Bright Star

Chapter 11

The sharp turn temporarily threw the gunner on Captain Saada's tank to the left and away from his sight. Even Saada, braced in anticipation of the sudden maneuver, momentarily lost his footing, causing him to teeter to the left. Both men had no sooner adjusted themselves to compensate for the left turn than the driver centered the steering T-bar, throwing Saada and his gunner in back to the right. Rather than being upset, however, Saada was more than satisfied with his driver's wild maneuvering. The last turn had brought the M-60A3 tank and its main gun to bear on a column of Libyan tanks, now moving perpendicular to Saada's deploying tank company.

"Enemy tank ahead!" The gunner's voice betrayed both excitement and surprise. If he was surprised at the sudden appearance of several Libyan tanks in his sight, the performance of his duties didn't suffer. While Saada glanced to his left, then quickly to his right, to watch the remainder of his company complete the action he had ordered, the gunner prepared to engage. Placing the aiming dot of his primary sight onto the center of mass of the nearest Libyan tank, he announced that he was lasing at the same instant that he depressed the laser range finder's thumb switch.

Even though his commander had not issued a proper fire command, the loader took his cue from the gunner. Standing back, out of the path of the main gun's recoil, the loader armed the gun by pushing the safety lever forward and announced that he was ready.

This announcement caused Saada to lean over to his left and look down into the loader's hatch. The loader had by now flattened himself against the left turret wall and was watching the breech of the main gun, waiting for it to fire and recoil. Straightening up, Saada looked down at his gunner. He too was ready, his eye glued to his sight, oblivious to anything but the enemy tank. Dropping down, Saada brought his eye up to his own sight, careful to avoid hitting his broken nose and swollen eye on the brow pad. In his sight a Libyan tank, unaware of the danger that it was in, continued to move off to the east.

The Libyan tanks Saada was preparing to engage were part of a counterattack force moving forward to seal off a penetration of the Libyan main defensive belt by the Egyptian 14th Armored Division. Saada's company, now the spearhead of that effort, had rushed forward through the breech in Libyan lines in search of the Libyan counterattack force. Saada had found that force, moving to the east along the spin of a ridge. Without hesitation, anxious to avenge his honor and his broken nose, Saada had turned his company into the attack.

Pulling his head away from the commander's sight, Saada looked at the range returns. Almost without thought he selected the button marked "last" in order to input the laser range return into the fire control system. Putting his uninjured eye back at the sight, he watched the gunner track the Libyan tank that would be their first target. Despite the bucking and bouncing of the tank over the rough surface, the tank's fire control stabilization system and the gunner were maintaining a steady sight picture on the Libyan tank. Satisfied that he and his crew were ready, Saada gave the order to fire.

The fifty-three-ton tank gave only a slight shudder when the gun fired and began to recoil. Saada and his crew did not feel the heat or shock wave of the muzzle blast created when the armor-piercing projectile left the gun tube. Nor did they hear the sharp report of the 105mm rifle cannon firing. The only noise perceivable above the roar of the engine was the clanking of the steel shell casing from the expended round as it was automatically spit out of the gun's breech, slammed against the turret guard, and dropped to the floor.

Though his vision was momentarily obscured by the muzzle blast and the sand it kicked up, the gunner maintained the gun's position and his own position at the sight. Saada's tank quickly moved out of the obscuring dust cloud. As soon as it did, the gunner's sight was filled with the bright flashes and explosions of a Libyan tank in its death throes. Their round had hit true.

For a moment Saada watched the sheets of flame leap from the stricken tank as onboard ammunition destroyed it and its crew. He had his revenge. The embarrassment he had suffered because of his accident on the first day of war could now be forgotten. His company had led the exploitation force through the break in the Libyans' line and had found the enemy counterattack force. In a matter of minutes it would all be over.

With the greatest of effort Saada pulled his eye away from the sight, stood upright and out of his hatch, and panned the field of battle. There was no need to worry about Libyan artillery. Even if the Libyan commander had the presence of mind at that moment to request artillery fire, the odds of hitting Saada's moving company were slim — very slim. So he exposed himself, standing waist high and upright in his open hatch. He scanned the scene from horizon to horizon. On his left and his right, other Egyptian tanks were firing. To his front, on the ridge, half a dozen Libyan tanks, victims of the first volley from Saada's tank company, were already burning. Of those that survived, half had stopped and were in the process of turning their turrets toward Saada's attacking company. Some of the Libyan tank commanders had turned their tanks and were charging head-on into Saada's formation. A few had turned and disappeared behind the far side of the ridge, a faint diesel-smoke plume marking where they had disappeared. It was obvious that the Libyan commander had lost all command and control, if ever he had had it. All that remained for Saada's company to do was to press home their attack with violence.

