Bright Star

Chapter 15

Struggling with the heavy tow cables, the crew of the BTR managed to free them from General Uvarov's BTR-80 armored personnel carrier. In a ditch on one side of the road, the crew of an overturned BRDM-2 armored car waited. On the other side of the road a lieutenant from Uvarov's BTR was bandaging the driver of the armored car. The BRDM-2, escorting and providing security for General Uvarov's command group, had run off the road in the darkness and flipped over. Standing between the two vehicles, Neboatov watched. The crew of the armored car had been lucky: only the driver had been injured, and he, in Neboatov's mind, deserved it. That would be the last time, no doubt, that the man would fall asleep while driving.

Neboatov, of course, could not blame the driver for falling asleep. Unable to suppress it, he yawned. He considered curling up in the BTR and catching some sleep while the crews worked on recovering the armored car. Just as quickly as he thought of that, he dismissed the idea. The general, no doubt, would need something as soon as he fell asleep, and Neboatov would look like a lazy sod in his eyes. Instead, he stretched his arms over his head, then, bending at the waist, reached down to touch his toes in an effort to fight off the urge to sleep.

Straightening up, Neboatov looked around for the general. Stepping over to where the lieutenant was finishing his work on the driver, Neboatov asked if he had seen the general. The lieutenant pointed to a lone figure standing off in the desert. Neboatov watched for a moment, trying to decide whether to disturb the general. Everyone, generals included, needed time alone.

The clatter of the tow cable falling to the road followed by a stream of cursing caused Neboatov to turn. The commander of the overturned car had stumbled, tripped, and dropped the cable. He was tired; they were all tired. Rest was what they needed more than anything else. The lack of regular sleep and the need to execute endless tasks, coupled with the cold, the harshness of the desert, and the stress of participating in combat operations, were taking their toll. People were beginning to make mistakes, like the driver of the armored car, and the captain who had managed to get the general's BTR lost while they were looking for the 24th Tank Corps command post. Rest and a good night's sleep was what they needed. But that was the last thing that they were going to be able to get.

Cranking up the BTR, the commander of the overturned armored car prepared to guide the BTR to where it could turn the armored car over, then back onto the road. Since he was in the way where he was standing, Neboatov went over to where the general stood.

"Are they finished yet?" Uvarov asked, without turning to see who was approaching.

Neboatov stopped. "No, General. It will be another fifteen, twenty minutes, at least."

Uvarov took a deep breath. The cold night air filled his lungs and cooled his temper. Slowly he exhaled. "Time is one commodity we don't have much of. Did General Boldin acknowledge the order to stop his advance?"

"Yes, Comrade General. Lead element of the 24th has assumed hasty defenses northeast of Gabr Saleh."

Waiting for more, Uvarov turned toward Neboatov. "And his response, Major? What was his response to the order?"

Neboatov hesitated before he told Uvarov Boldin's response.

Turning away from Neboatov, Uvarov sighed. "Never mind. I can imagine what it was. At least he stopped."

Boldin, after Uvarov, the senior Soviet officer in Libya, commanded the 24th Tank Corps. Seeing the opportunity to reach the coast of the Mediterranean in a single thrust and not understanding the reasoning behind Uvarov's orders, Boldin had spurred his corps forward that afternoon. Uvarov, in turn, slowed, then stopped him. In a lively radio conversation Uvarov became convinced that Boldin couldn't be trusted to act appropriately unless he knew what the political situation was and what was at stake. He did not want to trust such a conversation to an open radio net, even though it was secured. Uvarov suspected that all nets were being monitored by the KGB. At the first opportunity Uvarov left front headquarters for Boldin's, to talk to him face to face. It was, in Uvarov's mind, critical that Boldin understood how things stood and the role Soviet forces would play.

It was not that Boldin was disloyal. Boldin was in fact an outstanding officer, perhaps the best tank general in the Red Army. His selection for command of the 24th Tank Corps ahead of several dozen generals with greater seniority spoke well of his abilities. Boldin, however, was politically naive. Dedicated to his profession, he had no time for political considerations. He saw all problems through the eyes of a professional soldier. In all things he applied the accepted formulas and doctrine, as he had been trained, to achieve the desired results. In a war in Europe, Uvarov knew, Boldin would excel. In Africa, where the political sands were shifting faster than the sands beneath his feet, Boldin's approach to war could be dangerous.

Believing that the general wanted to be alone, Neboatov backed up, turned, and prepared to leave. Uvarov stopped him. "Don't go, Major. I could use some company. This night is very lonely, and very long."

Neboatov trudged through the soft sand up to the general's right side. He stood there for several minutes before he spoke. "Are you going to relieve General Boldin?"

"No. There's no need to relieve him. I just have to do a better job explaining my intentions to him. General Boldin is a fine soldier, one of the best. He just needs to understand that this is not a purely military problem." Uvarov paused for a few moments. "I have no doubt he will try to convince me to let him push on. It makes sense, militarily, to encircle the Egyptian 1st Army."

Neboatov was both fascinated by the general's conversation and flattered that the general had taken him into his confidence.

