Bright Star

Chapter 10

Five minutes ahead of the main strike group, the Egyptian aircraft tasked with flak suppression began to climb in preparation for their final run-in and attack. As soon as they did, Libyan ground-based search radars picked them up. The radar warning receivers, or RWRs, on each of the Egyptian aircraft readily identified the search radars. Referring to the data provided by his electronic counter measure, or ECM, pod, the leader of the flight confirmed the radar type and its direction. He gave a curt order and slowly corrected his heading, flying directly to the source of the Libyan radar beam.

The personnel manning the Libyan ground-based radar weren't the only people watching the incoming Egyptian strike. Though the pilots of the French-built Mirage 2000EMs could not see them, the skies were alive with electronic signals. For some time the Egyptians' RWRs had been signaling them that the Russian Ilyushin 76 Mainstay airborne warning and control aircraft, or AWACS, flying to the west had been tracking them. These aircraft, manned and controlled by the Soviets, were still operating over Benghazi, three hundred miles away. The Ilyushin 76 itself posed no immediate threat. But its reports on the size, direction, and location of the Egyptian strike force via a downlink to a Soviet ground station were critical to the air defense network covering the Cyrenaica. The Soviet ground station transmitted the information provided by the 11–76 to its counterparts in the Libyan air defense command. The Egyptians knew of the 11–76 and its role. For now, they only monitored the Soviet AWACS, taking no direct action against any Soviet aircraft. To date the Soviets had not physically intervened in the conflict, and the Egyptians wanted to keep it that way.

Egypt's enemies were not the only ones watching the Egyptian strike. The RWRs of the Egyptian aircraft detected a search radar coming from the north. That signal belonged to an American E-3 Sentry AWACS flying out of Italy. The larger and more capable E-3s had been flown in to supplement the U.S. Navy's E-2 Hawkeyes still operating off the decks of the 6th Fleet's carriers. The Americans, like the Soviets, were watching and reporting. Though they were not directly linked into the Egyptian air defense command, as the Soviets were linked into the Libyan system, the information gathered by the Americans would eventually find its way into Egyptian hands.

From the northeast, at a range of two hundred miles, the signal of an American-built E-2 Hawkeye flown by the Israeli air force was also detected. Like the Americans, they were merely watching and taking notes. Unlike the Americans, who for the most part viewed the conflict with a mild interest, the Israelis knew that they had a vested interest in what was going on. Information gathered by the Israeli E-2 on this and other Egyptian strikes would be studied in great detail. The tactics, attack profile, and results would be analyzed and used in the training of Israeli pilots in preparation for the day when they would have to defend themselves against just such an attack, perhaps against the same pilots.

Finally, from the east, the signal of their own American-built E-2 was detected by the Egyptian Mirage 2000s. Loitering above Mersa Matruh, the Egyptian E-2 AWACS monitored the strike force and the response of the Libyan air defense to the impending attack. Shortly after passing through one thousand meters in altitude, the Egyptian controller aboard the E-2 Hawkeye reported Libyan aircraft on an intercept course with the Mirages. In a calm, almost casual voice, the air control officer on the Egyptian Hawkeye updated the Egyptian strike force on the posturing of eight Libyan MIG-25M Foxbats west of the strike force.

Armed with a combination of four Soviet-built AA-6 Acrid and AA-8 Aphid air-to-air missiles, the MIG-25Ms were interceptors, hunting for the Egyptians. Through the use of automated uplinks, the Libyan ground-based search radar now locked onto the approaching Egyptian aircraft and fed course, range, and altitude information directly to the pilots of the MIG-25Ms. In this way the pilots of the MIG-25Ms would be able to close with the Egyptian aircraft without switching on their own search radars, thus exposing themselves to electron countermeasures or worse. Instead, the MIG-25Ms would approach their targets, designated by the ground controllers, until the MIGs were within one hundred nautical miles of their targets. On order, they would accelerate, switch on their radars, and lock onto their target. At that range, the powerful onboard continuous wave, or CW, radar of the MIG-25M used to illuminate the target for the air-to-air missile would be able to bum through any electronic jamming the Egyptians might use to break the radar lock. When semiactive radar homing, or SARH, air-to-air missiles were locked onto the MIG's CW radar reflections bouncing off the illuminated target, the pilot fired. When firing a SARH missile, the MIG pilot had to continuously illuminate the target with the MIG's radar until the missile impacted. If radar lock was not possible, then the pilot had the option of closing with the target and using his two heat-seeking missiles. Because a heat seeker homes in on the hot spots of an aircraft, the pilot could break away once he had launched the missile.

The appearance of the MIGs was expected but still disquieting to the Egyptian pilots. The natural reaction for the pilots of the Mirage 2000s was either to turn and evade or to turn and attack the MIGs. This, however, was not their assigned task. Their targets were the search and acquisition radars of the ground-based air defense systems in and around Tobruk. The MIGs belonged to a flight of American-built F-16 fighters.

Once he was satisfied that he had all the information necessary for the setup, the Egyptian air controller over Matruh began to issue orders. His first was to the crew of an American-built EC-130H electronic warfare aircraft. He ordered it to commence the jamming of the Libyan ground-based search radar that was providing data to the MIG-25Ms. Using power sources not available in smaller aircraft, the electronic warfare operator in the EC-130H found the frequency of the Libyan radar and switched on his jammer.

