Bright Star

Chapter 12

Flying at less than one hundred feet, the Blackhawk helicopter skimmed along effortlessly. From the helicopter, the windswept sands below, blowing this way, then that, looked like haze. Jan Fields, who enjoyed helicopter rides under any conditions, was glad that they were not traveling by road that day. Of all the curses of the desert, being pelted with sand for hours on end was the worst. Turning away from the small window, she looked at Johnny sitting with his head between his knees, busily filling his second barf bag. She smiled a wicked little smile. Serves him right, she thought. He wanted to come along for the ride — well, he's having one he won't soon forget.

The helicopter's crew chief tapped Jan on the shoulder. When he had her attention, he pointed out the door. Looking out, she saw the temporary airfield where the 1st of the 11th Heavy Attack Battalion was established. Although she had been there before, this would be the first time since the war had begun. And it would be the last.

The announcement that the President was ordering forces out of Egypt had taken everyone by surprise. Prompted into action by Congressman Ed Lewis's resolution, dubbed the "Home by Christmas" resolution, the leadership of both parties had gone to the President with the recommendation that he make the decision rather than let the resolution go before Congress. In the words of the House majority leader, the resulting fight on the floor of Congress would yield nothing but bad blood between the two parties. Though the President's order had not specified a date for the final withdrawal, everyone assumed it would be done quickly. Seeing the final curtain coming down on the drama, Fay thought it would be a good idea for Jan to go out to the American units. With luck, she would be able to get some good comments and reactions from the soldiers.

Making a wide sweep, the helicopter came in for a landing near the battalion command post. The bump of the wheels on the ground announced to the passengers that they had landed. The crew chief undid his seat belt, slid the door open, and hopped out. Jan followed without being told. As she stepped down and looked around, there was little doubt that the unit was preparing to move. Camouflage nets and the tents under them were already being pulled down. From behind a truck, a young captain came out and jogged over to where Jan and her camera crew were assembling. "Miss Fields, if you and your party would follow me… the battalion commander is with someone right now but is expecting you."

Leading them between the trucks and tents, the captain took them to a GP medium tent. The captain held the flaps of the tent open for Jan and followed her, leaving the camera crew behind to manage for themselves. Serving as the headquarters for the battalion, it was filled with a number of folding tables, large and small, chairs, phones, radios, computers, and maps hung along the walls. Across the tent was a group of officers, seated in front of one of the maps, their backs to her, listening to a briefing. No doubt, Jan thought, the information being put out was unclassified, the "good" information that meant something having already been covered before she was allowed in.

Behind her the cameraman and sound technician came in, lugging boxes and cases. The noise of their stumbling and bumping about caused several of the officers in the back row of the briefing to look, then turn back to listen to the briefer. Jan turned to the cameraman and technician and put her finger to her mouth, indicating that they needed to be quiet. They paused for a moment, looked around, then immediately began to carefully open up the camera and equipment cases as they prepared to check the equipment and set it up. Not seeing Johnny, Jan began to leave the tent to look for him. The captain who had escorted them stopped her, quietly whispering, "He's still outside. Probably something he ate."

With nothing to do until the battalion commander and the camera crew were ready, Jan moved to where she could hear the briefing. Perhaps she could pick something up to use in the report. A major was finishing a briefing on the sequence of their redeployment. From the questions asked and the major's responses, it seemed that the order to redeploy had already been issued. The major had difficulty answering some of the questions. When an officer in the back row asked him a question he could not answer, an officer in the front row, whom Jan suspected was the battalion commander, turned to the man to his right and spoke. "Scott, perhaps you can answer that one."

As Scott Dixon stood and turned to face the assembled officers, Jan felt her heart skip a beat. Like a reflex, her left hand went up and swept through her hair, making sure it was neat and presentable. Scott, caught in the crossed beams of two headlights bolted to a board hung from the ceiling of the tent, began to speak. He explained that because the Navy wanted to be ready for action at all times, the use of carriers as refuel points was out. He had begun to detail some of the restrictions the aircraft would be under while they were flying to Crete when he saw Jan. He paused in mid-sentence when their eyes met. Noting that Dixon was distracted by someone in the rear of the group, the battalion commander turned in his seat to see who it was. When he saw Jan standing there, he smiled. "Miss Fields, sorry for the inconvenience. We're about to wrap this up." Turning back, he nodded to Dixon, indicating that it was all right to continue.