"But politically, such a move would be dangerous. It would force the Egyptians to have to make one of two bad choices. They would either have to accept a military defeat or bring more forces to bear against us in order to save their surrounded army, and their honor. There is always the danger they might even convince the Americans to intervene. Even without direct military intervention by the Americans, however, we cannot win a long war in Africa." Uvarov turned to look at Neboatov. "You see, the Egyptians are a proud people. So long as they have the means, they will fight to save their surrounded forces. Politically, the president of Egypt cannot allow the 1st Army to be eradicated. So we keep him from having to make a bad choice by allowing the Egyptians to escape. We stop at the border and tell the Americans that politically, we are even. Their surrogates attacked one of our surrogates, and our surrogate defended itself. Common sense prevails, and peace breaks out."

They stood there for a few moments in silence. Neboatov, taking the liberty, spoke first. "I must admit, General, I do not fully understand the dynamics of the situation. But what you say makes sense. Do you believe the Egyptians will see it that way?"

Uvarov was about to answer but paused. In the distance he heard the squeaking and grinding of metal on metal. Tanks!

The commander of Hafez's lead company was surprised to see the small group of armored vehicles clustered on the road. The Republican Brigade's recon company, supposed to be well ahead, hadn't reported any contact. Therefore he reported to Hafez before he gave his company the order to engage. There was, after all, the possibility that the BTR, the BRDM, and the people he saw in his thermal sight were Egyptian.

Responding to the report forwarded to him, Hafez called the Brigade operations officer and asked if the recon company had any vehicles stopped on the road at the coordinates given by his lead company commander. There was a pause while the Brigade operations officer told the Brigade intelligence officer to contact the recon company commander and ask him to confirm the location of his recon elements. The recon company commander acknowledged the order from the intelligence officer and queried his platoon leaders. They, in turn, called each of their vehicles and accounted for all of them and confirmed their locations. Once that was done, the information on the location and activity of all the recon vehicles and elements was passed back up the chain to the intelligence officer. When he had plotted and checked all vehicle locations on his map, he informed the operations officer that there were no friendly recon vehicles at the location given by Hafez. The operations officer passed that information back to Hafez. Calmly and matter-of-factly Hafez reported that he was therefore going to consider the vehicles enemy and destroy them.

Switching his radio to the battalion command net, he ordered the lead company commander to destroy the vehicles. With unmasked glee in his voice, the company commander acknowledged Hafez's order and prepared to order his company to engage.

Uvarov cocked his head, listening to the noise of advancing tanks "Ours?"

Trained as a motorized rifleman and with practical experience in Iran, Neboatov knew tanks. In Iran he had heard Soviet, American, and British tanks up close. A series of bright flashes, followed by the boom of tank cannons firing, confirmed what Neboatov already knew. "M-60 tanks — the Egyptians!" The same training and experience told Neboatov to seek cover. He dropped to his stomach and then looked for some place to crawl to.

Uvarov, transfixed by the sudden appearance of enemy forces so deep in their rear area, remained standing. Another volley of rounds from the approaching tanks found their mark. The night was lit up as the BTR blew up. Turning, Uvarov watched as the armored car that had been in the ditch, and was now halfway out, received two direct hits. Like the BTR, it blew up, throwing off a large ball of fire.

Disappointed that he had not been able to fire at the armored vehicles, the platoon leader of the left flank platoon began to search for targets further to the left. As his gunner traversed the turret, the image of a man standing alone in the desert appeared in the gunner's thermal sight. The gunner called out his newly acquired target to his tank commander. Dropping his head down, the platoon leader saw the target in his thermal viewer. Though not as good as a BTR, at least it was a target. He ordered the gunner to engage with the coaxially mounted machine gun.

Quickly, before the target dropped down or disappeared, the gunner laid his aiming dot onto the man's chest and depressed the button for the laser range finder. The invisible laser beam fired, hit the target, and reflected some of its energy back to the tank. The tank's fire control detected the reflected laser light, measured how long it took the light to return, and translated that information into range data for the ballistic computer. With input from other sensors, a ballistic solution was arrived at and automatically sent to the gun/turret drive system. By the time the commander gave the order to fire, the necessary information to allow a first-round hit was in the system and applied to the gun. Aided by the turret stabilization system, the gunner made a last, fine lay onto the center of the target and squeezed the trigger.

To his and the tank commander's surprise, instead of the rattling and chattering of the 7.62mm coax machine gun, they heard the main gun discharge, driving the breech back out of battery and spitting the spent shell casing of a 105mm main gun round onto the floor. In his haste, the gunner had forgotten to move the gun select switch from the main gun position to the machine-gun position.

Still undecided as to which direction to crawl in, Neboatov heard the crack of a tank cannon, followed by a gasp from the general. Looking up, he watched Uvarov fall over and hit the ground like a freshly chopped tree. Spinning on his stomach like a top, Neboatov crawled over to the general. In the light thrown off the burning BTR, he could see a look of surprise frozen on the general's face. Putting his hand on the general's chest to see if he was breathing, he felt a mass of goo. Carefully he ran his fingers about the wound to see how badly the general was hit.

The wound, however, didn't feel right. Propping himself up to visually inspect the wound, Neboatov was appalled by the sight that greeted him. The main gun round fired by accident had struck Uvarov square in the back. The armor piercing fin stabilized round had ripped through the general's chest as if it had been made of papier-mache. The fins, undeterred by mere flesh and bone, had not fallen off the penetrator. Instead, they had stayed with the round, pulling bits and pieces of lung and heart muscle out the front as they passed through the general's chest.

Pulling his hand away, Neboatov lowered himself behind the general's body. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Unable to do anything but play dead, Neboatov began to wipe his bloody hand in the sand while he hid behind the general's body and prepared to wait for the Egyptians to pass.

