Bright Star

Chapter 3

For the first time in days the sun broke through the thick, leaden clouds that had cast a pall across the land. Though it provided little warmth, and the glare caused him to squint, Staff Sergeant Jonathan Maxwell welcomed the sun's appearance. It was a good sign — a sign that perhaps not all was darkness and gloom.

Holding the wheel of his three-year-old red Chevy Berretta with his left hand, Maxwell reached down between his legs with his right hand and readjusted his seat. Four hours on the road were taking their toll. Though he already knew that he would need to stop for fuel before he reached St. Louis, he glanced down at the fuel gauge anyway as soon as he had settled into his new driving position. With a slight adjustment to the car's visor, he was ready to continue his trek west, back to Fort Carson and home.

The prospect of getting back home was welcome. While the three-month master-gunner course at Fort Knox was a good one, it had been hard on the family — especially since it followed almost three months of field duty, including a trip to the Mojave Desert and the National Training Center. Maxwell looked forward to spending the holidays with his family.

The prospect of rejoining his unit, Task Force 3–5 Armor, however, was far less inviting. Although it once was regarded as the best combined-arms maneuver task force in the 16th Armored Division, a change of command and a few too many times as the lead element during major brigade and divisional exercises had worn both the leadership and the troops thin. While the training and duty were no less demanding under the new commander, it had been different under the former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Andrew A. Stevens. Under Stevens, the leadership of the task force, from the task-force commander on down, had been both positive and inspiring. Stevens never made his people do anything that didn't pass his "so what?" test: simply put, any order, any task, any training, any mission had to have a purpose, a reason — if it didn't, either the event didn't happen or Stevens would do his damnedest to get out of it. This resulted in a boundless confidence between leadership and troops. In addition, Stevens understood that there were times when "the 80-percent solution" applied. He realized that excellence in everything was a dream few mortals could realize. In some areas, "good enough" had to do if the overall mission of the task force was going to be accomplished.

That feeling of confidence and common sense, however, was fleeting. Lieutenant Colonel Vince Vennelli changed all that. Though the new commander was intelligent and technically proficient, his vanity and arrogance hamstrung his ability to work with people. He came into Task Force 3–5 Armor like a tornado. His twin mottos of "No mission too hard, no task too trivial" and "Excellence is our standard" were an about-face in policy for a unit that was used to sanity and rationality. The quiet, understated professionalism of Stevens's regime was replaced by a boastful and blustery pride that had little to back it, adding to the alienation between the task-force commander and his men.

Though Vennelli was difficult and far from being a desirable commander, most of the NCOs in the unit could have tolerated him had he been slightly more astute in his handling of them, especially those who had seen service in Iran. Maxwell, a gunner during that war, was proud of his service in Iran. There he had learned many hard lessons about his vocation in the only classroom that mattered to a soldier — the battlefield. In the final days he had participated in the pivotal battle of the war north of Hajjiabad. During that fight he had had two tanks shot out from under him. His tank commander, the task force S-3 or operations officer, had assumed command of the task force and led the survivors in a series of desperate counterattacks, which stopped the enemy and earned the S-3 the Congressional Medal of Honor. Maxwell walked away with a Silver Star for saving the life of the S-3, and a Purple Heart for the smashed knee that he got in the process. It therefore came as a shock to him, and to others like him, when Vennelli, who had never left the States during that war, told the officers and NCOs of Task Force 3–5 Armor, "You had better forget all that horseshit you learned in Iran and start training to standards."

Ever conscious that he had yet to prove himself in battle, Vennelli went out of his way to discredit those who had. Veterans or not, most of his men could not understand their commander's attitude. But right or wrong was not in question. He was the commander, the Man. Thus, the task force was torn into two camps. Heading the one side were the veterans, and most of the NCOs who believed that they knew what soldiering was all about and had the credentials — scars, campaign ribbons, and medals — to prove it. Rejected and scorned by the very man who should have been using their experience, they, and their adherents, kept to themselves and did what was necessary to get by.

On the other side, led by Vennelli, were some of the officers and NCOs who, like him, had not been in combat. Many of them, tired of hearing about how the vets had done it in Iran, actually welcomed Vennelli's changes. Others, lacking the wisdom to know who was right or the courage to stand for what they believed was right, took the easy out, saying nothing and doing exactly what they were told. It was a no-win situation. In the end, it was the task force that suffered. Morale dropped as bickering between the rival factions and the resulting drop in overall unit readiness made Task Force 3–5 Armor an unpleasant environment.