Dixon, regaining his train of thought, continued, answering the question by referring to the map. For the moment he ignored Jan, intentionally averting his eyes from where she stood. Jan, however, could not take hers off him. As much as she had wanted to see him, to speak to him, since their night together, she was at a loss as to what she would say. Was she going to yell at him for leaving her without waking her and saying goodbye? Was she going to tell him that it had been great but he had a wife and family to go back to? Or was she going to tell him what she really felt, what she really wanted?

The briefing ended before she had resolved her dilemma. The officers stood up as a group and saluted the battalion commander. Some men grabbed their gear and filed out of the tent; others gathered around the map or broke into small two-and three-man groups to discuss some part of the plan. The battalion commander, a Lieutenant Colonel Tom Garrison, moved toward Jan. Immediately behind him was Scott. "Miss Fields, it's a pleasure to meet you again." When Dixon, his face set in an expressionless mask, moved up next to Garrison, the battalion commander held his hand up, pointing to Dixon. "Do you know Colonel Scott Dixon from Corps staff?"

A small smile flashed across Jan's face. "Yes, I've had the pleasure of the colonel's company."

Dixon's eyes widened for a second, and the tips of his ears became red. Clearing his throat, he asked if Garrison would mind if he had a word with Miss Fields. Garrison, still smiling, nodded his head. "Of course, take whatever time you need. The S-3 and I need to get a few things straight before the interview." Turning to Jan, he said, "Miss Fields, I'll be over there by the map, ready whenever you are."

Jan smiled and told him she wouldn't be a minute. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Scott. "Is there some place where we can talk?"

Dixon wrapped his hand around her upper arm and led her out of the tent. Once outside, he looked about, then took her between two trucks parked next to the tent.

They faced each other and simply looked at each other for a second. Both waited for the other to speak, neither knowing what to say. Finally Scott, looking down in hangdog fashion, began slowly. "Jan, I'm sorry for leaving you that night like I did. I was going to wake you but—"

Jan reached over with her right hand and placed the tips of her fingers under Scott's chin. Lifting his face toward hers, she smiled when their eyes met. "Scott, since that night I've often thought about what I was going to say to you when I finally caught up with you. Every conceivable thought and emotion came and went, from wanting to scratch your eyes out for leaving me like you did to…"

When she paused, Dixon reached up with both hands and clasped the hand she still had on his chin. "To what, Jan? Running up and grabbing me like the long-lost lover coming home?" He paused for a moment, looking up at the sky as he thought. He caught his breath and swallowed hard, as if the next sentence were lodged in his throat, all the while holding her hand. Ready, he lowered his head. "This is wrong. I know it's wrong. Everything about this is wrong." He paused, then chuckled. "You know, this whole affair wouldn't even make a decent class-B movie."

Jan withdrew her hand, stepped back, folded her arms across her chest, and turned away from Dixon. "There are a lot of people who would love seeing me go around like a moonstruck puppy." Looking over her shoulder, she added, "One of them being your wife. Of course, I doubt if she would find any humor if she knew that you were the man I was pining over."

Dixon walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She wanted to pull away again but didn't. "Jan, this is neither the time nor the place. Perhaps all we had was one good night. I hope that's not the case. But the last thing I'm going to do is screw up another person's life. I've already done quite a wonderful job with Fay's and mine."

Jan turned. "Well, Scotty boy, it's too late to spare me. Whether you want it or not, I think I'm in love with you."

"Like I said, I'm not doing anything until this small-scale disaster is over and Fay and I have a chance to square up."

Up to this point Jan had hesitated to mention Fay's name, reluctant to discuss her best friend with the woman's husband. Since Scott had opened the subject, however, she went ahead. "Scott, do you still love Fay?"

Dixon thought for a moment before answering. "Like I said, there's a lot that I need to get straight before I commit myself to anything. Right now, love, you're looking at a guy Sigmund Freud could write volumes on."

Scott's reference to her as "love" caused her heart to skip another beat. Whether he had meant it or it was just a handy term, Jan hung on it. She missed the next sentence or two, tuning back into Scott only when he mentioned Fay again.

"Perhaps I do love Fay. But the mere fact that I have to ask that question, along with the fact that I have no regrets about having slept with you, makes me wonder."

