Bright Star

Chapter 21

Jan's mood was as dark and as cold as the Icelandic night. Even in the warm and friendly hotel an oppressive pall hung over her, tainting her conversation and clouding her face with a permanent frown. During dinner, in a room better than half-full with correspondents and other members of news teams, the only sounds she heard were the voices in her head telling her that she didn't belong there. Jan's move to the bar after dinner did nothing to shake her gloom or drive her thoughts for long from the one person she wanted so badly to be with, to touch, to hold. The idea that she might never see Scott Dixon again hadn't struck home until she was out of Egypt. Rather than providing an escape, her departure from Cairo only served to drive home to her, and everyone who knew her, how much she was in love.

As she sipped a screwdriver, Jan gave little thought to the short and almost secretive meeting between the American President and the Soviet premier. Though there had been no accord or agreement announced, the feeling was that some type of political solution was in the making. The two world leaders had left, trailing in their wakes rumors and hopes. All official statements and news reports that night were tempered with a cautionary note that much work remained to be done behind closed doors before the world would know if it was to be peace or war.

From the lobby, a tall blond man in his mid-forties entered the bar and looked around. A correspondent for the French National News Agency, he and Jan had once had an affair while she was assigned to WNN's Paris news bureau. Seeing Jan, he walked over and took a seat opposite her. Jan looked up. "I ordered you a scotch on the rocks," she said, indicating a drink on the table.

The man took the drink and downed it clean in one gulp. For a moment he held the glass and stared at it. "You should have ordered me a double." There was only a hint of a French accent in his voice.

Jan hesitated, waiting for him to continue. He didn't. He only sat in his chair, slouched down, looking at the empty glass as he slowly twisted it about in one hand. His silence was unbearable. "Well?" she finally asked.

Moving only his head, he looked up at Jan. "Yes, and no. While I was on the phone to our office in Paris, they were announcing that all crossing points, air corridors, and rail service into and out of West Berlin were still open, but" — he looked down at his glass—"Soviet forces are still very much in presence along the roads and at selected crossing points. Maneuvers, according to the Soviet embassy."

Turning to the bar, he lifted his glass and ordered a double. He waited for the cocktail waitress to bring him his second drink before he spoke again. "What do you suppose your President is up to?"

Jan thought for a moment, then shook her head before answering. "I don't really know, Paul. He's already ordered American ground forces to hold east of Matruh in order to avoid a clash with the Russians at Halfaya. Air and naval operations — at least American air and naval operations — against Soviet and Cuban forces are suspended. There is little more that he can do unless he can convince the Egyptian president to also stand down."

"And what, dear Jan, is the likelihood of that?"

Jan took a sip of her screwdriver before answering. "That depends on how reasonable the Soviets are willing to be. They, after all, have an entire Egyptian army surrounded in Libya. You don't think the Egyptians are going to agree to anything so long as the Russians have them by the—" Remembering how Paul became flustered when women cursed, Jan paused just short of saying "balls." "Well, you know."

Paul smirked. "Yes, I know. And I see your vocabulary has changed very little since Paris…. So you think it is up to the premier? As usual, I disagree. For a start, your President could lift the blockade on Libya. That, after all, is the pretext of the premier's threat to blockade American forces in Berlin and the continued encirclement of the 1st Egyptian Army. No, there is still much room for each side to give."

Jan became defensive, almost hostile. "You know as well as I do, that excuse is only a pretext. What the premier wants is to frighten NATO and the rest of Europe into forcing us to abandon Egypt."

Paul let out a chuckle. "Well, it seems the premier has succeeded. I doubt if there's a politician in Europe that isn't very concerned. After all, our friend from Moscow, in a single, bold move, has told Europe, 'You have a choice — America or glasnost.' If you were a European, how would you vote?"

Her voice rose higher. "Well, I'm not a European, and Egypt is a sovereign nation, not a client state. We cannot simply order them to stop. We can no more control them, ordering them to do whatever pleases us, than the Soviets can control the Libyans."

Paul sat back in his chair, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Janet, don't shoot me. I'm an ally. I understand." He let her simmer down before he asked her again. "What will your President do if their efforts here, whatever they were, come to nothing?"

Jan had calmed down; her response was less hostile. "We will do just as we did in 1948 and 1962 if the Russians really do close Berlin."

Grunting, Paul shook his head in disagreement. "Do you suppose anyone is willing to risk a confrontation with the Soviets over a border dispute in Africa? Do you believe we will casually throw away a decade of economic and political progress between east and west for Egypt? No. We are not crazy."

Jan again changed her tone. She was sure of herself, almost defiant. "If access to Berlin is closed, it will no longer be a simple border skirmish in Africa. The premier, by his own hand, will see to that. Berlin has been a symbol of Western democracy for decades. From the blockade of 1948 to the tearing down of the Wall in 1989, Berlin has been the eye of the storm every time the super powers get nervous. How could you, or anyone, suppose that we would simply roll over? In Europe, we never have and never will. In a single stroke, he'll do what Stalin and every communist dictator after him couldn't." Jan lifted her glass in a mock toast. "Here's to Pax Russia."

