out. It had happened before, and no doubt this incident would be no different.

Though it was not really their assigned task that night, the crew of the Hawkeye continued to track three Egyptian missile boats that had sailed from Mersa Matruh and four Libyan boats from Tobruk. All the boats had left their respective ports at approximately the same time. The commander of the Hawkeye passed that off as a simple coincidence, since their speeds and courses indicated that their departures were not related.

Leaning back in his seat, the radar operator tugged on the sleeve of the air control operator, who had nothing to control, and pointed to the green blips that represented the missile boats. "Five bucks says the Egyptians spot the Libyans first."

The air controller studied the screen for a moment, then said, "You're on."

From his position on the bridge of the center missile boat, Lieutenant Commander Rashid, Egyptian navy, could see only one of the other two boats in his small flotilla. Their course, which was due west, was taking them toward the imaginary line that divided the Egyptian coastal waters from those of Libya. All three boats were Ramadan class boats armed with four Italian-made Otomat surface-to-surface guided missiles. Two boats, including Rashid's, were running close to the shore. The third was out at sea, riding the line that divided the open sea, or international waters, from the territorial waters of Egypt. Only that boat used its search radars, and then only in short spurts. The idea was to have the boat at sea locate and report any targets to Rashid. If any Libyan patrol boats detected the radar of the Egyptian boat at sea, they would turn and head for it, exposing themselves to the two Egyptian boats running along the coast. Only when he was sure that the Libyan boats were committed and unaware of the two boats running the shore line would Rashid turn on his own search and acquisition radars. That, he reasoned, would surprise the Libyans and cause them to break off their attack.

When Rashid's small flotilla was less than fifty kilometers from Libyan waters, the commander of the boat at sea reported radar contact with four boats that he assumed were Libyan. Like the two Egyptian boats running along the coast, the Libyans did not have their search radars on. For several minutes Rashid maintained his course and speed as he listened to the reports from the boat at sea. After two minutes the electronic warfare operator on Rashid's boat reported that two, then four search radars had been switched on. The source of those search radars was the Libyan boats. They had detected the radar of the Egyptian boat at sea and were now attempting to get an accurate fix on its source. Still, Rashid maintained course and speed, tracking on a chart the locations of the Libyan boats as they were reported.

Calmly, the commander of the boat at sea reported that he had switched his radar on to continuous search and was commencing evasive maneuvers. As planned, that boat changed course from a westerly direction to one running to the northwest. This took the third boat out into international waters; and if the Libyans conformed to his maneuvers, they would expose themselves to flank attack by the two Egyptian boats running along the coast. An update from the commander of the third boat clearly indicated that the Libyans had changed course and were doing exactly as Rashid had expected and wanted. Deciding to wait until he was within twenty-five kilometers of the Libyan boats, Rashid continued to hug the coast and head east.

The calm reports of the third boat's commander were suddenly replaced by a shrill and excited report. The two lead Libyan boats had each fired a surface-to-surface missile at Rashid's third boat. Rashid immediately ordered the commander of the third boat to break contact and evade. His order was followed by several moments of nervous silence. When the radio crackled again, the commander of the third boat regained his composure as he acknowledged that he was executing Rashid's order and updated Rashid on the location, speed, and course of the four Libyan boats. Rashid relaxed slightly. For a moment he considered his next move. There was the off-chance that the Libyans had made a mistake when they fired. If that was so, to expose his two boats and threaten the Libyans from the flank and rear might trigger a nervous and undesirable reaction.

The momentary calm and Rashid's indecision, however, both ended when the commander of Rashid's third boat reported that two more missiles had been fired. The first two missiles could have been a mistake; the second two couldn't be. Rashid was now free to act. As he prepared to issue orders to his boats, the commander of the third boat reported that he was firing chaff. A follow-on report was cut short by static, then silence. Out at sea, in the distance, there were two quick flashes. Sixty seconds later, two muffled explosions could be heard above the hum of Rashid's missile boat's engines.

Removed from any fear or danger, the crew of the Hawkeye watched the maneuvers of the Egyptian and Libyan missile boats. The air control officer was convinced that he had won the bet. The radar operator, however, claimed that the Egyptians had seen the Libyans first because the Egyptian boat at sea had changed course. They were in the midst of this debate when the appearance of two new blips caught the radar operator's attention.

"Holy shit! Those fuckers have fired!"

The combat information officer turned to the radar operator. "Who fired? And what did they fire?"

Now hunched over his screen and studying it intently, the radar operator thought for a moment, then responded. "Two surface-to-surface missiles have been fired, one from each of the lead Libyan boats. Correction — four missiles have been fired from the lead boats." There was a pause. The Hawkeye had gone silent except for the steady drone of the two engines. The radar operator continued. "The Egyptian boat at sea is taking evasive maneuvers. He is turning away from the Libyans."