The gunner of the platoon leader's tank braced himself just before the heel of his tank commander's boot slammed into the back of his head. As the tank continued to roll on into the night, the commander cursed his gunner, then cursed his luck for having such a stupid man as a gunner. "How can we win," he yelled, "with men who do not know the difference between a cannon and a machine gun!" He knew it was a mistake: the excitement of battle often fostered such errors. But the thought did little to calm his anger.

With the exception of the noise generated by electrical systems and a few hushed conversations, the combat information center of the battleship USS Kansas was quiet. At general quarters since 0030 hours, the tactical action officer watched the clock on the wall of the strike warfare center. To one side the ship's captain watched but said nothing. He had no need to say anything: all was running as planned. In sixty seconds they would fire the first rounds by Americans in the latest Middle East war.

By order of the President, the commander of the 6th Fleet was directed to destroy all surface-to-surface missile units and their controlling headquarters. When announced publicly, the official communique would state that the attack was in response to the use of chemical weapons by the Soviet-Cuban-Libyan forces. Unofficially, the targeting would include headquarters and support elements, which would slow the Soviet advance and buy time for the Egyptian forces to withdraw into Egypt. The USS Kansas was part of that effort. Its target was the headquarters for the Soviet North African Front in Al Gardabah and the headquarters for the Cuban division still located near Gazala.

As the second sweep hand finally finished its climb to the number 12 on the clock, the tactical operations officer issued the order to fire to the plotting room officer. In the main battery plotting room, the plotting room officer pulled the trigger that fired the main battery. There was a momentary pause before the ship shuddered under the weight of nine 16-inch guns firing simultaneously. Topside, the entire port side of the Kansas was briefly illuminated by the muzzle blast.

Ashore, in scattered assembly areas, Cuban soldiers of the division that had remained behind at Gazala were woken by a distant rumble. Those on guard and close to the sea saw the sudden flash out to sea, just over the horizon. All heard the rumbling noise that resembled that made by a freight train that followed shortly thereafter. None knew that the noise passing overhead belonged to nine 16-inch rounds. Four of those rounds were Mark 144 Improved Conventional Munitions rounds, weighing close to nineteen hundred pounds apiece and carrying 666 shaped-charge bomblets. The other five were Mark 143 high-explosive rounds, also weighing nineteen hundred pounds but carrying 160 pounds of high explosive. Each projectile, pushed out of its 16-inch gun by 660 pounds of D-839 smokeless powder, was traveling at 2,500 feet per second, or just under a mile every two seconds. By the time any of those who witnessed the strange occurrence thought to report it, the projectiles had found their target.

There was no warning, no time for the staff of the North African Front to seek cover. In a single, terrible moment, the building that housed the headquarters, and the very ground that surrounded it, were heaved skyward as the rounds from the Kansas impacted. Only a lone Pioneer remotely piloted drone from the Kansas stood witness to the destruction of the Soviet command post. Its infrared eye watched and recorded the incident dispassionately.

Aboard the Kansas the plotting room officer, the tactical operations officer, and the ship's captain watched TV monitors. One second the thermal images of the building where the North African Front was housed sat center of screen. For the briefest moment several streaks appeared on the comer of the screen and raced for the building. Then the screen glowed white as the Mark 144ICM projectiles broke up and scattered their bomblets. When the bomblets and the HE rounds impacted, the screen went white. Before the sudden burst of heat dissipated and allowed the image to clarify, the shock wave created by the explosions of the HE rounds reached the tiny Pioneer remotely piloted vehicle, or RPV. The image on the monitor jiggled as the sailor controlling the RPV fought to regain control of his remote airplane. Once he had it stabilized, he reoriented its camera back to the building that had just been hit. He had difficulty finding it. Panning the area and decreasing the magnification so he could cover a larger area, he flew past the remains of the building on his first try. The plotting room officer called over the intercom to the RPV pilot and told him to hold the view he had. Then he ordered the pilot to scan back slowly. When the RPV's camera reached the spot the plotting room officer wanted to view, he ordered the drone's pilot to stop scanning, then to increase magnification.

As soon as the thermal image flipped on, showing the magnified scene, everyone saw what the intelligence officer had seen. There was no longer a building to find. Instead, there was a very hot spot, made by many tiny craters, surrounded by the warm spoil thrown out of them by the bomblets. Just to be sure, the plotting room officer instructed the pilot to confirm the grid they were observing. As the pilot called out the grid numbers, the tactical operations officer and plotting room officer both checked their target data.

The plotting room officer was overjoyed. "We got 'em. They be history! No one's going to make any calls to Moscow from that phone booth today."

In the strike warfare center, the tactical operations officer looked at the captain. The captain nodded his approval. "Okay — that was a lucky shot. Now let's see if you can take out their alternate command post. I want to nail that Cuban division CP before they realize what happened to the front CP."

"General Boldin, wake up. We have them."

Boldin rubbed his eyes before he opened them. When he did, they were greeted by a sky full of stars. Choking, the general threw off the blanket that someone had put over him and sat up on his cot. Awake now, he asked who it was that they finally had.

The duty officer realized the general's mind was still groggy from sleep. "The Egyptian armored unit. They passed through Taieb el Esem ten minutes ago headed southeast toward the Cuban sector. They have at least two tank battalions accompanied by artillery."

Reaching down for a canteen, Boldin thought for a moment. "Don't we know for sure? Have we received no intelligence from the front?"