Stung by Jan's tone, Paul became agitated. Leaning across the table, he looked into her eyes. "Yes, America has always been willing to face off with the Russians in Europe. After all, if someone makes a mistake, it will be Bavaria, not Connecticut, that suffers."

There was a moment of silence. Both knew they were getting nowhere fast. Finally Jan spoke, her voice soft, conciliatory. "Paul, I'm really not up to this. What does or doesn't happen won't be decided in this bar, not tonight. Besides, we're friends, fellow correspondents. We only look, listen, and report. Remember?"

Letting his expression soften, Paul again sat back in his chair, and finished his drink. He could not, however, resist one last cynical comment. "Yes, you are right. Fortunately, we will not have to spend the entire night trying to save the world. We can go to bed safe in the knowledge that our leaders will steer clear the shoals, just as they always have — n'est-ce pas!"

Jan did not answer. No longer interested in discussing geopolitics, she quietly stared at her drink while Paul ordered a refill for his. Slowly her mind drifted back to Egypt and Scott. Though she knew it had been cruel to leave him like she did, without a word, it was for the best. He had other things on his mind. He, unlike Paul and her, was doing something. Scott was part of the equation, a player in the world drama that Paul and she only watched and reported. For a moment she felt admiration for Scott. At least he did something.

Like a thunderbolt, the idea struck Jan: she could do something too. Rather than sitting in a bar oh a rock island in the middle of the Atlantic and getting drunk with an ex-lover, Jan could do something for herself and Scott. When the crisis in Egypt had begun, Fay had complained that Scott was gone for the duration. Fay went on to explain that as far as she and the children were concerned, Scott had seemed to fall off the face of the earth. Once he was in the field, it took an act of Congress, according to Fay, to reach Scott. If that was true, Jan reasoned, Scott had had little opportunity to check on his children.

Looking at her watch, Jan figured that it was still early afternoon on the East Coast. She could call the WNN main office in Washington and have them track down the phone number of Fay's mother. While they were working on that, she could contact the London office and see about getting back to Cairo. Though it wasn't much, finding out how Scott's children were, then finding Scott and letting him know, was better than sitting in Iceland pining away.

Jan pushed herself away from the table and stood up. Paul was caught off guard. "Where are you going, Janet?"

"Egypt."

Paul also stood up, blocking Jan's exit. "But I thought you and I, later…"

Jan paused in front of him and looked into his eyes. "No, Paul, it's no longer 'you and I.' That's over. It was fun, but that ended years ago."

For a moment there was a hurt expression on Paul's face. He cast his eyes down as he took Jan's hands into his and brought them up to his chest. Holding her hands gently, he looked back up into her eyes. There was a small, mischievous smile on his face now. "No, Jan, it didn't end. We'll always have Paris."

Jan tilted her head to the side and also smiled. As she did so, she looked into his eyes, searching her own soul for some kind of emotion, some stirring of a love long past. But there was none. Perhaps, long ago, Jan had been truly in love with the tall Frenchman standing before her. Whatever it had been, it was gone. Without her realizing it, the smile slowly vanished from her face. When she responded, it was with a quiet, firm finality. "Yes, Paul, we'll always have Paris."

Slowly Paul pulled her hands up to his lips and kissed them. He let them fall away as he continued to stare into her eyes. "Now I am supposed to say, 'Here's looking at you, kid,' and let you walk away to your plane."

"Yes, Paul, I must go." They looked at each other for another second. Then, like a broken spell in a fairy tale, the moment was over. Paul stepped to one side and Jan hustled off in search of the nearest phone.

Dixon sat before the charred remains of the Libyan tank for the longest time. In the bright moon he could clearly make out every detail of a body half hanging out of the driver's hatch on the tank. The man, caught between the half-open hatch and the gun tube positioned over it, had been unable to escape. He had died in the fire that had consumed the tank. The dead driver's teeth and exposed jawbone glistened white in the light of the bright winter moon. The cold desert wind that cut through Dixon's jacket like a knife didn't bother the corpse. Nothing would ever bother it again.

Dixon's tired mind wandered ponderously from one thought to the next. Though he had tried to avoid it, he was at war again. As with the last war, he had not asked for it. And, again like in the last war, circumstances had thrust him into the forefront. Again he had commanded a task force in battle and won. Though losses had been light this time — less than two dozen total, according to Grissins's count— they were still losses. When, with relief and pride written all over his face, Grissins had reported the figures to Dixon, Dixon's only response was curt, cryptic, and cold. Facing Grissins, Dixon told him to add one more. Then, without an explanation or another word, Dixon turned and walked out into the desert.