A flash of light broke Maxwell's train of thought and brought him back to the here and now. The sun, its brief appearance over, had set, and drivers were turning on their headlights. Maxwell reached over and switched his on, noticing while he did so that the low-fuel indicator was flashing. The thought of returning to the unit had effectively canceled any joy the late-day sun had brought. Now it was gone, just like his fuel. Twisting in his seat, Maxwell felt a slight pressure in his bladder that told him it was time for a pit stop. With St. Louis coming up fast, it wouldn't be hard to find a gas station and a McDonald's.

Looking at his watch and without giving it much thought, Maxwell decided that he would drive straight through to Fort Carson. He loved to surprise his wife. His only concerns were (a) that the kids could be shuffled off to the neighbors for a few hours; (b) that he would be able to do something about his surprise after driving all night; and (c) that it wasn't that time of month.

There was no escaping the nightmare. Even worse, there was no predicting when it would steal its way into his sleep. Awakened by it, Dixon brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes. It never changed. The images were always as sharp in his mind's eye as they were that day in Iran. Sometimes the images slowed down for a particular horror, almost as if his mind wanted to study in detail, over and over again, certain aspects of that battle. At other times the nightmare whirled by with the speed of a roller coaster.

It always started the same. The swirl of the white, artillery-generated smoke slowly became laced with oily black smoke pouring from unseen tanks and armored personnel carriers burning somewhere out there. Shadowy figures of armored fighting vehicles emerged from the smoke, some friendly, most hostile. The screams of fire commands, his own fire commands, echoed in Dixon's ear. At that point his body would begin to tense up and rock, as if it were reacting to the recoil of the main gun and the bucking of the tank as it rolled over the broken ground and plowed through the smoke.

Once the nightmare had grasped him, there was no escape. Sweat soaked the sheets as he relived the death of his battalion. There appeared the image of a burning American M-2 Bradley on its side, its hatches blown open by the explosion of the ammunition stored inside, its dead crew scattered about it. For a second it came into view; then it vanished. Close to him, a man, his uniform on fire, was running in circles, thrashing his arms wildly in the throes of death. Dixon heard the distinct crack of a Soviet T-80 tank cannon firing from somewhere in the smoke. There were no logic, no pattern, no control — and worse, no escape from the random killing and destruction, either then or in the nightmare. It was everywhere, and seemingly unending. Death that day had been swift and sudden — a point that the nightmare hammered home every time and never allowed Dixon to forget.

Dixon never screamed, never became violent. He would only lay there as his mind raced along like a runaway train. When Fay was with him, she would wake him gently, ever so gently. When he was alone, as he was tonight, he merely rolled and tossed until the nightmare passed, its images disappearing into the hazy shadows of his subconscious. There they would wait patiently, ready to creep back into Dixon's dreams.

He took his hands from his eyes and opened them. He lay there for a moment, listening to his own breathing as it came in short, rapid gasps. He began to shiver as the cool night air hit his body, now soaked with sweat. Still, he did not move. His first conscious thought this morning, as it always was after the nightmare, was the same: I'm alive. It was a dream. I'm alive. And, as always, that thought brought an immediate feeling of shame and guilt, for he could never forget that he, the man who had ordered and led the attack that day, was alive, while many of those who had obeyed and blindly followed were not.

Finally free of his sleep, Dixon began to orient himself to his surroundings. The only noise in the room was that of the air conditioner. He rolled his head to one side, his eyes falling on the lit figures of the digital clock he used for travel. It was still too early in the morning to get up, but he knew he had no choice. The wet sheets he was wrapped in were becoming uncomfortable, and he was suffering from jet lag. Further sleep would be impossible. Besides, there was always the lingering fear that if he went back to sleep, the nightmare would return.

Reaching over, Dixon felt around for the switch to the light on the nightstand. His fingers fumbled about until he turned it on. Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The room was cold: the air conditioner had been adjusted during the hottest part of the day. Mechanically he rose from the bed and moved over to the window. He opened the curtains and stood there motionless, looking out from the sixth story of the Sheraton down onto the Nile. He gave no thought to the fact that he was clad only in a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. His mind was elsewhere, wandering aimlessly, stopping only momentarily to focus on a random thought before discarding it and moving on. Since Iran, Dixon's life had been like that, aimless and almost random — no fixed points to grasp, no pattern. Aimless, random, loose.

The serenity of the Nile flowing to the sea began to calm his troubled mind. Dixon stood there transfixed, watching. The three-quarter moon shone brilliantly off of the glassy surface of the river as it slowly wound its way through the sleeping city. For a moment there were no thoughts, only peace, as he allowed himself to become enmeshed in the scene before him. As he stood there and watched the gentle river, all thoughts of war slipped away. How fortunate you are, Dixon thought as he looked down on the water. You know your place and have a purpose. All you must do is follow the river banks and you will find your goal. I envy you. No thoughts, no dreams, no worries, no fears, no yesterdays, no tomorrows. Only now, only here. You know a peace I never will.