The reaction was predictable and immediate. The Libyan pilots, suddenly denied data from the ground station, panicked momentarily. They called for instructions, holding fast to the last course ordered. Two hundred miles to the southeast, in a bunker outside Tobruk, the radar operator at the ground station began to hop from one frequency to another in an effort to find one that was not jammed. One hundred and fifty miles further east, the EW operator on the EC-130H had also begun hopping frequencies, following the Libyan radar operator and frustrating his efforts to find a clear frequency.

The air control officer aboard the Hawkeye, satisfied that the ground station had temporarily lost control of the situation, next ordered the F-16s into action. Tracking the MIG-25s, he computed a plot that would allow the F-16s to intercept the MIGs well before they were in position to interfere with the Mirage 2000s. This information was passed on to the flight leader of the F-16s, who turned onto the intercept course and began to close at the prescribed speed.

Around the periphery of the electronic battlefield, the Russian, American, and Israeli AWACS watched as best they could, for the fight for the airwaves also affected their radars. On the ground, unable to find a clear radar frequency, the Libyan air defense commander ordered the MIG-25Ms to continue to close with the Egyptians and use their own radars to find and shoot down the enemy. Reluctantly, the Libyan MIGs continued to stumble forward, blindly, looking for the Egyptian Mirage 2000s somewhere to the east. The Mirages, on order from the controller aboard the Hawkeye, had changed both course and altitude, removing themselves from danger and clearing the way for the F-I6s, now screaming in from the northeast.

Sure that he had to be within range of the Mirages, the flight leader of the MIGs ordered his pilots to activate their radars. This order assisted the four F-16s. Coming on line, they made a slight turn, accelerated, and drove for the MIGs. From the Ilyushin 11–76, the Russians attempted to warn the Libyan ground control officer of the impending attack.

The warning, garbled through translation from Russian to Arabic in the heat of battle, confused rather than clarified the situation. Only the last part of the message, stating that F-16s were attacking, came through clearly to the air defense commander at Tobruk. Taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of F-16s, he ordered the antiaircraft batteries to switch on their acquisition radars. The acquisition radars immediately illuminated the F-16s, the Mirage 2000s, and the MIGs. To the east, the EC-130H detected the new radars and began to jam as many of them as possible.

Seeing that time was running out, the F-16 flight leader ordered his aircraft to fire, then break off the attack. The Mirage 2000s, their ECM pods on, turned toward the active acquisition radars and began to launch antiradiation missiles at the Libyan radars. The MIG pilots, lost and confused, suddenly found themselves under attack from an unexpected quarter. Reacting to the new attack, they turned toward the F-16s and fired heat-seeking air-to-air missiles at their attackers. On the ground, the harried air defense commander, unable to get a clear picture of what was happening, ordered his surface-to-air missile batteries to open fire. The commanders of the firing batteries, also unable to sort out who was who, began to fire at any target plot that appeared.

At one battery, a Soviet advisor watched a surface-to-air missile race down its launch rails. Once free of the rail, the missile sprinted skyward, followed by a tongue of flame and a plume of white smoke. The young captain, who had served in the Red Army for six years without ever seeing a live missile launched, stood and watched in awe. When the missile was lost from sight, he turned to the Libyan captain commanding the air defense battery and asked what he had fired at. Still watching the sky where the missile had disappeared, the Libyan shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. But wasn't it beautiful?"

In the American E-3 AWACS to the north, a young Air Force captain leaned back in his chair, his eyes growing bigger than saucers as he watched the melee to the south. Unable to make sense of the cluttered screen, he threw his hands up and turned to his commander. "Geez-us Kee-rist, sir! What a rat screw! I have no fucking idea what's happening down there."

Neither did anyone else. Dozens of missiles, launched from the ground and from aircraft, flew hither and yon. To further confuse the situation, the pilots, now under attack, began to launch flares to deceive heat-seeking missiles or fire small buffs of aluminum strips called chaff to deceive the radar lock of radar homing missiles. Some of the missiles — those that had actually been aimed at something— lost their intended target, found another, then lost it. Others, by luck or through a good setup, began to find their marks. Across the Mediterranean, sophisticated combat aircraft costing as much as forty million dollars apiece were blown out of the sky. Some, when hit, blew up in gigantic fireballs. Others, clipped by the pursuing missile, lost a wing tip or part of a tail section, causing the aircraft to spin wildly out of control. The antiradiation missiles fired by the Mirage 2000s also found their marks. These missiles began to take out Libyan ground radar sets and stations in and around Tobruk, blinding the Libyan air defense commander. Unable to further influence the battle, he sat in his bunker, wondering what to do next.

In the space of a few minutes the battle was over. After the great maelstrom, there was a momentary respite as air controllers began to take stock of what was left. The Egyptians were the first to realize that they had won. Based on information from the EC-130H, the E-2 Hawkeye over Mersa Matruh, and reports from the flight leaders, the air controller determined that the Libyan air defense had been temporarily neutralized and the MIG threat was gone. The main strike force had been untouched by the melee that had involved the MIGs, the Mirage 2000s, and the F-16s. Satisfied that all was in order, the air controller gave the go-ahead to the strike commander to commence his attacks.