A pause. "He's firing chaff. One missile has overflown the Egyptian."

Another pause. "The second missile has gone past the Egyptian." The radar operator watched the frantic maneuvers of the Egyptian boat as it tried to avoid the second pair of incoming missiles. Slowly, however, two of the blips, which represented the follow-on missiles, closed in on the boat; then one of them merged with it. "He's hit! One missile impacted." The radar operator paused. The second missile blip closed and merged with the Egyptian boat. "A second impact!" The cluster of blips where the radar plot of the boat and the two missiles had come together fluttered for a moment on the screen, then disappeared.

Sitting upright, the radar operator turned to the combat information officer. "Sir, the boat's been blown up. It's gone."

Rashid stood motionless for a moment as he watched the glow on the horizon disappear. Attempts to raise the third boat by radio failed. It was gone. Turning to his executive officer, he told him to report what had happened to squadron headquarters at Mersa Matruh. He paused, then told the officer that he was preparing to attack the Libyans. All eyes turned to him for a moment. He stared back in turn before he issued the order to bring the boat about on a course that would take them to where the Libyans had been last reported.

When the second boat had turned to conform to the maneuver of Rashid's boat, Rashid looked at his chart, made a few quick calculations, then ordered his helmsman to change course slightly. Turning to the radar operator, he ordered him to stand by to switch on search radar on his orders. He ordered the weapons operator to arm all missiles and be prepared to launch, on his order, two missiles at the lead Libyan boat at ten-second intervals. Over the radio he told the commander of the second boat his intentions. Rashid ordered the commander of that boat to conform to his maneuvers and engage the trail of the Libyan boats.

After both the radar and the weapons operator acknowledged his orders, Rashid turned his back to them and looked out into the darkness. He waited several seconds before he ordered the radar on. All four Libyan boats appeared on the green radar screen in the first sweep of the radar. The weapons operator took the data, checked that the missiles were locked on target, and informed Rashid that he was ready to fire. Without a pause Rashid gave the order.

Outside, on the deck of the missile boat, the darkness was shattered by the ignition of the first missile's rocket motors and its eruption from its canister. A streak of blinding light against the blackness of the night trailed the missile as it arced up for a moment, then dipped down to skim along the surface of the sea just above the waves toward its invisible target. Silence and darkness had just returned when the second missile was fired, followed by the third, then the fourth, at five-second intervals. The other boat, now to the left, was visible briefly as it too fired its missiles. When all missiles were expended, Rashid ordered the two boats to turn back toward the Egyptian coast and head east.

In morbid fascination, the crew of the Hawkeye watched the sea battle as it unfolded on their radar scope. The two surviving Egyptian boats, which had been hugging the coast, turned and ran for the Libyans. The attack against the Egyptian boat had taken the Libyans out to sea, away from the coast, leaving the Egyptians free to come up behind them undetected. Then the radar operator on the Hawkeye announced that the two Egyptian boats had cut on their radars. This brought no immediate reaction, almost as if the Libyans had not detected them. It was nearly a full minute before the Libyan formation began to turn about in an effort to reorient against the new threat. The commander of the Hawkeye, watching the action, dryly commented, "That minute's going to really cost them."

Like a sportscaster at a baseball game, the radar operator described the action to the rest of the crew. "The Egyptians are firing now, one missile from each boat." Five seconds later he announced two more missiles. "The Libyan formation has broken up. They're scattering, but the missiles appeared to be locked on."

After several seconds he began to record the hits. "First missile hit the Libyan farthest south. Second missile hit the Libyan in the east. Another hit on the Libyan in the south." There was a slight pause. "He's gone now. The Libyan in the south is gone. Must have blown up. Missile hit on the Libyan in the west. One missile has gone erratic — it's crashed halfway to its target. Another hit on the Libyan in the east. He's stopped in the water."

The rest of the crew was silent as they listened. Two hundred miles away, men were dying. The green blips, squares, and triangles identified by computer-generated numbers were boats, warships being torn apart by mindless missiles of silicon, wires, aluminum, and composite materials that sought their prey unerringly and struck without feeling, without remorse.

The green blips that represented boats might have been disappearing from the screen of the Hawkeye's radar scope, but for the Libyan sailors who had manned those boats the horror continued. Death by fire, mutilation, and drowning was still going on. The crews of the boats, some wounded, some on fire, were in the water, thrashing about in an effort to save themselves or a shipmate. Screams of pain and cries for help blended with the hiss of raging fires and explosions from unexpended ammunition on the derelict boats. While the boats remained afloat, their fires cast an eerie glow over the scene. When they sank, the survivors were plunged into darkness, a darkness that hid them from each other. In that darkness, where sky and sea merged, the cries of pain from the wounded turned to soft moans, then silence as their lives, like their boats, slipped away into oblivion.