Dixon felt a shiver. The moment of peace was over. His thoughts left the river and turned to the day ahead. There would be a great deal to do and many people to meet. Most of them would ask the same questions he had been pelted with so many times before. And those that didn't ask out loud would do so in their minds. So few understood, really understood, that he could not answer them even if he wanted to. For, like his nightmare, the answers to their questions were locked away somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, mixed and twisted with the horrors of the past and the uncertainty of the future.

Along the river bank a lone figure moved. His steps were mere shuffles, his pace halting. Though he was wrapped in the robes of a fellah, even at night it was clear that he was no peasant. The erect carriage and square shoulders belonged to a soldier — or, more correctly, to an officer.

Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed Hafez often came to the banks of the Nile when he wanted to think. When he was a boy, he and his friends had spent many happy hours playing along the banks of the ancient river. And when he was a young man growing up in the turbulent 1960s, Hafez had turned to the river for comfort and peace. It was a place where he could reflect on the troubles of the day. As he wandered along its banks that morning, he could not remember a time when he had been more troubled, more confused. Even the mighty Nile could not wash away the thoughts that befuddled his mind that night.

After evening prayers at the Mosque of Sultan Hassan, Hafez had been approached by Muhammad Sadiq, a childhood friend and a member of the Brotherhood of the Book. Hafez had once belonged to the Brotherhood, during the years following Egypt's defeat at the hands of the Zionists in 1967. Wounded and captured during the rout across the Sinai, Hafez had felt betrayed by an incompetent government and its leaders, to whom he had pledged his loyalty and had so freely offered his services. The swiftness and totality of their defeat, compounded by the supreme arrogance of his country's enemy, came as a shock to the young Hafez. Rather than being welcomed or comforted by his countrymen when he was exchanged, he was scorned for the shame the army had brought down on the once mighty Egypt.

In his moment of supreme despair, his friend Sadiq and the Brotherhood offered a solution to the woes that seemed to plague Egypt. Unquestioning belief in Allah, strict adherence to his Word, and total devotion to the True Faith seemed to provide Hafez something that he needed then — a reason for carrying on and the hope of a better life for his country. Believing that the government and its inept leaders had betrayed the Egyptian people, Hafez threw himself into the arms of the Brotherhood with complete and careless abandon. At that moment in his life, there was only one answer, one way: that of the True Faith.

Like all things, that too changed. His enthusiasm for the Brotherhood waned. Time, the great healer, passed; and with its passing, a new, dynamic leader came forward and brought Egypt out of despair and shame. Hafez's mind, educated and trained to analyze the world around him, soon began to dissect the Brotherhood. He asked questions and searched the dark corners of the Brotherhood, which reminded him of the places where they met. Like a thunderclap, it dawned upon him that he had surrendered his loyalty to a cause that was not founded in the Word of the Book but, instead, in the same petty politics that had brought so much misery to his noble country. The leaders, most of them, were not wise and holy men driven by God to save Egypt but only humans like himself. Unlike him, they had the vision of power in their eyes. They wished to rule Egypt and remold the government into one that fit their image. True, their visionary government was based upon strong and uncompromising Islamic faith. But Hafez wondered if such a government was right for Egypt, the mother of all civilizations. A devout Muslim, Hafez was nevertheless an Egyptian, the product of a civilization that spanned four thousand years.

The discovery that the Brotherhood was being manipulated by people from other countries was the final factor in turning Hafez away from it. True, the Brotherhood preached unity throughout the Islamic world. Hafez, however, had seen that unity coming from common consent from each nation, willingly given by its people when they saw that belief in Islam offered them the only true way. The thought of working for a foreign power against his own nation was repugnant to Hafez. Unable to wholeheartedly embrace or support such men, he eventually rejected them and their cause. Again, as he had been after the '67 war, he was lost and cast adrift. Though he never officially broke with the Brotherhood, he never went back.

Fortunately for Hafez, the army left little time for him to ponder his fate or drift about. After the death of Nasser and the ascent of Anwar Sadat to power, the army, and Egypt, changed. During Sadat's "corrective revolution," the army began to prepare for the day when it would strike to defeat the Zionists and retake Sinai. Reorganizing and reequipping the army, coupled with intensive training, absorbed Hafez's time and energy. As a brigade staff officer responsible for plans and training, he threw himself into his tasks with an enthusiasm and energy that soon came to the attention of his superiors. It did not matter that his efforts were those of a desperate man trying to escape his problems by submerging himself totally into his job. What mattered was that they were rewarded by his selection to command a tank company, a company that he trained and ultimately led into battle in 1973. His skill as a soldier and ability as a leader resulted in two stunning victories over Israeli tank units, a medal for valor, and a wound sustained during a desperate counterattack at a place called Chinese Farm.

