Bright Star

Chapter 13

Standing in the door of the communications van, the commander of the 2nd Rocket Battalion looked at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Except for the soft glow of critical gauges and indicators, the van was as dark as the surrounding night. Looking up at the black, predawn darkness, the Libyan major couldn't even see the camouflage net that covered the van less than five meters from where he stood. Letting his arm slowly fall to his side, he was glad that it was almost over. Timing, this morning, was everything. The Soviet Cosmos reconnaissance satellite was just dropping over the horizon to the east. It would be thirty-five minutes before the American KH-14 surveillance began to move over the horizon from the west. Though the satellite wouldn't be able to stop the major from accomplishing his mission, the chief of artillery and rocket troops had stressed the importance of deploying, launching, and dispersing without being observed by anyone. Even if the major didn't understand the reasoning, he understood the order. And it was time to execute it.

Moving back into the van, the major closed and secured the door, then turned on the red light. To a young lieutenant sitting at the communications console, he gave the order to move the transporter-erector-launchers, or TELs, into position. Standing behind him, he watched and listened as the lieutenant picked up the phone and turned the hand crank. The lieutenant listened for the three firing battery commanders to respond. Each firing battery controlled four TELs, each TEL having one SS-21 surface-to-surface missile. When the commander of a firing battery came up on the line, the lieutenant in the van told him to stand by for orders. When all the commanders were on the line, the lieutenant issued the order to deploy and prepare to launch. He then held the line until the commanders, in sequence, had acknowledged. Finished, the lieutenant replaced the phone into its cradle, turned to the major, and reported that all missile sections had been notified of the order, had acknowledged, and were complying.

Satisfied, the major put his hand on the shoulder of another lieutenant, sitting next to the first, and instructed him to contact headquarters to confirm target locations and data. Then, with nothing to do for the next five minutes, the major stepped back to a chair near the wall across from the communications console. He didn't stay there long, however. No sooner had he sat down than he jumped back to his feet. He turned to pace, but there was nowhere to pace in the crowded van. There had to be something to do, but he couldn't think of anything. Looking at his watch, he was amazed at how the time crept along at a snail's pace.

Outside the van, in scattered sites, the crews of the TELs were not at a loss for something to do. The soldier receiving the order hadn't even placed the phone back in its cradle before half a dozen men began to roll back a canvas tarp covered with sand. While they did so, two other men, the TEL's crew, scrambled into the hole exposed by the rolled canvas. By the time the tarp was rolled back and secured, the sounds of a heavy diesel engine erupted from the black hole into which the TEL's crew had disappeared. Once the engine had reached normal operating range, there was a change in pitch as the driver of the TEL shifted gears and began to move it forward and up out of the huge hole in the ground. Preceding the TEL was one of the two men who had gone into the hole. He was walking backwards, holding a filtered flashlight and guiding the TEL driver.

For days the TELs sat in holes excavated around Tobruk before the invasion. To prevent observation from surveillance and reconnaissance satellites, a system of canvas tarps, supported by poles and spreaders and hidden by a layer of sand, covered the holes. To keep the sand on the tarps from being heated to a different temperature than the rest of the sand, the crews of the transporter-erector-launchers had been forbidden to run the TELs or even go near them unless absolutely necessary. Whether those measures would defeat the thermal detectors on the Soviet and American satellites was unknown. Even their friends the Soviets refused to provide the Libyan army with any details on the capabilities of Soviet intelligence.

Whether the measures taken to hide the SS-21 missiles and their TELs were actually successful or the Soviets and Americans had detected them and chosen to ignore them was unimportant. Such matters were not the concern of the crews preparing for launch. In a few minutes the missiles would be lifted into firing position and expended. Last-minute information provided by the firing battery's meteorological section and an update on target location was passed to the TEL crew. When the crews were ready, word was relayed back to the battalion command post.

The major in the command post van waited, impatiently tapping his watch. Each time a firing battery reported in that it was ready to fire, he nodded his head, then went back to nervously tapping his watch. When the final battery reported ready to fire, he ordered the lieutenant operating the net to Nafissi's headquarters to contact the chief of artillery and rocket troops and report their ready status. The lieutenant complied. The response was short and simple: execute as directed.