The crew of the Hawkeye saw none of this. Defeat at sea left few traces, few survivors. After ten minutes, only the two Egyptian boats were still showing on the radar screens. The sailors struggling in the sea were too small to be detected by radar. They did not appear on the Hawkeye's scope. It was over, for now.

From the Citadel, the view of Cairo is breathtaking. Jan Fields had hoped to shoot her report from one of the bridges over the Nile in central Cairo, but the police and the military kept interfering with her or blocking the camera crew. Attempts to secure permission or assistance from the Egyptian government through the American embassy to allow shooting at the bridges failed. Frustrated, Jan did the best she could. Besides, by the evening of the eleventh, the bulk of the Egyptian combat forces moving to the Western Desert had already passed through Cairo. Only occasional truck convoys now came through, and these were no substitute for tanks and personnel carriers being hauled on transporters to the front. Her attempts to go into the Western Desert were even more futile. Turned back twice at military checkpoints, Jan had to rely on official news releases made by the Egyptian government and on her own sources. Even at the Citadel, police armed with automatic rifles were still in evidence, watching, intimidating.

Still, Jan had her sources and kept the reports coming. This evening, dressed in a khaki safari jacket topped with a red scarf, Jan faced the camera with Cairo and the setting sun to her back as she began her report.

"Five days after the aborted assassination attempt against the presidents of the United States and the Republic of Egypt, military preparations for retaliation against Libya appear to be reaching the final stages. Long convoys of tanks and armored fighting vehicles that jammed the streets of this city two days ago are now absent. The tapering off of military traffic here and at other crossing points along the Nile indicates that those forces that will be used against Libya are already in place in the Western Desert.

"The size of the ground forces Egypt intends to use is questionable. Despite years of peace that resulted from the Camp David accord, the bulk of the Egyptian forces remained oriented against Israel. Even in this crisis, it is believed that no more than four divisions have been moved into the Western Desert. If this is true, then the campaign Egypt is intent on launching is more along the lines of a punitive raid, very similar to those Egypt carried out against Libya in 1977.

"This theory, supported by most Western diplomats here in Cairo, is further supported by the failure of the Egyptian government to recall reserve forces or shift all major combat forces from the east to the west. Official news bulletins continue to emphasize the role Libyan terrorists played in the December seventh attack. What is missing now is the fervent rhetoric of December eighth and ninth, when the Egyptian leadership spoke of a war to crush the Libyan threat once and for all. Instead, the government spokesmen now speak of a measured response, aimed at punishing Libya, not destroying it. The word 'war' has been supplanted by 'retaliation' and 'punitive action.'

"Efforts by the Soviet Union and the United States to defuse the situation here have continued to snag on the issue of withdrawal of troops and air units from those two countries. Each is insistent that those forces will be needed to ensure the safety of their respective citizens and property in their client state. To date, neither country has been willing to make the first move.

"In the capitals of Western Europe, an official wait-and-see attitude has replaced the earlier condemnations that were leveled against Libya for its role in the assassination attempt. Publicly, European officials have repeatedly stated that this is a matter best left to the United Nations. The potential that this border skirmish could escalate into superpower confrontation, however, has led to low-keyed discussions between European leaders on how best they might assist in defusing the situation.

"Little has come out of Libya in the past few days. Reports that the Soviets are rushing in additional quantities of equipment and technical advisors have been difficult to confirm. Since air traffic from the Soviet Union across the Mediterranean has been near normal and the Soviets continue to use the airfield at Al Fasher in the Sudan, there seems to be little to substantiate those reports. In the words of Dr. Henry Millerent of the World Strategic Institute, the Soviets would have little to gain from backing Libya with other than token logistical support and advisors.

"Regardless of what the Egyptian government calls it and how the Soviets respond, what is certain is that in the next few days, the outcome of this conflict will rest with the men and equipment that passed through this city. From Cairo, this is Jan Fields for World News Network."

Jan held her stance until the camera crew gave her the high sign that they had finished shooting. Relaxing, she called out, "How long was it?"

The chief of the camera crew, the same British crew that had been with Jan on 7 December, looked at a stopwatch. "Two minutes, twenty-eight seconds, love."

"Damn," Jan sighed. "Fifty seconds too long. Well, Fay has her work cut out for her tonight." Pulling the mike off her safari jacket, Jan looked up. "Gentlemen, we have a deadline to meet. This tape needs to be edited and out in less than two hours. Let's get moving."

Turning off the television monitor, the operations officer turned to the general. "That tape is less than two hours old. NSA picked it up as it was being fed back to the U.S. from the World News people here in Cairo and thought we might be interested in a sneak preview."

