Bright Star

Chapter 2

The journey from Kassala in the Sudan to Gondar, Ethiopia, had been a hard one for Kinsly and his men. In eight days they had covered the 150 kilometers, or 92 miles, straight-line distance from the drop-off point north of Gallabat on the east bank of the Atbara River on the border of Ethiopia. The march had been uphill all the way, with the drop point being a thousand feet above sea level and the target, an airfield at Gondar, a little more than seventy-five hundred feet above sea level. Carrying weapons, a full combat load, and three weeks' rations while traveling only at night over broken and rocky terrain in a hostile country had been no easy feat. But they had done it — and without a single mishap or contact of any kind.

Kinsly had been concerned about the men, his own and the Sudanese. He shouldn't have been — they were tough and ready. Each American Green Beret in Kinsly's A Team, Kinsly included, was a volunteer and a veteran of either the war in Iran or antidrug operations in Central and South America. Some, like Sergeant First Class Hcctor Veldez, were veterans of both. The Sudanese, now clad in shoddy, faded uniforms similar to those of the Eritrean rebels, had been toughened by an unending guerrilla war. Despite an appearance that reminded Kinsly of men on the verge of starvation, in a fight they were, man for man, every bit as capable as Kinsly's own.

What really bothered Kinsly during their quiet march toward the Ethiopian airfield was the realization that he had lost faith in himself and what he was doing. When he had volunteered for Special Forces, he had done so for the simple reason that he wanted to be on the cutting edge — out in the boonies, making things happen. Special Forces, he had been told, would make a difference. "We go in when the war is small," Dedinger had told him during his initial in-brief, "and we keep it small." While there was some merit in what the colonel said, eight months in the Sudan, training and advising a counterguerrilla unit, had convinced him not only that he was in the wrong place but that he was there for all the wrong reasons.

The glamour of special operations, training "indigenous" personnel to defend themselves and being where "the action" was, had faded in the harsh conditions, rank poverty, and confused political situation of the Sudan. The savage civil war that had no discernible beginning and no foreseeable end completed the ravage of southern Sudan. It didn't take Kinsly long to realize that the Sudanese had been killing each other before he came and would no doubt keep on doing so after he had left. The Sudanese government itself was walking a picket fence, attempting to keep the communists out of power without seriously offending their powerful neighbor to the south or the Soviet Union, backer for both Ethiopia and the Sudanese rebels in southern Sudan. In the midst of all this, the most Kinsly and his men could do was to make the killing process slightly more efficient.

Even had he been able to reconcile himself to the absurdity of the military situation and his role in it, Kinsly was unable to accept the pitiful conditions to which war and famine had reduced the country's population. His middle-class upbringing had done nothing to prepare him for working and living with a people so stricken with perpetual famine, drought, and war that it left them teetering on the edge of survival. As hard as he tried, Kinsly had difficulty embracing the people he was expected to help.

Nor could he turn off his emotions or harden himself to the suffering that surrounded him, as SFC Veldez did. It was the children that got to him. Every child between the age of three and five reminded him of his own daughter. In the beginning he had tried participating in civil assistance operations, projects designed to help the "indigenous" population and win their hearts and minds away from the communists. But that didn't last long. One day, while helping his team's paramedic inoculate children, he saw a young girl, not more than five, sitting alone under a lone tree that was as malnourished as the child seeking its shade. Kinsly squatted down and tried to strike up a conversation with the girl while she waited patiently to be seen by his team's medic. His efforts were for nought. The girl's only response was to stare at him with large, vacant, unblinking eyes. Her face was a frozen mask of despair.

Determined to bring some joy to this poor creature's existence, Kinsly told the girl he had a surprise for her. Returning to where his team had dropped their rucksacks, he retrieved a roll of caramel candy he had been saving from his rations. Walking back, he hoped that she would be able to chew the sticky candy. His concern was unnecessary. As he neared the tree, he noticed that the girl had not moved since he had left her. Her large, vacant eyes continued to stare unseeing into the distance. Nothing he had experienced before or since haunted Kinsly more than the image of that little girl's body, lifeless and alone. The death of that innocent young girl, more than anything else, summarized the stark despair and bankrupt future the country faced. From that day on, Kinsly stopped volunteering and kept to himself, attempting to survive by isolating himself from everything not connected with the military aspect of his mission.

The operations they conducted as part of Twilight helped. "Twilight" was the name given to raids designed to keep the Ethiopians and their Soviet advisors off balance and reduce their backing of the Sudanese communists. These raids allowed Kinsly to maintain the illusion that he was doing something useful and soldierly, but even they seemed at times to be of questionable value. Though the idea was sound, Kinsly saw no indication that Twilight operations were having any effect. Like every other aspect of his team's mission, these Lilliputian efforts were pinpricks that solved nothing, ended nothing.

In quick succession, explosions ripped open the large fuel tanks, shattering the silence of the night, bringing Kinsly's mind back to the task at hand. Thousands of gallons of burning aviation fuel, spilling out of ruptured containers, bathed the airfield in a shimmering light. Hours of crawling about in the darkness, clearing a lane through a mine field and cutting through two barbed-wire fences, were over. Kinsly didn't need to cue the commander of the Sudanese guerrilla assault team he was with. They were already up and headed for the helicopters parked along the runway in protective revetments. Now it was time for action — quick, violent action.

The colonel who had planned the operation and had given Kinsly's Special Forces A team the mission figured that they had less than twenty minutes from the beginning of the attack before the Ethiopians could muster their ready reaction force and mount an effective counterattack. In that time, the guerrilla band that the A team was working with had to take out some twenty helicopters and six MIG fighters as well as their maintenance facilities and support equipment. The fuel storage tanks and trucks, which served as the trigger for initiation of the attack, were already gone. Barring any unforeseen complications, Kinsly was sure they could do it.