Returning to his home village to recover from his wounds, he was welcomed as a hero. Though he knew, as most of his fellow officers did, that their victory was not complete and that retention of the bridgehead across the channel was tenuous, they had nonetheless done what the world had least expected — defeated the Israelis in open battle. For the first time since the Crusades, an Islamic army had defeated a non-Islamic army in battle. While the significance of this was lost to most of the world, it gave Egypt a new beginning, a beginning that Hafez was part of.

Again Hafez's life changed. Marriage to the daughter of a wealthy merchant from his home village was followed by selection for advanced military schooling, promotion, attendance at the American Command and General Staff College, and, finally, selection to battalion command in the Republican Guard Brigade. These successes gave him a satisfaction and security in purpose that had escaped him in his youth.

Into this secure world that Hafez had built, Sadiq, an image from his troubled past, came like a thief in the night. Into Hafez's ear Sadiq poured the poison of discontent and hate, thinly veiled as the Word. "The Brotherhood, and Islam," Sadiq said, "need your help." The apparition from his past frightened Hafez. Instead of sending Sadiq off, however, as his conscience told him he should, he stayed and listened.

"The time has come," Sadiq had whispered, "to sweep away the temporal government that tears Egypt and its people away from the bosom of Islam and the teachings of the Book. The new caliph has come. Like the sun rising in the east, he is spreading the word as Muhammad had done. We are but his soldiers, serving the will of God." The thought that Sadiq was serving another country was numbing. Rather than protest and end the discussion, Hafez had sat in silence, listening to the words of treason flow from the mouth of his "friend." "My brother, we are but instruments in his hands. We can only submit to his will. Prepare yourself for the day. When it is time, I will find you."

Like a shadow, Sadiq had moved back into the night before Hafez could reply. That had been days ago. Since that meeting Hafez had had to refight the age-old battle he had fought many times before. Who was he? Was he, as Sadiq had said, nothing more than an instrument in the hands of God? Was he a soldier who owed loyalty to no man but only to his nation? Or was he something else — something more important?

Hafez stopped. His wanderings had taken him away from the river and out of the city. To the west, across the flood plain, he could see the outlines of great pyramids of Giza, the symbol of four thousand years of Egyptian civilization. They were ageless, unchanging. For a moment Hafez focused his thoughts on them. Alexander the Great had passed in their shadows and disappeared into history. They had been there for a thousand years before the first Roman took that name. Mohammed and his early followers had driven past them in their drive to spread the word of their new True Faith. Behind them the Turks and the British had come and, in their time, had gone, like the others.

Still the pyramids stood, looking down on the events of man like great spectators. Hafez was mesmerized by them. Thousands of years ago his ancestors had built them with little more than their bare hands, their minds, and their muscles. The pyramids were more than monuments of stone to rulers long since dead. They were an ageless symbol of the first civilization of the Western world — a civilization that never passed from existence, as so many other civilizations and empires that had viewed them had. And Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed Hafez was the product of that civilization. He was an Egyptian. At that moment he could not explain what that meant. He did not fully understand how that would, or could, help him in his current dilemma. But he knew that his heritage, symbolized by the pyramids, was important, perhaps critical.

Dixon entered the outer office of the deputy for plans and operations of the Office of Military Cooperation, Egypt, and approached the desk where a female sergeant E-5 sat fingering through the early-moming distribution dump. Dixon stood there for a moment and waited for her to notice. When it was clear that she either did not notice him or was ignoring him, he set his briefcase on her desk and announced, "Sergeant, would you inform Colonel Wilford that Major Dixon is here for his 0830 meeting."

The sergeant looked up. Dixon's announcement was not a request; it had been an order. It took her a moment to comprehend that — just enough time for Dixon to notice her look of annoyance before it turned into a polite smile. "Yes, sir, of course. Would the major have a seat?"

Her efforts to shoo him out of her space failed as Dixon simply replied in the negative and continued to stand in front of the desk, waiting for her to execute his order. Seeing that the sooner she got him in to see Wilford, the better, she buzzed the intercom and, without waiting for a response, announced, "Sir, your 0830 appointment is here."

There was a noticeable hesitation before Wilford told her to send him in. The sergeant gave Wilford a short "Yes, sir," flipped off the intercom, and looked up to Dixon. "Sir, the colonel will see you now."

Without so much as a "thank you," Dixon took his briefcase from the sergeant's desk, stepped back, and entered the open door of Wilford's office, stopping three feet in front of his desk. Coming to a position of attention, Dixon saluted and announced his presence. "Sir, Major Scott Dixon reporting as ordered."

The man in front of Dixon returned his salute, then stood up and leaned across the desk as he extended his right hand. "Welcome to Egypt, Dixon. Glad to have you." Wilford paused, then added, "I was under the impression you had already been promoted."