Leaning back slightly, General Horn chuckled. "Jim, I wish I could get that kind of concise analysis from your people." The other officers in the room chuckled. "Where's she getting her information from? Is there a leak somewhere in Cairo?"

Colonel Ed Linsum, deputy chief of staff for intelligence of 2nd Corps, didn't look up at Horn. Instead, he continued to play with his number-two lead pencil, doodling on the yellow legal pad in front of him. "General, I wish it were that easy. Unfortunately, Fields is cleaner than Snow White. She just reads the tea leaves better than your average TV reporter."

"Well, Ed, find out what kind of tea she uses and buy some for your people." Horn waited for the laughing to stop before he continued. Sitting up straight and turning his smiling face into a deadpan stare, he signaled the start of serious business. "Okay, let's be different tonight and start with the current Egyptian order of battle and dispositions."

From across the room, Dixon watched and waited for someone to shoot a snide remark about his wife's role with WNN in Cairo. Since the beginning of the crisis, his boss, the same full colonel who had taken over the Bright Star exercise plan he had developed, had pulled him over twice to warn him about passing classified information to the media through Fay, even accidentally. The first time Dixon shrugged it off as simple stupidity on the part of the colonel for even thinking that he would do such a thing. The second time the colonel collared Dixon and addressed the issue, however, Dixon became livid. Shoving his face within inches of the colonel's and spitting as he talked, Dixon told the colonel either to produce evidence that he was doing so and relieve him or to back off. The colonel, completely taken by surprise, backed up two paces, looked at Dixon, then turned and walked away. Nothing was ever said about Fay, or the incident, again.

Dixon knew that there was no need for anyone to worry. He hadn't seen Fay since the night of the assassination attempt. Returning home to clean up and change his uniform, he had found Fay waiting for him. Instead of a hug and concern, he was greeted with a slap in the face. Reeling from the blow, Dixon pulled back in amazement and fell backwards over a chair and onto the floor. Fay, following up the blow, began to scream at him as he lay there. He was barely able to understand her as she babbled that he had lied to her, that he had gone back on his promise that he would never again put himself in a position of danger. All she ever had asked for, she said, was a live husband, not an American flag neatly folded into a triangle. He had no business, she yelled, throwing himself in front of that jeep full of terrorists.

Dixon, exhausted by the stress of his brush with death and by hours of dealing with the crisis, also snapped. Without thinking, he bounded up off the floor and rushed at Fay. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he began shaking her like a rag doll, screaming in her face to shut up. He was still shaking her and screaming when his younger son came out of his room. Neither Fay nor Dixon noticed the boy until he started hollering, "Mommy, Daddy, don't hurt each other! Stop it, please! Stop hurting each other!"

The sudden realization of what he was doing hit Dixon harder than Fay's slap. Releasing her, he stepped back and tried to collect his wits. The boy instinctively ran up to his mother and grabbed her leg, still hollering uncontrollably. Without saying another word, Dixon turned around and walked out. After that, he didn't return.

As he mulled over those dark images, he missed his first cue from the general. The chief of staff finally got his attention. "Colonel Dixon," he called out, grunting, "if you would be so kind as to join us…"

With pointer in hand, Dixon stood, stepped up to the operations map, cleared his throat, and began his briefing. "Sir, the Egyptian order of battle in the Western Desert is shown here. Attached to the 1st Army, now headquartered in Matruh, are the 22nd Mechanized Division, reinforced with an artillery brigade, deployed south of Solium; the 5th Armored Division, deployed west of Sidi Barrani; and the 14th Armored Division, reinforced with the 7th Mechanized Brigade, around Bir Bayly. The Republican Brigade, which we believe to be the 1st Army's main reserve and exploitation force, is located here, at Bir al Khamsa. In addition, an airmobile brigade has been moved from Alexandria forward to Siwa and the parachute brigade is on stripe alert in Cairo. These last-mentioned units are believed to be under the control of the Egyptian General Staff, not the 1st Army."

"Why do we think that, Scott?" Horn asked.

Dixon paused to think about his answer before he continued. "Command and control, sir. Once it's been launched, the 1st Army would be hard pressed to control the airmobile brigade, which we believe has Al Jagbub as an initial objective and the oil line from Sarir to Marsa al Harigah, west of Tobruk, as its secondary objective. That operation, more of a raid and diversion, would do little to support the 1st Army's main operation directly. Commitment of the parachute brigade, Egypt's one and only, will be a decision made at national level, and then only if the target is worth the investment of that valuable asset."

