Bright Star

Chapter 5

It was as if Vennelli had been waiting all night for someone to call him. The phone's first ring had not stopped before he was up and reaching for the receiver. When he had it to his mouth, he simply said, "Colonel Vennelli."

"Sir, this is the staff duty officer. Brigade has just notified us that an emergency redeployment exercise has been called."

Without hesitation Vennelli, commander of Task Force 3–5 Armor, began to fire a series of questions at the duty officer, most of which he could not answer. Realizing that there was little to gain by playing a thousand questions, he instructed the young officer to make sure that the alert notification system was in effect and find out whatever he could from Brigade or Division. Vennelli glanced at the clock, made some quick calculations in his head, and ended his conversation by instructing the duty officer to notify all commanders and staff that there would be a situation update briefing at 0500 hours.

Vennelli hung up the phone and sat in the darkness for a moment thinking. From the other side of the bed, his sleepy wife rolled over and touched his hand. "Trouble at the battalion?"

Vennelli took his wife's hand, leaned over her, and kissed her gently on her forehead. "Yes and no. We've been tagged for an EDRE this morning. Nothing to be concerned about."

Still not fully awake, his wife asked if that meant he would miss dinner again. Vennelli thought for a moment before replying that he would call her from the office once he knew more. He already suspected that he knew the answer but decided not to worry his wife so early in the morning. Everyone in Congress and the Department of Defense was hot to trot to see if the units from the States could make it to equipment storage sites in Egypt in days, instead of the weeks it had taken during the Iranian conflict. If they couldn't, there'd be hell to pay, and more cuts in the defense budget.

Leaving his wife to drift back to sleep, Vennelli carefully got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door before he turned on the light. Though time was important, the commanders and staff would not be at task force for a while; he had time for a proper shower and shave. As he shaved, he considered the operation, the excitement within him building as he did so. He was finally going to be given the chance to show what he could do. There was no doubt in his mind that he had the right stuff — that he would have a successful command, earn his eagles, command a brigade, and eventually get his star. It was all preordained. His command of a tank-heavy task force was nothing more than a stepping stone, another benchmark toward his ultimate goal. Though Vennelli was not at all content with the current state of affairs in the task force — in particular the attitude of the Iranian veterans — he would prevail. He always had. Those who did not get with the program, his program, were as good as gone. Perhaps, he thought, this exercise would provide just the opportunity he needed to cut away some of the malcontents and dead wood. Once they were gone, he could get down to the serious business of training for war.

The opening of the door to the company orderly room and a loud "Company, a-tennn-hut!" followed by "At ease" announced the appearance of the company commander. From his office, First Sergeant Andy Duncan could see that the commanding officer of B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne, was in his PT uniform. The CO was looking about the room, filled with soldiers in desert camouflage battle dress. He had a quizzical look on his face. Turning to one of the assembled platoon sergeants, Duncan simply stated, "Looks like the Old Man didn't get the word. There'll be hell to—"

Duncan's comment was cut short as Captain Harold Cerro stuck his head in the doorway of the First Sergeant's office. "First Sergeant, could I see you in my office?"

Duncan slowly got up from his chair, picked up his clipboard, and followed Cerro to his office. He was followed by the tune of a funeral march being hummed by the platoon sergeants. Duncan knocked on the open door of Cerro's office. Cerro flopped down into the chair behind his desk, then told Duncan to come in and close the door. Duncan did so, sat down in a chair across from his commander, and waited for a moment before he spoke. Cerro had his feet up on his desk and was leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and twiddling his thumbs in his lap. "Sir, the CQ called as soon as we got the word, but your wife said that you had already left."

There was a moment of silence. Then Cerro let out a sigh, took his feet off his desk, and swung around to face Duncan. "I know. That's what I get for living so far from post. You remember what the battalion commander said—'One more time and I'll move you into the BOQ, stud.' "

Duncan chuckled. "He wouldn't dare. The last thing he needs is the Italian Stallion running around on post at all hours without adult supervision."

