Bright Star

Chapter 18

Hours of monotonous driving in the dark were about to come to an end for the men of the 3rd Brigade. The distance from their staging areas west of Cairo to their forward tactical assembly area was less than 150 miles. By car, any one of the drivers in the column could have made the trip in a little under three hours. Moving thirty-five hundred men and over fifteen hundred vehicles in an orderly fashion, however, required that some concessions be made.

For example, each march unit of fifteen to twenty-five vehicles required road space. An M-1 tank — thirty-two feet long, or just under ten meters — requires at least that much road space. Because there was a threat of air attack, the vehicles had to be spread out lest a single air attack destroy many vehicles traveling bumper to bumper. On this road march the distance between tanks was fifty meters, or 164 feet. Thus, an M-1 tank did not take ten meters of road; it took sixty meters. Multiply that times fourteen for a single tank company with fourteen M-1 tanks and that company will occupy eight-tenths of a kilometer, or half a mile, worth of road. The fifteen hundred vehicles of the 3rd Brigade, in column, without breaks, required 90 kilometers, or 55.8 miles, of road space. Every inch of that column had to move down a single two-lane road, a road the Egyptian 2nd Army was also trying to move west on.

Added to the above was the need to travel no faster than the slowest vehicle. It would do no good to arrive in battle with M-1 tanks cruising along at forty-five miles an hour, leaving their ancient M-88 recovery vehicles to the rear chugging along at a breathtaking twenty miles an hour. Finally, throw in a refuel stop — near the end of the road march, lest the tanks move into battle on empty — and you have a snail instead of a jaguar moving toward the Libyan frontier.

Road marches, even under the best of conditions, are hard on men and machines. At night, in the desert, after hours without sleep, and with an increasing threat of combat at the end, they are hell. Even for Lieutenant Colonel Vince Vennelli, commander of Task Force 3–5 Armor, the road march was tiring. He was traveling with A Company, an M-1 unit, that night. When they came to the right turn that led to the tactical assembly area where A Company would stop, Vennelli ordered the driver of his hummvee to pull over to the left and stop. The driver, groggy from the long, slow march, didn't hear him. Leaning over, Vennelli yelled in his ear. "TURN LEFT AND STOP — NOW!"

The driver jerked the wheel to the left, causing the hummvee to throw up a cloud of dust as it spun off the road, then back on. When the driver brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt, the cloud of dust continued forward and shrouded the vehicle. Angered by his driver's ineptness, Vennelli decided to wait until he tended to his personal needs before chewing him out. Stepping out of the hummvee, Vennelli walked around to the right side of the vehicle. Standing next to the right rear wheel, he undid the buttons of his fly and prepared to relieve himself.

On tank A-33 the driver lost sight of the vehicle to his front. Keying his intercom, he called to his tank commander for help. "Hey, Sarge. Where'd the hummvee go?"

Staff Sergeant Jonathan Maxwell looked to his front, then from side to side. To his right he saw a cloud of dust. "Right, Billy. Go right."

Confused, and seeing nothing but a cloud of dust and no road, Billy hesitated. "Where? I don't see a road."

Though he was a good driver, Billy Magee could be dense sometimes. Maxwell keyed the intercom again. "Now, Billy! Turn right-now!"

Jerking the steering T to the right, Billy brought the M-1 around to the right and into the cloud of dust. "Okay Sarge, I hear ya. Ya don't hav'ta yell all the time."

The sudden grinding of tank tracks running through sprockets to his immediate left surprised Vennelli, causing him to urinate on his hands. Stepping back from the hummvee, Vennelli began to stuff himself back in while he looked for the tank that was approaching. From out of the darkness and dust, the fender of a tank emerged and smacked him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground. Looking up, Vennelli saw the dark gray sky obscured by total blackness as the track of A-33 came crushing down on him. Even his screams were smothered by the tank's sixty-three tons.

"Hey, Sarge — did you hear something?" "Like what, Billy?"

There was a pause before Billy answered. "I don't know. Sounded like a scream."