INITIAL EGYPTIAN DEPLOYMENTS

Horn considered Dixon's response. It made sense. It was logical. And it was probably correct. The only thing that bothered him was the last comment about the parachute brigade. Horn hated it when professional soldiers used terms like "valuable asset" and "investment." Stockbrokers and bankers used those terms to discuss inanimate objects. A parachute brigade was a living and breathing organism. It was populated by real people, soldiers. Those soldiers would have to fight and win or lose, perhaps die, regardless of whether their superiors made a wise "investment." Horn believed in calling it as it was. He was surprised that Dixon, normally quite blunt when it came to such matters, resorted to using those terms. But he decided to let the issue pass. This was neither the time nor the place to have a discussion on semantics. No doubt, Horn thought, from his looks and actions, something was troubling Dixon.

With a wave of his hand he signaled Dixon to continue.

"We believe, given this posturing of forces, the Egyptians will strike west along two main axes of advance. The main effort will be by the 22nd Mech Division followed by the 5th Armored Division along the coastal road from Amsaad to Kambut and then Tobruk. A supporting attack by the 14th Armored in the south is meant to spread the Libyan defenses thin and, should the main effort along the coastal road be stopped, provide the Egyptians with a force postured to out-flank the Libyans and drive onto Tobruk from the south via Al Adam. Once the Egyptians have secured Tobruk, in particular thie oil terminal at Marsa al Harigah in the north, Al Jagbub in the south, and severed the oil line between Sarir and the coast, it is believed they will stop, declare the operation a success, and withdraw." Pausing, Dixon looked at Horn and awaited his response.

Once more Horn considered Dixon for a moment. Again Dixon was overlooking the obvious. The war would not be over until both sides decided it was over. Horn was about to ask Dixon if he really believed the Libyans would simply allow the Egyptians to roll in, occupy Tobruk, and then roll out again, but decided against that. No point in pounding Dixon into the ground. If he was having some type of personal problem, slapping him about in front of the staff wouldn't help. He made a mental note to get together with the chief of operations later and discuss Dixon in private. Perhaps there was something he could do.

Turning his thoughts back to the matter at hand, Horn studied the map while he sipped coffee. "Anyone have any idea when H hour is for the Egyptians?" he asked no one in particular.

When no one else provided the answer, Dixon responded. "We believe some time in the next twenty-four hours — forty-eight at the outside. All dispositions seem to be complete, including placement of combat service support units."

Turning to the chief of intelligence, he nodded. "Ed, tell me what the other people think about all this."

As Linsum stood up, two of his people placed an acetate overlay on the situation map. Walking up to the map, Linsum took the pointer from Dixon and looked at the overlay for a moment before turning around to Horn and starting. "You're not going to like this. You have before you, General, in the blue folder, the current intelligence summary. I'm not going to go over all the details and statistics. Nor am I going to beat you to death with a lot of double-talk. Fact of the matter is that we really don't know what is going on in Libya. The mobilization of Revolutionary Guard units, the People's Militia, and the reorganization of several regular army units has made the entire prewar organization a muddle. On top of this, the flow of additional Soviet and Cuban personnel and the staging and movement of units leaves us with no clear picture of what exactly is going on."

Putting his elbows on the table, Horn rested his head in his hands. "You're right, Ed. I don't like this. Just fucking great. I'm supposed to make recommendations back to the Joint Chiefs on possible use of U.S. forces in the area and you can't even give me a rough idea on what the other people have. What do we know for sure?"

Playing with the pointer, Linsum continued. "We know that a new Soviet headquarters became operational this morning in Benghazi. It's an army-level headquarters with the senior officer in Libya, Colonel General Uvarov, commanding. He had been in Libya overseeing the deployment and joint exercise. A veteran of the Iranian conflict, Uvarov is noted for being able to operate independently and is an aggressive fighter. The influx of Soviet and Cuban personnel continues to increase, giving him a credible force with which to fight. Current figures put the total number of Soviet and Cuban personnel in country at seven thousand and eighteen thousand, respectively. Most of these have come from other African countries, explaining why there has been little increase in movement across the Med or Atlantic. The one notable exception has been the movement of a parachute brigade and a fighter regiijient from Iran to Addis Ababa in Ethiopia."

Surprised, Horn sat up. "What are they up to?"

"Either they will reinforce the parachute battalion that is securing the airfield at Al Fasher or they will move into Libya and become an operational reserve for Uvarov."

"The airhead, Jim — will the Soviets continue to use their airhead in Sudan? The time limit agreed upon by both countries is about to run out. Any chance of the Sudanese throwing the Russians out?"

Turning to the map, Linsum looked at it for a moment as if it would give him the answer. "None, sir. If the Soviets demand they be allowed to use the airfield indefinitely, I believe the Sudanese will give in. They already have their hands full dealing with the Sudanese People's Liberation Army in the south and control very little of the southern region. They do not have the capability to throw the Russians out. Therefore, any attempt to resist the Soviet intervention would be, politically speaking, pointless. By giving the Soviets what they want, the government of Sudan at least keeps the hope alive that the Soviets will pull out when they are finished in Libya. If they resisted, the Soviets, using support of the SPLA movement as a pretext, would take whatever they want, permanently. In my opinion, given the remoteness of the region and the fact that it has practically no strategic value to the U.S., I believe the Soviets know they face no risks and will hold on to the airhead at Al Fasher as long as they need to keep their air corridors to Libya open."