Dixon stepped forward to shake Wilford's hand. "I was hoping I would be. It will be a while before that happens. The rate of promotion really slowed down after the latest round of budget cuts." Even though Wilford was bent over, Dixon had to look up in order to look into his new superior's eyes — eyes that were already studying him as if he were a newly discovered microorganism. The fact that he was taller than Dixon seemed to please Wilford. It was a natural reaction. Some senior-ranking officers are more comfortable when they are taller than their subordinates. The handshake was also meant to be a gauge of the new man. Dixon extended his hand and prepared for that test. If it was a firm grasp, he would respond with an appropriate amount of firmness, just enough to show that he could take it. If it was merely a quick cupping of the hands, Dixon would respond in kind, withdrawing his hand as soon as it was polite to do so. If it became a tug of war, Dixon was prepared to hold his ground without challenging the superior. Fortunately, it was a simple pressing of the flesh followed by an invitation to take a seat.

When both men were seated, Wilford started. "Your new duty position calls for a lieutenant colonel. One of the first things we need to do is see that you get frocked. You won't get a light colonel's pay, but it will make your job a hell of a lot easier. Egyptians take their rank seriously."

Leaning over, Wilford flipped the intercom. "Debbie, could you scare up some coffee for the major and me?"

The sergeant responded with a short "On the way," neglecting to add a "sir." Dixon waited for Wilford to correct her. When he flipped the intercom off without doing so, Dixon began to deduct points from the imaginary score card that he had already opened on his new boss.

Wilford continued to take the lead in the conversation, asking Dixon if his flight had been on time and his hotel accommodations were satisfactory. Dixon, his guard up, simply responded to Wilford's questions with a short, perfunctory "Yes, sir" or "Everything is fine, sir" or "No, sir, no problems, sir." When the sergeant came in, she handed both men a cup of coffee and left, closing the door behind her.

For several moments both men sat in silence, taking short sips of their coffee and eyeing each other. Wilford's scrutiny made Dixon noticeably uncomfortable, especially since Wilford's stare always came back to the ribbons on Dixon's chest — or, more correctly, the top ribbon. Above all the other multicolored ribbons, almost all of which were standard for a man with as much time in the Army as Dixon had, sat a simple light-blue ribbon randomly speckled with tiny white stars. In his entire twenty-two-year career, Wilford had seen only two other men wearing that ribbon, both of whom had earned it in Vietnam. As much as he wanted to avoid doing so, Wilford could not help staring at the light-blue ribbon, which represented the Congressional Medal of Honor. Dixon had been awarded that medal for his actions at Hajjiabad, the day he had assumed command of the task force after his colonel had been killed.

Feeling uncomfortable and wanting to get on with the business at hand, Dixon broke the silence. "Sir, I was told in Washington that you would provide me with all the details of my duties once I arrived."

Wilford, intently staring at the ribbon, was caught off guard by Dixon's question. He blinked, looked Dixon in the eye, and paused for a moment before answering. "Yes, I have no doubt they told you that. Tell me, Major, how much do you know about Egypt?"

Dixon looked down into his cup of coffee. "Well, sir, to tell you the truth, not a whole hell of a lot — only what I could get out of the area study book and a couple of travel guides and books. There wasn't enough time, or so I was told, to send me to all the neat courses I needed to fully learn about the country and its people. I didn't even know how to say 'thank you' to the bellboy for carrying my luggage up to my room yesterday."

Wilford thought about that for a moment. "I should have figured as much. Exactly what were you told concerning your duties?"

"I was told that I would be the chief of staff of the 2nd U.S. Corps (Forward) and that you would provide me with all the necessary details. Since I had so little time to get my affairs in order, and everyone at 3rd Army who was connected with this project was on temporary duty someplace, I decided to wait until I arrived to get a full briefing, from the man who was actually in charge. Which brings me to the next point. Who exactly, sir, will I be attached to and report to?"

Again Wilford hesitated for a moment before speaking, considering his answer. "That, Major, is difficult to answer. The 2nd Corps (Forward) belongs to the 3rd Army. As such, there are certain reports that you will be required to submit directly to 3rd Army with information copies to me: In areas concerning in-country activities, exercise planning, and most operations, you report to me with information copies to 3rd Army. For certain, selected operations, you report to me only."

Without thinking, Dixon quipped, "Well, that certainly clears that up."

Ignoring Dixon's remark, Wilford droned on. "We are about to complete the prepositioning of equipment in Egypt for use by U.S. forces in an emergency. Up until now, no country in the region has allowed the United States to establish a permanent presence. Whenever we have conducted exercises here, we have had to bring everything we needed for the exercise and take it away when we were finished. As you know, that is a very expensive way of doing business."