This made Cerro laugh. "Okay, First Sergeant, what have we got?"

Both Cerro and Duncan were veterans of the Iranian war. Though only twenty-five years old, Cerro was commanding his second company. His first had been in Iran, where, as a second lieutenant, he had assumed command of his company when the commander and the executive officer had been killed in action. In that war he had made two combat jumps and earned the Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star. Duncan, serving in a light infantry division, had also earned a Distinguished Service Cross, a Bronze Star with V Device, and a Purple Heart.

Looking down to his clipboard, Duncan began to brief his commander. "We were alerted for immediate deployment thirty minutes ago. Our exact destination has not been announced yet, but we were told it would be an out-of-country deployment and to be prepared for desert operations. Units from Fort Carson and Fort Bliss have also been alerted. Smart money says Egypt."

"Good guess, First Sergeant. No doubt the President's visit there and completion of the prepositioning of equipment for that armored brigade at Carson have something to do with this. Besides, we war-gamed a conflict in Egypt last month." Cerro thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Yeah, it's Egypt." For a moment both men looked at each other, saying nothing but thinking the same thing: Shit, not the desert. Anywhere but the fucking desert.

Standing up, Cerro went to the wall locker he kept in his office and began to pull out the appropriate uniform, underwear, boots, and socks. "What have you got for status, First Sergeant?"

While Duncan continued to brief him, Cerro dressed. He didn't hear half of what Duncan said. His mind was flooded with concerns and random thoughts — uppermost a feeling of dread.

First Sergeant Terrence B. Walker, nicknamed Walkman, burst into the orderly room of A Company, Task Force 3–5 Armor. Walker was mumbling to himself — his practice when things were fucked up. Staff Sergeant Maxwell, until that moment the senior NCO present, stood up from the first sergeant's chair and moved out of the way as Walker moved around to take his seat. Only after he sat down did the first sergeant survey the room and acknowledge Maxwell's presence.

"Okay, Jon, what the fuck happened?" Walker grunted, looking up at Maxwell. "Why the hell did it take the CQ over an hour to initiate the alert notification?"

Maxwell, clipboard in hand, sat down and cocked his head to one side. "Top, about the worst thing that you can imagine. The CQ wasn't here, and the CQ runner was asleep in his room." Maxwell waited for this to sink in. Walker, fighting back his urge to slam his fist on the desk, sucked in a deep breath, then let it out accompanied with a long "Shiiiit!" Turning back to Maxwell, he said, "Well, are we on track now?"

Knowing that Walker was in no mood for long stories or explanations, Maxwell just nodded and told him that he had personally ensured that everyone had been notified. For the first time the first sergeant relaxed a bit. "You got any coffee made yet?"

"Sure, Top. On the way." Standing up, Maxwell moved toward the coffee maker. As he poured the coffee into a white styrofoam cup, Walker asked Maxwell how he'd been able to get in so soon.

Maxwell didn't answer until he had passed the cup of steaming coffee over to Walker and had resumed his seat.

"I came in just as the duty officer arrived down here to find out why no one was answering the phone in the orderly room."

"Couldn't sleep again?" Walker, looking at Maxwell through the steam of the coffee, asked in a low, cautious voice.

In a whisper Maxwell, hands folded between his knees, eyes riveted on the floor, simply said, "No, couldn't sleep."

"The leg again, Jon?"

"Yeah, Top. It's the leg."

Walker looked at Maxwell for several seconds. "You gonna be able to deploy?"

A smile lit across Maxwell's face. "Sure, Top. You think I'd let you and the Old Man face Vicious Vinny on your own? Besides, this company needs some kind of adult supervision."

Walker chuckled. Though there was much to do and they were already behind the power curve, they'd make it. A Company was a good company, with a corps of solid NCOs that could make things happen. "Talking about Vinny and the Old Man, did the Old Man make it to the command and staff meeting on time?"