To the northeast, a radar operator aboard the Israeli E-2 Hawkeye cursed and pounded his fist on his thigh in disgust. Having lost his bet that the Egyptians would be stopped, he shook his head, reached into his pocket, pulled out five Israeli shekels, and handed them to his grinning friend.

The wailing of the air-raid siren drifted up from the city to the old Italian fort where Colonel Nafissi had established his forward command post. The concrete, steel, and sand complex insulated Nafissi and his staff from the sound of the air-raid siren as well as from the bombs that the approaching Egyptian aircraft would soon release on the port facilities and the nearby airfield and troop concentrations. The war Nafissi fought bore no resemblance to the one outside the bunker complex. Colonel General Uvarov knew this and felt uneasy sitting in the main briefing room next to Nafissi, listening to the morning update briefing. He was out of place and, as far as he was concerned, worse than useless.

Uvarov despised commanders who tried to run their battles through telephone lines from behind slabs of concrete. They neither saw nor understood what was really happening. The information they received was always old and filtered through layer after layer of staff officers and commanders. All too often, staffs of subordinate units told their next-higher headquarters what they thought they wanted to hear. Uvarov could never fight a war that way. He had to be there, up front, looking, listening, feeling. Many times in Iran he had made decisions or initiated a move based on what he had seen or after a brief conversation with a front-line commander. In a bunker miles from the front, it is impossible to gauge how much further one can push his troops or whether a report is fact or fantasy. No, Uvarov thought as he listened to the Libyan major's brief, this is not my kind of war.

Still, he had his instructions from Moscow and little choice but to obey. Officially, he had two tasks. As the senior Soviet officer in Libya, he was the chief military advisor to the leadership of the Libyan armed forces. As such, he had direct access to those military leaders and was free to render whatever advice and assistance he deemed necessary. He was assisted in this task by a structure of Soviet advisors who worked with Libyan field commanders at every level down to battalion.

His second task was that of commander of the North African Front. In reality, the North African Front was not really a front at all. A front, in the Red Army, normally consisted of two or more armies with attached combat and combat service support units such as engineers, signal units, transportation units, etc. At best, when all Soviet, Cuban, and East German ground, air, and naval personnel designated to fill out the North African Front were in place, he would have little more than a weak combined arms army.

Presently, the North African Front consisted of two incomplete Cuban motorized rifle divisions, a Soviet independent tank corps, a Soviet artillery brigade, a Soviet air defense brigade, two fighter regiments, one fighter-bomber regiment, and eight guided missile boats. All these were mustering in and around Al Gardabah. What worried Uvarov most was not what he had, pitifully little as it was, for a proper front. His concerns centered on what he didn't have. The combat support and service support units — in particular, engineers and helicopter units — were missing from his troop list, as were the transportation and supply units required to maintain his force in the field. These units, according to the plan, were to have been provided by the Libyans.

Even during the training exercise before the crisis, Uvarov had had surprise after surprise. Though he was prepared for the ordeal of dealing with the Revolutionary Council, he was not prepared for a lack of enthusiasm that bordered on apathy in the armed forces. Even as the Leader of the Revolution and his functionaries spoke of great, sweeping advances and preparations that would result in crushing defeats of the Egyptians, neither Uvarov nor his swarm of advisors saw any evidence of making those boasts realities. On the contrary, there was every sign that the Libyans were going to allow the Egyptians to overrun the Cyrenaica, the eastern desert area of Libya, and withdraw almost unmolested to the west. The best units of the Libyan forces, ground, air, and naval, were deployed west of El Agheila, preparing to defend the Tripolitania, the western desert. In effect, instead of backing up the Libyan army, Uvarov's North African Front was in front of the bulk of it.

As Uvarov became familiar with the situation and the personalities on the ground, he soon learned that Colonel Nafissi, the second-most-powerful man on the ruling council, had been charged with the defense of the Cyrenaica. For this he had been given a mix of regular army, Islamic Revolutionary Guard, and militia units. Air and naval support of this force was minimal despite the fact that the Libyans stood to lose many of their oil-producing fields and refineries. It wasn't until the chief of the Soviet KGB section in Libya briefed him that Uvarov understood. From the KGB Uvarov learned of Nafissi's role in the assassination attempt that had precipitated the crisis. He learned, too, that the naval incident of 9 December was also Nafissi's doing. The Libyan missile boats had sailed with orders to provoke a fight. The KGB theorized that Nafissi was trying either to embarrass the current Leader of the Revolution or win more popular support for himself. Regardless, it was well known that Nafissi meant to become the next Leader of the Revolution, at any cost. After meeting him, Uvarov had no doubt that Nafissi would do whatever he had to do in order to obtain his goal.

Looking about the briefing room, Uvarov casually studied the Libyan commanders and staff officers gathered there. They were a mixed lot. The regular army officers, in uniform, with rank and badges properly placed, at least gave the appearance of paying attention to the situation update. The leaders of the Revolutionary Guard and militia units, dressed in assorted shades of tan and khaki with no emblems, were not interested in the briefing or in what the regular army officers had to say. They showed their disdain for the proceedings and for their army counterparts by sleeping, staring blankly at the ceiling, or carrying on a conversation with the nearest fellow Guardsman.