In an instant, Major Grigori Neboatov, senior Soviet advisor to the battalion of infantry guarding the airfield at Gondar, was awake, off his cot, and on the floor. His reactions were not the results of training; they were the instincts of a veteran, a man who had survived in combat living long enough to learn how to survive. He lay on the floor for a moment, motionless and listening. After the initial detonations, there had been a great spasm of automatic and semiautomatic fire in the distance that had lasted five, maybe ten seconds. Then, five seconds of silence. When the shooting started again, it came in random bursts. The echoing gunfire was not from Russian-made weapons. The explosions had not been an accident, and the gunfire was not friendly. They were under attack.

Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger, but not wanting to take any unnecessary chances, Neboatov rolled across the floor to where his clothes and pistol hung on the back of a chair. Fumbling with his clothes, he continued to listen to the sounds of battle outside. There was still no return fire from his people. That meant that the Ethiopian soldiers on duty had been taken out in the initial explosions or in the volley fire that he had heard immediately after the explosions. The enemy, therefore, was there in strength and within the perimeter of the airfield itself.

With pants, boots, and pistol belt on, he pondered his next move. If the enemy had been clever enough to cover and eliminate the troops on duty, they no doubt would have the barracks covered with automatic fire. A burst of machine-gun fire not more than fifty meters from where Neboatov lay confirmed his suspicion. With measured bursts of twenty-five to thirty rounds, the unseen machine gun, sited to cover the front of the troops' and the officers' billets, began to rake the troop billet next to the one where Neboatov and the other officers were. Knowing that the uninsulated wooden walls of his building didn't offer any cover, he decided it was time to move.

In a single bound, Neboatov sprang from the floor, leaping over his cot and through the door of his room, grabbing an AK assault rifle that stood propped next to the door as he went by. Without stopping, he continued across the hall, smashing through the thin wooden door of the room across from his. Once in the room, he flopped back down onto the floor and looked around. The window facing the rear was open, and the Cuban captain, Neboatov's assistant, who occupied the room was gone. Assuming that the Cuban had already made good his exit, Neboatov pushed himself up off the floor and made for the window. Wanting to get out of the dark confines of the building and into the open where he could at least defend himself, he threw himself out of the window head first, hoping as he did so that there wasn't anyone or anything on the other side prepared to bar his way.

As Kinsly and the demolition teams ran, random shots from all about them began to ring out. The Ethiopian Army guards on duty had recovered their wits and were beginning to return fire against the attackers. The odds, however, were momentarily against them. Too few guards had survived the initial fire fight. Those that had were separated and silhouetted against the burning fuel tanks. The attackers, emerging from the darkness, were ready, massed and determined. The Ethiopian guards who managed to fire got off only one or two bursts before they were cut down by the assault team. This process was made even easier for the assault team since many of the guards, rather than dropping to the ground and assuming a good prone position before firing, stood fully exposed while they blazed away into the darkness at their still-unseen assailants. The Ethiopians sealed their own death warrant: this both appalled and pleased Kinsly. Such stupidity, he thought, all but guaranteed his success. Though he saw a couple of the Sudanese soldiers go down, more by sheer accident than by accurate and aimed fire, their loss did not deter the follow-on demolition team. The Sudanese were used to losses and death. They were professional soldiers. It was, and for many of them had been since their birth, a way of life.

Once the assault team, charged with the task of clearing away the guards, had finished that part of its mission, it moved on to prepare to repel the counterattack force. Immediately behind it came the sappers with the demolitions. Kinsly dropped back and joined the sappers. Organized into four three-man teams, they dispersed among the parked aircraft. Each team followed the same procedures; while one man stayed on the ground to provide security, two climbed up onto the aircraft, one on either side. Once up near the aircraft engine, the two men pulled blocks of C-4 plastic explosives, with fifteen-minute delayed-action detonator fuses already stuck into them, out of pouches dangling from their sides. Pulling the cord that initiated the fuse, they stuck the blocks of C-4 into the air intakes of the helicopters' engines and jumped down, and the man who had been standing guard put a big X on the nose of the aircraft with a piece of chalk. The sapper team then ran down the line of aircraft until it found one that did not have a chalked X on its nose. As before, two of the sappers climbed up and went about their work.

Kinsly followed the sapper teams. He counted the aircraft marked with X's, making sure that none had been bypassed and looking to see if any of them carried new equipment or antennas he had not seen before. He also recorded in a little green notebook any numbers or tactical markings painted on the aircraft. All this data would be turned over to the military intelligence people later for their review and consideration.

In a gully behind the billets, Neboatov found the Cuban captain organizing the Ethiopian soldiers who had made it out of their billets. The captain was talking, or, more correctly, yelling, at an Ethiopian officer. Coming up from behind, Neboatov put his hand on the shoulder of Captain Angel Torres. "Captain Torres, how many men do you have?"

Torres turned his head toward Neboatov while holding his right hand up to the Ethiopian officer, indicating that he was not yet finished with him. "Major, I was in the process of trying to get a firm grasp on that now. I believe we have about thirty armed men and a dozen or so without weapons."

Turning to his right, Neboatov looked at the soldiers lining the sides of the ditch. They were in varying stages of dress and, despite what Torres had just reported, only about one in three was armed. But Neboatov's growing despair turned to delight when he spied one of the soldiers grasping an ancient American-made 60mm mortar. A smile on his face, he turned back to Torres. "Take that man over there with the mortar and as many rounds as you can into a position where they can take the flight line under fire. I'll organize this rabble here into a counterattack force."

Torres interrupted. "But we don't know for sure where they are. We should recon first while we consolidate our available forces."

Neboatov wasn't used to debates with subordinates, especially in combat. "You idiot, why do you think the enemy is here? They are after the aircraft. If we wait and dress up our lines and prepare a proper, well-staffed plan, the enemy will destroy every aircraft and be gone before we act. Now get that mortar into position. Give me five minutes, then start lobbing shells into the center of where the aircraft are parked. Watch for me and the enemy, adjusting your fire as necessary. Clear?"

Torres was about to say something, then thought better. He knew it was pointless to discuss tactical matters with a Russian once he had made up his mind. He looked at Neboatov one more time, shook his head, then went about gathering up an ad-hoc mortar team.