Walking over to the phone tied into the firing batteries, the major picked up the receiver and turned the hand crank. Every time a battery answered, he told it to stand by, as the lieutenant had done before. Once all the batteries had acknowledged, the major looked at his watch. The sweep hand raced around the face of the watch. As it approached the number 12, the major gave the order to launch.

In an arch that stretched to the west and southwest of Tobruk, the morning darkness was shattered by the launching of SS-21 and SCUD B missiles as well as ancient FROG-7 rockets. With few exceptions, the booster engines of the surface-to-surface missiles and rockets ignited and sent them aloft. Above the earth's surface, in the lower regions of space, satellites designed to detect the infrared energy created by the exhaust plume of launching missiles detected the sudden flurry of activity on the fringe of North Africa. The satellites duly relayed that information to duty officers in both the Soviet Union and the United States. The duty officers, in their appropriate air defense commands, automatically alerted the watch officers. They, in turn, initiated a sequence of steps in accordance with standard operating procedures. Chief among them was notification of the national command authorities, orders to bring more intelligence assets to bear on the threat and confirm its location and probable targets. When the watch officers had confirmation that the data was correct — that they were missile launches — each, in his own country, began to bring the nation's strategic strike forces to immediate readiness for a counter-strike, should that be necessary. Though the origin of the launches was suspect, all personnel involved took action, deciding to err on the safe side.

With his naked eye Captain Saada could not see the lead tank of his company move out of the assembly area and begin the move north. The squeaking of its drive sprocket grinding on the steel end connectors of the track, however, told him that it was in motion. When the blackout markers of the tank to his immediate front jiggled, then began to move, Saada ordered his driver to follow.

Slowly the column began to creep forward. Saada, standing in the cupola of his tank, looked at his watch. They had twenty-seven minutes to cover the five kilometers to their designated line of departure. They would be able to do so with ease. Time was not a concern, provided there were no unexpected delays, or halts, or that the lead platoon did not miss the marked route, or, or… Such concerns raced through Saada's mind every time his unit began an operation. Once involved in the attack itself, and once in contact, he was able to handle the situation. Then there was no time to worry; there was no time for his mind to wander freely and create problems and potential problems where none existed. In battle there was time only to act, to execute. It would be the same that day, Saada was sure of it.

Saada was wrestling with his problems, real and imagined, when the SS-21 missile reached booster cutoff, casting off the warhead from the booster section. Free of the expended booster, the warhead began its free-fall ballistic trajectory. There was no telltale streak rising over the horizon to warn Saada and his company. The noise of the engines covered the sound of the small detonation as the break-up charge of the warhead shattered it and freed the encased liquid. Blurred by the dust generated by the tanks, the sudden pinprick of light in the dark sky caused by that detonation also went unnoticed. Free of the now ruptured warhead but still propelled forward by momentum, the liquid began to spread, forming a huge cloud of millions of droplets arcing down as gravity pulled it back to earth.

The splattering of those droplets onto Saada and his tank broke his train of thought. He had not noticed a rain cloud or a change in weather — he had been too preoccupied with the unfolding operation. Instinctively he looked up while holding out his right hand, palm up, to catch a few of the drops. They pelted his face, almost as if he had been hit with a stream of water from a hose. Looking down, he brought his hand to his face to inspect the unexpected rain. It was a strange, thick rain, almost like oil. Reaching over for the flashlight hanging just inside the cupola with his free hand, he grabbed it but dropped it, unable to get a firm grasp.

Turning to look for the flashlight, Saada noticed his vision blurring. He was unable to focus. In addition, his eyelids began to flicker and twitch. Bringing his hands up to his face, Saada tried to rub his eyes. As he did so, he began to experience difficulty breathing; the muscles in his chest began to spasm. Dropping his arms, he tried to steady himself. His arms, however, no longer responded. They dropped limply to his side, resisting all efforts to move as he wanted. As his legs began to quiver and his knees to buckle, the realization of what was happening hit him. The liquid that had fallen on him was a chemical agent — nerve gas. He was dying.

As if an invisible hammer had struck him, Saada collapsed. The nerve agent spread rapidly throughout his body, destroying his central nervous system. Muscles, no longer controlled by the brain, involuntarily spasmed. As Saada fell to the floor, unable to do anything to break his fall, his bowels and kidneys discharged their contents. The gunner, surprised by Saada's fall and by the overpowering odor of loose bowels and urine, turned in his seat to see what had happened. For a moment he sat there, watching his commander's body twitch and jerk. In the eerie red glow of the tank's interior dome lights, the gunner looked into Saada's eyes. They were vacant, almost lifeless. When the loader, who had come down from his position to help Saada, keeled over on top of Saada and began to twitch, the reality of what was happening struck the gunner.