Dixon was tempted to feign surprise at the last comment but decided against it. No sense, he thought, in completely pissing off the old bird.

"Furthermore, in a real emergency, our ability to move everything we need into the area is, at best, still questionable, despite the buildup in the nation's sea and airlift capability. Unfortunately, too many people walked away from the Iranian conflict with the wrong lessons."

For a moment Dixon's mind went blank. It always did when someone referred to the war in Iran as a "conflict." Like a knee-jerk reaction, Dixon thought to himself, It was a fucking war, you asshole.

Pushing dark thoughts out of mind, Dixon listened to Wilford's continuing dialogue. "The whole project is a shoestring operation, officially labeled as a means of saving money by leaving a division set of equipment in place for the units coming over here as part of the Bright Star series of exercises. We, and the Egyptians, have been working hard to convince everyone that this is nothing more than a cheap way of running those exercises. The 2nd Corps (Forward), part of that operation, is a planning headquarters with minimum manning, much like the 9th Corps in Japan. It will have the responsibility for the administration and inspection of the equipment and ammunition storage sites here in Egypt as well as planning and coordinating all U.S. ground operations in the Middle East."

Dixon interrupted. "How successful, sir, have we been in selling that line to the other Arab states and the Russians?"

"Not very, I'm afraid. Our friends in DLA tell us that the Soviets have been working on a similar training and deployment exercise to counter our Bright Star series. They call it Winter Tempest. To date, they haven't done anything beyond planning and opening discussions with Libya, Iraq, and Syria. But that is not important, at least not to you. What is important is the fact that we now have a viable presence on the ground here and can do something with very little notice."

"What heavy units are tagged for deployment to this part of the world?"

"As with all contingencies, Major Dixon, that depends on exactly what the situation is and what's happening in the rest of the world. If the Rapid Deployment Force is uncommitted, besides the 17th Airborne and the 11th Air Assault Divisions, the 52nd Infantry Division (Mechanized) comes here. If the 52nd is busy somewhere else, the 16th Armored Division is the next in line."

Dixon thought about that for a moment. The 52nd Mechanized Division had been badly mauled in Iran. In a one-on-one fight with a Soviet motorized rifle division, the 52nd had come off second-best. Its defeat resulted in the loss of most of the oil fields in southwestern Iran. On the other hand, the 16th Armored Division, though a proud Unit, had not seen combat since World War II. Putting those thoughts to the side for the moment, Dixon continued. "By being here, if something happens — that puts us right in the middle of it, whether or not we want to be part of it. I mean, it's kind of like a marriage, for better and for worse."

Leaning back in his chair, Wilford hesitated for a moment before continuing. "That, Major, is very perceptive, and unfortunately true. We are, after all, dealing with a region that is not noted for its stability. In Egypt alone the Russians have been in and out twice in the last twenty-five years and we have almost been out once. During that same period there have been two major wars with Israel and a minor border conflict with Libya."

The word "conflict" again provoked a reaction in Dixon's mind. I wonder if the Egyptian tankers and commandos considered what they did in 1977 as minor, he thought.

"As real as that problem is, that is not your concern."

Impatient, Dixon asked, "Exactly, sir, what are my concerns and duties?"

Leaning forward and folding his hands on the desk, Wilford delineated in detail Dixon's duties and responsibilities. As the chief of staff for the 2nd Corps (Forward), Dixon's responsibilities were diverse. For the most part he would be a planner, working on contingency plans, training exercises, and coordinating future operations in Egypt. His other major area of responsibility would be as liaison with the Egyptian army units that would operate with American units during training exercises and, if necessary, at war.

His role concerning the prepositioned equipment, as Wilford explained, was minimal. For this Dixon was thankful. His primary task was to ensure that the plans his people developed matched what was available on the ground in storage. When it didn't, Dixon's small staff had to inform deploying units of what equipment they needed to bring to supplement the prepositioned stores. The development and implementation of a program of routine maintenance and services on the equipment in storage was not his duty. An Ordnance Corps lieutenant colonel was charged with that.

Even in storage, checks and services must be performed on the equipment. The 1973 Arab-Israeli war provided a bitter lesson in this. Equipment stored in Europe for U.S. forces had been taken out of storage and flown to Israel after staggering losses by the Israeli Defense Force. Unfortunately, some of the equipment had not been properly maintained. The recoil systems of self-propelled howitzers, for example, had not been exercised, on a routine basis, and thus dry rot had been allowed to eat the seals. When the Israelis received the equipment, they sent it right into battle, only to have many guns blow out their seals after just a few rounds. It was therefore crucial that there be a system that kept the equipment ready and serviceable.