Maxwell pulled his crewman's helmet away from his ear. The cold desert wind howled between his ear and his helmet. He eased the helmet down. "It's only the wind, Billy. Now, pay attention and see if you can catch up to the colonel's hummvee."

Startled by the tank that nearly hit his hummvee, Vennelli's driver picked his head up off the steering wheel and listened for a moment. After the tank passed, there was silence. Though he wanted to move, he decided against doing so until the colonel got back. Vicious Vinnie could be a real asshole when people did things without his permission. So the driver put his head back down on the steering wheel and went back to sleep as the column of tanks continued to grind past his hummvee.

Positioning himself with a platoon of three tanks, Lieutenant Colonel Hafez stood high in the turret of his own M-60A3 tank and watched to the west. There was another platoon of tanks to his right, positioned between the railroad tracks and the coastal road. The bulk of his battalion, what was left of it, was deployed on the high ground two kilometers to his rear. In two days of fighting his battalion had been reduced to seventeen operational tanks. They had more than taken their fair share of the enemy, with a tank-to-tank kill ratio of better than three to one. But it seemed to make no difference. The Libyans kept coming, while relief for Hafez's unit or replacements for his losses didn't.

All day the eighteenth, the Republican Brigade had fought a series of delaying actions. The tank battalions of the brigade took turns setting up tank ambushes on the coastal road. Each battalion in turn set up in hasty defensive positions. When the Libyans came, the tank battalion in ambush would engage them for as long as possible. When the Libyans recovered from the initial contact and began to deploy, the tank battalion broke contact. Once free of the fight, it pulled back to its next position to set up again. In moving back, it would bypass its sister tank battalions, waiting in their ambush sites for their turns to pounce.

The idea of a delay is to force the enemy to stop and deploy, slowing its advance as much as possible without becoming decisively engaged. While the enemy is preparing to conduct a hasty attack, the force conducting the delay slips away. The advancing enemy, left with the battlefield, has to regroup, take stock of the situation, and begin its advance again. The problem for the unit conducting a delay is to get away after the enemy begins to deploy and before it is able to bring its weight to bear on the delay force or outmaneuver it. To prevent a flanking attack, the mechanized battalion of the Republican Brigade was screening to the south, making sure the Libyans didn't slip in behind the tank battalions on the coastal road.

There is a gruesome side to a delay, at least for the force conducting it. Because a delaying unit is always firing, then rapidly moving back, there is little or no time for it to pick up its own wounded or men who have dismounted when their vehicles are damaged. Loss of one's vehicle, for any reason, in most cases means eventual death or capture. The wounded are at the mercy of the enemy, which not only has its own wounded to tend to but, after seeing its own men burned to death or blown apart, may be in a less than charitable mood. There is a natural desire on everyone's part to want to leave a delay position as soon as possible. Thus a commander is faced with the need to inflict maximum delay on the enemy while preserving his own force so it can fight again. That was why Hafez chose to place himself with the element farthest forward. From there he could judge for himself when to commence engaging the enemy and, more importantly, when it was time to leave.

Hafez's plan for this action was to fight the battle in two phases. He had reformed the remains of his battalion into two companies around his remaining officers. The company on the coastal road, the two platoons, would begin the fight. They would handle with ease the combat reconnaissance patrol and the forward security element, if the Libyans had one. When the enemy's main body began to close, Hafez would give the order for the two platoons to make a high-speed run to the east, past the rest of his battalion. The Libyans, seeing the Egyptians run, just might be induced into charging after the fleeing enemy in the hope of destroying them. If the Libyans did so, the second company of Hafez's battalion on the high ground would give the pursuing force another bloody nose.

Though he knew he would make the Libyans pay a stiff price for their advance, Hafez also knew they would not win the war by retreating. The loss of Matruh to the Libyans without a struggle angered him. It was an insult to him as a soldier and an Egyptian. The mere idea of having to flee before the Libyans was repugnant. But retreat he did. To stand and fight outnumbered and die would do nothing to save Egypt. The Republican Brigade had to buy time for the 2nd Egyptian Army to complete its redeployment from the Sinai and stage west of Alexandria. Only when the 2nd Army had completed regrouping would a counter-offensive and relief of the 1st Army, surrounded at Bardia, be possible.