Maxwell looked up. "Yeah, he did. I imagine by now Valiant Vennelli, the Electric Wop, is ripping the captain a new asshole."

For the first time Walker laughed. "You can bet on that. And if we don't get our asses in gear, Vinny will stick his cattle prod up our bung holes. So, what's our current status, Jon?"

Referring to his clipboard, Maxwell began to brief Walker on who was present, platoon by platoon.

With the initial battalion briefing over and operations order in hand, Bob Mennzinger sauntered on back to his company orderly room. There he would be able to sit down, reread the order, digest everything in it, his notes and what he heard in the briefing, and begin to develop his own company operations order. Walking into the open orderly room, he was greeted by half a dozen pairs of eyes. George Katzenberg, his senior flight warrant, nicknamed "the Cat," asked what they were all wondering: "Well, yes or no — do we self-deploy to Egypt?"

Mennzinger didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to the coffee pot, tucked his copy of the operations order and notebook carefully under his arm, took a cup from a stack of styrofoam cups next to the pot, and slowly began to pour himself some coffee. As he did so, everyone watched him and waited for an answer. Turning to the assembled group, he lifted his cup in a mock toast and announced, "Gentlemen, I give you a toast to the United States Navy. Briefing in thirty minutes." With that he took a small sip, turned on his heels, and went into his office.

From the comer of the orderly room, one of the younger aviation warrants looked around. "Now what the fuck was that supposed to mean?"

Staring at Mennzinger's closed door, the Cat answered to no one in particular, "That means, sports fans, that we self-deploy." Standing up, he stretched. "Unless y'all have a bladder of steel, I'd recommend you lay off the coffee. Damned few pit stops where we're goin'."

With a small map of the route spread in front of him and the order in his left hand, Mennzinger went over the deployment phase again step by step. Whenever he had a question or wanted to make a note for his own company order, he jotted it down on a pad of yellow lined legal paper. The plan for the deployment phase was deceptively easy. Deployment would commence at 1300 hours ZULU, or 0800 hours local time, on 30 November. Selected elements of the Combat Aviation Brigade (CAB for short) of the 11th Airborne Division (Air Assault) would commence deployment from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, to a training area just west of Alexandria, Egypt. The entire 1st of the 11th Heavy Attack Battalion, which included Mennzinger's attack helicopter company, was committed to participate in the unannounced emergency deployment and Bright Star exercise. That battalion, equipped with eighteen AH-64 Apaches, thirteen OH-58C scouts, and three UH-60 Blackhawks, would lead off the deployment. Other elements of the CAB that would follow the 1st of the 11th were the 3rd of the 11th Assault Battalion, equipped with forty-five UH-60 Blackhawks reinforced with six CH-47D Chinooks, and one troop of the 2nd of the 14th Air Cavalry Squadron, equipped with four AH-64s and six OH-58C scouts. All aircraft capable of self-deployment, including the six AH-64s of Mennzinger's company, would fly over on their own. Only those aircraft with short legs, such as the OH-58Cs, would be broken down and transported by Air Force C-17 transports.

The actual deployment was broken into seven segments, or hops. An AH-64, equipped with four 230-gallon external fuel tanks and carrying no ordnance, was capable of flying one thousand nautical miles with a forty-five-minute reserve. Therefore, each hop had to be equal to or less than one thousand nautical miles. Flying the traditional, northern route into Europe during winter was risky and would entail long detours around countries that normally denied overflights by U.S. military aircraft. To reduce weather interference and long detours, the deployment plan that would be used called for a straight shot across the Atlantic. A combination of land bases and aircraft carriers for refueling would put the aircraft self-deploying in Egypt in just under sixty-four hours. To assist in the navigation and back up the helicopter's own Doppler navigation system, the Air Force would deploy E-3 Sentinel airborne warning and control systems, or AWACS aircraft. The E-3s would track the deploying helicopters and vector them to where the carriers were.