Uvarov himself did not listen to the briefing. He had little need to listen, as it was given in Arabic and, though he did have a translator seated behind him, Uvarov had already been briefed on the current situation by his own staff. Besides, much of what was said was old and clouded by half-truths or downright lies. Uvarov was appalled at how effectively the Libyans could delude themselves, creating elaborate fantasies that bore no resemblance to the actual situation on the ground. The map that the briefer used to update Colonel Nafissi showed Libyan units in positions that Uvarov knew had long since been overrun by Egyptian units. Some Libyan units still shown on the map had already ceased to exist.

After an earlier briefing, Uvarov had taken Nafissi to one side and pointed these problems out. As the translator told Nafissi what Uvarov had said, the colonel had a concerned look on his face. When the translator had finished, Nafissi thought about what Uvarov had told him, then smiled. Such errors were to be expected, he said simply. "After all," he told Uvarov, "there is a great deal of confusion in war. You know, fog of battle and friction of war. I wouldn't concern myself with a few minor discrepancies in one or two reports." After that, nothing could surprise Uvarov. At least that is what he thought.

As if to underscore this point, two staff officers, a Libyan followed seconds later by a Soviet, came into the conference room. The Libyan handed Nafissi a report concerning the air raid that was still ongoing from the commander of the air defense units around Tobruk. The Soviet officer handed Uvarov a similar report from the Soviet 11–76 AWACS. As he read the note, a broad grin lit across Nafissi's face. Turning to his staff and commanders, he triumphantly announced that eight aircraft had been brought down in the air battle. The assembled officers smiled and congratulated themselves on another victory over the Egyptians.

Uvarov, after listening to the translation of Nafissi's comments, read his officer's report. Surprisingly, the number of aircraft shot down was correct. Eight aircraft had been brought down. Not surprising was that Nafissi had neglected to tell his own people that six of them were Libyan — and of those six, two had been brought down by the Libyan ground-based surface-to-air missiles, fired indiscriminately. Turning to the officer who had handed him the message, Uvarov looked him in the eye questioningly. The staff officer merely shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the ground. What more could he say? Nothing that he could do would alter the sad state of affairs. Turning back to Nafissi, Uvarov locked eyes with the colonel. For a moment they stared at each other. There was no trust between them, no common ground for understanding — only distrust and contempt. After several seconds Nafissi smiled, turned back to the briefer, and signaled him to continue.

Like his staff officer, Uvarov knew there was nothing he could do, even if he had had the desire, which he didn't. It was still the Libyans' fight. For the moment the Soviets were spectators, a second-string team waiting on the sidelines. The situation he was in, politically, tactically, and logistically, was deplorable. Not only were the Libyans lying to the Soviets about everything from the tactical situation to supplies that needed to be delivered, they were lying to themselves. The best Uvarov could hope for was that the Egyptians would not venture beyond Tobruk. So long as the Egyptians remained east of the Gulf of Bomba, Uvarov's orders from Moscow were to keep his North African Front out of the fight.

Tiring of the briefing, Nafissi signaled an end to it. He stood to go, then stopped and walked up to the map at the front of the room with one of his commanders. For several minutes they discussed in hushed voices the disposition of some of the Libyan forces. Uvarov remained seated, watching Nafissi as he waited for an opportunity to speak to him. Uvarov turned to his aide and asked who the Libyan commander was. The aide replied that it was the commander of the Libyan artillery and rocket troops, a Colonel Radin. Nafissi, finished with Radin, began to walk over to the tall Russian general. Uvarov stood and was about to speak when a Libyan staff officer slid in between Uvarov and Nafissi.

Turning his back to the Russian general, the Libyan officer leaned over Nafissi's shoulder and whispered in the colonel's ear. As he spoke, Nafissi's face betrayed surprise, then agitation. When he finished, the staff officer stepped back and waited for Nafissi's instructions. For a moment Nafissi was lost in thought, troubled by whatever it was the officer had reported. Taking a deep breath, Nafissi stood erect, then turned toward Radin. Nafissi snapped at him, ordering him to report to him in his private office, then stormed out of the conference room, followed quickly by the staff officer and Radin.

To his translator Uvarov whispered, "Find out what that was all about."

Nafissi didn't even wait until the door to his office was closed before he turned on Radin, calling him an idiot and a fool, incapable of command. Puzzled by the sudden shower of abuse, Radin stood there dumbfounded. Though he, like Nafissi, was a colonel, he did not belong to the Revolutionary Council. Nafissi's authority and power far transcended that of an ordinary colonel. At that moment Nafissi was, by order of the Revolutionary Council, commander of all forces in the Cyrenaica. He had the undisputed power of life and death — a power he had already used to punish two commanders who had abandoned their posts without orders. So long as he carried out the tasks assigned to him by the council, no one would question his methods. By the same token, it was well known that if he failed, the council would have no reservations about punishing him in the same ruthless manner in which Nafissi himself dealt with those who failed.

Finished with his tirade, Nafissi walked around behind his desk, sat down, and waited for Radin to respond. Seeing that Radin didn't know what was going on, the staff officer came up from behind. "Colonel Radin, ten minutes ago we received word that a battalion of the 2nd Rocket Brigade was overrun at Kambut. All equipment, personnel, and munitions were lost."