The gunner yelled "Gas!" at the top of his lungs so that the driver would hear as he tore at the cover of his protective-mask carrier. Pulling it out with one hand, he jerked his tank crewman's helmet off with the other. By the time he was ready to pull the mask over his head, however, he no longer had the ability to do so. Though he was not immediately exposed to the agent, as Saada and the loader had been, and not in direct contact, the vapors from the droplets on Saada and the loader had already permeated the tank. Struggle as he might, the gunner was unable to fit his mask to his face. Like his commander before him, he lost all control of his body, lapsing into a short coma before he died. The driver's death followed within seconds.

Standing in an open hatch of the specially equipped eight-wheeled BTR-80 armored personnel carrier-command vehicle, Uvarov watched the deployment of the lead Soviet tank battalion as it prepared to cross the line of departure. He knew that he was in all probability too far forward. Only the recon company and the tank battalion coming up alongside were between him and the Egyptians. But the Egyptians, if his intelligence officer was right, were still twenty kilometers to the east and northeast. So he paid little heed to the warnings of his chief of staff and went to where he could see something.

Besides, there was nothing for him to do at that particular moment. The deployment had gone well. Until something unexpected happened — something that required a command decision because it was not part of the plan and the commander in contact could not deal with it — there was nothing for Uvarov to do. Watching a tank battalion deploy in the early-moming twilight served to occupy his thoughts and time until he was needed.

Inside the BTR, Neboatov sat scrunched over in a comer, arms folded over his chest, dozing off. He wore an extra headset but used only one earphone as he listened to the command radio net. There had been no traffic on that net for the last ten minutes. Until contact, there wouldn't be. Opening one eye and glancing down at his watch, Neboatov noted the time. He gave a slight shiver from the early-morning cold, pulling his arms in tighter in an effort to warm himself. Looking around the interior of the BTR, he watched the assistant operations officer and assistant intelligence officer as they sat facing the radios. If a call came in, they would answer. The general, along with his chief of artillery and rocket troops, was standing with the upper part of his body out of the BTR. Neboatov could see only their legs. With nothing to do, he closed his eyes.

He had just begun to doze off again when the radio came to life. Neboatov recognized the voice of the front operations officer, Colonel Krasin, before he recognized the call sign. Krasin's voice was excited as he demanded to speak to General Uvarov immediately. Pushing himself into a seated position, Neboatov moved over to where Uvarov stood, and tapped the general on the leg. Uvarov looked down as Neboatov removed the headset and handed it up to Uvarov, telling the general that Colonel Krasin needed to speak to him urgently. Uvarov, making a face, took the headset, put it on, and spoke into the microphone.

Neboatov moved over behind the assistant operations officer to listen in on the conversation over the radio's speaker. The operations officer turned to Neboatov and put his hand over his microphone. "Moscow — I'll bet you it's Moscow with new orders."

The intelligence officer leaned over. "No — the Americans. They've seen us and they're committing forces. It has to be."

They were both wrong. As they listened, the three majors made faces and stared at each other with alternating looks of shock and amazement. Krasin informed Uvarov that the Libyans had just completed a massive chemical strike against the Egyptian 14th Armored Division. There were few details. Radio intercepts from both Egyptian and Libyan radio nets and reports from the airborne early-warning radars were the only source of information at that time. Attempts to contact the Libyan headquarters in Tobruk had been unsuccessful. Not even the Soviet liaison officer could be reached. Krasin didn't know whether or not that was intentional. He didn't, however, rule out the possibility of foul play.

For a moment no one spoke. It was all suddenly very clear to Uvarov: the evasiveness of Nafissi and his staff; the restrictions on where the Soviet attack would go; and, worse, the timing of the Soviet commitment and the Libyan chemical attack. In a bind the Libyans would be free to disavow any knowledge of the attack, claiming that it was initiated by the Soviets as part of their preattack bombardment. In any case the Soviets would be viewed as being just as responsible. They, after all, had trained, equipped, and advised the Libyans. It would be guilt through association.