With Grissins and the task force sergeant major firmly in charge of the recovery operations, and orders to maintain current positions, there was nothing for Dixon to do. Still too keyed up from the day's fight, he wandered about, trying hard to push everything from his mind, but failing. When he came upon the Libyan tank with the dead driver hanging from it, he paused. At first he wondered if he had done that, if it had been his tank that had killed the Libyan driver. His answer bothered him. Yes, he had killed that man. Perhaps not his tank, but his orders, his soldiers, one of them, had.

Sitting down, Dixon studied the corpse. If that was true, he thought, if his decisions could kill, then was he responsible for Fay's death? Was his decision to stay in the Army the root cause of Fay's death? Where would he be right now if he had done as Fay had wanted and left the service? At home, sitting in front of the TV with his children and Fay? That was, Dixon knew, what Fay had wanted: a family, a home, and a husband who came home every night and made love to her once or twice a week. Nothing grand, nothing beyond the grasp of every normal American.

He, however, had chosen a different path. He had marched down it, blind to Fay's needs and desires for years. Submerging himself in a military career, he had dedicated himself to God and country, not always in that order. The cost had been high. In the cold desert night Dixon could feel the cost. Instead of being home, growing old in an obscure suburban home with his wife and children, he was in a desert, six thousand miles from where he had been bom. His wife was dead, his children God knows where. Only the corpse of a man he did not know, one of many that lay in the wake of his life, kept him company.

In his despair Dixon began to wonder where that corpse would have been had he not been there. Would the dead Libyan still be at home, with his family? Or would he be in Alexandria, or maybe even Cairo? And if he had made it to Cairo with the rest of his crew, so what? Dixon didn't live in Cairo. The only people Dixon knew in Cairo were other Americans sent away from their homes, just like himself, to defend American interests.

It was not hard to make the mental leap to the next logical step.

Even as tired as he was, the standard argument "They have to be stopped somewhere, so why not here?" ran through his mind. In his head Dixon knew that to be true. He knew that if he hadn't stayed in the Army, if he hadn't commanded the task force that morning, then perhaps, just perhaps, the battle would have been different. Maybe, just maybe, Dixon thought, he had made the decisive difference. It was possible. Anything was possible.

Yet there was more than defending freedom and the American way that motivated him. He had seen it that morning on the A Company commander's face. After Ken Armstrong and his crew had destroyed their first BMP, there had been joy, a real feeling of satisfaction, a perverse pleasure in having fought and won. In the heat of battle even Dixon himself had felt it. When they had acquired their first two victims, Dixon could have turned away, hiding behind his cloak of command in order to keep from killing. But he had not. Instinctively he had turned to fight. Should he have? Probably not. He was the task force commander. He had responsibilities that transcended a simple tank-to-tank duel. Dixon could easily have left the killing to others. But he hadn't. And when it was over, he, like Armstrong, had savored the kills, his kills.

Still, those thoughts brought little relief or comfort to him. They were not reasons, only explanations. In the end, they changed nothing. Dixon was still sitting alone in the desert, alone with a corpse. And Fay, his only true love, a woman who had given her best years to him and followed him, was dead. No logic, no explanation, no success, regardless of how great it was, could ever change that.

Tired of thinking and staring at ghosts, both new and old, Dixon got up and headed back to his hummvee. He needed to get some sleep while he could. The next morning would bring new missions, new battles — battles that he would have to see through.

Standing at the west end of Solium, General Boldin, along with his chief of staff and aide, stood on the side of the road watching the flood of men and equipment streaming west. The vehicles of Boldin's forward command post were parked a hundred meters to their rear in a wadi. For two hours Boldin and his two subordinates had watched a beaten army retreat past them, blocking the road and preventing him from moving down to the coast. Though they could have gone around, Boldin decided not to. There was no need, he told his aide, to hurry forward to find the front. The front, he said, would no doubt find them in due course.

As he watched, Boldin could feel his sense of foreboding and depression deepening. Defeat and collapse of the Libyan forces eradicated all hope for a quick and favorable solution. It also meant that his Soviet and Cuban units would have to carry the brunt of the next battle. That there would be another battle was a given. Boldin could see no way out of one. It was only a matter of where, when, and how. The where and how should have been matters left to Boldin and his staff. That, however, was not the case. To Boldin's disgust, men in Moscow would make those decisions. How they, over three thousand kilometers away, would be able to do that was beyond Boldin. That they could imagine that they could added to his feeling of depression and to a growing sense of hopelessness. Instead of being a front commander, Boldin pictured himself reduced to a simple messenger boy, passing information, what little he had, back to Moscow and waiting for his orders.