For a minute, maybe two, neither of them said anything. Neither wanted to leave the issue hanging. Dixon, however, knew that hang it would. Looking at his watch, then at Jan, he simply said it was time to leave, that he had another unit briefing to attend. Jan said nothing. Instead, she put her hands on his cheeks, leaned forward, and kissed him. It was a light kiss on the mouth which Scott didn't respond to. Nor did he resist.

Stepping back, she looked at him again. "Scott, take care." With that she turned and walked away.

As Johnny watched Jan walk around the front of the truck and into the tent, he wondered what he should do. He liked Ms. Fields a great deal. She had been a good boss and a great teacher. But he liked Mrs. Dixon too, probably more. She treated him with kindness and, almost more important, with respect. She was so much like his mom. And so beautiful. The last thing he wanted to see was Mrs. Dixon hurt, by anyone. The conversation he had overheard between Ms. Fields and Colonel Dixon bothered him. How could anyone do that, he thought, to a woman as beautiful and as kind as Mrs. Dixon? She was too nice.

Spitting out a few drops of vomit, he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, waited a few more seconds, then went into the tent. Perhaps, he thought, he could ask one of the girls at the office what to do. They were always talking about such things and might have some good advice.

From across the room Neboatov watched the general sitting on his stool in the middle of the operations center. As he did so, he wondered if the general always reacted so violently when he received an order from STAVKA. Perhaps, he thought, there was something about this order that he didn't understand. Maybe the general was just upset over this order in particular. That would also explain why everyone on the staff, who had been friendly and professional the night before, had turned inhospitable and rude that morning.

Standing up, Neboatov walked over to where the operations officer, the intelligence officer, and the chief of artillery were working with a group of officers. They paid him no attention as he reached over and picked up the folder containing a copy of the message that had everyone in the headquarters scrambling. Stepping over near the map-board, Neboatov opened the folder and read the message for the first time. The first paragraph explained that a personal appeal from the Libyan leader to the Soviet premier for assistance, coupled with the imminent removal of U.S. forces from the theater of operation, had made the use of Soviet forces possible. The rest of the message directed the commander of the North African Front to commence offensive operations, in cooperation with Libyan forces, against the exposed flank of Egyptian units in the vicinity of Al Adam. The attack was to be conducted as soon as possible in order to prevent the fall of Tobruk. A follow-on mission for the Front, the restoration of the original Libyan-Egyptian border, would be initiated on order by STAVKA once the danger to Tobruk was removed.

Closing the folder, Neboatov walked over and returned it to the table from which he had gotten it. He looked around the room. Everyone was doing something; everyone was hustling or madly writing something on a pad or a map. Everyone, that was, except himself and the general, who still sat on his stool, looking at the map as if he were waiting for it to talk to him. With nothing to do, Neboatov walked over to the tea kettle and poured himself a cup. As he was doing so, he thought that perhaps the general would like a cup of tea. Such tasks, as far as he knew, were what aides did for their generals. After pouring a second cup, he took both over to a man who looked as if the weight of the whole world had just been dropped on his shoulders.

The commander of artillery and rocket troops, Colonel Boahen, was about to enter Colonel Nafissi's private office when a loud bang from inside caused the artilleryman to stop. There was a moment of silence, then more loud banging from behind the closed door. Boahen looked at Nafissi's aide, seated at a desk to one side of the door leading into Nafissi's office.

The aide looked about first to see if anyone else was in the immediate area. Seeing no one, he stood up, leaned over the desk, and whispered to Boahen. "The Leader of the Revolution has requested that the Soviets attack in order to save Tobruk."

With a knowing look, Boahen shook his head, then backed away from the door to a seat where he could wait until Nafissi finished his tantrum.

Inside his office, Nafissi paced back and forth behind his desk. About the room, books, papers, and small pieces of furniture were strewn about where he had thrown them. He had been betrayed, stabbed in the back by the Leader of the Revolution. Without Nafissi's knowledge, the Leader of the Revolution had gone to the Russians and asked them to immediately intervene. With one division destroyed in four days and the Egyptians virtually at the gates, Nafissi would be seen as the man who almost lost the Cyrenaica, and the Russians as the saviors. The next step, stripping him of all power, and exile — or worse — wasn't difficult to predict. It would only be a matter of time.