"Enemy tank ahead!" Saada's gunner had another target. Looking over to the loader to make sure he was ready, Saada dropped down. He didn't even look through the sight this time. He merely looked at the range, again pressed the last-retum button, and ordered the gunner to fire. Saada was standing upright when the gun fired.

This time he was pelted with sand kicked up by the muzzle blast.

He felt the wave of heat pass over him as the projectile cleared the main gun and released the expanding propellant gases. The gases, suddenly free of the confines of the gun tube, sped past the just-fired projectile, creating for an instant an orange ball of fire. In the twinkling of an eye the flash was gone.

And so was another Libyan tank. Saada watched as his round impacted on its target on the far ridge, creating a bright white flash. The Libyan tank shuddered and halted; black smoke began to pour from its engine compartment. But it did not explode, as the first tank had done. Not satisfied with a mobility kill, Saada ordered the gunner to reengage the tank. Without hesitation the gunner did so — to good effect: the second round ripped through the hull just below the turret ring, igniting fuel and ammo.

As their second victim began to bum, Saada all but bounced up and down with joy. All the fireworks displays he had ever seen as a boy paled in comparison to the spectacle before him. The sight of his tanks charging forth, throwing up great clouds of dust as they fired, the dazzling colors of red and orange created by burning and exploding tanks, and the resulting jet-black pillars of smoke from destroyed tanks against the brilliant blue sky produced a scene of beauty and destruction no artist could ever capture. In an instant Saada knew why veterans spoke of war in such reverent tones. It was the most awe-inspiring thing he had ever witnessed.

His tank, surrounded by the rest of his company, rushed forward and continued to fire. As it did, Saada kept hoping that this wouldn't end. He didn't want it to end. Without considering what it was he was asking, he prayed that the battle could continue.

Finished with the last rank in the third platoon, Ilvanich turned away from the platoon leader without a word and stormed off, moving around the platoon to the front of the company. The three platoon leaders had brought their platoons to attention by the time Ilvanich reached his position in front of the company formation. Once there, he stopped, pivoted on his heels, faced his company, and stood there for several minutes, debating what to do. The results of his precombat inspection had been, to say the least, a disappointment. After almost two weeks of doing nothing but providing internal security for the airfield, both officers and enlisted men had become lax in their discipline and the maintenance of their weapons. Not a single platoon was ready to move out. Empty canteens, half-empty ammo pouches, and dirty rifles were just a few of the deficiencies he found. And the deficiencies were not limited to the enlisted soldiers. One of his platoon leaders had shown up with his map case but no map. Logic told him to go back to his battalion commander and report that his unit was not ready to deploy that night.

To do so, however, simply would not be acceptable. Another company would be assigned the duties, and Ilvanich and his men would be back to pulling guard and conducting roving patrols within the confines of the airfield fence. Besides, since arriving at Al Fasher, Ilvanich had made himself a nuisance, requesting permission every day to send out patrols at night to sweep the surrounding area and establish ambushes. Ilvanich was not alone in his desire to do something. The battalion commander also wanted to take a more active role than they were given, but he reminded Ilvanich, as well as himself, that external security was a matter for the Sudanese army. Ilvanich countered by reminding him that the Sudanese army that was responsible for providing external security for the Soviet-held airfield was the same one that was the host to U.S. Army Special Forces teams. His battalion commander reluctantly restated that although that might be true, they had little choice. The original agreement between the U.S. S. R. and the Sudanese government included a clause that restricted Soviet personnel to the airfield. In the second place, the battalion commander pointed out, he did not have enough personnel to provide internal security around the clock and run ambush patrols and sweeps outside the fence.