From several hundred meters to his rear, Kinsly heard the familiar thud of a mortar round being spit out of a mortar tube. As his people did not have mortars, that could only mean that the Ethiopian army counterattack was about to get under way. Instinctively, Kinsly hunched down, waiting for the impact of the first mortar round. That round landed among the helicopters that had not yet been rigged for detonation. Standing upright and turning back to look, he couldn't make sense of that. Either the mortar crew was firing wild, not knowing or caring where the rounds went, or they knew where the sappers were and were attempting to keep them from destroying the aircraft still untouched. Either way, it was time to leave.

The thumping sound of three more mortar rounds being fired and the report of a pair of heavy machine guns firing from the same general vicinity brought Kinsly back to the immediate situation. Turning and running down the line, Kinsly continued to count aircraft rigged for demolition. He had counted sixteen when someone on the perimeter of the airfield gave three loud blasts on a whistle, the signal to leave. Though they were not finished, his commander had determined, as Kinsly had already, that it was time to cut and run while they could. The mortar and machine-gun fire would soon become effective. Once that happened, the Sudanese would be pinned, unable to move and easy prey for a counterattack.

As if to underscore that point, a mortar round impacted not more than fifty meters from where Kinsly stood. The blast caught him off guard and knocked him down. For a moment he lay on the tarmac, collecting his senses and checking for wounds. Finding none, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked in the direction of where the round had impacted. A MIG-23 fighter had been hit and was now burning. In the light thrown off by the burning aircraft, three lifeless forms in ragged brown uniforms could be seen sprawled about the aircraft. One of the sapper teams had been taken out.

Getting up on his hands and knees, Kinsly crawled over to and behind a revetment. From there he watched as the remaining sapper teams moved away from the aircraft and headed back into the darkness in the direction from which they had come. Close behind them came the assault team that had been providing protection for the sappers. As the assault team came up even with Kinsly, he left the cover of the revetment and joined them. At a trot, he moved across the airfield, flanked by the soldiers he had helped train. Every twenty or thirty meters he would turn, running backwards, to see how closely they were being followed. On one of these looks back, he saw three figures dart out from between two buildings and set up a machine gun near the revetment he had just left. They were about to fire when the fuse in the C-4 planted in a helicopter nearby went off. The blast, followed by secondary explosions caused by the detonation of fuel and rockets on the helicopter, showered the machine-gun crew with shrapnel, killing or wounding all three. By incredible luck, the demolitions began to go off just as the counterattack force was moving into position to engage the withdrawing Sudanese, thus discouraging the Ethiopian soldiers from pressing their attack and allowing the Sudanese to withdraw.

Once outside the barbed-wire fence that had been set up to keep intruders out, the guerrillas quickly reformed and took a head count. In the darkness Kinsly called out to his NCOs. Each in turn answered Kinsly with a simple "Yo."

From down the line Sergeant Veldez called out to Kinsly. "Looks like we got everybody, sir."

Looking back onto the airfield, Kinsly could see several lifeless forms sprawled about on the runway — the Sudanese that had been cut down in the initial assault and withdrawal. He looked at them for a second, then turned back to the direction from which his commander's voice had come. "Yeah, I guess everybody that's going is here. Let's move it."

Without further comment, the attack force formed up into a loose column and began to move back into the shadows.

The exploding aircraft, spewing scraps of aluminum and burning fuel in every direction, had been more than enough to destroy the fragile organization of Neboatov's counterattack force. The rough skirmish line that he had formed and led forward disappeared. All hope of catching the attackers was abandoned as he and anyone else still alive scurried for cover. Flattening himself onto the concrete, Neboatov looked about for cover. Spinning himself about on his stomach like a great top, he turned around and crawled back to the safety of a revetment. Once he reached it, he propped himself up and caught his breath.

As the explosions began to subside, Neboatov dropped back into the prone position. The mortar fire had ceased. So had the small arms. Carefully, very carefully, he stuck his head around the revetment toward the runway. In the flickering light of burning aircraft and fuel, Neboatov could see a trail of bodies spread out on the runway. The trail disappeared into the darkness. Looking to his right, he could see that several aircraft were still intact. Pulling his head back, he sat upright again and pondered his next move. Though they hadn't saved all the aircraft, they had saved some, and, in the process, killed some of the attackers. And best of all, he thought, he was alive. That in itself, he thought, was a victory.

While their wives were putting the final touches on dinner, John Heisman gave Scott Dixon the high sign to move into the living room out of earshot of his wife, Annie, and Fay Dixon. There Heisman turned to Dixon. "Jesus, Scott — I haven't seen that much ice since the last time I saw the movie Titanic! You and Fay haven't said two words to each other since you got here. Is she that upset about the orders?"

Scott moved over to a large overstuffed chair and plopped down into it before he answered. "Upset?" he said in a glum, expressionless manner. "I wish she was only upset. Livid is more like it. And it's not just the orders." Scott leaned forward toward Heisman to emphasize his next point. "Actually, Fay took it quite well, considering." Dixon took a drink, then continued. "Did you know Fay had been out job hunting?"

John nodded his head. "I found out tonight, just before we got here. Annie warned me the situation here might be a little tense."

Glibly Dixon shrugged his shoulders. "Well, tense it was and tense it is." Easing back into the chair, he added, "Fay was not a happy camper when I brought home the wonderful news that I had orders for Egypt."

Three days after he had run around the Pentagon hand-carrying the messages concerning the "accidental" death of Lieutenant Colonel Dedinger, Dixon had been notified by Personnel Support Command, or PERSCOM, the Army's personnel management center, that he was about to receive orders assigning him to Egypt as the chief of staff of the 2nd Corps (U.S.) (Forward). Several quick calls and a few inquiries into the possibility of getting out of the assignment yielded nothing. When the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations and Plans called him in and told him that he had been hand-picked for the job, Dixon resigned himself to the inevitable and prepared for the worst part: telling Fay.

Surprisingly, Fay took the news well. Instead of horrified and outraged, she was calm and noncommittal. She was, in fact, too calm and too noncommittal — a reaction so far out of character that it threw Dixon. The house in Prince Frederick, once owned by a famous writer, was to have been their last: Fay and Scott had agreed that this was it, the end of the line. Though the commute to Washington, two hours every day, was hard on Scott, that sacrifice was his way of showing Fay that he meant what he said.