That was, of course, unless he managed to save the city before the Russians became decisively engaged. He needed time. And he needed to act — now. Turning to the map on his wall, Nafissi looked at the disposition of his units, of the Egyptians and the Russians. He needed to engineer it so that the Russians were sent on a wild goose chase, away from the decisive point, for a few hours. With enough time, the FROG rocket units with the chemical weapons could be brought into play, hitting the Egyptian forces massing at Al Adam. A quick attack by the few mobile forces he had left while the Egyptians attempted to recover just might do the trick.

Excited at the prospect of salvation, Nafissi walked over to the door, opened it, and told his aide to have Colonel Ammed, the chief of staff, report to him immediately. As the aide picked up the phone, Nafissi turned to Boahen. "Are your units in place yet?"

Boahen jumped to his feet. "As of fifteen minutes ago, all but the 4th Battalion are in their assigned hide positions. That battalion will be in place within the next thirty minutes."

The smile on Nafissi's face surprised both the colonel of artillery and the aide. "Have someone fetch some tea," Nafissi said, turning back to the aide. "When Colonel Ammed arrives, have both him and Colonel Boahen come into my office. Also, inform the Russian liaison officer that I will need to see him in, say, two hours."

Anna trudged along the trail, looking for her friend from the Ministry of Tourism. She was nowhere to be seen. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was five minutes past the time she had told her friend to meet her. Anna decided that she would wait another five minutes, then leave and try to contact her friend another way.

The two militia men strolling along their beat paused when they saw Anna pacing back and forth, looking at her watch, then around the park as if she was watching for someone. The first militia man looked at his watch, then commented that it was a little late for a noontime stroll in the park. The second militia man laughed, then commented that a good bargain and trade didn't follow established timetables.

The first militia man didn't respond. "There is something wrong, my friend. What possible reason could counterintelligence have for following the brown-haired girl."

The mention of counterintelligence took the second militia man by surprise. "What are you talking about? Where?"

The first officer pointed out a man, thirty meters behind Anna. "His name is Medvedev. I've met him before. He works foreign intelligence. What possible reason could he have for following the girl?"

The second militia man laughed. "Perhaps he is a dirty old man who enjqys tracking beautiful young girls in the park, like you do."

The first militia man was about to comment when the redhead ran up to the girl. Both militia men, and Medvedev, paused and watched, trying not to be obvious as they did so.

"Anna, are you crazy? What do you mean calling me like this? Do you know how risky this is?"

Anna didn't respond to the redhead's questions. "Listen, this is important. You must see that this gets sent immediately." As Anna said that, she shoved a piece of paper into the redhead's pocket.

Appalled, the redhead stepped back. "Anna, have you gone mad?"

Stepping up to the redhead, Anna looked into her eyes. "No, but those old fools in the Kremlin are. Do you know what they are doing? They have ordered the Red Army units in Africa to join the Libyans! They are starting another war! We must warn someone. Maybe the Americans can stop us."

The redhead again stepped back, trying gracefully to get away from Anna. But Anna wouldn't be put off. She kept closing up to the redhead, talking as she did so. Unseen by the two girls, the counterintelligence man reached up and lifted his hat. From behind a closed kiosk and a parked car, three more men, in a loose circle, came out and began to close in on the girls. The first militia man groaned. "Oh, shit — trouble."

He was about to move down to where the counterintelligence men were closing in when the second militia man grabbed his arm. "No, wait. Let them do their job. When they need us, they'll let us know."

The refueling and rearming of Captain Saada's company was almost completed. In ten minutes they would be ready to go. Unfortunately, the attack was not scheduled to commence until 0800 hours the following morning. When his commander briefed the plan for the next day's operation, he explained that there was a big problem with resupply. The well-planned and — coordinated use of artillery had been very effective, resulting in great destruction at little cost to the maneuver units of the 14th Armored. That effort, however, had expended more ammunition than the planners of the operation had allocated to the artillery units. The stocks of ammunition needed to replenish the battalions were still in Egypt, at Mersa Matruh. To bring it forward was requiring a major effort, most of the division's transports, and time.

Saada feared that the time being lost was costing them any advantage that they had gained as a result of the victory in the south. He also reasoned that any advantage to be gained by waiting for the artillery to be resupplied before attacking would be offset by the time given to the Libyans to prepare to receive that attack. Like many of his fellow tank officers, he would have preferred to have continued north into Tobruk while the Libyans were still disorganized and Tobruk was uncovered in the south. Much better, he told his commander, to continue and risk a defeat than to stop and put a victory at risk.