For hours information concerning the exact whereabouts and activities of Libyan and Egyptian forces had been scant and confusing. What information came into General Boldin's headquarters came from satellite photos hours old, from confused and wild stories from Libyan soldiers fleeing to the west, and from their Soviet advisors. While the satellite photos provided great details and identified a large Egyptian armored force moving down the coastal road, they did not tell Boldin what was happening on the ground. Other than the fact that the Libyan forces in Egypt had collapsed, Boldin knew little. Needing information, he ordered reconnaissance units from the 24th Tank Corps further into Egypt, establishing an outpost line from Sidi Barrani on the coast to Bir al Khamsa eighty-two kilometers inland. They would at least give Boldin warning of an Egyptian or American advance.

Though communications with Moscow were better, the news from the outside world was also confusing. One message announced, rather matter-of-factly, an increase of tension in Europe along the inner zonal border between East and West Germany. At first Boldin took this to be an escalation, but to what end he did not know. Following that message Boldin received his first warning orders. STAVKA wanted all Soviet and Cuban forces to prepare for withdrawal from Egypt to a line east of Tobruk. Not believing them, Boldin immediately asked for a confirmation of that order. To carry out that order meant that the Egyptian 1st Army, still encircled in Bardia, would be uncovered and free to join the advancing units of the Egyptian 2nd Army.

With only two understrength Cuban divisions, the four brigades of the 24th Tank Corps, and three weak Libyan battalions, Boldin would be faced by almost five Egyptian divisions. Even worse, the line he was supposed to occupy could not be defended. In short order Boldin's force would be outflanked and pinned against the sea, in much the same way he had trapped the Egyptian 1st Army. Believing he saw the situation better than STAVKA did in Moscow, Boldin waited to issue any withdrawal orders. Instead, he submitted two alternate plans to Moscow. The first called for a total withdrawal from Cyrenaica all the way back to Agedabia, where he could establish a viable defense. The distance would also stretch the Egyptian supply lines beyond their limit and wear out the combat units in the process. In effect, Boldin's recommendation was to retreat faster and further than the Egyptians could follow.

The second option was to stay in place and fight it out. One Cuban division, reinforced with the Libyan battalions, would be left to maintain the encirclement at Bardia. The second Cuban division would hold a line from the coast to Bir Sheferzen. The 24th Tank Corps, held back as a mobile reserve, would be used to counterattack any Egyptian penetration of the Cuban divisions or a flanking movement south of Bir Sheferzen. This plan meant, of course, keeping Soviet forces in Egypt.

While they waited for the response, Boldin did order the withdrawal of Soviet air defense, electronic warfare, and service support units from Sidi Barrani. Advisors still with Libyan units retreating from Egypt were also recalled. Those tasks, however, were easier said than done. Although the retreating forces were no longer plagued by brutal shellings from the American fleet, Egyptian destroyers and frigates had moved in to take their place. Requests to have the Soviet Mediterranean Squadron intervene and cover the withdrawal were denied. That left movement along the coastal road slow and still dangerous. With no control over the panicked mob of refugees that had once been three Libyan divisions, complete evacuation of Soviet personnel even to Halfaya was doubtful. In a follow-on message, Boldin informed Moscow that regardless of what decision was made, a large number of Soviet personnel would fall into the hands of the advancing Egyptians.

From out of the darkness a young staff officer came scurrying up to Boldin's small party. Instinctively he reached out to hand the chief of staff a message. Upon seeing Boldin, however, the staff officer paused, pulled the message back, and turned to Boldin. Then, pausing again, the officer looked back to the chief of staff while he prepared to offer the message directly to Boldin. Tired and depressed, Boldin simply reached out and grabbed the message from the staff officer's hand, crumbling the paper as he did so. As Boldin pulled at the edges of the message to straighten it out, his aide came up behind him, flicked on a flashlight, and pointed its beam over Boldin's shoulder onto the paper.

Boldin read, then reread the message. Everyone in the small circle stood motionless, almost not daring to breathe as they watched him and waited for his reaction. That response was not long in coming. Letting out a grunt, Boldin lowered the hand holding the message to his side and looked up at the sky. Boldin's aide extinguished his flashlight and quietly backed away. It was several minutes before Boldin moved, looking at the chief of staff as he offered the message to him. "Well, instead of reinforcements, spare parts, ammunition, and fuel, Moscow is sending us a new political commissar to make sure we retreat in accordance with STAVKA's orders."

The chief of staff took the message. Lighting it with his own flashlight, he read it. The first part of the message confirmed STAVKA's earlier message requiring the North African Front to establish a line of defense east of Tobruk. The next portion of the message set a time for when that deployment was to be completed. The final portion of the message announced that a representative from STAVKA, equal in rank to Boldin and with direct contact with STAVKA, would be arriving in Tobruk at 0800 hours that morning. Boldin, the message went on to say, was to give copies of all his orders to the STAVKA representative, provide him with transportation and communications facilities, and consult with him before issuing any orders. In effect, Boldin would no longer be in command.