The duty officer waited until the general was finished drinking before he responded. "Comrade General, we have had no contact with front headquarters, the alternate command post, or General Uvarov's forward CP since 0100 hours. We have tried all frequencies but have nothing."

Boldin looked at his watch. "General Uvarov has not arrived?"

The duty officer shook his head from side to side.

Boldin thought for a moment. Three and a half hours and no contact from any higher headquarters. On top of that, the front commander, who had been so anxious to see him and had been en route, was also off the net. It would be light in two hours — another day. He couldn't wait any longer for orders. With an enemy force moving through his rear areas, no intelligence coming from higher headquarters, and possibly no higher headquartejs, he had to make decisions. "All right, Captain, I'll be along in a minute. Tell Colonel Pospelov that we are assuming control of the battle for the front headquarters until they, or General Uvarov, come up on the net. Have him pass that word on to the 8th Division and Colonel Nafissi at Libyan headquarters in Tobruk."

The captain saluted, turned, and had started back to the command post when Boldin yelled to him to wait. Spinning about in his tracks, the captain trotted back to the general. Now that he had assumed command, Boldin needed to put out warning orders so that his subordinates could begin their planning. The young captain stood before his general while the general reviewed options available to the 24th in a mind just woken from a sound sleep.

In the end only two made sense to Boldin. They, the 24th Tank Corps and the 8th Division, could remain where they were and do nothing. By doing so, they were allowing the Egyptian 1st Army to escape, since the Libyans could not complete the encirclement themselves. In addition, their current positions were indefensible. The Egyptian armored raid, still in progress, had demonstrated that.

The other option was far more attractive and militarily sound. The 24th Tank Corps and the 8th Division could continue to the coast, seizing Solium and Halfaya Pass. Such a move would block the withdrawal of the Egyptians, put the Tank Corps and the Cuban division in more defensible terrain, and allow them to contact and coordinate operations with the Soviet Mediterranean Squadron of the Black Sea Fleet.

For a moment he considered both options, weighing and debating. The duty officer patiently waited for an order. He knew the general was hard at work, thinking, planning, debating with himself. Such matters, the captain knew, took time.

Unable to seek guidance from any higher authority, Boldin was left with his own thoughts. One thought that kept cropping up had no real tie to the current military situation. It occurred to him that for the first time in his life, he had a major decision to make, one that would influence real events. This was no theoretical exercise, no command-post training exercise. Finding himself faced with such a decision, he considered those who had gone before him, the great military men whom he had been forced to study. Like them, he was faced with the need to make a choice. Of all the generals in history he had ever studied and admired, those who had been bold and decisive stood out. The men of action, able to seize the initiative and act boldly, were inevitably the winners.

In the end his classic military training dictated the option he would select. It suddenly occurred to him that there really had never been a real choice. There was only one right answer. Boldin looked up at the young captain, standing at a relaxed parade rest. "Also tell Colonel Pospelov to issue a warning order to the Corps. All units are to be prepared to continue the attack to seize Solium and Halfaya Pass. To hell with the Egyptians in our rear, Captain. Let's continue the attack to the Mediterranean and see who flinches first."

The general's fighting words brought a broad smile to the captain's face. "Yes, Comrade General. I will do so immediately." Without waiting for the general to return his salute, the captain ran back to the command post, literally bursting in and shouting the long-awaited word that the attack would continue.

The arrival of General Boldin at Nafissi's headquarters and the conversations between Boldin and Nafissi that followed resulted in a change in the relationship between their respective forces. Nafissi, pleased with the sudden turn of events, found new opportunities. The attack by the Egyptian Republican Brigade had been a failure, nothing more than a ride in the desert. Lead elements of the 24th Tank Corps were in Musaid, Egypt, by 0900 hours and were preparing to attack Solium, also in Egypt. Recon elements of the 8th Cuban Division had followed the withdrawal of the Republican Brigade to Sidi Omar and Bir Sheferzen, both in Egypt. With the coastal road severed, the bulk of three Egyptian divisions were encircled with their backs against the sea.

By any measure a great victory had been achieved. Though there were rumblings in the United Nations, Europe, and the United States about the reported use of chemical weapons, only the United States had done anything. Everyone else was waiting for independent verification of the reports. Even the allies of the United States, NATO in particular, were attempting to distance themselves from the action taken and proposed by the United States. One by one the countries of Europe were denying use of their facilities or air space to American forces en route to or operating in Egypt. Even the evacuation of American dependents was affected temporarily when one European government refused to allow military aircraft carrying the dependents to land and the dependents to transfer to civilian charter flights. With such tenuous support for Egypt and its ally, Nafissi felt he could press a little harder, a little farther.

While Boldin was there, Nafissi extracted several agreements from the new Soviet commander. One of them was for control of aircraft flown by Soviet and East German pilots. Nafissi wanted to use them, along with Libyan aircraft, to interdict the flow of Egyptian reinforcements into the Western desert. Boldin agreed to this readily, not knowing the scale of the operation or where Nafissi wanted to conduct the attacks. The second agreement was that Soviet and Cuban forces would contain and eliminate the encircled 1st Army while a Libyan corps of three divisions advanced into Egypt to Mersa Matruh. Again, Nafissi didn't tell Boldin that it was his intent to go further if the air raids he had planned were successful. Mersa Matruh was only an intermediate objective.