Again Linsum paused while Horn looked at the map and thought. "Ed, see me after this. I need more info on the situation down there and some options." Turning to Dixon, the general pointed. "Colonel, you come too. I may want your Special Forces people watching that airfield ready to go in and stir things up. I don't believe in giving anyone a free ride. That air corridor from Iran to Ethiopia to Libya is the biggest Achilles' heel I've ever seen. The only question is how best to sever it." Turning back to Linsum, he signaled him to resume the briefing with a nod.

"In a nutshell," Linsum continued, "this is the way I believe the Libyans will deploy." Using the pointer, he began to trace imaginary lines on the map. "Altogether, the Libyans have the equivalent of four divisions plus two brigades in Cyrenaica. Two brigades of Revolutionary Guards or militia have deployed along the frontier. They appear to be preparing to conduct covering force operations, delaying and channelizing Egyptian forces for as long as possible. This will buy units in the main defensive belt time to complete their preparations.

"The main belt is manned by a mix of regular army and Revolutionary Guard units equal to three divisions. Battalion and company strong points, called pitas, are being prepared in depth along likely invasion routes. These pitas, which are basically great sand forts, include bunkers, trenches, and firing ramps for tanks and armored fighting vehicles. They are placed in checkerboard fashion with overlapping fires. It will be a major drill to breach the main belt, requiring destruction or neutralization of several of these pitas by direct assault. The main belt extends from the sea south to Al Adam, then southwest to Bir Hakeim. West of Tobruk, there is a buildup of regular army armored and artillery units. These appear to be a mobile reserve, consisting of two brigades, ready to counterattack any force that makes its way through the main belt.

"The real question is the exact disposition of Soviet and Cuban units and their use. CIA puts their strength at two Cuban divisions, one tank and one motorized infantry, and a Soviet independent tank corps consisting of three tank brigades, a motorized rifle brigade, and an artillery brigade. I suspect that they will form a second operational echelon west of Tobruk. In that role, they have two possible missions. The first is to block the Egyptians from advancing any further west. Their mere presence will do this. To attack the Soviets and Cubans would broaden the war and invite further Soviet involvement in the Middle East, something the Egyptians do not want. The second mission for the Soviet and Cuban forces, if the Soviets opt for active participation, is to conduct a counteroffensive. After Libyan forces slow or stop the Egyptian forces in front of Tobruk and the Egyptian offensive has lost its momentum, Soviet forces would be free to launch a counteroffensive. This mission would include the destruction or rollback of the remaining Egyptian forces in Libya and restoration of the original boundary."

Linsum looked across the room to Horn. "Pending any further questions, that's all we have right now, sir."

Horn looked at Linsum for a moment before answering. "No, Ed — not for you, thank you." Turning to the operations officer, Horn asked how the American troops in Egypt were holding up.

"Fine, sir, just fine. The only thing the commander of the 16th Armored Division requested were additional instructions and warning orders."

"What kind of warning orders does he expect us to give him?"

Shrugging his shoulders, the operations officer responded. "I guess he wants to begin preparing contingency plans in the event we have to commit his division."

Irritated, Horn pointed his finger at the man. "Please reiterate to him that his mission is to protect the equipment and ammo storage sites and, on order, evacuate American personnel from Egypt using the brigade from the 11 th Air Assault Division. Beyond that, he has no mission. The President is under a lot of pressure, especially from that distinguished congressman from Tennessee, to pull those people out of there. If we did that, we would be giving the Russians the wrong message. Right now, protecting our bases and civilian personnel, as flimsy as those excuses are, are the only excuse we have to keep them on hand. Any hint that we are preparing to join the Egyptian attack into Libya would be dangerous, to us here and to the President back home." Cooling off, Horn lowered his finger. "Ted, I want you personally to fly over to the division headquarters in the morning to ensure that they understand that…. Any other business before we adjourn?"

The chief of staff leaned over the table. "Sir, one minor point. You were invited to attend the French ambassador's Christmas reception this evening. With the situation as it is, neither you nor the primary staff will be able to attend."

Horn, annoyed by the need to maintain the appearance of normality when nothing was normal, contained his anger. "Well, what do you recommend? Can't offend the diplomatic corps, now, can we?"

The other officers laughed. The chief continued. "I recommend we send Colonel Dixon. He's known to most of the diplomats and is at this time quite a celebrity. His presence would more than cover your absence."