The report that the Libyans were approaching didn't surprise Hafez. Though reconnaissance vehicles from the Brigade's recon company were deployed well to the front of Hafez's position, the dust clouds created by the advancing Libyans could be seen by Hafez himself. It would be another ten, maybe fifteen, minutes before the enemy was within range. In the meantime Hafez passed word to his unit to prepare to engage.

To Hafez the Libyan tanks seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to close the distance between them. Being able to see the enemy at a great distance did nothing to change the range at which the battle could be joined. As the Libyans closed to within two thousand meters of the Brigade's recon elements, the recon leader reported the type and number of vehicles in the lead Libyan formation: four Soviet-built T-55 tanks. Introduced in 1958, and based upon the T-54 tank, the T-55 was obsolete by Western standards. As the T-55 was armed with a rifled 100mm main gun and a simple mechanical fire control system, Hafez's M-60A3 tanks were more than a match. The lack of special armor on the T-55s would allow Hafez to open the engagement starting at fifteen hundred meters or less and take shots at any angle, including head-on. Had the approaching Libyans been equipped with more modern T-72 tanks, the initial engagement range would have been much shorter and Hafez would have needed to maneuver the two tank platoons to where they could get flank shots.

Putting his binoculars up, Hafez watched the Libyans continue to move toward him on either side of the coastal road for several moments. Letting the binoculars down, he looked at his watch, then turned to look at the rising sun to his rear. In a few more minutes the sun would be clear of the horizon. So long as it was low on the horizon, the Libyans, advancing to the east, would have it in their eyes. That would make it difficult for them to see Hafez's tanks both before and after the battle began. He hated to lose that advantage.

Over the battalion radio net the commander of the two platoons reported that the Libyans were within two thousand meters. Keying the radio, Hafez instructed him to hold his fire until the Libyans were within twelve hundred meters. At that range the seven Egyptian tanks would be able to destroy all four Libyan tanks with one volley, two at the most. Quick destruction of the combat recon patrol would prevent the Libyans from reporting with any degree of accuracy. That would leave the follow-on forward security element ignorant as to the exact composition and location of the Egyptian forces blocking the Libyan advance.

The commander of the Libyan forward security element would then be faced with a decision. He could halt and wait until the main body of the following force closed before continuing. That would give the Libyans a fighting chance against any Egyptians they encountered. Another option would be to deploy and conduct a hasty attack with little information on the location and size of the Egyptian unit he was attacking. Finally, he could maneuver his force inland, looking for the flank of the Egyptian force. Of course, he still would not have any information on the location or size of the Egyptian unit he was facing. Not until the Egyptians chose to fire would that be established.

Any way he looked at it, Hafez would achieve his goal. The Libyans would have to slow or stop their advance. His mission — delaying the enemy — would be well on its way to being accomplished. Whether or not his efforts, and the sacrifices of his men, would buy enough time for the 2nd Army, however, would not be known for days. Perhaps it never would.

Standing to one side, Major Neboatov watched dispassionately as the Soviet air force personnel removed the metal casket from the rear of the truck. General Uvarov's body, by order of the Politburo, was going home. The air force personnel were in a hurry to finish loading the transport and return to the safety of their bunker. In the last twenty-four hours, the airfield had been hit twice by carrier-based aircraft and once by naval gunfire.

Neboatov, too, was anxious to get the casket onto the aircraft. As the general's aide, he would escort the casket. Though he was doing so under circumstances that were not the best, any reason to leave Africa at this point was acceptable to Neboatov.

A man could cheat death only so often before his luck ran out.

The night the general died should have been Neboatov's last. Had Uvarov stayed at front headquarters until dawn before going to find General Boldin, as the chief of staff advised, naval gunfire would have gotten them. Instead, the attack of the Egyptian Republican Brigade had taken only the general. Neboatov and the surviving members of the command group were left stranded in the desert for twelve hours as the battle swirled around them. That they survived at all was pure luck. The supply column from the 24th Tank Corps that found them initially mistook them for Egyptians and fired on them.