As the shock of what he had been told began to sink in, the color began to drain from Radin's face. For several seconds he tried to think of something to say, some way he could disassociate himself from the calamity that had befallen one of his key units. But nothing came to him. A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the room as Radin's mind raced and stumbled over disjointed thoughts. Through the stupidity of one of his battalion commanders, not only had a critical unit been lost, but the contents of the warheads on FROG-7 rockets were no doubt now known to the Egyptians.

Impatient, Nafissi broke the silence by pounding his fist on his desk and yelling. "The order was to hold all surface-to-surface rocket brigades back, away from the frontier. If you remember, our plan — the one which you yourself developed — called for the initiation of chemical warfare only after the Egyptian forces were well within our own borders. There was no reason for that unit to be that far forward." Pounding his fist even harder, he repeated, "No reason."

Pausing, Nafissi let Radin consider his probable fate. Then, in a low and emotionless voice, Nafissi began to question Radin. "What type of agent did that battalion have?"

Turning to the staff officer, Radin asked what battalion had been overrun. The staff officer replied that it had been the 3rd Battalion. Turning back to Nafissi, Radin thought for a moment. "Nerve agent— persistent nerve agent."

Nafissi thought about that, then continued his questioning. "Are there any other rocket units east of Tobruk?"

Radin hesitated before he answered. "No, there are none east of Tobruk."

"Are you sure? After all, you had told me that none would be deployed forward, and somehow one managed to be where it should not have been."

"That is true, Colonel Nafissi — I had told you that. But the Russians, they became suspicious when none of our rocket units were moved forward to where they could strike into Egypt."

"So you moved a battalion forward to please the Russians!"

"No, not to please them — to keep them from becoming curious. After all, you said that you wanted no one that didn't need to know to find out about our plans. You yourself stated that secrecy was critical if we were to succeed in our plan."

Irritated, Nafissi stood up, leaned over his desk, and began to yell again. "So, to fool the Russians, you sent a unit with chemical weapons forward, right into the hands of the Egyptians! How safe, do you think, is our secret now? The Egyptians may not follow the true ways of Allah, but they have eyes and brains. Not only will they be ready for our chemical attack but they will no doubt parade their new trophies before the Americans, screaming, 'Look, chemical weapons — help us!'"

Standing upright, Nafissi readjusted his Sam Browne belt. "For your sake, and that of the revolution, pray to Allah that the Americans ignore the Egyptians and the Egyptians do not have time to destroy our remaining rocket units."

"Colonel Nafissi, even if the Egyptians know of the weapons, will that still not serve our purposes just as well?"

Nafissi, looking at Radin, did not understand.

Radin explained. "The shock of finding chemical weapons may be enough to slow or even stop the Egyptians. If they are not ready for chemical warfare, they may pull back sooner than they had planned rather than risk mass annihilation. To the rest of the world, it will seem that our army and the Revolutionary Guard turned back the Egyptians. We will have defended Libya — and you, you will be hailed as a hero, the defender of the True Faith and our people."

Though Nafissi knew that Radin was desperately trying to save his skin, what he said made sense. The mere threat of chemical weapons could be as effective as their actual use. After all, if the weapons were not used, it would be far easier to deny to the rest of the world that they even existed. Once they were used, there would be far too much evidence to hide. And if the Egyptians did parade those weapons already captured before the media of the world, Libya could deny that they were of Libyan origin. After all, to the rest of the world, Egyptian FROG-7 rockets could very easily be made to look just like Libyan FROG-7 rockets — an argument Nafissi intended to use.

Sitting down, Nafissi mulled over the possibilities that this accident presented him. But he rejected them. He wanted to inflict a crushing defeat on the Egyptians. He wanted smashed and depleted units streaming east in retreat out of Libya. In short, only a crushing victory would serve his purposes. If the Egyptians stopped on their own accord and withdrew intact and without pressure, they could easily claim that they had accomplished their objectives and won. Radin's stupidity put his plan in jeopardy.

For a moment Nafissi smiled. Radin felt a rush of relief — a feeling that was short-lived. Seeing Radin's relief, Nafissi forced the smile off his face. "You have betrayed the revolution, Colonel Radin, by disobeying my orders and endangering our operations." This sudden announcement shocked Radin. To the staff officer Nafissi barked, "Captain, Colonel Radin is under arrest, charged with treason. Have him confined under guard in his quarters until such time as he can be properly executed." As an afterthought, he added, "That is all," dismissing them both with a wave of his hand.

Swinging about into a shallow turn, the Egyptian MI-8 helicopter prepared to land. Dixon turned to look out the small round window, hoping to see the site before they landed. The scene that flashed by, however, was the same monotonous desert landscape that he had been watching for the last hour. Turning back, he looked at the Egyptian major who was their translator and guide. His arms were tightly folded onto his chest, his head bobbing up and down as the helicopter jolted and bucked. He was asleep. Next to Dixon, First Lieutenant Allen Masterson of the Chemical Corps was rearranging his equipment in preparation for landing. Assigned to the U.S. brigade that was still deployed in Egypt just west of Cairo, Masterson was there at Dixon's insistence. Not that anyone had to twist Masterson's arm to volunteer. The young lieutenant was delighted with the idea of getting away from the staging area where he and the rest of the brigade had been held since the beginning of the crisis. When Dixon briefed him on their mission, his excitement doubled.