It was a year before Fay finally was able to settle back into a comfortable relationship with Scott and believe that he meant what he said about finishing his twenty where they were, then leaving the Army. His decision to decline command of a task force finally convinced Fay. Happy, she had begun to dig her roots deep into the community. The house was redone, top to bottom. The children were enrolled in every program that Fay could find and the best private school in the area. And, unknown to Scott, Fay began to prepare herself for resuming a career in TV news. Scott didn't find that out until he hit her with the news that he was under orders for Egypt. "Well, I guess that shoots my job with CBS in the ass, doesn't it?" was Fay's only response, and the first he had known that she had been out seeking employment. It was hard to tell which of them had been more surprised. Fortunately, there had been no fighting, no verbal thrashing — which, as Scott told John, not only came as a shock but aroused his suspicions.

In the kitchen, Annie was pumping Fay for information. Fay, for her part, was being very selective about what she provided. Though she knew that with Scott leaving the next day, the odds were that he wouldn't get any information via Annie or John, Fay wasn't taking any chances.

Before marrying Scott, Fay had been a successful field producer. Together with her college roommate Jan Fields, who had opted to go the reporter route, she had achieved a couple of remarkable coups. Young, ambitious, and willing to take chances, the two of them dug into stories other reporters and producers wouldn't touch. In a couple of cases, it had almost cost them their jobs; but in the end they had earned themselves a reputation, a joint nickname—"the Terrible Two" — and healthy salaries to go with it.

Then Scott Dixon came into Fay's life. They met while doing a story on the introduction of a new tank into the Army's inventory. The tank was reputed to have many problems and couldn't meet specifications. Because it was a dirty job and very touchy, the Terrible Two were sent to tackle it. The Army also prepared for battle, selecting a young, self-confident cavalry captain to escort the two female media types and charm their pants off. In the case of Fay, Scott Dixon did just that. In short order, Fay turned her back on a promising career and on her best friend, despite Jan's efforts to get her to listen to reason. They parted, still friends, but each pursuing divergent goals. Jan continued her career, roaming the world in search of news, while Fay became the good Army wife.

It wasn't until Fay was applying for a position with the CBS news office in Washington, D. C., that she got in contact with Jan Fields again. Though Fay had seen her on TV, and those appearances had provided the impetus for Fay to apply for a job, Fay had not tried to contact Jan. Now, however, since she was once again entering the world of TV news, Fay would be able to deal with Jan as an equal again. So Fay fired off a long-delayed letter to Jan care of the World News Network Middle East Bureau in Cairo. To her delight, Jan's response was rapid and positive. In an hour-and-forty-five-minute phone conversation initiated by Jan, the two college roommates caught up on twelve years and promised that they would get together again soon, just like in the old days.

So when Scott came in and announced that their lives were about to be uprooted again, Fay didn't bat an eye. While Scott had taken away her shot to work with CBS in Washington with one hand, he was setting up an opportunity, at the same time, for Fay to reenter the world of TV news at the side of an old and trusted friend. Fay resolved that this time nothing — not Scott, not the Army, not heaven or hell-would stand between her and the realization of her dream.

As Annie filled the bowls with salad, she said quietly to Fay, "Well, are you?"

Fay, just finishing taking the baked chicken breasts from a cookie sheet and arranging them on a plate, looked Annie in the eye. "What would you do? After all, nothing has changed. I may have to beg and wait till hell freezes over before I can find a decent job in Egypt, but I'm going to do it."

"Does Scott know?"

"He knew about the CBS job." Fay paused, her expression softening as she let her arms fall to her side. "You know, I think he was really sorry that he screwed up my chance for the job with CBS."

"Does that surprise you? After all, Scott still loves you, doesn't he?"

Fay was tiring of Annie's probing. Signaling that Annie had overstepped her bounds, Fay picked up the plate with the chicken breasts on it. "Well, let's serve 'em while they're still hot."

For miles around one could see the lone and ancient tree perched atop a jagged rock ledge. The tree, its gnarled roots grasping the gray soil that gave it support and life, was surrounded by hundreds of square kilometers of windswept hills and gullies. The ledge and the tree therefore served as a reference point for travelers, human and animal, who traversed this part of northwestern Ethiopia. The tree also served as a home and resting place for migratory birds in need of a place to rest on their annual journey. The pale moming sun this morning greeted a flock of such birds that had been drawn to the tree the night before. Quiet chirping and an occasional flutter of wings were the only sounds that could be heard.

Suddenly, as if on signal, the birds sitting in the lone tree paused in their chatter and became still. Some of them turned their heads slightly in an effort to better identify the danger they sensed, rather than saw or heard. Not waiting to find out its source, the birds took to wing as one in a frenzy that bordered on panic. Predators that had moved up near the tree under cover of darkness and now lay hidden in the rocks were startled by their sudden flight. Fearful that they had been discovered, the predators tensed up, ready to strike in any direction. Only when the last of the birds had flown from earshot and stillness returned to the rocky ledge did the predators relax, but only a little: they knew the birds had been spooked by something-something big. Perhaps that something was their prey. Minutes later this assumption was confirmed when the morning silence was again broken. The slow, distant rumble of many heavily burdened trucks could be heard. As the trucks drew closer to the lone tree, the sound of gears grinding and the laboring of the engines became distinct.

In the early morning sun, the line of twenty trucks and half a dozen jeeps moved slowly west from Gondar, along the dirt track that followed a gorge that cut into the mountain like a scar. Dust rose and hung about them in the morning calm. The pace of the trucks and their lack of proper dispersion infuriated Major Neboatov. The column was moving too fast to provide proper detailed recon ahead and too slow to enable it to reach a position from which they could cut off the force that had assaulted them several hours before.