By the time the chief of staff finished reading the message and looked up, Boldin had walked away from the group. Turning to the aide, the chief of staff asked where Boldin had gone. The aide only shrugged his shoulders. The chief of staff ordered the aide to find Boldin and stay with him, then turned to the staff officer who had come with the message. "Well, there is much to do."

As they began to head to the command-post vehicles, the staff officer asked if the message meant that General Boldin had been relieved of command. Unsure of what the future would bring, the chief told the officer that such things were not his concern. Stung by the chief of staff's response, the staff officer slowed his pace slightly and followed the chief of staff back to the vehicles.

Steadying his arms on the fender of one of his tanks, Lieutenant Colonel Anatol Vorishnov studied the British Challenger tank with his binoculars. With him was his deputy battalion commander and the company commander who commanded the T-80 tank they were standing next to. The T-80, like the Challenger, was sitting off to the side of the autobahn. It didn't block the traffic moving through the checkpoint, but it was situated so that it was very visible to everyone. Both tanks had their gun tubes leveled and aimed at each other. Neither was meant to stop any serious intrusion. Instead, they were showpieces for the Western media gathering around the British tank. By that evening, the image of a British tank confronting a Soviet tank in central Germany would be seen on the television in every living room and public gathering place in Western Europe. The message to the viewers would be clear: support of America and Egypt would mean the resurrection of the Iron Curtain.

Vorishnov had been with his battalion less than a month. The deployment from their garrison to positions on the East German side of the checkpoint was the first opportunity he had to move the entire battalion at once. Though he had hoped for better, the performance of his officers and soldiers had not been all bad. All but three of his tanks reached their assigned positions under their own power. Of the three that had broken down en route, two were already repaired and with the unit. Timetables had been met, and positions had been occupied in the darkness even though there had been no recon beforehand. This, in spite of the fact that the sector they were in belonged to another unit, more than made up for some of the sloppy load plans on several of the tanks.

Vorishnov and his deputy commander had been up well before daylight, walking the positions to check on camouflage. Once it became light, they went back through the positions, checking to ensure that there were no blind spots or dead spaces in their fields of fire. It was wrong to call the transition from night to day "sunrise." Although the sun no doubt was shining above the leaden gray clouds, no wanning rays penetrated. With the temperature hovering just below zero degrees centigrade, the clouds prepared to yield snow upon the positions Vorishnov was inspecting.

They were halfway through, inspecting the company that straddled the autobahn, when the British camera crews arrived. Stopping, Vorishnov decided to watch for a while. They were still watching when a lieutenant came trotting up behind him and announced that General Korchan was en route to their position. Putting his binoculars down, Vorishnov prepared to go and meet the general. Turning, he was surprised to find himself face to face with Korchan, commander of the 3rd Combined Arms Army. Automatically Vorishnov came to attention, saluted, and reported. "Lieutenant Colonel Vorishnov of the 2nd Battalion, 79th Tank Regiment, Comrade General."

Korchan's salute was casual and accompanied by a broad smile. "Well, I am glad to see that you took my little speech to heart." Upon his arrival in Germany to command his battalion, Vorishnov had been required to visit Korchan and receive the standard briefing he gave all new unit commanders. Rather than being a cold and formal briefing, filled with a standard party pitch or an appeal to patriotism, Vorishnov's meeting with Korchan had been enjoyable. The general's easy, quiet manner had immediately put Vorishnov at ease. The talk, more a discussion, was also easy and informal. For his part Korchan stressed the need to set the example in everything, leading his men instead of driving them. The Red Army, he had said, was changing. To make the new professional army work, a leader not only had to be proficient in tactics and technical matters; he had to lead from up front, pulling, not pushing. This appealed to Vorishnov.

As he had at their first meeting, Korchan put Vorishnov at ease. "After your lecture to me, Comrade General, I would not dare be anywhere else."

Korchan laughed. "Yes, I suppose so. Come, show me what our British colleagues are up to."

Vorishnov took the general to the vantage point he had just left. The battalion deputy commander and company commander hung back, letting Vorishnov deal with the general. From the position next to the T-80 tank, Vorishnov explained what he knew of the British dispositions, pointing them out whenever possible. He followed that with a summary of his unit's actions from when it was notified to move out and how he had deployed his companies. Korchan only nodded his head every now and then as acknowledgment while he continued to survey the British across the harriers and barbed wire.

When Vorishnov had finished, Korchan turned away from the British and faced Vorishnov. Korchan's face was serious now, his voice all business. "You and your unit are in a highly visible spot. This deployment, this whole exercise, is for show. You must remember this. I do not expect anything major to happen. All the confrontations will take place across the conference tables. That is not our business. What is our business is to show the rest of Europe that glasnost has not weakened our resolve or our willingness to act appropriately when necessary." Korchan paused, allowing that to sink in before he continued. When he did, he eased his tone slightly. "This will all be over in four, maybe five, days. Unfortunately, I doubt that what we do here will help our forces in Libya. There is nothing we can do to improve that mess. At worst, when it's over, we will tear up some road, crush a few curbs, and chum up some farm fields. The politicians will get serious for a while. The African matter will be resolved, while the merchants can resume their trade. Do you understand, Comrade Colonel?"