The decision, however, had been made to halt the tanks before they reached Tobruk. The reasoning, according to the battalion commander, was to ensure that overwhelming combat power was available for the final, crushing attack. Saada, however, suspected that the decision by the American government to withdraw its forces had caused his government to reconsider its position. Without the presence of U.S. forces in Egypt to counterbalance the Soviet threat in Libya, it would be foolish to continue to drive deeper. The lead Soviet units, after all, were only fifty kilometers from Tobruk and little more than eighty kilometers from where his unit sat. Even traveling crosscountry, the Soviets could cover that distance in less than four hours.

Saada walked out from the circle of tanks toward the north, then paused. Looking into the empty desert to the north for a moment, he felt a great sadness in his heart. This, he thought, was probably the closest he would ever be to Tobruk. Though the city was of little value, to say that he had been there after defeating all the Libyan forces in the Cyrenaica would have been wonderful. No, he thought, the order to withdraw back to Egypt would no doubt arrive soon. Perhaps another day they would finally be allowed to destroy the enemy that menaced them to the west.

From a comer of the operations center that he had claimed as his own, Neboatov watched the proceedings. The primary staff was gathered around the map board in a tight circle. In the center was Uvarov, standing less than a meter from the board. To his right was the operations officer, to his left the intelligence officer. The chief of staff stood next to the board, completing the circle to the left, while the lieutenant colonel who was serving as liaison to Nafissi's headquarters completed the circle to the right. Immediately behind the operations officer, looking over his shoulder and that of Uvarov, was the chief of artillery and rocket troops. The logistics officer was in a similar position behind the intelligence office. They were silently studying the overlay the liaison officer had pinned to the map. Their expressions as they did so were grim, except for Uvarov's. His face was blank, betraying no emotion despite the disgust he felt.

Uvarov leaned forward to study the boundaries that Nafissi had given the Soviets for the forthcoming operation. He curled the three middle fingers into the palm of his right hand and stretched the thumb and pinky out to their fullest extent. Using his hand as a ruler, he measured the distance on the map from the center of mass of where his units were deployed to the line of departure designated for the attack in the morning. From there, he measured the distance to their first objective, then their follow-on objective. Grunting, he dropped his hand to his side and stood upright. He faced the liaison officer. "Go ahead, Colonel — please continue."

The colonel raised his notebook and began to read from where he had stopped. " 'At the direction of the commander-in-chief of Allied forces in the Cyrenaica, the Soviet North African Front will commence offensive operations commencing no sooner than 0700 hours 17 December. Soviet and Cuban forces will attack south from Ayn Al Ghazalah, south of Bir Hakeim, to the Al Jagbub-Tobruk road, and then to Al Burdi. The purpose of your maneuver is to cut off Egyptian forces now operating in our country and restore the international border.' "

The liaison officer paused while Uvarov considered the map. When he was ready to hear more, Uvarov looked the liaison officer in the eye and nodded for him to continue. " 'Under no circumstances are forces of the North African Front, including aircraft, to cross north of a line from Bir Hakeim to Bir el Gubi.' "

The liaison officer closed his notebook and looked at Uvarov. Uvarov, expecting more, looked at the colonel expectantly, then realized that he was finished. "That's all? That's the entire order?"

Understanding Uvarov's amazement, the liaison replied that yes, that was the entire order. All he had been given was the overlay that depicted the North African Front's area of operation and a quick verbal order. His questions concerning the intention and operations of Libyan forces, as well as known Egyptian locations, had been ignored. He hadn't even been allowed into the operations room where the Libyans had been working on their plan.

Uvarov was about to snap but managed to control himself. Instead he looked at the map and tried to understand what could be happening. Without looking away from the map, he ordered the liaison officer to get together with one of the assistant operations officers and draft a message to STAVKA. Uvarov paused while the liaison officer reopened his pad. "I want you to tell STAVKA what the order said, word for word. Then I want you to tell them that either they do not understand how to coordinate a major operation with an allied army, or…" Uvarov paused and considered his next remark carefully. "… Or there is something happening, or about to happen, that the Libyans are intentionally keeping from us. Regardless of the reason, I believe it is ill advised to commit Soviet or Cuban forces until the situation is clarified. I will continue to plan for the operation and commence necessary moves to comply with Libyan directives; but I will not — I repeat, I will not — cross the line of departure until STAVKA has reviewed the situation and orders me to do so."