Immediately after the fighting at the airfield had ended, a lively debate had begun. Neboatov knew that the guerrilla force would disperse at dawn. Time therefore was critical. He insisted that a force of two battalions, moving along separate routes, move immediately to intercept the enemy before they slipped back across the Sudanese border; there was always the outside chance that they could get into position before the guerrilla force made it to safety or dispersed. Such a bold stroke might succeed. But there was a great deal of indecision on the part of the Ethiopian regimental commander. A former guerrilla with years of experience fighting the former government, he had never made the transition to waging a counterguerrilla war. And even Neboatov's assistant, Captain Torres, sided with the regimental commander.

Thus, instead of striking out with all available forces and speed, the regimental commander had reported to army headquarters in Addis Ababa and requested instructions. For hours nothing was done, either in Gondar or in Addis Ababa. When instructions were received, at 0435 hours, they were a compromise. The battalion to which Neboatov was attached as an advisor was to move out at dawn by truck in pursuit of the attackers. Incensed by the half-measure, Neboatov contacted the senior Soviet advisor in Addis Ababa. He submitted his own report and recommendation, stating that the battalion, cut to two-thirds strength by the attack, was in no shape to move. Furthermore, his report pointed out, using such a small force to chase the enemy was pointless. He never received a response, other than acknowledgment that his message had been received. Frustrated, Neboatov decided, against his better judgment, to go out with the column. Though it would accomplish nothing, at least he could vent his frustrations in the field. Anything had to be better than sitting around doing nothing and accomplishing less.

As was the normal practice, Neboatov and Captain Torres were in the fourth vehicle. The guerrillas were in the habit of mining roads and trails. In the early days too many Soviet and Cuban advisors had been lost to this practice. To reduce this wastage, an order was issued that advisors would not travel in the lead vehicles. Though this reduced casualties among the advisors, it lowered the esteem in which the Ethiopian forces once held their fellow socialists. Neboatov, a combat veteran, understood the need for leadership and the effects it had on morale. When he arrived, he ignored the order. The effect was immediate and beneficial. The officers of the battalion he was assigned to accepted him but shunned Torres, who insisted that it was important that they follow the order. The result was that the Ethiopians openly snubbed and looked down upon Torres while Neboatov was held in high regard. Neboatov made real headway with the Ethiopians and established a relationship based on trust and respect. This hard-eamed rapport was threatened, however, when he received a reprimand from Lieutenant Colonel Lvov, his immediate superior. It didn't take a great deal of intelligence to figure out that Torres had reported Neboatov's violation through his own channels. Neboatov never forgave him.

Torres, now slouched down in the back of the jeep, was asleep. The initial excitement of assembling the battalion and moving out was gone. The tedium of the trip, the unchanging scenery, and the effects of lost sleep began to dull Neboatov's senses. Rather than give in to the urge to sleep, as Torres had, he studied the terrain and kept track of their progress, calculating the time it would take to arrive at various critical points along their route. There were precious few features on the terrain that he could use for reference. Running his finger along a map, he followed the winding goat track they were on. The map showed a hairpin turn at a rocky outcropping just ahead, where the goat trail came out of the gorge they were in. The place had a name, but Neboatov could not pronounce it. He knew that it had something to do with a lone tree and that everyone used the place as a reference point. Neboatov sat up in the seat and tried to look ahead for the rocky ledge, but the lead vehicles and the dust they kicked up frustrated his view. It was not until he felt the jeep begin to climb a steep incline that he realized they were at the turn.

On top of the ledge, the predators that had been startled when the birds had taken wing listened to the advance of the trucks. Unlike the birds, they did not flee. Instead, they slowly eased themselves into position and prepared to strike. Even the drone of a pair of attack helicopters patrolling the road in front of the column of trucks did not bother them. In silence they waited for the first vehicles to come over the crest of the ledge and move past the lone, empty tree. They would strike only when they were ready; they would not be rushed. Their leader patiently watched and waited. He watched as the first vehicle of the convoy passed the tree and continued without halting or slowing. He relaxed, watching as the second, then the third vehicle reached and passed the tree. As the fourth vehicle reached the lone tree, Sergeant First Class Hector Veldez, one of the hidden predators, raised his M-16A2 automatic rifle to his shoulder and, in a booming voice, ordered his men to fire.

Without thought, Neboatov reacted to the first crack of rifle fire and the choke of mortar rounds being fired. Looking neither left nor right, and not bothering to gauge the speed of the jeep, he threw himself out of the vehicle, flattening out on contact with the ground and rolling toward the tree. Hitting a large, serpentine root that rose a foot from the ground, Neboatov stopped, scrambled to the other side of the root, and rolled over onto his back. For a moment he lay there, listening to his heart pound in his chest, gasping for breath. He watched bits of leaves from the tree above detach themselves and flutter down on him. The sound of his breathing was soon obscured by the crescendo of battle unfolding all about him. The bits of leaves were fragments that had been chipped off by stray bullets.

Rolling back over onto his stomach, Neboatov slowly raised his head and peered over the root. The first six vehicles of the convoy were stopped and burning or overturned. His own jeep was ablaze; its driver lay next to it in a pool of blood. Captain Torres hung half out of the jeep, his body engulfed in flames. From the far side of the road, figures rose up from hidden positions and began to move toward the vehicles. The line of attackers advanced swiftly, staying crouched low to the ground, their rifles at the ready. They were going to move to the edge of the knoll and fire down onto the remainder of the column, now halted and under fire from other hidden assailants.

Neboatov had to move; in a few minutes the attackers would be at the tree. Slowly, he crawled back, away from his covered position behind the root. But his efforts attracted attention. An enemy soldier, not twenty meters from Neboatov, shouted and turned toward him. Jumping to his feet, Neboatov drew his pistol and fired two quick shots; both hit their target. For a second he watched the man twirl about and fall to the ground. The enemy soldier's hat flew off, revealing straight black hair and the white face of Sergeant Veldez. "Americans! They're being led by bloody Americans!" The sound of rounds from other enemy soldiers hitting the tree near Neboatov reminded him of his plight. He turned and, followed by a hail of bullets, ran back down into the gorge, where he assumed the survivors of the column would be forming.