They were brought to General Boldin's headquarters in Tobruk, located five kilometers from Colonel Nafissi's. News of the deteriorating political situation and staff discussions there did nothing to cheer Neboatov. While arranging for transport of General Uvarov's body, he was able to determine that the political and military situation in the Soviet Union and Libya was at best confused. The sad story started with the ill-advised decision to actively assist the Libyans. It was a decision based on the misreading of the political situation in America and the perceived need to demonstrate the Soviet Union's ability to assist its client states in their time of need. The unexpected use of chemical weapons by the Libyans, coinciding with the introduction of Soviet and Cuban forces, resulted in the loss of valuable support from nonaligned nations and the world media as a whole. The crossing of the Egyptian border by Soviet forces, and the unrestrained advance of Libyan forces toward Alexandria, destroyed the claim that the conflict would be limited to the restoration of Libya's borders.

Finally, complicating this comedy of errors, the Politburo realized — too late — that there was a power struggle between Nafissi and the nominal head of the Libyan government in Tripoli. This placed Soviet forces, as well as the Politburo, in a quandary. Militarily, Soviet forces had to cooperate with Nafissi, if for no other reason than mutual protection from growing American air and naval attacks and, of course, logistics. On the national level, the realization that they were being used, and had no control over the political or military situation, angered the men in Moscow, who had once seen the exercise in Libya as nothing more than a show of national resolve.

Efforts to extract the Soviet Union gracefully from this bottomless pit were being frustrated by increasingly brutal and direct American actions against Soviet forces in Africa. Public opinion, and conclusions drawn from the obvious, drove the Americans deeper into the conflict. Neboatov listened with sinking heart to two senior officers on General Boldin's staff discuss the raid on Al Fasher and the naval bombardment of Soviet positions around Bardia. Casualties to Soviet personnel were high and could not be ignored. On one hand, the Soviet Union could not withdraw its forces from Africa under pressure from the United States: diplomatically, it would spell the end of any Soviet influence in the African continent and jeopardize relations with other allies and client states. Events in the field, however, were outrunning efforts to mediate the crisis. So long as Soviet forces surrounded an Egyptian force in Libya and a Libyan force threatened Egyptian national, and internal, security, Egypt and the United States would not negotiate.

Though there had not yet been a direct military response to American actions by Soviet forces, it was only a matter of time before something had to be done. Nothing had been, or could be, done about the Al Fasher raid. It was over. Actions needed to be taken, however, to protect Soviet forces from air and naval attacks. Use of the Black Sea's Mediterranean Squadron to drive off the ships of the U.S. 6th Fleet was being planned. Neboatov saw little hope for moderation. He listened to the staff officers discuss the timing of those operations and the various options — options that would further complicate efforts to moderate the crisis.

As he prepared to leave, Neboatov knew the worst was yet to come. Once American and Soviet forces began to hack away at each other in a deliberate and methodical manner, the voices of reason would be drowned out by the din of battle. Watching the air force personnel secure the casket inside the transport, he was reminded of an ancient Spartan saying. It was said that when a Spartan mother gave her son his shield, she implored him to return with it or upon it. General Uvarov was coming home on his shield. Would the Politburo tell the Red Army units in Africa the same thing — return home with it or upon it? If so, Uvarov's body would be only the first of many.

No sooner had Scott Dixon walked into the operations room than Sergeant Major London grabbed him and asked if he had been to see the chief of staff yet. With only four hours' sleep and a shower since leaving the command post, Dixon was slow in reacting. Drawing a cup of coffee from a well-used pot in the corner of the room, Dixon looked over to the situation map. He decided it might be a good idea to familiarize himself with the current situation before he saw the chief.

Walking over to the map, he stopped several feet from it. For several minutes he studied the map and sipped his coffee. Even as he stood there, NCOs from the operations and intelligence sections went up to the map and moved red and blue symbols representing units or changed some data written next to a unit symbol. The blue symbols, representing the Egyptian units, were farther to the east than they had been when he had walked out at 0730 that morning. Some red symbols, representing the Libyans, were closed up right next to the blue ones. The delaying action by the Republican Brigade continued. How neat the clean, two-dimensional map sheet and the well-defined symbols made war look, Dixon thought. One could almost believe by looking at the map and listening to briefings given by the staff that people actually were able to control and understand what was happening out there.