For a moment there was silence as the officers gathered at the map stared at Uvarov. Uvarov, still looking at the map, waited for what he had said to sink in before he spoke again. Looking about the tight circle, he asked if everyone understood his position. All responded with a slight nod of their heads. "Good, now we must commence serious planning." Turning to the chief of staff, he said, "Assume that we will cross the line of departure at 0700 hours tomorrow morning and develop your options and plans accordingly. Make sure that you include a detailed deception plan aimed at the American AWACS and intelligence ships. I want you to be prepared to brief me with your initial concept by—" Uvarov looked at his watch— "by 1500 hours. Any questions?"

Having none, the staff remained in place while Uvarov walked away from the map toward Neboatov. Once the commander was gone, the chief of staff began to issue additional instructions to the planning staff.

Neboatov stood as the general approached. Upon reaching Neboatov, the general asked if he had had lunch yet. Neboatov replied that he had not. Uvarov smiled. "Good. Then come with me and we shall see if there is something around here worth eating." As they walked out, he added, "I've got to get out of this madhouse before I go insane."

After spending every waking hour for the last nine days working in the WNN offices, it felt strange to Fay to be walking around in the "real" world. It was almost as if she were visiting another planet, one that did not have phones and video recorders and wall-to-wall people screaming at each other. For the first time since the crisis had begun, Jan and Fay had left the office early. They and the rest of the staff were beginning to suffer the stress of short deadlines, long and irregular hours, missed meals, and being confined together in their cramped offices. With the tape of the interviews with homeward-bound American troops finished early, Fay recommended that she and Jan go out to dinner that night.

While they waited for their table at the Nile Hilton's Italian restaurant, Jan was struck by the crowd of people and the general lack of concern with the war that was raging less than five hundred miles away. Even more amazing were the lights. She asked the waiter to seat them next to the window overlooking the river. For the first ten minutes she did nothing but watch the boats and ferries moving up and down the Nile as she sipped her wine. With their lights blazing, it was easy to convince herself that there was no war, at least not that night. Perhaps, she thought, the American withdrawal would put an end to it.

When the waiter took their order, Jan asked for veal parmigiana with the largest plate of spaghetti they had. Fay laughed, reminding Jan that she would pay for every ounce of it for a month. Jan made a face, telling Fay that she was tired of living like a hermit and eating yogurt and salads, that the soul needed a good shot of Italian food every now and then.

When the waiter finished taking their order and left, Jan went back to looking out the window, thinking of what she would do once the U.S. forces were gone and Scott was back in town on a more stable basis. Fay sat across from her quietly sipping her wine, looking down at her glass between sips.

Several minutes passed before Fay spoke. "I heard you saw Scott today."

The mention of Scott's name by Fay caused Jan to jump.

"I'm sorry, Jan. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Jan, recovering her composure, wondered who had told Fay that Dixon was there. No matter — the damage was done. But was there more? Jan looked into Fay's eyes for some kind of sign. She didn't know what she expected to see; she never had been in a situation like this before. Seeing curiosity and not anger, Jan collected her thoughts for a second before responding. "Yes… he was there when we arrived, doing some kind of briefing."

Half in jest, half bitterly, Fay asked, "Did you manage to talk to him without scratching out his eyes?"

Cautiously, not knowing where Fay was going with the conversation, Jan answered yes, they had not even argued. It was the truth, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Fay paused, picked up her glass, and drank, emptying it in one long sip. Finished, she placed the glass on the table, filled it again, then played with the stem, slowly turning it, looking at the red wine, thinking. Jan watched her, not knowing what to expect. Finally Fay began to speak in a low tone, staring at the glass while she did so. "Jan, now that this thing is over, I'm going to ask Scott for a divorce." Pausing, she continued to fiddle with her glass.

Jan was fighting a dozen emotions, urges, and fears. The word "divorce" surprised her, then, in a flash, brought joy. In the next second the joy was replaced by fear — fear that someone had seen or, worse, heard Scott and her. So Jan sat there, outwardly as dispassionate as she could be, inwardly wanting to scream at Fay to continue instead of torturing her like that.

Lifting her glass, Fay took a long sip, then put it down. "I don't think I love Scott anymore." She paused, made a face, and shook her head, as if she were trying to erase her last sentence. "No — what I meant to say was that I don't think we love each other." Again she paused and thought about what she had said. Finally, with a questioning look on her face, she looked at Jan. "You know what I mean, don't you?"