Despite the fact that he was in grave danger, he surveyed the scene before him as he ran. Many of the trucks that had not made it up the side of the gorge were also burning. That meant that there were enemy forces hiding along the edge of the gorge as well as on the rock ledge. When he reached the rocks and boulders, however, the scene before him was ripped apart as plumes of fire and dirt exploded before Neboatov's eyes. Mortars. The concussion of a near miss sent him sprawling. He lay there for a moment, trying to decide if he was hit. He gasped for breath; his mouth was dry; sweat dripped from every pore. But he was alive. A sharp pain in his shoulder when he began to move told him he was hit. But he was alive. Propping himself up slightly, he found that his injury was not a crippling wound. Ready to continue, he got onto his hands and knees and crawled behind a boulder, guided by the sound of AK assault rifles returning fire.

The first Ethiopian soldiers he came across were dead. He paused by one body, holstered his pistol, and took the AK assault rifle from the dead man. He then emptied the dead man's ammo pouches of magazines and stuffed them into his belt. Better armed now, Neboatov continued. After passing several more dead Ethiopians, he came up behind an Ethiopian who was lying prone behind a mound of dirt. The noise of Neboatov's approach startled the Ethiopian soldier; he spun about and prepared to shoot. "Don't shoot! Friend!" Neboatov yelled in broken Amharic. The soldier paused, then turned around again, continuing his random firing. Neboatov had no idea what the man was shooting at; but at least someone was returning fire.

Slowly Neboatov began to collect whatever Ethiopians he could find and organize them. He even came across a captain and a lieutenant, to whom he assigned a section of the small defensive perimeter that was beginning to take shape. In the midst of this, the beating of blades announcing the approach of the escorting attack helicopters could be heard above the din of the fire fight. For a moment Neboatov allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Salvation. Surely the motley American-led guerrilla band would be no match for the heavily armed MI-24 Hind gunships.

Kinsly and his men, however, were ready. They too heard the approaching helicopter gunships. On cue, two Sudanese soldiers emerged from their concealed positions. They removed surface-to-air missiles from their containers and stood up, facing the direction of the gunships. As the helicopters bore down on the knoll, the Sudanese gunners casually shouldered their weapons, activated the infrared seekers of the missiles, and waited for the tone that would tell them the missiles' heat-seeking guidance systems were locked onto the approaching gunships. Once he had a tone, each gunner let fly his missile.

The relief Neboatov had felt when he heard the approaching gunships was short-lived. From the far side of the knoll, two pillars of flame and smoke raced toward the approaching gunships. In an instant Neboatov knew what they were. In horror he watched the missiles intercept the gunships. The first missile appeared to hit the lead gunship head-on, causing the helicopter to erupt into a ball of fire. The second gunship banked sharply in an effort to evade the oncoming missile, but it too was hit. The missile impacted on the engine just below the blades. The resulting explosion separated the blades from the helicopter, letting the fuselage fall away to the ground like a rock.

For a moment the ground fire died down; it was almost as if all the combatants had stopped in order to watch the destruction of the helicopters. The respite did not last long. Encouraged by the destruction of the enemy aircraft, the guerrillas doubled their fire and began to press their attack home.

This new attack, however, was met with stiff and organized resistance. Leadership and organization among the Ethiopians were beginning to take effect. Sensing that the time was right, Neboatov led a small counterattack force he had formed around the flank of the attacking guerrillas. Using his limited command of Amharic and hand and arm signals, he ordered his counterattack force to hold its fire until it was within twenty meters of the enemy.

Slowly the Ethiopians moved forward among the boulders and gullies. When he could clearly hear the enemy leaders issuing orders, Neboatov signaled his force to stop. Carefully he raised his head. To his immediate front he could see a lanky black officer directing several of his men. Lowering himself down, Neboatov looked to the Ethiopian soldiers to his left and right. They were in a rough scrimmage line. Raising his gun above his head to signal the beginning of the attack, Neboatov waited until he was sure the word had been passed down the line. When he was ready, he stood up, cut down the guerrilla officer with a burst of fire and yelled "Charge!" in Russian.

Kinsly sensed, more than saw, that the tide of battle was beginning to shift. To his right he could hear a maelstrom of small-arms fire. To his left, where the bulk of the Ethiopian force had been pinned, there were only random shots. To his immediate front there were only burning trucks and motionless bodies hanging from them or sprawled between them. Even before Sergeant Johnny Jackson came crawling up to him, Kinsly knew that the Ethiopians had shifted over to their right and were counterattacking.

"Thirty, maybe forty Ethiopians deployed on line came into our flank and began to roll up the second platoon," Jackson reported, huffing. "We were able to reorient, but not before losing the major and half a dozen men."

Rather than being energized by the report, Kinsly suddenly was overwhelmed by exhaustion. It was as if he were an inflatable pool toy from which someone had just released the air. They had been on the go for the last twenty-four hours. The accumulated stress — the exertion of a thirty-kilometer march, two major engagements, the unending chain of life-and-death decisions — momentarily paralyzed Kinsly. Jackson knelt there watching his leader and waiting for an order that Kinsly was unable to give. Enough, Kinsly thought. We've had enough. This shit has gotta stop. We've had enough.

The firing from the right began to diminish but did not stop. From the left, a Sudanese lieutenant came up to Kinsly. "Do we attack, Lieutenant Kins-lay?"

Kinsly turned to the Sudanese. It wouldn't end unless he did something. The killing would continue with or without him. They had accomplished what they had set out to do. The airfield, its fuel dump, and the defending company had been hit, and the only force capable of interfering with their withdrawal back to the Sudan had been badly mauled. The Sudanese had gained no ground that they could hold, nor could they totally destroy the enemy. They had, however, carried the war into the enemy's country. So long as the communists were busy fighting in their own country and unable to control it, they would have no time to bother Sudan. That, at least, was what everyone hoped. It was now time to cut losses and withdraw while they still held the upper hand. There would be another day, another battle. There always was.