Recovering from his shock, Uvarov asked some quick questions, including whether or not Moscow had been informed. Krasin responded that STAVKA had just contacted them, asking what the purpose of the missile attack was. Uvarov instructed Krasin to immediately contact STAVKA and demand that their commitment be halted. Perhaps, Uvarov said, there was still the chance that they could extricate themselves from a situation that would only spell disaster.

Finished with the conversation, Uvarov removed the headset and handed it back down to Neboatov. Lowering himself into the BTR, Uvarov sat across from Neboatov and the two majors at the radio. The general took off his hat with his right hand and ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair. No one spoke. The seriousness of their situation was overwhelming.

Finally Neboatov broke the silence. "Comrade General, should I order the helicopter to come here to pick you up for your return to headquarters?"

Uvarov paused and looked at Neboatov, pondering where he should go to best respond to the new, developing crisis. After a brief rundown of his options, he nodded his head. "Yes, Major. We must go back to the command post. I need to talk to STAVKA myself."

As was his custom, General Horn met with key staff officers before receiving his morning briefings, affectionately known as "the Seven O'clock Follies." With him werfe his chief of staff, Brigadier General Billy Darruznak, known alternately as General D or THE Chief, and the operations officer, Colonel Alexander Benton. They were drinking coffee and munching on doughnuts, going over details of the redeployment, when Dixon walked in unannounced. Horn looked up, surprised, but said nothing. Darruznak was angry at Dixon's intrusion but didn't have a chance to say anything before Benton turned on Dixon. "Colonel, we're in the middle of a meeting."

Dixon, visibly shaken, didn't take offense at Benton's tone. Clutching the clipboard he carried in both hands, Dixon stood in the center of the room before he spoke. He didn't think to apologize. Nor could he think of any way to tell the commander other than blurting it out. "Sir, the Soviets have committed at least two divisions into an attack in the vicinity of Bir Hakeim against the flank of the Egyptian 14th Armored Division."

Dixon paused as the news sank in. Horn, looking at Dixon, then at Darruznak and Benton in turn, said nothing. There was a look of surprise on his face, one of embarrassment on Darruznak's at being caught by surprise, and one of disbelief on Benton's. Again, it was Benton who spoke first. "When did they move from their assembly areas? How is it that the G-2 missed it?"

Still fidgeting, Dixon surprised everyone by announcing that that wasn't important.

Angry, Benton shot back, asking him what was important.

Again Dixon took no offense but simply blurted it out. "Sir, the Soviets preceded their attack with massive chemical attacks. Initial reports indicate persistent nerve agents were delivered by SCUD and SS-21 missiles at 0600 hours this morning. North American Air Defense Command confirmed the launch of sixty-plus missiles and rockets in the vicinity of Tobruk through Air Force channels. Full extent of the attacks and their effectiveness are unknown at this time."

There was a stunned silence. Horn considered Dixon's news for a minute, maybe two, before turning to Darruznak. "Billy, I want you to gather up the crisis action team ASAP. I want them to be prepared to discuss the following: one, cancellation of the redeployment; two, evacuation of American civilians from Egypt; three, the need to deploy the force to new assembly areas; and four, protective measures we need to take to protect our force, our evacuating civilians, and our equipment storage sites." Turning to Benton, he said, "Put everyone into MOPP level 2 and back into their assembly areas. Notify the commander of the 16th Armored Division to have the 2nd Brigade, 11th Air Assault prepare to execute the evacuation of dependents."

Darruznak was about to recommend that they should clear those steps with the chief of staff of the Army first, but then decided not to. They were sensible steps, to be expected. Besides, Horn had three stars, and three-star generals got paid to make hard decisions. Instead, Darruznak just nodded, jumped up, and was starting out of the room, followed by Benton, when Horn called, "Hold it!" Pausing, they turned back. "Alex, do we still have that contingency plan for the attack on Al Fasher with the Apaches?"

Benton didn't answer but instead looked at Dixon. Dixon looked back at Benton, realizing that Benton was waiting for him to answer the question. Turning to Horn, Dixon replied that he had saved the plan.

Horn looked at Darruznak while pointing an index finger at Dixon. "Billy, as a separate issue, I want Dixon to pull that plan out and begin putting it together. I want a low-level, low-cost response in hand when I talk to Washington. No doubt the Navy and the Air Force will get the job. But who knows — someone might ask us." Turning to Dixon but still pointing his finger at him, he said, "When they do, I want to be ready. Clear?"