At the request of the Egyptian army, Dixon and Masterson reported to the headquarters of the 1st Army in Matruh to verify the discovery of Libyan chemical weapons. Dixon had been brought in from the forward command post of the 2nd Brigade of the 14th Armored Division, then advancing on Al Adam from the south. Masterson was flown in from Cairo. In Matruh, the two Americans received a more detailed briefing on the circumstances concerning the discovery of a Libyan surface-to-surface rocket unit equipped with chemical weapons. Earlier that morning, a recon detachment of the 22nd Mechanized Division had overrun a Libyan unit equipped with FROG-7s (free rocket over ground) armed with warheads containing chemical weapons. Not realizing that the warheads of the rockets contained chemicals, the scout cars of the recon unit had fired indiscriminately. Several of the warheads, according to the Egyptian colonel that briefed them, were hit, releasing the persistent nerve agent. Twelve soldiers died before the commander of the unit realized what was happening and withdrew downwind of the site. The Egyptian high command wanted the American officers to verify their discovery. Dixon, working with the 1st Egyptian Army, was tagged to go.

As the helicopter landed, the Egyptian major woke up. Looking at Dixon, he smiled. "Ah, we are here." Checking that he had his protective mask, the major stood up and moved to the cabin door.

Turning to Masterson, Dixon said dryly, "Well, Lieutenant, it's time to earn your pay." Then, as an afterthought, he added glumly, "Let's get this over with."

Once out of the helicopter and on the ground, the major motioned Dixon and Masterson over to a BRDM armored car. In front of the BRDM an Egyptian lieutenant, covered with dust and grime, stood waiting for them. Even from a distance Dixon could see that the recon lieutenant was haggard and tired. His mouth was locked in a frown, his eyes cold and vacant. Dixon knew the look — the look of a man who had seen war up close and personal. Dixon also noticed that the recon lieutenant, like the rest of the BRDM's crew, was wearing a chemical-protective suit. About the lieutenant's waist his protective mask hung dangling at the end of the air hose attached to its filter container. Instinctively Dixon's left hand dropped to touch his own protective mask carrier, just to be sure.

Introductions were short and perfunctory. The recon lieutenant spoke to the major. While Dixon waited for the translation, he watched as the Egyptian crewmen, responding to something in the lieutenant's conversation with the major, removed their helmets and started putting on their protective masks. By the time the major began his translation, both Dixon and Masterson had already begun to pull out their own protective masks.

The well-rehearsed masking procedure was second-nature to Dixon. He removed his helmet and placed it between his knees. Though there was no fear of contaminants on the ground, force of habit kept him from putting his helmet down. He held his breath. With his left hand he pulled open the cover to the mask's carrying case while reaching around for the mask itself with his right hand. Grabbing the elasticized harness of the mask in both hands, Dixon brought the mask up to and over his chin. Once his chin was seated in the mask, he pulled the harness over and down the back of his head. The rubbery hood of the mask, meant to cover the head, was folded forward and obscured Dixon's vision. When he had the harness set, Dixon took both hands and reached up inside the hood. Cupping his hands over the air vents, Dixon exhaled, blowing out all the air between his face and his mask. If there were a contaminant in the air, the blowing would clear it from his mask. Next he tried to inhale. When he had sucked what little air remained trapped between his face and the mask into his lungs, and he couldn't draw any more, that meant his mask was sealed properly and there were no leaks. Satisfied, he removed his hands from the air vents and pulled the hood over and into place while he began to breathe again. Though he didn't hurry, total masking time took less than twelve seconds — only three more than the Army standard for masking allowed for. With the mask on and hood secured, Dixon put his helmet back on and checked all the zippers, snaps, and flaps on his own chemical-protective suit before pulling on his rubber gloves.

Masterson and the Egyptian major were both ready by the time Dixon finished. At the direction of the Egyptian lieutenant, the three visitors climbed into the BRDM for the ride to the site where the Libyan unit had been overrun. It did not take long. And no one had to tell Dixon that they were approaching the site, either. Despite the protective mask and the smell of the BRDM, the oily stench of burning rubber and the pungent smell of charred flesh, all too familiar to Dixon, announced their arrival at their destination.

The opening of the door of the BRDM revealed a desert transformed into a graveyard. Dixon didn't wait for the others. He climbed out, adjusted his gear, then surveyed the scene before him. In the gathering darkness, Scott Dixon looked at the wreckage of a unit. Rocket transporters and trucks, trailers and jeeps were scattered about at random. Some were burned, others simply stationary with no apparent damage to them. Dispersed amongst the trucks and rocket transporters were the bodies.

Despite the cold, the corpses of the dead Libyan soldiers left where they had fallen were already bloated and showing signs of decomposing. The odor, peculiar to a modern battlefield, brought back images of other battlefields and other times. As he had in Iran, Dixon fought back his revulsion and the urge to vomit. He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand, counting transporters, examining rockets and recording markings on the side of the rockets' warheads. He ignored the bodies. They were not his concern. They were not his doing. In his short career as a commander of combat troops in battle, he had buried enough of his own. Thank God, he thought to himself, these corpses belong to someone else's mistakes. Satisfied that he was mentally ready, Dixon began to move to the nearest rocket transporter.