The situation changed dramatically after the Egyptians invaded Libya. Within twenty-four hours of the commencement of hostilities to the north, two additional parachute battalions had been flown out of Ethiopia to Al Fasher. One battalion was held on strip alert, with orders to be ready to depart in less than an hour. Rumors as to its destination were varied. One had it that the battalion was going to seize the dam at Aswan and threaten to destroy it unless the Egyptians withdrew from Libya. Equally popular was the rumor that the ready unit was standing by to go into Khartoum in case the Sudanese government needed an incentive to allow the Soviets continued use of the airfield. Whatever the truth was, that battalion was kept together and free from routine security tasks. Only in the unlikely event of an attack on the airfield itself would it be used at the airfield.

The second battalion was committed to beef up the security of the airfield. With the need for better security due to the outbreak of fighting in Libya and the additional units on hand, the decision was made to "supplement" the Sudanese patrols providing security in the surrounding area. Because he had been so keen on the idea, and because his company had had a great deal of success in similar operations while fighting guerrillas in Iran, Ilvanich's company was picked to conduct sweeps and establish ambushes.

Any joy he had felt over the change of mission for his company was washed away by the precombat inspection, which revealed how poorly prepared his company was. But dismal as his company's showing was, he decided to go as they were. To return to the barracks and correct all their deficiencies before moving out would take too long. The sun was already low in the west, and the moon, even though it was at 50 percent, would set at 2130 hours that night. The last thing Ilvanich wanted to do was to stumble about blindly without any moon, looking for their positions. Against his better judgment he gave the order to mount the trucks lined up to the rear of the company formation. As he watched his men do so, he decided that upon their return in the morning, no one was going to be released from duty, even for breakfast, until all the deficiencies he had noted were corrected. He had no intention of allowing sloppy performance to go uncorrected, or unpunished.

From a covered position on the side of a hill east of the airfield, Sergeant Jackson put his binoculars down and turned to wake his team leader. Even though they were a safe distance from the airfield, Jackson whispered. "Pssst… Hey, Lieutenant — I mean Captain… those Russians are mounting up onto trucks. Looks like they're gettin' ready to move out."

Removing the camouflaged bush hat from his face and opening his eyes, Kinsly noted that the sun was already dropping to the horizon. He stretched, rolled over onto his stomach, and crawled forward until he was next to Jackson. Jackson had the binos back up to his eyes and was intently watching the troops complete their loading. "How big a force?" Kinsly asked.

Without taking the binos down, Jackson responded that there were at least three platoons, each with thirty men, three machine guns, and a few antitank grenade launchers, or RPGs. So far he hadn't seen any mortars. Then he quickly added that the mortars could already be on the trucks.

Kinsly considered this new development before he spoke. "Ambush patrols?"

Lowering the binos but still watching the airfield, Jackson thought about Kinsly's question for a moment. "A little big, but then Russians like to do things in a big way. Right weapons, right time of day, right sequence of events, like the combat inspection and all. Yes, sir, ambush patrols. Looks like easy days are over. The bear is gonna come out lookin' for us, sir."

Kinsly reached over and motioned to Jackson to pass the binos over to him. Without a word Jackson took them from around his neck and handed them to Kinsly. Putting the binos up to his eyes, Kinsly looked at the line of trucks for a moment. The exhaust stack on the lead truck choked out a buff of dirty black smoke as he watched, signaling that the drivers were cranking up their vehicles. Sweeping to the left, Kinsly turned his gaze over to the line of attack helicopters located south of the trucks. Other than some mechanics working on one helicopter and a guard slowly shuffling around them, there was no sign of activity. "Well, they don't know we're here. If they did, there'd be at least a pair of those helicopters up and sweeping the road for the trucks or working us over." Handing the binos back to Jackson, he ordered him to keep an eye on the trucks. If they started to move in their direction or helicopters began to crank, Jackson was to get back to the team's hidden position ASAP to warn them. After Jackson acknowledged the orders, Kinsly slithered down the hill backwards until he was sure he could stand without being seen over the crest of the hill.

On his way back to the patrol base his team was using, Kinsly pondered whether he needed or wanted to move that night or should wait. Assuming that the Russians were smart enough not to use the same ambush site and would sweep different areas each night, Kinsly decided to wait and attempt to find out where the Russians had swept and set up their ambush sites. That way he could move his force to that area the following day. With this being the first such patrol, odds were the Russians would sweep the more likely ambush sites along the roads.

While the location of their patrol base wasn't ideal, it had the virtue of being well away from the obvious, textbook sites. Altogether there were eight Americans and eight Sudanese operating out of the base camp. The Sudanese major, unable to accompany Kinsly and his team, had insisted on sending some of his best and most loyal troops.