Dixon nodded his head. "Clear, sir."

Standing up, Horn looked down at his desk, closing the folder that contained the order that almost had gotten them out of Egypt before Christmas. Without looking up, he sighed. "Thank you, gentlemen— that's all."

Dixon prepared to follow but was stopped by Horn. "Colonel, have my aide patch me through to the chief of staff of the Army."

Dixon mumbled, "Yes, sir," turned, and began to leave when Horn stopped him again.

"Scott, you have family here, don't you?"

Dixon paused. "Yes, sir. They're here."

From behind his desk Horn walked over to Dixon. "Do me a favor, Scott. Forget about telling my aide about the call — I'll do it. Instead, I want you to gather the members of the staff who are permanent party and have family in Egypt. Tell them what's going on. Go ahead and have them notify their families immediately. You have my permission to pass whatever information you need to in order to convey the gravity of the situation to the wives. Do you understand?"

Dixon thought about that. The general was right. Inevitably, some of the wives would insist that things weren't really so bad and would insist on staying, invoking the "for better or worse" clause. By letting everyone know from the start how bad things were, many arguments would be avoided. "Yes, sir, I understand. Is there anything else?"

Horn hesitated. "Back to the raid on Al Fasher… how much lead time do we need?"

Dixon considered the question before answering. "By 'lead time,' I am assuming you want to know how long it will be from when you give the order before we have the Apaches on target."

"Exactly."

"Thirty-six hours to pull it together, sir. That includes staging at Abu Simbel near Aswan the night before."

Horn thought about it for a moment. "How much time do you need before you can give me a detailed briefing, including a time line?"

"I can be ready to brief you in three hours, maybe less, sir."

"Okay, Scott, thank you. Now go take care of that other matter first and then get cranking on the raid. Let the chief know if the Air Force gives you any static."

Dixon, convinced that he was finally released, saluted, and left Horn's office. Moving along the corridor back to the war room, he had to dodge half a dozen officers and NCOs traveling at high speed without paying attention to where they were going. Turning the comer into the war room brought no relief. Officers from both the day and the night shift were crammed in there, as well as personnel from other staff sections who normally worked elsewhere. In the center of the room, standing there like the eye of a storm, stood General Darruznak, Colonel Benton, and Colonel Linsum, the intelligence officer. They were being briefed in front of the intelligence map by one of Linsum's assistant intelligence officers and Lieutenant Colonel Pfiffer, the staff chemical officer. About them a ring of straphangers and second-echelon staff officers stood, listening in and cluttering the room.

Dixon looked around the room for his senior NCO. Spotting him in the corner, he waved. Sergeant Major London saw Dixon, finished giving one of his sergeants some instructions, and worked his way through the crowd. Dixon smiled when London reached him. "Loc5ks like your plan for keeping nonessential personnel out of the war room has gone to hell, Sergeant Major."

London grunted and made a face. "If you don't mind me saying so, Colonel, we have too many staff officers. Someday, when we have the time, sir, could you explain what they all do for a living?"

Dixon chuckled. "Someday, after I find out myself."

London waited for Dixon to tell him what he needed. Dixon paused, looking around the room, before he spoke. He was collecting his thoughts. When he did speak, his voice was cold. There was no hint of humor, no emotion. "Gather up all the permanent party members with families in Egypt in the conference room immediately."

London waited for further information but got none. "Why, sir?" he finally asked. "And does that mean people on duty?"

"Yes, everyone," Dixon told him, again with a voice that betrayed no emotion, no inflection. "There aren't that many of us with families here. The people that came over as part of Bright Star can cover for us. You see, Sergeant Major, the dependents are going to be evacuated. We need to get that started before we get involved in serious planning."

Understanding the gravity of the situation and the need to tend to the soldiers' needs as quickly as possible, London acknowledged the order and moved to comply. With that taken care of, Dixon worked his way over to his duty station at the long desk that ran down the center of the war room and picked up the phone. With luck he would be able to reach Fay before she went to work.

Try as hard as she could, Fay Dixon couldn't ignore the ringing in her ears. At first, she thought it was just part of her hangover, the first she'd had in two years. It took a moment for it to register that the ringing was the phone. Again she considered ignoring it, hoping that it would stop. It did, but only because her younger son picked it up. It wasn't until he squealed, at the top of his lungs, "IT'S DADDY!" that Fay bounced out of bed, grabbed a robe, and went into the living room.