In fact, though Boldin left believing he understood his role, he knew only half the plan — the half Nafissi wanted him to know. Boldin concentrated only on the destruction of the 1st Egyptian Army and the restoration of the original border. Nafissi, however, was playing for higher stakes. His gaze was fixed on Cairo and a jihad that would topple the Egyptian government. The defeat of the 1st Army was the first step. Next, Nafissi needed to demonstrate to the people of Egypt that their government could not defend them. The third and final part would be the sweeping advance of Revolutionary Guard units out of the Western Desert, flying the green banner. Their irresistible advance would bring true believers to the forefront and the Egyptian government down — as Mohammed had done over a thousand years before.

"All right — one more time, guys. This time, let's see if we can make it to the door without tripping." Cerro's remarks brought a few nervous chuckles from the thirty soldiers sitting in the red nylon jump seat of the C-130 transport. They had been practicing procedures for making a combat jump, procedures that in less than seven hours they would use for real. Though all had jump training, and fully half of them had made combat jumps in Iran, none were current. The fact was, most of those who had jumped in Iran were in the 11th Airborne Division because it was air assault, not a jump-rated airborne unit.

As difficult as the jump would be — at night, with no backup and little prep time — the actual jump was the least of Cerro's concerns. He knew they would all make it, most of them uninjured. What they did on the ground was a different matter. As First Sergeant Duncan kept reminding Cerro, a collection of thirty soldiers does not a platoon make. The real challenge facing Cerro at that moment was creating an effective organization, with a chain of command and some basic drills that would allow this collection of soldiers to function as a unit. Cerro had therefore spent most of the morning getting to know the men he would lead that night and running some dismounted squad drills along the edge of the runway.

Fortunately their mission, the securing of a refuel point, was simple. Only mission-essential tasks were worked on in the little time they had. Cerro started with squad and platoon defensive operations. When they reached a level of competency in those drills, he ran a few squad attack drills, in case there was the need to conduct a counterattack. Finally, at noon, he ran everyone through some parachute refresher training.

Morale of the soldiers was surprisingly good. Most were glad to be doing something besides sitting in an assembly area waiting for God knew what to happen. One sergeant E-5 even commented to Cerro that his selection to go on the mission was a real stroke of luck: he was behind on some car payments and the jump pay they were promised would help out. Cerro wondered if the young sergeant even considered the possibility that he might not live long enough to make those payments, let alone drive the car.

Ready for the last drill, Cerro went through the jump commands. He watched their procedures. The copilot of the plane, ready for the simulated jump, hit the green light on Cerro's cue. Cerro went out the door, followed by the soldiers shuffling behind him. As they reached the door, each man exited onto bales of rags under the watchful eye of Duncan.

When Cerro had rolled to one side of the rag pile to clear the way for the man behind him, he noticed a lieutenant colonel standing next to Duncan, watching them. Standing up, Cerro took off his parachute and gear, set them down in a neat pile, and walked over to Duncan and the lieutenant colonel.

As he approached, he recognized the colonel as the one who had been in charge of the live fire demonstration on 7 December. Cerro also realized, for the first time, that the children the lady at the embassy had given him must be the colonel's. Coming up to Duncan, Cerro saluted Dixon. "Good afternoon, sir. What can we do for you, sir?"

"I was out here to see that everything was in order and on hand. Your first sergeant has already gone over your training for the day and your schedule from now till lift-off."

Cerro wondered if the colonel was in charge or just visiting as an excuse to get out of some office. "Is there anything in particular that the colonel wishes to see?"

Dixon shook his head no, telling Cerro to carry on with his training. Cerro responded that the practice exit, their third for the day, was the last training event they had planned. The rest of the time before takeoff was going to be used loading their gear, eating, getting some sleep, and making precombat inspections. Dixon noted his approval.

"In that case, Captain, I'll be leaving you to go about your business. No doubt the last thing you need is a Corps staff officer hanging around. Just give a yell if there's anything you need." Dixon was about to leave when Cerro stopped him.

"There is one thing, sir. It doesn't concern the jump. We're ready for that. It's in reference to your children."

Dixon looked at Cerro. The smile disappeared from Dixon's face in a flash. It was replaced by a blank stare. "What about my wife and children?"

Cerro didn't pick up on the change in Dixon's mood, the mention of his wife, or the blank stare. "The children should be in Britain by now. My company had the task of escorting the dependents out of the embassy to the pickup zone yesterday. When your wife gave me the children, I made sure they got on the transports. I sent one of my platoon sergeants with them to the airfield. He turned the boys over to the crew chief of one of the transports. The platoon sergeant stayed with them at the airfield till that plane left."

"And my wife? What about her?" While he may have missed the look in Dixon's eyes as he was telling him of the boys, Cerro couldn't miss the cold, barely controlled rage in Dixon's voice when he asked about the lady.

"Well, sir, I don't know. After she turned the boys over to me, she left. Ran back into the crowd. I assume she went back to her job."

Dixon said nothing. For a moment he stood there, rooted to the ground. His eyes were wide, bulging, and wild. His face went flush, then turned red. His hands, held close to his side, were knotted up so tight that the knuckles were turning white. Cerro was about to ask if there was a problem but then decided that would be dumb. It was obvious that Dixon was as surprised to find out his wife had stayed as Cerro had been when she gave her children to him.

Without a word Dixon pivoted about and stormed off. When he was gone, Duncan turned to Cerro. "Something tells me that the colonel is not happy with his wife."