He and two members of Kinsly's team stayed behind and covered for the rest of the Americans by parading the rest of the Sudanese garrison in public whenever possible. It was a dangerous game both men played. The major was in violation of orders from his government to restrict the movements of the Americans while the Soviets were in country. Kinsly and his group were just as likely to run into trouble with the local Sudanese army units as with the Soviets, since the Sudanese up to this point had been providing external security.

Even the trip to Al Fasher had been a covert operation. Using the excuse of conducting training in dismounted long-range patrols, Kinsly and his American-Sudanese team had left by night on foot and headed east. Just before dawn, they had been greeted by one of the major's uncles, a bus driver. The uncle had had an old, beat-up bus and civilian clothing waiting for Kinsly and his men. Traveling like that, they had crossed the country into Darfur Province. Throughout the trip Sergeant Jackson had kept complaining of how much he hated taking the bus to work. Every time he did so, Kinsly had reminded him that the alternative to the bus was walking. With the assistance of the major's uncle, the Sudanese soldiers, and a roundabout route, the trip had been quick and uneventful. Once they had reached a point ten kilometers from the airfield, the major's uncle had dropped them off. On their own, Kinsly's men had switched back into uniforms, then went about accomplishing their mission.

The sentry at the entrance of the camp did not challenge Kinsly. They were under orders not to challenge a man if they recognized him. Walking over to a clump of trees and bushes that he and Jackson used as a command post and sleeping area, Kinsly motioned to Staff Sergeant Eddie Lee Jefferson and Specialist Floyd Huey to join him.

When the three reached the tree, Kinsly began to issue orders. "Sergeant Jefferson, the Russians are moving a company out tonight. They're probably going to sweep the area east of the airfield and set up several patrols on the trails coming down onto that road."

Jefferson took notes, betraying no surprise as Kinsly talked.

"I want you to double the guard. In addition, send two of our men and two Sudanese out to track the Russians. In the morning I want to know where the Russians patrolled and where their ambush sites had been."

Jefferson responded with a short, businesslike "Roger," then turned and went about accomplishing his tasks.

Turning to Huey, Kinsly continued, "Huey, take this message and send it to 2nd Corps." Kinsly paused until Huey had whipped out a pad and pencil from his pocket and was ready to copy. " 'Soviets commencing active patrolling outside airfield perimeter with company-sized unit this p. M. Expect Russians will establish ambush patrols. Ability to conduct successful or even meaningful raid on airfield with forces on hand not possible — repeat, not possible. Will continue to observe and report.' " Kinsly stopped until Huey finished writing. "Along with that, send the usual data on aircraft that have been added to those since yesterday, number and type of inbound and outbound flights, etc. Any questions?"

Huey shook his head no. Kinsly, just to be sure, had the radio man repeat the message. Satisfied, he told him to get it out ASAP. With nothing more to do, Kinsly plopped down next to the small hooch made from his and Jackson's camouflaged ponchos, pulled an MRE ration out of his rucksack, and began to eat. While he tore at the plastic food pouches, he considered Jackson's remark. If the Russians were serious about the patrols and ambushes, the good days were indeed over. They'd all have to start being a little more careful and a lot more vigilant.

"Can I come in, Ed?"

The unexpected question startled Ed Lewis, who had been sitting at his desk, busily banging away on the keys of his laptop computer. Turning toward the door, he saw Congressman William Banes Bateman standing there. Bateman, nicknamed Wild Bill by both friends and opponents, was the House majority whip. "Sure, let me finish up this paragraph and I'll be right with you, Bill."

While Lewis turned back to close the file on which he had been working, Bateman walked over to a sofa facing him. Taking a seat in the comer of the sofa, Bateman leaned back, crossed his legs, and studied the young congressman as he worked on his computer. Like many freshman congressmen, Lewis had come to Washington wanting to change the world. Unlike many, his party loyalties were a matter of convenience; he had joined the party simply to get elected. His popularity with the people of his district and the attention the media showered on him made getting elected simple. That was good for the party. But it was also dangerous, because it gave Lewis a sense of invulnerability and independence; he believed that his future rested in the hands of the electorate and not of the party. On more than one occasion he had embarrassed party leaders by not only voting against them but publicly siding with the opposition. Bateman would just as soon be without the seat than have it filled by a mustang.