From behind, Masterson came up to Dixon's side. Any joy Masterson felt about going forward with Dixon vanished as soon as he saw the bodies and inhaled their odor. Though he tried to hide it, the sight of the bodies was a shock to the lieutenant. His efforts to ignore them, like Dixon's, failed. A morbid fascination of the horror overcame him. He could not ignore the stench. Within seconds he broke out in a cold sweat as his stomach muscles began to twitch, pumping vile acid up his throat.

Trying to choke down his own fear and the feeling of sickness welling up inside, Masterson glued his eyes onto Dixon's back and moved forward behind him, blocking out the horrors about them as best he could. Before he walked five paces, however, he stepped into a gooey substance that caused him to slip and stumble. Fearing that he had accidentally stepped into a pool of chemical agents, Masterson looked down at his feet.

Through the plastic eyepieces of his protective mask, Masterson saw that he was standing in what had once been a man's intestines. Across the ground, a long line of bowels and intestines trailed away from where he stood to the lower half of the dead man, cut in half by an explosion. Masterson lost all control. In one violent contraction, his stomach forced its contents up and out of Masterson's mouth, filling his protective mask with vomit.

With nowhere to go, the vomit in Masterson's mask floated about his mouth, nose, face, and eyes, ready to rush back in as soon as he gasped for breath. Whatever control Masterson had left was lost as soon as he began to gag on his own vomit. Dropping to his knees and overcome by the sensation of choking to death, Masterson tore his protective mask off, spit the vomit from his mouth, and drew in a deep breath. As soon as he had done so, he knew that he had made a mistake.

The screaming of the Egyptian major, though muted by his protective mask, alerted Dixon that something was wrong. Turning around, he saw Masterson on the ground, bent over and on his knees. Masterson had his mask off, held little more than a foot from his face by two wobbly arms. His face was white, covered with vomit and contorted in a mask of agony. Even before Dixon could turn and begin to run back to him, Masterson dropped his mask, toppled over, rolled onto his back, and began wild and spasmodic convulsions. He was dying. Dixon had no doubt that his lieutenant had inhaled a fatal dose of nerve agent. Unless he received an immediate injection of antidote, mere seconds separated Masterson from death.

Covering the distance between himself and Masterson in three quick bounds, Dixon dropped to his knees, grabbed the lieutenant's mask, shook out whatever vomit remained in it, and began to put it back on him. This was no easy feat. Masterson's violent twisting and convulsions and Dixon's own clumsy rubber gloves made the task difficult. Only after the Egyptian major grabbed and steadied Masterson's head was Dixon able to slide Masterson's mask back on.

That accomplished, Dixon reached into his mask carrier and fumbled about, searching for one of his nerve-agent antidote injectors. Again, the thick and unfeeling rubber gloves handicapped his efforts. Frustrated, Dixon stopped the fumbling, unsnapped the carrier, and turned it upside down.

From inside the carrier two injectors, little bigger than marking pens, fell onto the ground, along with a booklet of chemical detector paper and two small Army manuals. Throwing the carrier aside, Dixon grabbed one of the injectors and flicked the safety cap off. With the injector in his right hand, Dixon grabbed a handful of Masterson's chemical-protective suit and rolled him over onto his side in order to expose a thigh. With a short but quick jab he rammed the injector into Masterson's thigh. The impact activated the spring-loaded injector needle, which shot into Masterson and released the antidote.

Satisfied that the injector had emptied itself, Dixon withdrew it, released his grasp on Masterson's protective suit, then straightened up to watch. For the first time Dixon realized that he really didn't know what he should be looking for. He hoped that Masterson's convulsions would stop and that they could transport him to a hospital. But he wasn't sure. It was like many other things in the Army, Dixon thought: the first time you face a situation or are expected to do what you're trained for is when you do it for real.

Dixon and the Egyptian major watched. Ten seconds and Masterson still convulsed. Twenty seconds and the convulsions began to subside. Forty seconds and Masterson stopped moving altogether. For a moment Dixon's heart sank: Masterson had died. But then Dixon saw Masterson's chest rise, ever so slightly. He was alive.

Looking up to the Egyptian major, Dixon yelled through his mask, "Okay, let's get him out of here." Standing up, the major signed for several of the men from the BRDM to come over and lend a hand. Dixon and three Egyptians gathered around Masterson, reached down and grabbed the first part of Masterson's body that was handy, and picked him up off the ground. Though not coordinated, they managed to carry him over to the BRDM and hoist him onto the back deck of the armored scout car. They made no effort to stuff Masterson into the BRDM. It would take too long to get him in and then out again once they reached the helicopter. Dixon also rode on the outside, hanging on to the small turret of the BRDM with one hand and Masterson with the other as the BRDM raced back to the waiting helicopter.

On the way back to the helicopter, with the immediate crisis over, Dixon began to consider his best course of action. His first thought was to send Masterson back while he remained on site and continued to check out the rockets. Dixon, however, rejected that. First, it was dark now. The last thing he wanted to do was stumble around in a contaminated area in the dark. Second, even if he did go back, what would he do? Other than find a puddle of chemical agent, test it, and verify that there was something there, nothing. Besides, as long as he had Masterson, dead or alive, Dixon had all the proof he needed that there was a chemical agent present. As cold as that thought was, it was fact.