Vorishnov nodded. Turning back to the British, Korchan and Vorishnov watched them through their binoculars while the British, in turn, watched Korchan and Vorishnov. Satisfied with what he saw of Vorishnov's unit, Korchan took his leave, moving on to the next unit to be inspected.

As soon as the general left, Vorishnov's deputy commander came up and asked what the general had said. Vorishnov, with a blank expression on his face and a stem voice, replied, "The general wants you to look sharp and smile when the British news crews film you." With that he turned and walked over to the customs building to get some hot tea and warm up.

After crawling out of his pup tent, Cerro stood erect and stretched. On one hand he was disturbed that his first sergeant had let him sleep in, but at the same time he was glad: a person could deprive himself of sleep for only so long before it caught up with him. Last night Cerro had discovered his sleep debt was overdrawn and was demanding payment in full. He went down like a ton of bricks at 2030 hours and didn't stir until the rumble of tanks woke him at 1230 hours the next day.

Scratching himself as he looked about, Cerro pondered what he should do next. As his right hand made its way up to take care of an itch on his cheek, he felt the stubble of a well-developed beard. It was time for some personal hygiene. Turning around and dropping down to his knees, Cerro crawled halfway back into his tent and began to rummage through the gear strewn haphazardly about in his tent. As he found his shaving kit, his two-quart canteen, a washcloth and a small towel, and an empty .50-caliber ammo tin he used for washing, he threw them out of the tent. Finished, Cerro backed up and out of his tent, turned around, and sat on the ground, gathering up and organizing the items he had thrown out. Setting the ammo can firmly on the ground, he poured the better part of a quart of cold water into it. Opening the shaving kit, he pulled out his soap, shaving cream, metal mirror, and razor. Ready to start, Cerro stripped down to his waist, carefully hanging his Goretex field jacket, BDU shirt, and thermal underwear shirt on the front pole of his tent. Though he was cold, the need to clean up overrode the natural desire to stay warm. Besides, there was nothing like a good, cold bath and shave to shake off the cobwebs after a long night's sleep.

Cerro had just lathered up and was preparing to start shaving when First Sergeant Duncan came up to him and shouted out a cheerful "Good morning, sir."

Cerro's response was less than enthusiastic. "First Sergeant, someday you're going to get a commander who doesn't understand your slightly perverted sense of what is right and wrong," he said, without looking up from the small mirror he held in his left hand.

Duncan chuckled. "Now come on, Captain, tell me that you didn't need the extra sleep. Besides, what makes you think you're the only guy in this unit that can make it work?"

Waving his razor at Duncan, Cerro repeated his warning. "Someday, First Sergeant, someday."

With their small talk out of the way, Duncan began to give Cerro a quick rundown on what the company had done that morning and what he had planned for the afternoon. He had just gotten to discussing the rumors about redeployment when another company of tanks came rumbling into the assembly area of the desert. Turning around, Cerro looked at them for a moment. "What are the treadheads up to, First Sergeant?"

"That's the 3rd of the 5th Armor, the tank unit that tore that Libyan armored brigade a new asshole the other day. They're just coming in."

Grunting, Cerro turned around and continued to shave. "Well, there goes the neighborhood."

As the column began to slow, Dixon surveyed the sprawling assembly area from the cupola of his tank. There were tents, trucks, tracked vehicles and equipment all over. In a way the sight was disturbing. Dixon always expected organization and order. Whenever he came across confusion and disorganization, his gut would tighten and his blood pressure rise. On the other hand, the sight was reassuring. The closeness of the camp indicated that no one seriously expected a continuation of hostilities. The setup before him was that of a unit preparing for a peaceful redeployment.

That arrangement suited Dixon just fine. After a week in the desert he was ready to stand down. During the long road march to Matruh, one Dixon had opted to make on his tank, he had continued to ponder his future. There was much to consider, but he had little to go on. Whatever happened to him rested in the hands of people he barely knew or had never met. Dixon had begun to list the possibilities but soon gave that up as futile. Perhaps he would be asked to retain command of 3rd of the 5th and redeploy back with them to Fort Carson. An equally possible scenario was his reassignment back to Cairo as the assistant operations officer with the 2nd Corps (Forward). Then there were wild cards galore that the Department of the Army could play, such as reassignment to a training command slot. On top of this there were family considerations. Dixon needed to get back to his children, wherever they were, as soon as possible. The loss of their mother and readjustment to a single-parent family were going to be tough for them regardless of what the Army did.

And then there was Jan. The mere thought of her overwhelmed Dixon with feelings and thoughts that were contradictory and, at the same time, arousing. In his mind's eye he could still see her naked body lying in her bed. He could almost feel the warmth and softness of her skin under his hand. Perhaps it was nothing more than sheer animal attraction. But it was something that he could not easily pass off or forget. Eventually, Dixon would have to face Jan, like everything else, and decide.