"You know, Ed, I never could get the hang of those things."

Without looking up, Lewis responded, all the while wondering why Bateman was there. "Neither can I. It's actually a crime what I do with these things. Except for the word processor and a few select entertainment disks, I hardly touch its potential."

"Don't you mean games, Ed?"

Finished, Lewis spun in his swivel seat to face Bateman. "I prefer to think of my computer games as a method of relaxation. Now, I doubt if you are here taking a poll on which party members in the House use PCs and which ones don't."

Bateman flashed a friendly smile that reminded Lewis of a barracuda. "Ed, Frank asked me to speak to you about the resolution you intend to introduce this afternoon and see if there is any way we can convince you to at least delay it for, say, two or three days."

The resolution Bateman was talking about, co-sponsored by Lewis in the House and Senator Patricia Stowell in the Senate, called for the immediate withdrawal of all U.S. ground and air units from Egypt. Like everyone in Congress, Lewis had a great deal of concern over the war in the Middle East. What to do about it was the question. Some, including Lewis, while expressing a sincere desire for a quick and just end to the war, wanted to ensure that whatever the final outcome, U.S. forces didn't become involved. All hope of effective U. N. intervention was scuttled by the inability of the Security Council to act. Resolutions in that body favorable to the Libyans were vetoed by the American representative on the Security Council, while resolutions favorable to Egypt were vetoed by the Soviet representative. Seeing no hope there, Lewis had decided to do whatever was in his power to prevent the President, or anyone else, from drawing Americans into another confrontation with the Soviets.

In a joint press conference the previous afternoon, Lewis and Stowell had announced their intention to submit to both houses of Congress a resolution that would require the immediate and unilateral withdrawal of American forces from Egypt. Overnight a storm of controversy erupted. Not only was the measure itself critical of the policy that put those forces in Egypt, its wording and timing were controversial, opening it to sharp criticism from both parties. Drafted by Lewis, it condemned Egypt as an aggressor, and accused Egyptians of staging the naval battle of 8 December. Though the resolution was intended to be bipartisan, the other party rapidly closed ranks behind the President, lashing out at Lewis, Stowell, and their party. By midmorning, the purpose of the resolution had been lost as both parties prepared for a hot and heavy debate. In order to avoid a major and potentially bloody fight on the floor of Congress, a last-minute behind-the-door effort by the leadership of Lewis's party to muzzle Lewis or scuttle the resolution was under way. If they could delay the proceedings and adjourn for the Christmas holidays, the crisis would resolve itself before anyone had to commit himself to any single course of action.

Lewis looked at the old man seated across from him and felt contempt for him and what he was trying to do. With a tone that barely hid his contempt, Lewis told Bateman that the answer was not only no but hell no.

The smile on Bateman's face disappeared. Uncrossing his legs and leaning forward toward Lewis, Bateman dropped any attempt to be subtle or friendly and went instead right into the attack. "Now you look here, mister. Believe it or not, I really know where you're coming from, and in principle I agree with you." Bateman paused and sat back on the sofa, throwing his right hand up for emphasis as he continued. "Hell, Ed, if I thought that this mess could be resolved by simply pulling our troops out, I'd be running up and down the halls of this building promoting it myself. Unfortunately, there's more than just the protecting our people. There's the Russians. Or have you forgotten them?"

Angry, Lewis got up and began to pace behind his desk, fighting back the urge to choke the shit out of the old fart sitting across from him. "The Russians, the Russians! Every time this administration gets into trouble, they yell, 'The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming!' Christ, it reminds me of the Chicken Little story." Lewis stopped his pacing and pointed a finger at Bateman. "Well, my friend, I'm here to tell you I don't buy that line anymore. That same bullshit got us into Korea in '50, Vietnam in '64, and Iran two years ago. I for one believe that what the Soviet premier is doing is an honest and sincere effort to resolve our differences and make this world a safer place."

Bateman again leaned forward. "In the first place, young man, your grasp of world history and politics appears to be quite selective. The communist attack of South Korea was the result of a misunderstanding, a belief by the communists that the U.S. had no interest in Korea and would do nothing to aid that government. The Soviets crushed the Hungarian revolution in '56 with tanks and jets because they knew we would do nothing. Ditto the Prague spring in '68, Ethiopia in '77, Afghanistan in '79, and Iran. Before you buy a used car from the premier, I recommend you think hard about the consequences this resolution could have."