To operate the equipment storage sites, both U.S. military and Egyptian nationals were used. They secured the equipment, performed maintenance on it, and, when the time came, issued it to a unit deploying. Very few of the personnel were American. Each storage site, containing a brigade's worth of equipment, was commanded by a captain. He was assisted by four or five NCOs and a like number of enlisted personnel. The rest of his people were Egyptian under contract to the U.S. Government. A massive training program had been set up to train Egyptians in the proper care and maintenance of every type of equipment that a U.S. division processed.

In addition to the equipment storage sites, there was the need for the establishment and security of an ammo storage point, or ASP. The first shipments of ammunition were just beginning to arrive in country. The goal of the U.S. Army was to have thirty days of ammunition on hand for a reinforced division. This goal, as Colonel Wilford pointed out, would not be realized for several years. Budget cuts had slowed that program. For now, the Army had to content itself with two weeks' worth of ammunition in country, with contingency plans for emergency airlift of critical items if that became necessary.

There was a pause. Wilford hit the intercom. When the sergeant answered, Wilford merely told her to bring the Twilight and Pegasus files in. While they waited, neither he nor Dixon said anything. Though he had no idea what Pegasus was, Dixon felt a surge of excitement. He was finally going to get an opportunity to find out what the man he was replacing had been doing when he had been killed.

The sergeant gave him two thin folders. The Twilight folder was covered front and back with bright yellow-and-white Top Secret labels. The Pegasus folder was only Secret and therefore had red-and-white Secret labels. Each folder contained a summary of an operation in which Dixon would play a part. As he read each summary, his heart sank. Far from being a low-keyed and laid-back job, his new position put him in a virtual hot seat.

Twilight was the name given to covert Special Forces operations in Sudan and Ethiopia. A number of SF teams, operating out of central Sudan, were assisting both Sudanese government forces and Ethiopian guerrillas against Soviet-backed forces. At the time that the summary was written, there were twelve such teams in the field. Dixon's task would be to plan and coordinate their activities with the Air Force and Navy and to coordinate the resupply of team members and the evacuation, when necessary, of the wounded among them. His code name when operating under Twilight was Cardinal, the same code name Lieutenant Colonel Dedinger had been using when he died earlier that month.

As surprising as Twilight was, Pegasus was more so. For years the Army had conducted readiness exercises designed to test its ability to move troops from the continental United States to reinforce forces overseas or to potential trouble spots. ReForger (short for "redeployment of forces to Germany") for Europe, Team Spirit for Korea, and Bright Star for the Middle East were the oldest and best known. These were good exercises, but one of the chief criticisms of them was that they were planned and coordinated months in advance. Congressional critics charged that in a true "bolt out of the blue" scenario, U.S. forces couldn't respond in time. The war in Iran had come close to proving them right. One of the lessons the Army had walked away with was the need to improve the speed with which various units tagged with overseas contingency plans could deploy with no notice. Thus, Pegasus had been developed.

The concept was simple. Rather than stage elaborate, well-prepared-and-planned readiness exercises, units would be alerted with little or no notice for deployment. Pegasus was, in effect, a massive test to determine if the Armed Forces could meet their worldwide commitments. From the beginning, it was a controversial plan. Many in the Army felt that it would not be a true test, arguing that in the real world tensions would build up, allowing time to accomplish last-minute planning, mobilization, and deployment. One of the sharpest congressional critics, Congressman Ed Lewis of Tennessee, listened to those arguments, then simply asked, "Well, then, what about Korea, Grenada, and Iran? How much time did you have before you had to respond to them?" In the end, Congress drove its point home, stating that unless the military clearly demonstrated its ability to deploy in a timely manner, funds for more sea and airlift assets would be cut off.

Then there was the matter of the Helsinki Accord, which required signatories to notify each other before conducting major military exercises. Meant as a means of preventing misunderstandings or tension when a potential enemy moved forces in preparation for a training exercise, the accord had been used selectively after the war in Iran. It had not been renounced by either the United States or the Soviet Union and was technically still binding. Both the United States and the Soviet Union used various means to sidestep the problem. The United States claimed that forces already in a theater did not count against the total until all forces were brought together, allowing it to initiate notification and initial movement within the period required for notification. In addition, Army and Marine divisions deployed with most, but not all, of their assigned brigades or battalions, bringing the total strength as near as possible to the limits of the accord. The Soviets opted for another method. They simply ran several small exercises in close proximity of each other, in both time and space, with the total personnel in any one exercise never exceeding that specified in the accord.

Under pressure from Congress, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff directed that selected Army, Navy, and Air Force units would participate in no-notice deployment exercises, code named Pegasus. Those exercises, based on real-world contingency plans, such as Re-Forger, would commence with no advance warning to the units participating. Only those people who needed to coordinate with the host nation where the training would take place would know in advance. The Pegasus folder that Dixon was reading contained the concept of operation for the first Pegasus exercise to be held. The exercise was to be part of the Bright Star series, with a start date of 29 November, fourteen days hence.