Drawing in a deep breath, he ordered the Sudanese lieutenant to pull his platoon back from the left and establish a firing line one hundred meters to their rear. The platoons on the left and in the center, he told him, would break contact and withdraw to the rally point through his platoon, in that order. Once both platoons were through, he would disengage his own platoon and move back to the rally point by bounds. Turning to Jackson, he ordered him back to the second platoon on the left to prepare it for withdrawal. Kinsly himself would move over to the hidden mortar position and direct the crews to lay down a suppressive fire to cover the withdrawal of the second platoon. He told Jackson that when the mortar rounds began to impact, he was to pull out the second platoon.

As Jackson began to leave, Kinsly grabbed his arm. "Is the major dead or wounded?"

"Wounded, real bad."

Kinsly thought for a moment. "Bring him along when you pull out."

Jackson was about to protest but decided against it. There was no need to remind Kinsly that from the beginning the standing orders had been that the wounded were left behind. After all, Kinsly himself had put that word out. The lieutenant, Jackson reasoned, had a damned good reason for countermanding his own order.

Neboatov crawled up and down the thin line of Ethiopian soldiers he was trying to get to counterattack. As he did so, he encouraged them, getting them ready to make one more rush forward. A sudden volley of mortar rounds that impacted right in the middle of their line stopped Neboatov's efforts. All hope of pushing forward and finishing the enemy dissolved as the surviving Ethiopians, exhausted by exertion and fear, scattered for cover. Seeing no hope for regaining control of the situation, Neboatov rolled into a shallow depression and squeezed himself between two rocks. The sudden volley of mortar fire and lifting of enemy small-arms fire could only mean that the enemy was breaking off and retreating. All he could do was wait till the mortar fire lifted and it was safe to come out.

Tired as they were, both Americans and Sudanese fell back at the double, jogging the two kilometers from the ambush site to the rally point. At the mouth of a gorge, Kinsly stopped to count the men as they passed him. He looked each man in the eye as he went by. Some smiled broadly, proud of their achievements. Others, content merely to have made it that far, gave him a simple, almost sheepish smile. A few, barely stumbling along, just looked through him as if he weren't there. Physical and mental stress had taken their toll. As a fighting force, they were temporarily finished, at the end of their rope. Kinsly also watched as two of his A Team moved by him carrying the body of Sergeant First Class Veldez. The body was wrapped in a poncho spotted with dark red stains where the blood had seeped through. Kinsly felt nothing as the pair of Green Berets moved into the covered assembly area and lay the body down. It was a shitty end for a man, but not an unforeseen one. Like everyone else, Veldez hadn't wanted to die, — but he had known, as every member of the A Team knew in his heart and soul, that death was part of the contract, part of the price some pay for being a soldier. For Sergeant First Class Hector Veldez, the bill had come due.

Last in were Jackson and two Sudanese soldiers. They were bringing in the lanky Sudanese major on an improvised stretcher made from two rifles and two field jackets. Kinsly looked in the major's eyes as he went by. Odds were he wouldn't make it; but for some reason Kinsly felt compelled to give him the chance. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they could get the major back to the Sudan alive, where he could die among his own kind. Veldez hadn't had that opportunity. Maybe, Kinsly thought, he could make up for that with the major.

He stayed for a minute after Jackson and his carrying party had passed, looking for more men to come stumbling over the rise. But none came. All who were coming back were there. Seventy-two men out of the one hundred and six that had started out twenty-four hours ago had made it.

The firing died away slowly. Neboatov paused, but only for a moment. There was much to do. He needed to reorganize the force, gather and tend to the wounded, and, of course, report. Of three hundred and fifty men who had left Gondar that morning, fewer than one hundred were combat effective. Scores of wounded and many dead were scattered about. All hope of catching the enemy was gone.

Neboatov moved among his men, directing the reorganization of his force and the establishment of a defensive perimeter and ensuring that the wounded were tended to. Years of training and battle experience in Iran had taught him well. Though his mind was numb from the shock of battle, his actions were almost mechanical. He ignored the dead. They could do nothing and were beyond help. Even when he looked at the wounded, he did so through the eyes of a combat leader. Every time he saw a wounded man, Neboatov paused and studied him and his wound to determine whether he could fend for himself and fight if necessary.

That the Ethiopian soldiers, both dead and wounded, were men with families did not enter the equation. There was no time for such thoughts. Besides, Neboatov knew from experience that if he allowed himself to view the carnage laid out before him from a personal standpoint, he would go crazy. He had seen other officers who had let their guard down. Eventually, they had cracked under the strain of guilt, compassion, and pity. A good commander, Neboatov told himself, had to prepare himself, mentally as well as physically. If this meant that he had to steel himself against even the slightest emotion in order to maintain his sanity and proficiency, so be it.

Despite his mental preparation, however, he was not totally devoid of emotions and fear. His experience also told him he had been lucky — extremely lucky: he had survived. But nothing more. There was no glory, no honor, no gains. Only death and the chance to fight again, and again, until one day he led one too many charges. In his mind he knew how it would end.

The traveler was blinded momentarily as he moved from the bright day into the dark corridors of the former palace. His escort was a dirty, heavily armed member of the Islamic Guard. The young man, carrying a Russian-made AKM automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, a 9mm PM pistol in a hip holster, two RGD-5 hand grenades hanging from web straps, and enough ammunition stuffed in ammo pouches to supply three men, led with long, swaggering strides. Muhammad Sadiq was always amused by the young men who loved to show off by arming themselves to the teeth. As he followed, Sadiq smiled and thought to himself, This young lion would be easy to find in the desert. One would only need to follow the clanging of his weapons for the first two hours, then the trail they would leave as he discarded them for the next two.

Sadiq was led into a large outer office guarded by two other members of the Islamic Guard armed in a manner similar to his escort's. Across the room was a huge double door that went from ceiling to floor. Two more guards were posted in front of it. These guards, however, were regular army, whose appearance and bearing were in stark contrast to the Islamic Guardsmen's. Their uniforms fit and were freshly pressed. Their rifles, glistening and clean, were held across their chests at a forty-five-degree angle. The web gear they wore was clean and neat, and contained only two ammo pouches, neatly boxed and arranged. The contempt they held for the young Islamic Guardsman showed in their eyes as Sadiq and his escort approached. Undeterred by their silent rebuke, the young man walked up to them with the same swagger with which he had moved through the corridors, and announced in a gruff and booming voice that an important visitor from Egypt was here to see Colonel Nafissi.