Despite the fact that he was upset at being lectured at like an undergrad, Lewis pulled his horns back in and settled himself before he continued. When he did, he spoke with a deep, steady tone that left no doubt of his resolve. "I have considered what the results will be if we don't act. If we do nothing, young Americans will be thrown into battle, again, in a foreign country. I cannot believe that you, or any other responsible official, could condone such a thought."

Bateman felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. His patience was at an end. Still, he mustered the strength to keep himself in check and hold his voice down. "And I, sir, cannot believe that a man of your background and education, as well as being a former soldier yourself, does not understand the implications of what the withdrawal of our troops will mean. The question is no longer whether they should have been there in the first place or not. Right now that's a moot point. The fact is that they are there, in Egypt, and the Russians are in Libya. To pull our troops out without some type of similar move by the other people can only be viewed as a retreat. The world, and the Russians, will believe that we are abandoning a friendly nation to her fate in her greatest time of need. Even more dangerous, such a move will give the Russians a free hand. Once our people are gone, the other people will be able to act freely, without any possibility of us responding in kind at the same level."

"Congressman Bateman, I am going to do what I believe is right. I believe that the Russians will see our move for what it is, an effort to defuse the crisis. Furthermore, they will respond in kind. The Soviet premier has on many occasions shown that he is a man of peace, willing to do whatever is necessary to make the world a safer place. I, sir, am willing to bet my political career on that."

Seeing there was no hope of stopping Lewis, Bateman turned and walked to the door. Just before he exited, he stopped and faced Lewis. "You may be willing to gamble with your political career, but remember, if you're wrong, the soldiers who will have to sort out our mistakes are going to lose a lot more than a career." With that, he turned and left.

In the operations center for the North African Front, a collapsible camp stool sat two meters from the situation map where Soviet staff officers posted the current situation. It was the general's stool, a relic that he had carried with him from his earliest days. It had once belonged to his father, a regimental commander of the 32nd Guards Tank Regiment, in the Great Patriotic War. According to the legend his father told him when he passed the stool on to his newly commissioned son, the stool had once been the property of a German division commander. The 32nd Guards, after crossing a river that was supposed to be unfordable and advancing all night, came upon the headquarters for a German division and promptly overran it. In the process of rounding up the prisoners, Uvarov's father walked into the operations center and found the division commander sitting on the stool, alone, his face in his hands, crying. When Uvarov's father came up to him, the German general looked up at him and, tears streaming down his cheeks, pointed to the map: "This is impossible! You can't be here. You're supposed to be on the other side of the river!" Uvarov relieved the German of the stool and kept it. Now it was his son's. His only words when he passed it to the young officer were, "You can use it when you're thinking, but don't ever think that you can command from it."

Uvarov had remembered those words and lived by them. Doing so, however, occasionally had dire consequences. More than once in Iran he had found himself in the middle of a fire fight, crawling around in the dirt with his soldiers. At one point in the Iranian war, when the situation was fluid, Uvarov and his small command group became lost as they were headed back to their division CP in the dark. Coming up to a road intersection manned by military police, Uvarov stopped and asked the soldier on duty where they were. Instead of answering, the soldier on the ground turned and ran, yelling in English as he went, "Jesus Christ! The Russians are here!"

Since being in Libya, Uvarov had already had two run-ins with death. Though he survived both, the one that afternoon had cost his aide his life. As he sat on his stool that evening, sipping tea and pondering the large map on the wall, he thought about how fickle luck was. Here he was, a man who had found himself in life-threatening situations, in peace as well as in war, and he had never had so much as a scratch. On the other hand, his young aide, exposed to war for the first time, was killed by a stray round. Though he knew that a good commander had to be technically and tactically proficient, he understood that the commander also needed a large measure of luck. His father had often told him, "A commander killed while bravely leading his men in battle may provide a good heroic story, but he wins fewer battles than a live commander."

Unfortunately for the Libyans, at that moment the man who was in charge of defending the Cyrenaica was neither brave nor equal to the task of commanding a large force. The proof of that was in front of him. Two large red arrows, one coming from the east along the coastal road, one coming from the south along the pipeline that ran from Sarir to Tobruk, were converging on Tobruk. Libyan units, marked in blue, were scattered about in an almost haphazard manner. Only along the coastal road itself, where units of the regular Libyan army had been posted, was the Egyptian advance slow. Already the Egyptian commander advancing along the coastal road had had to commit his second-echelon unit in order to maintain the pressure.