The sudden halt caught Dixon off guard, throwing him forward.

Grabbing the machine gun, he steadied himself and began to look about in order to discover why they had stopped. Up ahead was Major Grissins, the task force XO, directing tanks to the left and into a line. Sent ahead as an advance party, Grissins was greeting each column as it came in and directing it to its own motor park and assembly area. Deciding that there was nothing more to be gained from playing tank commander, Dixon called to his gunner to come up and take over while he dismounted and became task force commander again.

Slowly, carefully, six Egyptian infantrymen made their way forward in two lines, removing mines from their path as they did so. Fifty meters behind them, their M-113 armored personnel carrier followed. In the open hatch, a soldier manning the caliber .50 machine gun surveyed the horizon, watching for any sign of enemy activity. Two hundred meters further back, half a dozen M-60A3 tanks of the Republican Brigade sat in shallow fighting positions. They, too, were watching for the enemy.

Standing on the top of his tank's turret, Colonel Hafez watched the progress of the infantrymen through his binoculars. They were being too careless in their clearing of the abandoned Soviet mine field. Though it was a hasty, surface-laid mine field, the Soviets always managed to booby-trap some of the mines. At the rate his infantry was going, they would eventually stumble across such a booby trap.

He knew their slow and laborious progress was due mostly to exhaustion. Hafez's entire unit, like the infantrymen in the mine field, was exhausted, near collapse, and becoming careless. Even he felt the effects. His ability to think, reason clearly, and react were definitely impaired. The fact that he had not yet taken action but was merely watching his men stumble about in the mine field, taking no precautions to guard against booby traps, was ample evidence that Hafez was losing his ability to continue.

In the last seventy-two hours they had advanced over two hundred miles, mounted an attack, and repulsed a counterattack. In the process they had expended all but a handful of tank main-gun rounds and run their tanks and personnel carriers dry of fuel. Even if his men could muster the courage and determination to repulse another attack and Hafez, somehow, managed to sort out the situation and issue appropriate orders, they really didn't have the means to do so.

As if his very thoughts brought his worst nightmare to life, an excited message reported the approach of a column of tanks from the west. Shifting his gaze from the infantrymen to the horizon, Hafez began to sweep it until he saw the clouds of dust. Dropping his binoculars for a moment, he looked around in order to get his bearings. The distant column was approaching from the north, not from the south as a Soviet attack would come. Since the report had not identified the tanks by type, Hafez bent over and grabbed his tank crewman's helmet. Keying the radio and speaking into the-boom mike attached to the helmet, he warned all units to hold fire. No one was to engage the approaching tanks until they had positively identified them as enemy. They could just as easily be tanks of the 1st Army coming out to greet them.

When all commanders acknowledged his warning, Hafez put the helmet down. Calling to his loader, Hafez told him to pass the two green star clusters up from the storage rack in the turret. Used for signaling, two green star clusters fired by one force would be answered by a green and red if the approaching tanks were Egyptian. Deciding that it was better to establish now if the tanks were friendly rather than wait until they were on top of them, Hafez fired the star clusters in quick succession.

Once he had let the last star cluster go, he stood up and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. The immediate response of the approaching tanks was a sudden change of direction. They were now headed straight for him. Then the lead tanks slowed, almost stopping. This caused Hafez's heart to sink. Not only had he been wrong, he had helped the enemy locate his force. Letting his binoculars fall down around his neck, Hafez was about to jump down into his open hatch and prepare to fight when a green star cluster erupted from the third tank in the approaching column. He paused, looked, and waited to see what color star cluster, if any, followed. The wait was unnerving. Though it was only a matter of seconds, it seemed like an eternity to Hafez.

In the early-evening darkness, a second star cluster erupted from the same tank that had fired the green star cluster. When the rising pyrotechnic exploded into a brilliant red shower of sparks, there was a moment of silence. Then, from everyone in the Republican Brigade who saw the two star clusters, a spontaneous cheer went up. It was over. They had finally accomplished what they had failed to bring about seven days before — the salvation of the 1st Army. That the war might continue was unimportant to him. Perhaps his unit would have other battles to fight. Perhaps they would lose in the end. Hafez knew that anything was possible. But even if they did fight, and he died, he would die secure in the knowledge that the shame of his treason had been expunged. His success as a soldier would be remembered, not his failings as a man.

While she waited for the red record light on the camera to come on, Jan prepared herself. She was anxious to finish shooting the piece tonight. As soon as they did, Jan and her camera crew were slated to catch a military helicopter flying to Matruh. With the conflict winding down and the dangers diminished, the public affairs officer for the 2nd U.S. Corps had granted permission for correspondents to go forward as far as Matruh. There, on Christmas Day, while other correspondents were touring the battlefields, Jan and her crew were scheduled to interview the soldiers of the 16th Armored Division and 11th Air Assault Division as they prepared to leave Egypt. When offered the choice of the tour or the interviews, Jan surprised everyone by taking the interviews. Only Tim, her cameraman, understood why she had done so.