Cerro looked at Duncan. "Ya know, First Sergeant, that's what I like about you — you're so observant. And quick on the uptake."

Duncan stared at Cerro. "You're lucky you're an officer, sir. Otherwise I'd tell you to fuck yourself, sir. Now, if we could get back to the platoon, with all due respect, sir."

Cerro chuckled. "Temper, temper, First Sergeant." Stepping off toward the platoon, Duncan followed. He signaled to the platoon to form up by making a circling motion over his head as they approached.

Cerro and Duncan had just about reached the assembled platoon when air-raid sirens near the airfield control tower and in the town just outside the airfield began to wail. Stopping, both Cerro and Duncan looked up in the sky, then around the airfield. "Do you think this is for real, First Sergeant?"

Duncan noted the haste with which the Egyptian personnel scattered. "Well, sir, this sure ain't exactly a good time to be messing with drills. We better—"

At the end of the runway, from a position neither man had noticed, the rocket of a Hawk surface-to-air missile ignited, cutting Duncan off in mid-sentence. By the time Cerro and Duncan turned to where the launcher was, the first missile was aloft and racing for its target. A few seconds later, another Hawk missile followed.

Turning to the platoon, Cerro yelled to the men to grab their weapons only and follow him. Duncan stood fast for a moment, making sure they were all going the right way. When the last man had passed him, he fell in behind the group and began to run with them, wondering if Captain Cerro knew where he was going. In front, Cerro was wondering the same thing.

The sudden blare of the sirens caught everyone in the WNN offices by surprise. Looking up from her desk, Fay asked what was going on. Johnny rushed by, headed for the window. "It's an air raid, Mrs. Dixon. Hassan just heard it on the radio. Everyone's supposed to seek shelter."

Fay got up and followed Johnny to the window. He was already there, looking up at the sky. Fay came up beside him and also looked up, then down. On the street below there was a scramble as people ran into buildings, searching for cover. Cars weaved around other cars stopped in the center of the street, abandoned by their drivers, who were seeking shelter. Fay looked around the office behind her. The Egyptians were gone. The other Americans in the office were either standing back against the wall or moving to the window to watch the show.

Nervously Johnny looked at Fay. "Shouldn't we go to the shelter too?"

Fay continued to look. "Johnny, we're news people. Can't get good copy from a hole in the ground." She looked down at the street, then back to the sky. "Besides, Johnny dear, do you know where the nearest fallout shelter is?"

Standing at the 6 October Bridge with the camera crew, Jan was preparing to shoot a piece on the flow of military traffic through Cairo. Behind her, huge tractor trailers hauling tanks were slowly rumbling across the bridge. She, and all other reporters, had been denied permission to go to the front to film the action because of the threat of chemicals. They hadn't even been allowed near the airfields to film the evacuation process. "Too dangerous," they had been told. Jan, being the suspicious type, didn't believe that. No doubt there were things going on out there that neither the Egyptians nor the American government wanted the press to see. So, as in the first days of the crisis, they were back to filming tanks and trucks moving through Cairo. At least this time she and her camera crew had been allowed near the bridge.

Almost ready to start shooting, the cameraman asked Jan to hold up something white so he could color-balance his camera. Taking pages from her script and waving them, she asked if that would do. "Great, love, just great. Now if you could quit jigglin' the bloody thing, we'll be ready in a moment."

She was standing there like that when an air-raid siren not twenty feet from them began blasting. The sound man ripped the earphones off his head, cursing and dancing about as he did so. The cameraman let the camera down to his side and looked up. He turned to Jan. "Looks like we're in luck, love. We're about to get some real action shots."

Jan looked around. "Oh, come on, Tim. You don't think the Libyans are going to bomb downtown Cairo, do you?"

Tim was busy preparing his camera. The sound man, regaining his composure, was resetting the volume to compensate for the screeching of the air-raid siren.

Jan stood where she was and asked the same question, this time in earnest. Tim looked up. "Come on, love. You don't hav' ta be a bleedin' Napoleon to figure out they're after the bloody bridges. Do you think old Nafissi in Tobruk wants to see that tank behind ya knockin' at his front door?" Tim pointed behind him to a tank sitting on the bed of a transporter.

The sound man pointed to something in the distance. "Look— they're firing SAMs!"

Jan turned in the direction where he was pointing. In the distance she saw a white trail of smoke racing skyward. SAM, she remembered, was short for surface-to-air missile. As she watched, a second, then a third missile raced up following the first. They really were under attack.

Racing along at less than one hundred feet, Major Hans Bruchmann, East German air force, struggled for control of his damaged MIG-23. By going low and maintaining an air speed far in excess of what would have been thought prudent in a peacetime exercise, he had survived longer than the rest of his flight of four. Bounced by a pair of Egyptian F-16s before they had even left Libyan air space, two of the MIG-23s had gone down without any loss to the interceptors. Bruchmann and his lone wingman had no sooner cleared that engagement than a pair of Egyptian MIG-21s hit them head on. As soon as both sides had acquired each other, they exchanged air-to-air missiles. In this engagement Bruchmann hit one of the attackers. But the exchange was even, as his wingman was brought down by an Egyptian missile.