By the time she had reached the phone, her older boy was there too, trying to pry the phone out of his brother's hands. Fay ended the fight by taking the phone and sending them back to their room. They marched off, protesting, and closed the door behind them. Fay sat before she put the receiver to her ear and answered with a simple "Yes?"

Holding the receiver pressed against one ear, and with his free hand covering his other ear in an effort to block out the noise of the war room, Dixon answered. "Fay, listen. I don't have much time and I can't explain everything to you, but you need to get yourself and the boys over to the embassy immediately—"

Fay cut in, asking why.

"Fay, they're going to announce the evacuation of all Americans from Egypt, probably within the hour. Once they do, it'll be a madhouse there."

Again Fay interrupted, asking why now, when the threat to Americans was winding down.

Dixon was losing his temper. He managed, however, to control himself. He knew Fay would be one of the wives who would resist. As he collected his thoughts, he looked up. An intelligence major who worked across from Dixon was staring at him with a look of horror on his face. No doubt the major thought he was giving away state secrets. Ignoring him, Dixon told Fay about the Russian intervention and their chemical attacks that morning. Dixon looked back up at the major. His mouth hung open in shock. Dixon was pleased with himself. He enjoyed getting a rise of the intel weenies.

On the other end of the line, Fay was silent. Dixon asked if she was still there. When she answered, he came on strong, telling her in no uncertain terms that she had to get herself and the children out of Egypt, now. Fay didn't respond. As he waited for her to do so, Sergeant Major London tapped him on his shoulder. Dixon pulled the receiver from his ear. "Colonel, the people are ready in the conference room."

Dixon told London that he'd be right there, then put the receiver back to his ear. "Fay, you still there?"

"Yes, Scott, I'm here."

"Listen, Fay, I have to go. And so do you. Leave everything. You know the drill. One blanket for each of you, enough food for three meals, and some warm clothes. That's it. Leave everything else. Do you understand?"

Fay sat there silently. It was really happening. She looked around the small apartment, lost in thought.

"Fay, did you hear me? Get going — now!" She didn't answer. Slowly she put the receiver back on its cradle. Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she sat there for a moment, looking at the floor. Then it struck her: Jan might not know. Grabbing the phone, she dialed Jan's number, letting it ring until Jan, in a groggy voice, answered. Excited, Fay blurted out the news to her friend and boss. "Jan, the Russians have intervened!"

Disgusted, Dixon slammed the receiver down. The intelligence major was still staring at him, a stem look on his face. "Colonel, do you know what you have just done?"

Dixon, lost in his thoughts, looked at the major. "Excuse me?" The major repeated the question. "Colonel, I said, do you know what you just did?"

Dixon didn't understand. He just stared at the major with a quizzical look.

Seeing that Dixon did not understand the gravity of his offense, the major explained. "Sir, you just passed classified information over an unsecured phone."

Dixon looked at the major, shook his head. "Huh? What classified information?"

In a self-righteous tone the major pointed out that Dixon had mentioned that the Soviets had intervened and used chemical weapons. The phone, he said, might be tapped.

Dixon's quizzical look turned to one of disgust. "For chrissakes, Major. Don't you think the Russians know what they're doing? Who the hell do you think gave the order to use chemical weapons?"

Pushing his way through the crowd gathered about the map board, Neboatov tried to steady the cup of tea he was bringing to the general.

He wasn't succeeding. Half of it already had spilled over his hand and down his tunic. The operations center was a madhouse, far worse than it had been the night before. It seemed to Neboatov that every Soviet officer in Africa was in the operations center, using a phone or carrying on a conversation. Only around the map, where General Uvarov stood, was there any semblance of calm. Finally reaching his general, Neboatov reached his hand with the cup of tea around in front of Uvarov.

Uvarov took the cup without looking or saying anything. His eyes and his mind were riveted to the map board. The front chemical officer, alternating with an intelligence officer, was bringing the general up to date on what he knew of the situation. It wasn't very much, or very good, for either the Egyptians or the Soviet forces. The only information the staff had at front headquarters had been obtained from its own intelligence sources. Most of that had been gleaned from monitoring both Egyptian and Libyan radio nets.