Dixon stepped closer to the map to study the terrain where the front line now stood. The fight continued to move east along the coastal road. Little effort had been made by the Libyans to sweep inland to outflank the Egyptians. Speed, and maintaining the solid line of communications back to Libya, seemed to be important to the Libyans. Along the line on the map where blue symbols met red symbols, there was a sliver of space separating the two. That sliver of space, representing the front line trace of friendly and enemy units, looked so inconsequential on the map. Dixon knew, however, that men were fighting and dying in the tiny sliver. In that minute space the neat, straight edges of the opposing map symbols blurred and merged as men and equipment crawled and stumbled about in the desert. The war that the blue and red symbols, neatly taped to the map, represented bore no resemblance to the war being fought by the soldiers who made up those units.

Stepping back, Dixon looked at the location of Libyan units posted on the map. Several units were spread out along the coastal road. Next to each unit symbol was a date and time written in the margin of the symbol, indicating the last time information on that unit had been updated. Seeing that the time on several Libyan units was more than twelve hours old, Dixon called an intel analyst over and asked what those Libyan units were up to. The analyst looked at the unit symbols in question, then at a clipboard where a sheet was maintained for each enemy unit. As she found each, she gave Dixon the reason it had not moved or was moving slowly. In most cases there appeared to be logistical problems. The Libyans, she said, were having difficulty getting fuel forward. In two cases the unit had been caught by naval gunfire. Chewed up and scattered, they had been forced to stop and reorganize.

In a few cases there was no reason. The unit had simply stopped moving forward, and the cause was as yet undetermined. Not surprisingly, Soviet forces had not moved. They continued to besiege the Egyptian 1st Army in Bardia and hold Solium and Halfaya Pass.

Satisfied that he had a handle on the situation, both friendly and enemy, Dixon told Sergeant Major London he was off to see the chief. Fortified with information and a cup of coffee, he was ready to deal with anything the chief could give him — or so he thought as he walked down the busy corridor to General Darruznak's office.

The door to General Darruznak's office was open. Seated at his desk, Darruznak was casually reviewing reports and intelligence summaries when Dixon knocked. Looking up over the rim of his reading glasses, Darruznak paused before motioning to Dixon to enter and take a seat. Standing up as Dixon sat, he walked over to a side table where a small coffee pot sat. There was silence as he poured coffee into two cups. He offered one to Dixon, who naturally took it, and carried his own back to his desk. Dixon could tell that Darruznak was stalling, working himself up to something. He thought he knew, but decided to wait until the general, in his own time, told him why he was there.

"Scott, I'd like to start by congratulating you and your people on a job well done. The raid on Al Fasher not only went without a hitch— its success far exceeded our expectations."

Dixon thought it strange that he should be getting any kind of recognition for the raid. Of all the people involved, he was the least active. As the concept man, he didn't have to fly deep into hostile territory. He didn't have to jump out of a C-130 into a strange drop zone. He didn't have to go eye to eye with Soviet air defense missiles and small-arms fire. It was the trigger pullers that had made it work.

Dixon let those thoughts pass as Darruznak continued. The chief was slow in doing so. He looked at his coffee as he began speaking. "Part of the reason I called you in here was to extend General Horn's and my condolences on the loss of your wife." Darruznak paused. He looked up at Dixon. "I know that there is nothing we can say or do that can possibly compensate for such a loss. In normal times I would insist that you tend to the needs of your surviving family."

Dixon didn't hear what the general said. His words faded as Dixon found himself searching for his feelings — his feelings for Fay. Until that moment he had denied himself any time to consider what Fay's death meant to him. How should he feel? Should he allow himself to be overcome with regret and grief? After all, he had just lost the woman to whom he had pledged eternal fidelity. Should he feel guilt for having so casually violated that trust when he slept with Jan? Or would despair over the thought of losing the mother of his children be in order? Perhaps righteous indignation was more appropriate for a woman who had so callously abandoned her children in a time of crisis, when they needed her the most? And why should he bother pitying a woman who had denied him comfort and understanding when he so badly needed it after returning from Iran?