Without a word, the soldier on the left stepped to the side and opened the huge door. The Guardsman also stepped aside and motioned toward the door with his hand. "You may enter." The young man, full of self-importance, no doubt thought that Sadiq had been waiting for his permission to enter. As Sadiq walked past him, their eyes locked. In the young man's eyes, Sadiq saw himself as he had been twenty years before. Sadiq slowed for a moment; then he went in.

A short, squat man in the uniform of an air force colonel, sat behind a desk in the center of the room, scribbling madly on a pad. He did not take note of Sadiq until it pleased him to do so. When he finally acknowledged Sadiq's presence, he did so with great flourish and feigned surprise. "Ah, my friend! May the Prophet be praised for returning you to our presence so soon! Come, have a seat, and some dates. You must be exhausted and weary from your journeys."

Colonel Nafissi, the second-most-powerful man in Libya and nominal commander of the Libyan armed forces, stood and moved around the desk. He motioned Sadiq to a pair of chairs that flanked a table bearing a tea service and a heaping bowl of fruit. After they seated themselves, Nafissi poured tea for them before he began to talk.

"There is much being discussed. Each day the news from Egypt grows more alarming. The talk that the Americans plan to put troops there is disquieting to many. Your rapid return was unexpected and adds to our concern. What news do you bring us that requires you to travel at such risks?"

Sadiq sipped his tea. How strange that we should prefer the company of the godless Russians in our own lands over the Americans, he thought before answering Nafissi. "Yes, there is much changing in Egypt. They are making another great lunge toward the west — a lunge in which few find comfort, as it is believed to be taking them away from Islam."

Nafissi's ears perked up, as Sadiq knew they would. Any problems in a neighbor's country offered, in Nafissi's mind, a chance for the forces of Islam — under his control, of course — to strike. Nafissi, like his fellow colonel who ruled Libya, had aspirations of power and expansion that far exceeded his country's meager ability. Sadiq knew that had Libya been blessed by Allah with the surplus population that was the bane of Egypt, North Africa would be far different. The sway of Libya's green banner and its brand of Islamic fundamentalism would have united the Arab states — or, more likely, Sadiq thought, brought about total desolation. But Allah had been wise (and the world fortunate), giving Libya only enough people to allow its leaders to obtain the status of a fifth-rate power. That, however, did not stop the dreams, aspirations, and covert machinations that they hoped would someday lead to greatness and importance for their country and, of course, themselves.

Continuing, Sadiq told Nafissi what he had seen and heard in Egypt. After several minutes, he paused for a moment, then got down to the reason for his trip back into Libya. "It is my belief that our opportunity to strike is near." Sadiq let this statement hang as he casually took a sip of tea, ensuring that he had Nafissi's full attention before he continued. "God willing, and if we take advantage of the opportunity he has given us, we can convince the people that their leaders are corrupt and have opened the door for American imperialism to enter Egypt and trample them into the dust as the British had done." Again, Sadiq paused and took a sip of tea. Although Nafissi was trying hard to hide his displeasure at being so toyed with by Sadiq, he maintained his composure and listened attentively with a feigned air of casual indifference.

Sadiq was enjoying himself. Putting his teacup down, he leaned forward, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, his face set in a frown. In a whisper, he continued. "Within three weeks the Republican Brigade deploys to the desert for maneuvers. An American unit, whose equipment is already in storage in Egypt, will be alerted and transported to Egypt to practice their war deployment procedures. That unit will join the Republican Brigade during the brigade's training—"

Anxious to get to the point, Nafissi interrupted. "Yes, yes, we know that. How will that bring about the fall of the Egyptian government?"

Sadiq paused momentarily to ensure that Nafissi's outburst was at an end. Sadiq fought back the urge to smile; he had him. "The presidents of both Egypt and the United States will visit that training. They intend to allow the world to see them and their soldiers side by side, 'friends in peace, comrades in war,' as the American secretary of state likes to say. Can you imagine the crisis and distrust that would result if the two 'comrades' were struck down while they were in the presence of Egyptian forces?" Again Sadiq paused, watching the wheels in Nafissi's mind turn as he considered his proposal.

The possibilities that such a strike would bring excited Nafissi. He tried to conceal it, but his excitement overcame his fagade of self-control and feigned indifference. "There would be a great deal of security. Do you believe that they would allow another assassination such as the one that brought down Sadat? How do you propose to penetrate the wall that the army will build around the two presidents?"

In control, Sadiq sat back, folded his hands under his chin, then opened them as if they were a door while he spoke. "We will walk through an open gate and slay them at our convenience. The risks are high, yes. But the results! Think of the repercussions and acquisitions! The Americans will see a country that has lost two of its own leaders at the hands of its own soldiers — the same soldiers responsible for the death of America's president. What will become of their friendship and trust? And in Egypt, the turmoil will provide the Brotherhood with fertile ground in which to plant the seeds of Jihad against the corrupt and ineffectual Western-oriented rulers." Sadiq became animated. His eyes wide and fixed on some imaginary object, he held the index finger of his shaking right hand pointed toward the ceiling. "And this will come when the Republican Brigade is out of Cairo."

Relaxing slightly and softening his expression, Sadiq turned to Nafissi. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, settled back, and folded his fingers together in front of him. A slight smile lit across his face. "Yes, we risk much. But great rewards belong only to those willing to take great risks."

Again there was a pause while Nafissi considered what Sadiq had said. "Do you really have the key to this gate you believe will be open for you?"

The confident smile on Sadiq's face grew ever so slightly. "Yes, I have the key."

"Who?"

Knowing that knowledge is power and not wanting to lose control of the plan, Sadiq merely smiled. He had Nafissi's attention. "You need not trouble yourself with such trivial details, my friend. You only need to give me the weapon that, God willing, will bring an end to the corrupt government that has been a plague in my land."

Trusting Sadiq less than Sadiq trusted him, but sufficiently intrigued with the man's plan, Nafissi smiled as he held up his cup of tea in a salute. "Yes — God willing."