When he finished reading the documents, Dixon closed the folders and laid them on Wilford's desk. Unconsciously, he wiped the palms of his sweaty hands on his trouser legs. "How many people know about these operations?"

Wilford thought before he answered. "Not many. Very few know about both. You, your G-2, and your G-3 will be the only ones on your staff that will know about both. Everyone else is to be on a need-to-know basis, and only with my approval. There will be little time for you to get your feet on the ground."

"I assume, then, that they have the rest of the plan for the upcoming Bright Star exercise."

Surprised by how poorly Dixon had been prepared, Wilford leaned back and thought for a moment, trying to find an easy way of telling Dixon that he was about to get royally screwed. There was no easy way. "Colonel Dixon, you have just read everything there is on Pegasus. If there was a plan for the exercise, it was in Dedinger's head and went down with him in the Sudan."

"You mean we're going to plow on with this?" Dixon responded, more annoyed than surprised.

"We are. That's one of the reasons you were rushed over here."

The finality of Wilford's answer left no doubt that come hell or high water, Pegasus would happen. It also left no doubt that Dixon was the man on the spot. Seeing no point in pursuing that any further, Dixon moved on to his last order of business. With little to lose, he asked the question that had bothered him since receiving his orders: "Why me?"

Pausing for a moment, Wilford considered how to answer the question. He thought about handing him a line of bull, but quickly decided against that. Dixon appeared to be the type that would not fall for a song-and-dance. No, Wilford decided, I'll tell it like it is.

"Scott, despite the fact that you don't know shit about this country and its people, you were picked because the people in Washington thought you would be accepted."

Dixon thought about that for a moment before he continued. "Accepted by who? And why am I more acceptable than someone who knows logistics? After all, this slot calls more for an officer with more time in plans, someone who understands joint operations, not to mention the area and the people. This is not a job for a lieutenant-colonel designee whose only experience above division level has been mailman in the Army's War Room."

"The medal, Dixon — you have the medal. You happen to be the only armor major who commanded an armored unit in battle and, as a result of your actions, won the Congressional Medal of Honor. You have no idea what that does for your credibility. Washington offered four fully qualified officers, none of whom were acceptable to the chief of the Military Assistance Group or to me. None of them made it to Iran while it was hot. One of them turned in his resignation as soon as he learned he was being considered. Another had never served a day overseas in sixteen years of active duty. Besides, the Egyptians asked for you by name. Apparently the Egyptian military liaison office in Washington did some checking on their own and came across you."

"Then they also know that I declined command of a combined-arms maneuver battalion at Fort Carson and as a result I am a permanent fixture on the Army's shit list."

Wilford looked at Dixon for a moment. He had avoided that subject intentionally. For the first time he felt anger. To be offered an opportunity to command a combat unit and turn it down was a concept foreign to Wilford, an officer who would have sacrificed anything for just such a chance. "Yes, I'm sure they do."

For a moment there was a cold and uncomfortable silence as both men stared at each other, not trying to hide their mutual contempt. Dixon had been through this before. Well, Scotty me boy, he thought, so much for impressing your new boss with your tact and getting along with him. Fuck him! He doesn't understand and never will.

Wilford flinched first, looking down at some papers on his desk. "Well, I suppose you're anxious to get started. To help you get into the swing of things, it's been arranged to let you train with an Egyptian unit for three days in order to get you acclimated and familiar with the terrain and the Egyptian army. The unit you'll be with is a tank battalion of the Republican Brigade. They are conducting gunnery and small-unit tactical training west of Cairo, in the area that has been selected for Bright Star. The battalion commander, a Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed Hafez, is a veteran of the '67 and '73 wars and a graduate of CGSC. His English is quite good, and he has a full understanding of our system. That will be very useful to you as you attempt to leam theirs, evaluate the terrain, and get some exposure to the culture."

Not wanting to spend any more time with Wilford than was necessary, Dixon limited his responses to a simple "Yes, sir, I'll do my best" or "That will be fine, sir." Even Wilford's inquiries into when Dixon's family would arrive and where he was looking for quarters were met with short, perfunctory responses. Until Dixon had a handle on his new assignment and had everything arranged, including living quarters, he planned to leave Fay and the boys in the States. The last thing he wanted to do was to drag his family into Egypt unprepared.

Without much ceremony the meeting ended. Dixon rose from his seat, walked up to Wilford's desk, and again saluted. Wilford's response was, at best, a wave of the hand.

It's going to be a long, hard tour, Scotty old boy, Dixon thought.