The real danger was in the south. The Libyan forces deployed to the southeast of Tobruk, equal to a division, had been destroyed. The Egyptian forces advancing from Al Haira had easily penetrated the thin defensive belt the Libyans had thrown up, then turned north for Tobruk. Not satisfied with bypassing the Libyan units that had survived the initial assault and letting them wither on the vine, the Egyptians had turned on those Libyan units isolated by the penetration and systematically annihilated them. This had taken them the better part of the day, giving the Libyans time to shift their reserve to Al Adam and prepare to face the new threat from the south. Earlier in the day Uvarov had considered that the destruction of Libyan units was the Egyptians' real objective. Since they were on a punitive raid, the destruction of a Libyan division would be more than enough to teach their neighbor a lesson. If that was their true purpose, once they were finished, the Egyptians would withdraw. That theory, however, fell through when it was reported that the Egyptians were repositioning units in preparation for continuation of their drive north.

So once again all focus turned to Tobruk, the last major target in eastern Cyrenaica of any value left in Libyan hands. fabal al Awaynat in the south, where the Libyan, Egyptian, and Sudanese borders met, had fallen on the first day to a motorized unit. Al Khofra, in central Cyrenaica, fell the second day to an airborne assault. Tobruk was next. Sitting on his stool, his eyes riveted to the map, Uvarov studied the situation, attempting to picture how it would look twelve hours, twenty-four hours, and forty-eight hours ahead. There was no need to go beyond forty-eight hours. If the performance of the Libyan forces held true to form, Tobruk would have long since been in Egyptian hands. By morning, Egyptian recon units would be as far north as Bir Hakeim and the escarpment south of Al Adam. An assault on the Libyan defenses along that escarpment could come as early as tomorrow afternoon, perhaps even tonight.

It was then, when the Egyptian forces were heavily involved with either penetrating or bypassing the Libyan forces defending Tobruk, that they would be most vulnerable to counterattack. A tank-heavy attack force, swinging south of Bir Hakeim into the flank of the Egyptian forces attacking Tobruk, would be devastating. Unfortunately, the Libyans no longer had the forces capable of making such a maneuver. Uvarov's Soviet tank corps was the only major tank formation not committed in battle. Uvarov, however, quickly dismissed that option. Even if he had the freedom to do so, which he didn't, he would not. There was no doubt in his mind that once his tank corps was committed to battle, it would only be a matter of time before American forces in the area were brought to bear. While the American ground forces to the east were a major consideration, one he did not take lightly, they were only part of the equation. Though it was out of sight, he could feel the presence of the 6th Fleet just over the horizon to the north. Attack aircraft and gunfire from the American battleships would have no trouble closing down the coastal road wherever and whenever they wanted to. It was his line of communication running south through Sudan and Ethiopia, over the Indian Ocean to Iran, and overland to the Soviet Union, however, that caused him his greatest concern. It was long, fragile, and easily broken at any point.

For a moment, he considered not even mentioning that possibility in his nightly report to STAVKA. To do so, he thought, might give some amateur strategist sitting in the basement of the Kremlin the idea that we could actually pull it off and win. Not to address it, however, would serve no purpose. A bright young staff officer at STAVKA, analyzing the information provided by the North African Front, would see the same possibility. If that happened, STAVKA would wonder why Uvarov hadn't seen such a maneuver and addressed it, bringing his abilities as a commander into question. No, he thought, better to discuss the matter, as pointless as it is, and explain, in clear and unemotional terms, why we shouldn't.

The decision made, Uvarov stood up and stretched. He looked at the clock, then turned to the operations duty officer. "How long before you are ready with the daily operations report?"

The young major stood up and came around his small field desk to where the general stood. When he reached Uvarov, he held out a clipboard to which the draft report was attached. "Sir, with the exception of your portion of the report, it is finished and ready for your review and approval."

Uvarov took the clipboard in his free hand and glanced at the first page. "Very good. Perhaps we shall get it in on time tonight." When he said that, he winked at the major. The major smiled. Uvarov always waited until the last possible minute to add his comments. This practice caused a great deal of distress for the poor duty officer, who had to scramble to submit the report on time. Uvarov's chief of staff, a stickler for punctuality, would tolerate no excuse for late reports.