Knowing that Scott didn't expect her, she intended to surprise him by going to his unit first. No doubt Scott would be glad to hear that his children were safe with Fay's mother. And if one thing should lead to another, as Jan hoped it would, she could count on Tim and the sound man to make themselves scarce. Though she considered the possibility that Scott might not feel the same for her as she did for him, Jan had to go. She had to find out if her love was a one-sided affair. If it was, things could be embarrassing. But Jan was ready for that. At least she had convinced herself that she was ready.

"Ten seconds, love." Tim was ready and so was Jan. Counting down from ten, Tim began to roll as soon as he hit "one." The red light was on and so was Jan.

"Tonight, on Christmas Eve, it appears that the world will be given the gift that the birth of a poor boy in Bethlehem two thousand years ago promised — peace. Less than an hour ago the Egyptian minister of defense announced that elements of the famed Republican Brigade made contact with units of the 1st Egyptian Army surrounded since December 18th. The minister went on to say that with the destruction of the Libyan field force in Egypt and Cyrenaica and the relief of the 1st Army, all military goals and objectives had been achieved. When asked by this reporter when we could expect to see Egyptian forces withdrawn from Libya, the minister responded by saying that units of the 1st Army would begin moving back into assembly areas in Egypt tonight. He further stated that all forces would be back on Egyptian soil within forty-eight hours.

"Despite the fact that some type of compromise was expected due to the pressure applied by the American government on the Egyptian, the mood here is one of victory and great joy. Though the Egyptian forces did not seize Tobruk, military experts have rated the performance of the Egyptian military, at all levels, as good. Some foreign experts are now saying, in light of Egyptian performance, that intervention by U.S. forces was unnecessary. Even if that is so, the Egyptian government is not downplaying the role American forces played. Every Egyptian official I've talked to today has had nothing but praise for the performance and assistance the Americans gave in, as they say, 'their time of greatest need.'

"That sentiment has resulted, according to one official in the American embassy here, in a win-win-win situation that has made the compromised end of this conflict possible. For the Egyptians, victory on the battlefield, the destruction of four Libyan divisions, and finishing their operations on Libyan soil gives them a clear tactical victory. This allows them to end their punitive operations in a manner that fits their stated prewar goals.

"For America, though the intervention of U.S. forces was of short duration, it came at a critical time. Operations involving American troops appear to have been a key element in turning back the Libyan threat to Alexandria and allowing the Egyptians to mass for and launch their counteroffensive so quickly. If that is so, then the Department of Defense will also be able to claim tactical victory of its own, using this conflict to prove that it is able to rapidly project combat power anywhere, anytime. In addition to the military aspect, both the administration and the State Department will, in the future, be able to use this operation to demonstrate that the United States is ready and willing to stand by its friends and allies when needed.

"On the other side, the Soviets can do likewise. Though the Libyan forces were defeated, once in the opening Egyptian attack and again during the Egyptian counteroffensive, the Soviets can point to their allies and claim victory. The speed with which the Soviets massed forces in Libya, and their willingness to use them to support a third-world country, came as a syrprise to most Western military analysts. Like the American intervention, though limited, it too had a decisive influence on the shape and outcome of this conflict. As the British military attache in Cairo said earlier this evening, it is safe to say that had the Russians not been in Libya, the Egyptian 1st Army would have been washing the dust of Cyrenaica off their tanks with water from the Gulf of Sidra.

"Of the major players, on the surface the Libyans seem to have lost. That, however, is only a matter of one's perspective. According to news broadcasts from Tripoli, the capital of Libya, the announcement by Egypt that its forces were withdrawing was hailed as a decisive victory for Libya. In a speech to his people, the Leader of the Revolution has claimed that had it not been for the treasonous acts of Colonel Nafissi, Libyan minister of defense and commander of all forces in Cyrenaica, total victory would have been realized. Charged with the illegal use of chemical weapons and mismanagement of the defense of Cyrenaica, Nafissi has been arrested. In order to absolve the government of Libya of blame for their army's poor performance, Nafissi will be used as a scapegoat, receiving a quick public trial before he is found guilty and executed.

"Tonight it is too early to determine what effects this conflict will have on Middle Eastern and world politics. It will be weeks before the dust settles and the causes and results can be carefully studied, measured, and weighed in the capitals of the world. All that, however, is of little concern here and in Matruh, where Americans who fought this war await their return to the United States. Though separated from their home and family, most, if not all, have been given a Christmas gift that only a soldier who has seen battle can appreciate — peace.

"From Cairo, this is Jan Fields for World News Network. Goodnight, and merry Christmas."