As he closed on Cairo, Bruchmann's radar warning indicator began to squawk, telling him that his MIG had been detected by the acquisition radar of an American-built Hawk missile battery. He watched and waited, dropping as low as he dared go. Seconds later the radar warning tone changed, indicating that the Hawk battery illuminator radar was locked on his aircraft. He waited before he took any action to counter the lock-on. As he did, he could feel the sweat roll down his forehead and into his eyes. He fought the urge to react too soon. Nervously he waited for the missiles. Only after he saw the volley of surface-to-air missiles streaking toward him did he fire chaff and take his plane lower, accelerating as he went. For a split second he broke radar lock — but only for a moment. In quick order the illuminator radar locked back onto him. Hitting his chaff dispenser trigger, he let fly another stream of aluminum strips that puffed out of their canisters like ticker tape.

Unfortunately, he let up on the chaff too soon. The missile, momentarily confused by the clouds of chaff, had lost Bruchmann's plane, but then reacquired it when the clouds of chaff slowed and dispersed and Bruchmann's plane did not. Veering back onto an intercept course, Bruchmann discovered his error almost too late. Instead of firing more chaff, he cut his joystick hard and to the right just as the proximity fuse of the missile detonated the missile's warhead.

Most of the deadly fragments flew past Bruchmann's plane into empty space. A few, however, cut through his tail section. The impact almost caused Bruchmann to plow into the ground. Whether it was through instinct, training, or just incredible luck, Bruchmann was able to regain control of the aircraft. Bringing it back to level flight, he once again dove to an even lower altitude and accelerated. Though there was the possibility that he might crash at any second flying in this manner, there was no doubt in Bruchmann's mind that he would eventually be brought down by missiles or aircraft if he flew higher.

In an instant the ground under him fell away. To his immediate front the massive forms of the pyramids of Giza appeared. He was on course and thirty seconds out. Setting his bombing computer on, he slowed and prepared to make a right turn as soon as he hit the Nile. Once he was over the Nile, it would be a short run to the 6 October Bridge and the point where he would release the more than three metric tons of bombs he carried.

East of Cairo, on the high ground overlooking the city and the Nile valley, the acquisition radar of a Hawk battery acquired a new contact. It was a hostile aircraft coming in from the west over Giza, low and fast. Without hesitation, the automated system switched an illuminator onto the new threat and gave the controller a ready-to-fire indicator. Although the Hawk was meant to be a mid-to-high-altitude air defense weapon, the Hawk batteries on the high ground had been ordered to engage whenever possible. Therefore, after a quick check to confirm target and lock on, the controller launched a missile at the low-flying aircraft approaching the city.

When his radar warning receivers picked up the acquisition radar, then the illuminator painting his aircraft, Bruchmann jerked his plane to the right, barely missing a tall building he hadn't seen. As he started the turn, he began to pump the chaff dispenser trigger. He was too close to his target now to be brought down. Only five seconds, no more than ten, to target.

Deciding to check on the radio to see if Jan was all right, Fay walked over to the counter at the rear of the office. Her back was to the window when a jet came screaming around the comer in front of the window. Twisting where she stood, she saw only a blur race by, trailing white puffs right in front of the window. Johnny blinked as the jet went by. "Wow! Did you see that?"

Fay yelled from across the room. "Was there a camera on that?"

"Jesus Christ — here they come!"

Jan pivoted to see where Tim was pointing. There was a blur that appeared to swing in from behind a building. Finished with its turn, the blur turned into the image of a jet as it leveled out and began to dive toward them.

"Well, love, you wanted action shots. Here it comes!"

For a moment Jan didn't understand what Tim was saying. What did he mean? She was about to yell over to him when she saw black objects under the wings of the approaching aircraft fall away. In an instant she realized they were bombs — and she was standing on their target!

The sudden turn caused the illuminator to jerk left to reacquire the target. The radar locked onto the first moving target it found. Illuminating the reacquired target, the Hawk missile made a final course correction onto the cloud of chaff being illuminated just before impact.

The flash of the exploding Hawk missile blinded Fay. It was followed almost instantaneously by the heat of the explosion, sweeping over her like a wave. By the time the shock wave hit her and threw her against the wall, Johnny and half a dozen other people who had been at the window were already dead.

The first missile had no sooner failed to hit the enemy jet than the radar reacquired the correct target. It switched the illuminator away from the now-dispersed cloud of chaff and onto the real target. Ready to fire, the indicator light came on in the control center. The controller checked, then launched the second missile.

Throwing herself against the concrete embankment, Jan squeezed herself into the comer as best she could. Though she knew her life might well end in the next second, she couldn't resist the urge to look up. Rolling over onto her back, she caught the image of the attacking jet screaming across the bridge. The jet, barely clearing it, was suddenly engulfed by a fireball. The momentum of the shattered jet carried it and the fireball over the bridge and out of Jan's view. No sooner had that image cleared than the bombs hit the bridge. The overpressure from the jarring impact hit her like a hammer. In an instant the bridge and everything about her were obscured in a choking cloud of black smoke and dust.

From the edge of the airfield Cerro and Duncan watched the smoke rising over the city. The men of his platoon, unable to find a suitable shelter, were on their bellies in the sand and dispersed in a line on either side of Cerro and Duncan. Expecting an attack on the field, each man had his weapon ready to fire. When his men had dispersed, Cerro noted that the initial attacks were being made on the town. He therefore decided to give a quick, impromptu class on how to mass small-arms fire against aircraft.