With a decision made and nothing more to do but hang on and wait till they reached the helicopter, Dixon felt first a feeling of relief, then one of revulsion. Because he, Dixon, had insisted, Lieutenant Masterson had come on a trip that could very well cost him his life. Then, with the lieutenant hanging on to life by a thin thread, Dixon actually had debated his best course of action, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of each option as if he were doing a peacetime staff drill. Finally, he had opted to stay with Masterson only after he decided he could accomplish his mission by using the lieutenant, dead or alive, as evidence. Have I become that cold and cynical? Dixon thought. Or was it just force of habit, the result of years of training designed to overlook the gruesome aspects of war and consider the situation in cold, dispassionate terms?

A sudden stop jarred Dixon's thoughts back to the present.

But as Dixon watched the Egyptians load Masterson onto the MI-8 helicopter, another dark and cynical thought began to well up in his mind. What, he thought, if the Egyptians had staged this? What if the whole thing was a sham aimed at drawing the United States into the conflict on Egypt's side? Dixon had no proof that the chemical agent was Libyan or Egyptian. Even if he did carry a sample back, there was, he was sure, no way of proving anything. Dixon looked back toward the site from which they had come. How utterly horrible it would be, he thought, if the first American casualty of the war was the result of an elaborate deception plan by their "ally."

Standing across from the Nile Sheraton, Jan Fields faced the camera. A red-and-black scarf draped over her left shoulder and knotted on the right dressed up her light tan "war" outfit. Behind her, the lights of the city on the far bank and those on the boats passing along the Nile provided a serene backdrop. As soon as the red light of the camera flicked on, she began.

"The second day of the war between Egypt and Libya ended with both sides making claims of victory that are impossible, at this point, to verify. For their part, an official Egyptian press release spoke of steady advances by all columns moving into Libya and the gaining of air superiority of the Cyrenaica, or eastern desert of Libya. From Libya, government radio spoke of the ejection of all Egyptian forces from Libya and the shooting down of twelve Egyptian aircraft during a raid over Tobruk this morning.

"As to future operations, no one is commenting on that officially. That the Egyptian operation is of a limited nature is no longer questioned. Few reserve forces have been mobilized, and no major combat units have been withdrawn west of the Suez Canal. The atmosphere throughout Egypt is calm. Instead of war chants, there is the quiet air of confidence that all is going well, and will continue to do so, for the Egyptian military. What is certain from the capital here is that the war has not made any changes in the way of life. After yesterday's initial flurry of activity, it's business as usual here in Cairo. Even the American ambassador, in a late-aftemoon press conference, hinted that there would be little disruption in his schedule.

"If the Egyptians stop their advance in the next forty-eight hours, as rumors say, then the need to maintain an American military presence will become questionable. Neither the American ambassador nor Egyptian officials would comment on the possible role those American ground forces here have played or could play. Nor is the date for their withdrawal mentioned. The original date when all U.S. ground forces should have departed came and went without comment. According to one unofficial source here, as long as there is the possibility that there are Soviet or Cuban troops in Libya, the American brigade will remain in place, despite calls from Congress to bring them home. Regardless, American military personnel have been kept clear of any involvement in the Egyptian raid into Libya. According to a spokesman for the Egyptian president, there is no need for the Americans to concern themselves with, as he calls the raid, an 'internal matter.'

"From Cairo, this is Jan Fields for World News Network."

As the crew packed up its gear and prepared to leave, Jan turned and slowly walked along the sidewalk next to the river. A sudden chill caused her to pull the collar of her jacket up a little higher. Like many Americans, she had never associated cold with the desert until she spent her first winter there freezing in her light cotton outfits. She had eventually flown to England for a long weekend in November of that first year in order to shop for proper winter clothes. Looking out over the dark river and cold night brought Scott Dixon to mind. Where, she wondered, is he staying tonight? She knew he was out of Cairo— someplace, according to the sergeant to whom she had talked, in the Western Desert.

She wanted so much to talk to Scott, to see him, to touch him. Since sleeping with him, Jan had thought of little else. Even the war, far-removed and unreachable, came in a poor second. What had started as a chance encounter at the French embassy had slowly evolved into a quiet conversation about anything and everything, including the trouble between Scott and Fay. Before that night Jan secretly had been dying to hear Scott's side of the story out of simple curiosity. There was no doubt in her mind that Scott had been a real shit to Fay, keeping her apron strings tied to the stove. That was a foregone conclusion. Jan just wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth. But when she finally had the chance to do so, she found herself wavering in her preconceived convictions. Instead of Attila the Hun, she found a man who was confused, hurting from scars no one could see, and alone in a world rushing insanely to war.

What had caused her to dance with Scott that night still bewildered her. His invitation was spontaneous and her response unhesitating. Had it been a mindless act? Had it been kindness on her part, to ease some of Scott's pain? Or had it been love? That she even considered the idea of being in love with Scott, the husband of her closest colleague and best friend, bothered Jan. The flow of events that carried the two of them from the dance floor in the embassy to Jan's bed had been a slow, easy, seamless blur that reminded Jan of a dream. Whatever had carried them, she wouldn't be able to find out for sure until she saw Scott again. So until that happened, she puttered about, going through the motions of covering the news and praying that nothing happened to Scott.