Everyone turned to look at Dixon. Dixon said nothing, but he could feel his ears begin to burn in anger.

Horn smiled. "Good idea. Probably would do Scott a world of good to get out of this hole and associate with real people." Turning back to the chief, Horn asked again, "Anyone else have any other pressing issues?"

When no one answered, Horn stood up and picked up the folder containing the intelligence summary. "Okay, that's all for now. Jim, give me half an hour to digest this summary, then see me in my office. Scott, you can see me about the Special Forces operations tomorrow. Be prepared to discuss the Sudanese situation in greater detail." Scanning the group, Horn thanked them and left the briefing room.

Pausing for a moment, Captain Hassan Saada stood erect in the ceaseless wind and checked his bearings. On such a night it was easy to lose one's orientation and wander outside the circle of tanks into the trackless desert. Saada's tank battalion, equipped with American-built M-60A3 tanks, was formed in a loose circle with a diameter of three hundred meters. As he returned from a final orders briefing at the battalion commander's post, located in the center of the circle, Saada's mind was cluttered with details of the upcoming operation and with personal fears that kept him from concentrating on the work yet to be done.

The operation, from his standpoint, seemed to be simple. Just prior to dawn on the thirteenth of December, his unit would cross the Egyptian-Libyan frontier and support the attack of a strongpoint. The strongpoint, manned by a reinforced infantry company, was little more than an outpost. Its purpose was to act as an early warning and cover the deployment of the main Libyan mobile forces.

What bothered Saada most about the operation was what would happen once they were in Libya. The purpose of the operation, as explained by his battalion commander, was to punish the Libyans. Saada could understand the need to do so. After all, terrorism, regardless of whether or not it was successful, still needed to be stopped. The Egyptian military was by far the best able to deal out that punishment. The use of the army, however, was, in Saada's mind, questionable. An air strike, much like those conducted by the Americans in 1986, was far simpler, quicker, and more spectacular. The air force would be able to do far more damage to Libya in one afternoon than an entire army division could do in two days.

Pausing for a moment, Saada wondered if his assessment was clouded by his apprehension about going into battle for the first time. Yes, he thought, how easy it would be for me to let someone else punish the Libyans. After five years of service, he had never been called forward to put his life on the line, to fulfill his obligation to his government and his people. His oath of service was a commitment that bound him to defend his nation and its people. It was, to him, a blood oath, one that required the ultimate sacrifice, if necessary.

For years he had enjoyed the prestige of being an officer. He had taken advantage of the pay and the benefits that came with his position and rank. Now, when his government was calling on him to meet his end of the contract, he was flinching, looking for a way out. Did that make him a coward? Or was it simply a human reaction to pending danger? Looking up at the crescent moon, Saada wished he had someone with whom he could share his fears and apprehensions. He wished he could talk to his father. He had always had the right answer when Saada was a boy. His father was a harsh man but a just and wise one.

But there was no father to turn to. There were no prayer leaders or fellow officers with whom he could talk. He was alone, in the cold desert night — alone, with all the fears and anxieties that young men experience on the eve of their first battle.

Tiring of listening to the French ambassador's view of geopolitics and the role that the United States should be playing in the current Egyptian-Libyan crisis, and tired of allowing him to inspect her cleavage at close quarters, Jan Fields politely bowed out of the small circle gathered round him. She turned and slowly began to move about the crowded room, looking to see who was there and who wasn't. That was usually a good stress indicator. If all the principals of the Egyptian government agencies who had been invited were there, chances were that nothing was imminent. If, however, their deputies, or representatives of even lower rank, were there, then odds were that something was about to happen. From the looks of the crowd, including the diplomatic corps, all was as it should be.

As she approached the far side of the room, she glanced into a small side room where one of several bars was set up. Other than the bartender, the only person in the room was an American Army officer, leaning against the far side of the bar with his back to the door. Seeing the officer there alone suddenly made her realize that there was a decided lack of military types. A quick scan of the room revealed few uniforms. Deciding to follow a hunch, Jan walked into the room and approached the officer from behind.

The click of high heels on the marble floor and a whiff of perfume from behind him alerted Scott Dixon that a female was coming up fast at his six o'clock. Pushing off from the bar, he stood, tugged at the bottom of his mess dress jacket, and turned to see who the lady was. To his surprise and disgust, it was Jan Fields.

Jan froze in mid-stride when she saw who the officer was. For an awkward second, she stood there speechless. The last time she had seen Scott in the flesh was at the live fire demonstration, just after the assassination attempt. He had just finished making a grandstand play by gunning down a jeep loaded with terrorists. When she and her camera crew reached him, he was standing there next to a dead Egyptian soldier. Dixon stood there like a statue, his legs shoulder-width apart, holding his pistol with both hands aimed toward the sky near his right shoulder. His eyes were riveted on the overturned jeep less than ten meters from him. In that instant he reminded her of a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. Though Dixon was of medium height and build, he looked bigger than life. Only after two Egyptian soldiers reached the jeep and confirmed that its passengers were dead did Dixon relax his stance and turn toward Jan. When he did, she saw his face and looked into his eyes. What she saw in his eyes was haunting, almost frightening. The impassioned look, the deep dark eyes, and the hard expression etched on his face were like that of a great white shark, a natural killing machine.