To do so, he had to stand out alone, on the edge of the runway, and shout to his dispersed soldiers. At first he felt ridiculous, standing in the open, giving a class while there was an air raid in progress. But as soon as he got into his instruction, he noticed that he had never before seen such attentive students. By the time he was finished, he was really getting into it. At the end of his class, he turned to view the smoke rising over Cairo for a second. Turning back to his platoon, he put his hands on his hips. "Now, gentlemen, if you are patient, our training aids will be along presently and we can go into the practical application phase of this class. Until then, First Sergeant Duncan is going to conduct some on-the-job training on how to dig a hasty foxhole."

The men laughed. Though nervous and fearful, each man in his own way, they felt confidence in the company of the captain and the first sergeant standing before them. Though they never had seen either of them before that morning, the men were ready to follow them anywhere.

Their first attempt to shoot the report failed miserably. Midway through the first paragraph of handwritten script, Jan's voice trailed away as she fought back the urge to cry. Though tired like everyone else, Tim, the cameraman, was patient. Cutting the camera and handing it to the sound man, he walked over to Jan and wrapped his arm about her. He didn't say anything; he just touched her and comforted her for a moment. Jan was just a little shaken. They all were. In less than thirty-six hours the war that was winding down had blown up out of all proportions, reaching out to touch each of them. A brush with death at the bridge had been only the beginning. As harrowing as that had been, none of them were prepared for the news that they were the only members of the WNN news staff to survive the attack unscathed.

Returning to the office, they found emergency rescue crews removing bodies. As the only permanent member of the WNN news staff in Cairo, Jan had to identify each of them. Though Jan, like Tim and the sound man, had seen death, the victims had always been strangers, the subjects of stories. The corpses lined up on the sidewalk outside the building were friends and coworkers, real people Jan had known and lived with for two years. The process was made worse by the condition of some of the bodies. Young Johnny, just learning the trade, could only be identified by the few clumps of red hair that had not been burned away. The bodies of two women had nothing that allowed immediate identification. Never had Jan been so touched by the horror that she had so fervently chased around the world. By the time she finished looking at all the remains, she knew that she would never again be able to look at a news story as nothing but a product to be packaged and marketed. She couldn't.

Only the word that survivors had in fact been found kept Jan going that afternoon. They had been evacuated to the Kasr el Aini Hospital on the north end of Roda Island and to the Anglo-American Hospital on Gezira, and Jan and Tim spent the afternoon looking for survivors from the office. Jan found that task was no easier than identifying the dead. Still, the hope that there was someone left was enough to allow them to continue.

Andy, the sound man, was a veteran of the Royal Marines and the '82 Falklands campaign. While Jan and Tim went about their grim task, he worked on getting the story together. Contacting a friend on the staff of another news agency, he arranged for the use of its facilities to process WNN's story and beam it back to the U.S. With the equipment they had at the bridge and some borrowed tapes, Jan's crew agreed to finish the story for the day with a follow-up. The question of whether they would try to continue to report from Cairo or accept evacuation the next day was left open.

Looking up, Jan inhaled deeply. "I'm okay now, Tim. Please, let's try it again."

Tim looked into her eyes and smiled. "We don't have to carry through with this if you're not up to it, love. Red eyes don't show well on the TV, you know."

Jan gave him a weak smile. "Really, I'm ready. Let's do it before I lose my nerve."

Retrieving his camera from Andy, Tim set up the shot. Ready, he gave Jan the signal to start.

Taking in another deep breath, Jan began. "Tonight, the city of Cairo and communities along the Nile continue to recover from the massive air raids launched by Soviet and Libyan forces this afternoon. Though their targets were military — the bridges over the Nile — the bombs they dropped didn't discriminate between soldiers and civilians. Initial reports of the casualties inflicted continue to grow. By one account, well over three hundred civilians were killed and several times that number wounded in the raids that ranged along the Nile from Cairo to the Mediterranean. In our own news offices here in Cairo, six members of the WNN news staff are dead and four other are hospitalized."

For a moment Jan paused. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she continued. "As terrible as this bombing has been, the news from the Western Desert becomes more distressing by the hour. Confirmation that the 1st Egyptian Army has been encircled at Bardia, Libya, came this afternoon. Soviet forces, in a lightning thrust from the Cyrenaica Desert early this morning, seized the Egyptian town of Solium and the critical Halfaya Pass just inside of Egypt. Supported by at least one Cuban division, the Soviet tank corps that spearheaded the attack pinned the Egyptian 1st Army against the Mediterranean, clearing the way for the advance of Libyan forces into Egypt.

"Destruction of the Nile River bridges has effectively halted the flow of forces from the Sinai to the Western Desert for now. This and the movement of Libyan forces through the Halfaya Pass leave little chance that the Egyptian army will be able to muster the forces necessary to launch a counteroffensive in time to save the 1st Army. Of more immediate concern is the defense of Matruh, the provincial capital of the Western Desert. If the Egyptian forces are unable to halt the Libyan advance before Matruh, few natural obstacles will lie in the path of the now victorious Libyans toward Alexandria, less than one hundred and seventy miles away.

"To date, U.S. forces have remained aloof and uncommitted to the growing conflict. Except for their role in the evacuation, Bright Star units and elements of the 6th Fleet have yet to take an active role in the war. Whether they will be able to do so, now that Soviet forces have set foot on Egyptian soil, remains to be seen. Rumors that the president of Egypt has sent a personal letter to the President of the United States appear to be true. The contents of that letter, and the American President's response, when made public, cannot but influence the course of this war. Until that time, American forces remain postured and ready for any eventuality.

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