Nothing, to date, had been provided by the Libyan high command. There had been, in fact, no communications with Colonel Nafissi's headquarters all morning. Uvarov's chief of staff explained that when they could not reach their own liaison officer at Nafissi's headquarters outside of Tobruk, he had dispatched another officer in a helicopter. As the helicopter with the new liaison officer approached, it was warned to stay away. The voice on the radio claimed that the area around the headquarters was contaminated. As the liaison officer had no way of telling, and since there was no chemical detection kit on board, he turned back.

The chief of staff, hearing this, sent a second helicopter before the first had even returned. It had a chemical survey and monitoring team on board. As it approached Nafissi's headquarters, it too was warned to stay away. The officer in charge got on the radio and explained that he had a chemical team on board and was there to help. The Libyans responded that they did not need any help, that the situation was in hand. When the officer in charge ordered the helicopter to continue and insisted that he be allowed to land to evacuate Soviet personnel from the bunker, warning shots were fired at the helicopter. Not knowing what to do, the second helicopter returned without accomplishing its mission.

Uvarov was convinced that Nafissi's headquarters had not been attacked. He was equally convinced that the Soviet government had been duped into intervening. But neither STAVKA nor the Politburo understood that yet. Uvarov's personal appeal to halt further advances by Soviet units had been denied: no such order, STAVKA stated, could be given until the situation had been clarified. As they listened to the briefing, the only thing that Uvarov and his staff were sure of was that outside of the Soviet and Cuban units assigned to the North African Front, they had no idea what was going on.

For a moment Uvarov's mind wandered off. The situation he and his command faced was appalling. The allied army he was supposed to be supporting was refusing to communicate with him. In fact, there was the real possibility that the Russian personnel attached to that headquarters for that purpose were being held hostage, or worse. That same allied army had without any warning initiated chemical warfare, a decision that only the Politburo in the Soviet Union could make. Even worse, the chemical attacks had been timed and located in such a manner that the connection between them and the Soviet attack could not be helped. It seemed, to Uvarov, as if the Libyans were intentionally setting the Soviets up. But for what? And why? And if so, what next?

He had no answers to anything. Instead, he imagined himself to be a man tied to a railroad track, watching a locomotive thundering down on him. He could see it coming, and he knew what would happen when it reached him, but he was powerless to do anything about it. Sooner or later it would crash into him — and when it did, there would only be darkness.

Recovering from his dark thoughts, Uvarov looked at the map. He had to do something. He refused to be run over. Reaching out, he indicated a point east of the Al Jagbub-Tobruk road. His actions caught the officer who was briefing by surprise. Everyone else at the map stood silent, watching Uvarov and waiting for him to speak.

"Issue the following order," he finally said. "The 24th Tank Corps will cross the Al Jagbub-Tobruk road here, at El Cuasc, and advance to a line from Bir Berraneb to Gabr Saleh. The 8th Cuban Division will cross here at Gueret Hamza and advance to Bir Gibni. Once they reach those points, no one — I repeat, no one — will continue further east without my permission. I refuse to go charging off into a void. The 24th Tank Corps will assume a hasty defense from Bir Berraneb to Gabr Saleh; the 8th Division, from Gabr Saleh to Bir Gibni. Are there any questions?"

The operations officer looked at the locations Uvarov had pointed out. It was all very clear to him. Uvarov meant to establish an anvil-

like position southeast of Tobruk, while the Libyans, coming from Tobruk, would act as a hammer, smashing the remains of the 14th Egyptian Division. Needing to clarify some points, the operations officer turned to Uvarov. "General, what if the Libyans cannot finish the encirclement and the Egyptians manage to break out? How far do we advance in order to link up with the Libyans?"

Uvarov looked at the operations officer, realizing that he was missing the purpose of his order. "Colonel, I have no intention of trapping the Egyptians. In fact, I have no intention of fighting them. We will continue to follow the orders we have to the letter. But we will go no further. I intend to do everything in my power to keep us out of this mess. There is perhaps still time to stop this situation from getting out of hand. Do you understand?" The operations officer sheepishly nodded.

To drive home his point, Uvarov looked at each officer gathered about him. "I repeat, we will do nothing that will broaden this conflict. In time STAVKA will come to realize what is happening and stop this madness. Until then, we do nothing to make it worse."