"Well, if it isn't Madame Media. Correction — Mademoiselle Media. What brings you here this evening? A night off? Or are we trawling for a story?" It was obvious that Dixon was well past the feeling-no-pain stage and was in the process of hoisting his third sheet to the wind.

Recovering from her surprise, Jan put her right hand on her right hip, then put her left hand over it. She cocked her head back and shook it, tossing her long brown hair about in the process. "I was invited by the ambassador. We happen to be old friends. He helped me on several stories in Paris, and I provided him with some international TV exposure."

Dixon was about to make a snide remark about the type of exposure, but checked himself. Instead, he looked at her. Her stance was defiant but decidedly feminine. Jan's outfit was simple, elegant, and sensual. The black form-fitting sheath dress with long sleeves and an open V back that dropped to her waist accentuated all of Jan's best features. Her face, framed by her long hair and simple gold jewelry, radiated confidence and poise. Her eyes were alive and gleaming. They stood there for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, equally prepared to do battle or simply talk. Disarmed by her simple but striking beauty, Dixon offered her a drink.

Jan, too, was taken by Dixon. Standing there, well manicured and dressed'in a form-fitting dress uniform, bedecked with gold braid and rows of miniature medals, Dixon was the image of the dashing cavalry officer who once had stolen Fay's heart. Rather than lashing out at him for what he had done to Fay, Jan simply replied, "Yes, I'd love one."

Lieutenant Colonel Hafez had few fears or apprehensions. He knew what was about to happen, and he was ready — ready to carry out his orders and do what he knew was necessary to restore his honor and pride.

In the mayhem that followed the assassination attempt, no one even suspected that Hafez had had anything to do with Sadiq or the plot to kill the two presidents. At least that was what Hafez hoped. Unfortunately, there was no way to be sure. Hafez had no idea who knew of his role in the plot. If the Libyans knew, then there was the possibility of revenge against him or his family. There was, of course, no way he could seek protection for his family without raising suspicion or telling the whole story. As before, Hafez found himself in a quandary with no good way out. No way but one — the only honorable way out for a soldier.

It had come to him slowly. At first Hafez was repulsed by the thought. It was against his training to seek death. Only live soldiers, able to fight and survive to fight again, served their nations well. Martyrs did little good in modem war. Death in battle, however, was an attractive solution. One attacked a man's loved ones as a way of striking at the man. If Hafez were dead, there would be little use in attacking his family. Besides, death in battle would be a means of purifying himself of the treason that he had encouraged and almost committed. Hafez was now convinced that it had been God that had decided for him on the seventh of December. Believing that, then, he had to regain God's favor by serving him one more time in battle — his last.

So Hafez faced the coming battle with the calmness of a man who saw clearly what was to be and was confident in his decision. Commencing at 0615 hours the next morning, when the opening barrage would begin, Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed Hafez's life would be in the hands of his God.

For the longest time Dixon lay next to Jan, watching her sleep in the pale light of her bedroom. She was on her stomach, her head lying on a pillow and turned toward him. Her long brown hair was piled on her back in a swirl of loose curls. In the light, with her makeup off, she had a wholesome, clean, and natural beauty that reminded him of a young girl's. Carefully Dixon placed his hand on her naked shoulders. Slowly he ran it down the center of her back, over her buttocks, and along the back of her thigh. The feel of her warm, smooth skin beneath his hand excited him.

Though still asleep, Jan was also becoming aroused. She let out a soft, low murmur, squeezing the pillow she held to her breasts. Carefully Dixon withdrew his hand. Rolling over to face the night stand, he looked at the clock. It was well past the time when he needed to leave. The next day would be a long one, and he needed at least a couple of hours of sleep before he reported back in. As much as he would have loved to work Jan back into another frenzy, it was time to go.

Backing out of bed, Dixon carefully negotiated the unfamiliar terrain of Jan's bedroom. As he was picking his way through the jumbled heap of clothes, sorting his from hers, he thought that he should feel at least a twinge of guilt or remorse for having slept with another woman. But he didn't. Perhaps, he thought, as he pulled his pants on, that comes later, in the light of day. Whether it came or not, however, didn't matter anymore. Standing at the bedroom door before leaving, Dixon looked at Jan one more time. He had enjoyed every minute of it and had no doubt that, given the offer again, he'd return.