With a straight face Jan simply nodded. "Jan, I thought that I could make Scott see… I mean, make Scott understand that I'm just not cut out for the Army anymore." Fay paused long enough to empty her glass and refill it before she continued. Her face was so serious, so intent, that it was streaked with hard, deep lines. She leaned over the table toward Jan, almost knocking over the half-empty wine bottle. "God, Jan, you don't know how horrible it is to go to another woman, a friend, and tell her that her husband is dead, that he's not coming home anymore."

Sitting up fast, Fay picked up her glass, took another drink, and put the glass down without looking, almost missing the table. "I did that. Sixteen times I did that. Ten of those visits were on one day… the third of August." Fay looked at Jan; her eyes were becoming glassy. "You see, Jan," Fay said cynically, "the boys had a hard day at the office." Pausing only long enough for another drink, she continued. "For weeks I lived in fear of the doorbell. Every time it rang I died a little, sure that it was another wife coming with the chaplain to tell me I was a widow." Fay put a mock smile on her face. "But do you know, that wasn't the worst of it. No. I thought that was hard. But I was wrong." She pointed a finger at Jan. "It's the funerals that get to you. They're so long. And so sad. And so…"

Fay stopped. For a second she fought back the tears. She looked away from Jan, out the window, taking deep breaths and clenching her jaw until she had regained her composure. When she continued, she didn't look at Jan, fearful that Jan would see the tears welling up in her eyes. Instead, Fay set her gaze on an object in the distance.

"The escort officer brings the widow and family to the cemetery in one of the limousines. A soldier opens the door for the widow and holds it until the escort officer comes around. He's the very image of the soldier: tall, straight, and proper, decked out in his dress blues, hair freshly trimmed, ribbons in place and brass gleaming. Next to him the widow — a woman in black — a broken woman. They slowly walk past the coffin. It's there already, with a clean, bright flag neatly draped over it. People on either side say nothing. They only bow their heads and avert their eyes when the widow passes.

"Once everyone is in place, the ceremony commences. A friend who knew the man, if any are left, says something. Mostly they mumble a few words that are meant to cheer the widow and her children." Fay turned and looked at Jan, a forced smile on her face. "They never do — the words, that is. They never make anyone feel good about what happened."

Jan could feel herself fighting back her own tears. She so wanted to get up and wrap her arms around her friend, to ease her pain. But she didn't.

Looking back out the window, Fay continued. "The chaplain follows. Like the friend, he tries hard to create meaning out of death, to provide a word that will put it all in perspective. At least they speak better. When he's finished, the officer in charge of the funeral detail takes over. From out of nowhere they come — the firing squad — eight of them. They advance at a slow pace, very deliberate, very precise. It's almost as if they want to prolong the agony, to remind everyone assembled that this is it, the last time the deceased will be with them. Once they're in place, the officer orders the firing squad to prepare. In quick, precise, mechanical moves the firing squad bring their rifles up and fire. I always jump. Three times the commander of the firing squad calls out his commands. Three times they fire. Then…"

Fay paused and took a long drink, emptying her glass again. "Those who have managed to hold their tears up to that point lose it as soon as the bugle starts. God, I hate that bugle!" Jan sat for the longest time and waited for Fay to continue, but she didn't. She just looked out the window, lost in her memories.

They remained silent, Fay looking out the window, Jan watching Fay. Only the arrival of dinner broke the silence. As the waiter put the plates down and arranged the meal, Fay looked back at Jan, forcing a smile. "I swore that I would never, never do that again. Scott promised me he wouldn't let it happen. But he lied. So now he can go tromping around playing the world-class boy scout all he wants. But he'll have to do it without me." Fay picked up her fork, stabbed at the veal, then looked up at Jan again. As she spoke, her face grew serious, deadly serious. "I refuse to wait patiently at the door like a good Army wife, waiting, waiting. I want a husband, not a folded flag and twenty-one shell casings."

Jan sat there for a moment, watching Fay begin to eat. She had never felt so awkward, so uncomfortable in her life. And the reason she felt so uneasy was not Fay's story or her unsolicited outpouring of sorrow. Jan felt uncomfortable because in the depth of Fay's despair, she had seen a glimmer of hope for her and Scott.