Slowly Dixon began to wonder if he had become a little less human. Was it that he felt all these things? Or perhaps he wasn't touched by any of them? Possibly it was a little of both. Had exposure to death, both up close and personal and by remote control through the plans he developed, destroyed his ability to deal with feelings? Had he become so callous to suffering that nothing could touch him? Was he treating the death of his wife the way he did any other military problem— identify the problem, analyze all courses of action available, and select the best for the given situation? Was that what he was doing?

As if emerging from a daze, Dixon drifted from his own thoughts back to the present. Darruznak was still sitting at his desk, staring at his coffee and waiting while Dixon absorbed the blow. "I'm sorry, sir. I…"

Darruznak lifted his hand, indicating there was no need to apologize. "Scott, like I said, under normal circumstances I would insist that you go to your family and tend to their needs. But these are far from normal circumstances."

Dixon tried to recall the general saying that, but couldn't. No doubt he had been lost in his own thoughts, allowing that comment to pass over him. Now, however, Dixon gave the general his full attention. There was obviously more to this meeting than the obligatory regrets.

"Scott, this morning the commander of Task Force 3–5 Armor was killed in an accident. As you know, that task force, as part of the 16th Armored Division, is preparing to participate in the counteroffensive." Darruznak paused, sipping at his coffee, before he let the other shoe drop. "In a conversation with General Horn this morning, the commander of the 16th expressed his concern over sending that 3rd of the 5th Armor into battle without a capable commander. Neither he nor the 3rd Brigade commander feel comfortable with the abilities of the XO of that unit. Both feel that it would be unwise to commit 3rd of the 5th unless a suitable replacement for the commander can be found."

In an instant Dixon understood where Darruznak was going. His cautious introduction and slow approach toward the bottom line was unnecessary. Somehow, someone had suggested or recommended that Dixon be that replacement. That was why Darruznak had emphasized his point about these not being normal circumstances. He was setting Dixon up. Without being conscious that he was doing it, Dixon began to shake his head from side to side.

Seeing Dixon's reaction, Darruznak realized that he didn't need to continue, that Dixon had made the connection. "Scott, before you say anything, hear me out. In the first place, we know how you feel. Everyone involved in the decision knows that you turned down command of a task force. They know what happened in Iran and your belief that you cannot lead men into combat again. Finally, everyone knows about your personal tragedy. 1—we — can appreciate the former and understand the latter. But for one moment you have to forget your own personal feelings and problems, as hard as that might be, and look at this the way we see it."

Dixon stopped shaking his head and eased back into the chair. Darruznak leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. "Scott, in a few hours we are going to issue an order to 3rd Brigade telling them to commence the counteroffensive. That plan includes use of 3rd of the 5th. General Horn understands the concerns of the commanders in the 16th Armored Division. He also knows that we cannot afford to delay the operation until a new commander is found for 3rd of the 5th. Nor can we conduct the operation without that unit. Bottom line, Scott, is that 3rd of the 5th goes, with or without you. With you, their chances of coming out of this fight increase."

And what, Dixon thought, brought them to that conclusion? The last task force he commanded in combat didn't come out. Losses were so high that it never again was able to participate in combat operations in Iran. He wondered what perverse logic brought them to the conclusion that he could make a difference at a time when he was unable to sort out his own life. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Sitting up, Dixon looked Darruznak in the eye. "Sir, I cannot, and will not, accept command."

Returning the stare, Darruznak responded, any hint of reasonableness absent from his voice, "And you, Colonel, must understand that we are not asking you. You will assume command of that task force. When that unit crosses its line of departure, you are going to be with it. Is that clear?"

Dixon sat there looking at Darruznak. The general returned his stare. The silence was heavy, oppressive, and unbearable for Dixon. Darruznak broke it. "My aide will arrange for my chopper to take you to the 3rd Brigade headquarters. How much time do you need to get your affairs in order, Scott?"