Satisfied with what he saw, Uvarov handed the major his empty cup and asked if there was someone who could possibly find some hot tea. The major responded that there was a kettle of hot water ready and waiting. As he turned to leave, the major paused, then turned back to the general. "One more thing, Comrade General. Major Neboatov is here to see you."

Uvarov looked at the major quizzically. The major reminded him that he had requested to see the senior surviving advisor from the destroyed Libyan division. Neboatov was that man. Remembering the request, Uvarov shook his head and asked the major to show Neboatov in. When the major left, Uvarov sat back down onto the camp stool, balanced the clipboard on his right leg, and began to write. He was still writing when he heard footsteps come pounding up behind, then around him. The man he had asked to see stopped midway between the map board on the wall and Uvarov, brought his heels together, and shouted, "Major Neboatov reporting as ordered, Comrade General."

The sudden disturbance and the harsh emphasis on the words "as ordered" surprised Uvarov. Prepared to jump up and bark at the impetuous major who had disturbed his train of thought, Uvarov looked up, then instantly changed his mind. Uvarov was shocked by the apparition before him. For a moment he studied the man who stood there at attention and saluting. Neboatov looked like hell. He had no hat. His hair was dirty and greasy, with clumps and strands sticking out in all directions. His face was covered with dirt and grime — the only clean parts were two white circles around his eyes where his desert goggles had been. His uniform was splotched with alternating patches of oil stains, dirt, and dried blood. What gear he had was arranged properly but just as dirty.

Regaining his thoughts, Uvarov signaled a soldier to bring Neboatov a chair and invited him to sit. Still stiff and formal, Neboatov thanked Uvarov and seated himself, using only the front three inches of the chair and maintaining a ramrod-straight posture. Inquiring about the bloodstains, Uvarov asked if Neboatov was wounded. Dryly, and making no effort to hide his sarcasm, Neboatov responded that no, he wasn't wounded, the blood belonged to his driver, adding that he was sorry he hadn't had the time to finish picking the man's brains off his tunic before reporting to the general.

The last comment made the general angry, but he contained himself. Neboatov, he reasoned, had just been through hell and was still not fully recovered from the trauma of combat. Instead, Uvarov offered Neboatov some hot tea, explaining that the reason Neboatov had been asked to come to the front headquarters was so that he could personally report his observations on the performance of the Libyans and shed some light on what had happened. While they waited for the tea, which came with a small stack of biscuits, Uvarov made some small talk in an attempt to put the major at ease and get his mind off the horrors he had just been party to. Slowly Neboatov relaxed and eased himself back into his seat. When Uvarov felt he was ready, they began to go over what had happened and why.

The story Neboatov told was no surprise. Poor staff work at all levels, erroneous reporting or no reporting at all, the inability to fight the subordinate brigades as part of a division battle, the inability to project with any degree of accuracy where the enemy was going and what he was up to, and the panic that paralyzed all levels of command when the Egyptians broke through — all this confirmed Uvarov's belief that the Libyans would be unable to stop the Egyptians. Without intervention by Soviet and Cuban forces — an option Uvarov violently opposed — the war was lost.

Uvarov asked a few questions, then called the duty officer over and instructed him to find a place where Neboatov could clean up and get some sleep. Neboatov, sensing that he was about to be dismissed, stood. When Uvarov thanked him and told him to get some sleep, Neboatov hesitated. Noting that he didn't move, Uvarov looked up and asked if there was something else he wanted to say.

"Comrade General, with the destruction of the last unit I was with, I have no duty assignment. To whom will I report in the morning?"

Uvarov grunted. "Oh, yes — I forgot." He thought about it for a moment, then looked up at Neboatov. "Report to my chief of staff."

Uvarov went back to work on the report, but Neboatov still didn't move. Slightly agitated, Uvarov again looked up. "Now what, Comrade Major?"

"Begging the general's pardon, what duty position should I tell the chief of staff I am filling?"

Again Uvarov grunted. "Oh, yes — quite right. I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you. Inform the chief of staff that you will be my new aide." Finished, he went back to writing, then paused just as Neboatov, dumbfounded, was turning to leave. "And Major Neboatov — when you report to me in the morning at 0630 hours for duty, make sure your driver's brains are off your uniform."