The plan that his staff had prepared for the next day's operation pleased Uvarov immensely. Frustrated after a pointless and totally nonproductive visit to the Libyans' Cyrenaica headquarters, Uvarov had stormed into his operations center and sat on his stool, speaking to no one, gazing only at the map board.

Unlike the map he had studied in the Libyan command post, the one before Uvarov sang to him like a well-composed piece of music. The neat, curved lines, arrows, circles, and symbols danced an eloquent ballet across the face of northern Libya. With the timing of a master choreographer, the operations officer had managed to bring together the various components of the army, synchronizing them, combining them, blending them into a composition that flowed from their assembly areas around Al Gardabah to the sea at Al Burdi. Though musicians would blast his comparison of the operations overlay before him with the work of Tchaikovsky, the work of his staff sang to him in a way only a professional soldier would understand and appreciate.

In a few hours the Soviet 24th Tank Corps and one Cuban motorized rifle division, the 8th Division, would begin to move along two separate routes. The other Cuban division would remain in place to play a role in the deception plan. More to the point, however, was the fact that there was insufficient motor transportation available to the front to keep more than the tank corps and one division supplied. Crossing the line of departure at exactly 0700 hours the next morning, the tank corps would move in a bell formation, one tank brigade in the lead and on each flank. The center of the bell would be occupied by the motorized rifle brigade, followed by the artillery battalion and supply column. Further to the south and a little behind, the Cuban division would do likewise.

By striking well to the south, Uvarov could bypass Egyptian units protecting the flank of the main Egyptian force while keeping his forces uncommitted. This, combined with a steady pace, would allow the Egyptians to see the danger and move. Uvarov hoped, and expected, they would move east, back across the border. If they did, he would pursue, but at a respectable distance and without pressure. What an accomplishment, he thought, to be able to achieve your objective without fighting. The epitome of the master stroke.

Uvarov's operations officer, however, was also a realist. The plan included contingencies operations that would allow Uvarov to wheel the tank corps due north toward Tobruk and into the Egyptian rear if the Egyptians decided to stand fast. Another option would allow the tank corps to drive for the sea and cut off any Egyptian units that decided to stay in Libya. Though he had no intention of doing so if it could be helped, Uvarov's front was prepared to fight.

From behind him a hand came down, holding a cup of tea. Twisting his head and looking up, he saw Neboatov. Smiling, Uvarov took the tea. "You are fast becoming an adept aide. Again I have been blessed with the right man at the right time."

Neboatov smiled. "Comrade General, I must confess. Your aide is a coward."

Uvarov turned in his seat, then motioned for Neboatov to sit next to him in a chair where the chief of staff normally sat. When he was comfortable, Uvarov leaned forward. "So what is so special about you? I am also a coward."

Neboatov watched the general as he sipped his tea.

Uvarov let his thought hang for a moment, then continued. "Look — look at that plan." Uvarov waved his right hand at the map without breaking eye contact with Neboatov. "That, my good major, is the plan of a coward. I have no intention of fighting the Egyptians."

Neboatov looked at the general, then the map, then back at the general.

Uvarov continued. "If I can do my duty without fighting, I will do so. We all, in our hearts, pray that we can do that. Deep down in each of us is a coward striving to get out."

Seeing that the general was really talking to him, Neboatov let go. "Last night, when I came in, I was finished. I knew that if you told me to go out there again, with another unit, ours or a Libyan, I wouldn't be able to. Even now I don't think I could. I have been too lucky. Too many of my men and friends have died at my feet. I do not want to join them. If you had told me to go, I would have refused, consequences be damned."

Uvarov smiled. It was an understanding smile, like one a father gave his son. "No man is expected to be a hero every day. No soldier is expected to willingly march into every battle ready to die. We are not like that. The party and the state can demand that we close with and destroy the enemy, but they cannot take our hearts and minds out of our bodies. No, Major, you are not a coward. You are only a man who had been asked to do more than any man should. In time, your wounds will heal. They will leave scars, but in your own time you will heal and be ready to do what you know is right." Uvarov paused and straightened up in his seat. "I make it a habit of picking only the best men to serve me. You are no exception." ^ Uvarov stood up; Neboatov jumped up at his side. "Now, if you would be so kind as to refill my cup. Then, tell the chief of staff that I want one last update on the enemy situation before we turn in for a few hours' sleep." Neboatov had turned to accomplish his tasks when Uvarov stopped him. "And Major, see if you can find some cakes to go with our tea."