Though the general was using his first name, his tone had changed; it left no doubt that the conversation was over. There was no room for discussion, no hint of an alternative. Dixon had his orders and was expected to carry them out.

Dixon slowly stood up and brought himself to attention. "Sir, I'll need two hours, maybe less. I need to go into Cairo first."

Darruznak nodded his approval. As Dixon turned to leave, Darruznak called out to him, wishing him luck.

The tan and brown camouflaged Chevy Blazer, called a CUCV by the Army and pronounced "cut-vee," swerved in and out of the traffic. The CUCV was waved through roadblocks and police barricades. Neither Dixon nor the driver, fully armed and in combat gear, had to show any ID or orders. Dixon had figured they wouldn't need to, which is why he opted for the CUCV instead of chancing a taxi. The driver, aware of the prohibition against taking military vehicles into Cairo, had protested. Dixon, however, easily overcame any argument, using his rank and bluff. Though he hated to do either, he was in no mood to mess around and didn't have the time. He really didn't care about the consequences. After all, he thought, what was the worst they could do? Send him to the front?

Dixon ordered the driver to park in front of the building to which the 2nd Corps public affairs officer said WNN had moved. Not finding a place to park, the driver made himself one on the sidewalk, Climbing out, Dixon paused, holding on to the door as he stared at the building. He knew why he had come. What he didn't know was what he was going to do. Telling the driver to wait where he was, Dixon closed the door and entered the building in search of Jan Fields.

His task was not easy. Because its own staff and facilities had yet to be reconstituted, WNN was sharing facilities with another American news agency. Most of the people in the building, and some in the other news agency, weren't aware of the arrangement. One girl finally volunteered to take Dixon to the office the WNN people were working out of.

When they arrived there, Dixon looked about. "Office" was a charitable term for the overly large closet where a handwritten WNN sign hung. In the office there were two desks, three chairs, and some camera equipment. None of the WNN staff, however, was there. The girl told Dixon that someone would be along in a minute. Looking at his watch, he decided to give himself fifteen minutes. After that he would have to leave. Sitting down in one of the chairs, Dixon leaned back and closed his eyes. He was still tired, though not nearly as tired, he thought, as he soon would be.

Dixon was sitting there, back to the wall and eyes closed, when a tall man with long, stringy blond hair walked in. He paused when he saw Dixon. "I'm Tim Masterson, cameraman for WNN. Can I help you?"

Dixon slowly opened his eyes and looked at the man. He seemed familiar. He had seen him somewhere before. Standing up, Dixon extended his right hand toward the cameraman. "Scott Dixon, U.S. Army. I'm looking for Jan Fields."

Taking Dixon's hand and shaking it, Tim remembered where he had seen Dixon. "You're that chap that popped those assassins back on December seventh, aren't you?"

Dixon shook his head. "Yeah, I'm that chap. Is Jan available?"

Tim's friendly look turned into a frown. "I'm sorry. You just missed her. She's already left."

Reaching down and picking up his helmet, Dixon got ready to leave. "Can you tell me where she went? Perhaps I can catch her."

"I sort of doubt that. You see, she's left Egypt. Plane took off not more than a hour ago. Headed for London, then Brussels to cover the NATO meeting. That's where I just came from — the airport, that is. Dropped her off myself."

Dixon stopped and looked at Tim for a moment. In a way he was relieved. He could postpone his problem. For a while, perhaps forever, he could avoid facing something that he wasn't ready to face. Perhaps in time he could face it, but not now. Dixon started out the door past Tim.

Tim grabbed Dixon's arm as he went by. Surprised, Dixon looked at Tim's hand on his arm, then into Tim's eyes. They were serious yet gentle. "For what it's worth, gov'nor, Jan told me she loves you."

Dixon continued to stare into Tim's eyes. They were neither condemning him nor sympathetic. Tim let go, allowing Dixon to continue.

Pausing, Dixon turned back to Tim. "Thanks for telling me. And yes, that is worth something to me. It's worth a great deal." With that he walked out.