For the deployment, all aircraft self-deploying would be divided into groups, each group having four aircraft, with no less than two transport helicopters in each group. The reason for that organization, as the commander of the CAB explained, was twofold. First, the aircraft carriers along the way could easily handle the refueling of four Army helicopters, at thirty-minute intervals, without interfering with the routine operations or the primary mission of the carrier. Second, the transport helicopters were distributed among the groups in pairs in case one or more of the aircraft in a group had to ditch over the sea. One of the transport aircraft would be able to recover the crew of the downed helicopter. The reason for a minimum of two transport helicopters per group was a hedge against the odds, chances being slim that both transport aircraft in one group would go down. Though no one seriously believed they would lose any aircraft, the operations plan was covering all possibilities.

The route would require forty-nine flying hours total. The first hop would be the easiest, Fort Campbell to Fort Bragg in North Carolina for a thirty-minute refueling stop. The unit had made that trip twice in the past year for training. From Bragg, the next hop would take them over the ocean to Bermuda for another thirty-minute refueling. The third hop was the real challenge. From Bermuda, the aircraft would fly almost due east to a rendezvous with the carrier USS George Washington near the 45th west meridian. While the theory of operating Army helicopters off Navy aircraft carriers had been practiced, the tests had been limited and well planned. This operation was the largest application of that capability. Little coordination, other than the exchange of radio frequencies and the location of the carriers, had been provided for. On top of that, due to the deployment schedule, many of the helicopters would be making their first carrier landing during the dark. Mennzinger considered that for a moment, trying to figure out how he could put it in a positive light when he briefed his own men.

After the carrier refueling, the rest of the operation would be relatively simple. The fourth refueling stop would be Lajes Field in the Azores, followed by a twelve-hour stopover at Gibraltar, the fifth stop. Where the sixth refueling stop would be was still in question. The Italian government, as of the time of the battalion order, had not given its permission to use Sicily as a refueling stop. The Navy, therefore, was prepared to have a second carrier positioned south of Sicily to provide an alternate refueling point in case the Sicilian stop fell through. From Sicily, the aircraft would fly into Alexandria, Egypt.

Mennzinger paused for a moment and looked at his notes. Simple — the whole plan was simple. All that was required to make it work was a few thousand people from three different services, two aircraft carrier groups, and a couple hundred thousand gallons of fuel to be at the right place at the right time. He looked at his watch. He could hear his pilots gathering in the orderly room. There was a great deal to do. Everyone would be anxious to run his aircraft up three or four times to make sure everything was in working order and that the external fuel tanks weren't leaking out of their filler caps. If time permitted, Mennzinger also wanted to go over to Kyle Lake and rehearse recovery procedures, just in case one of his aircraft went into the ocean. Standing up, Mennzinger looked down at his notes and thought for a moment. Rather than hold up the works and prepare the perfect plan, he decided to brief the deployment and wait on doing any planning for the actual in-country exercise in Egypt. Hell, he thought, Once we're there, we can finesse that part of it.

There was a knock at the door before the first sergeant opened it and stuck his head in. "Sir, everyone's here."

Looking up at the first sergeant, Mennzinger smiled. "Okay, Top, I'll be right with you. Oh, and Top — tell 'em to lay off the coffee."

The increase in security at the airport and throughout the capital did not surprise Sadiq. With the announcement of the visit by the American President and rumors of short-notice joint U.S.-Egyptian military maneuvers to coincide with the visit, everyone would be on his guard. How unfortunate, Sadiq thought as his cab passed a group of police unloading barriers from a truck, that they decided to close the door after the serpent entered their house.

Planning and preparation for the operation had gone quickly and exceedingly well. Colonel Nafissi had decided almost immediately that there was insufficient time to prepare an Egyptian assault force. Instead, he insisted that a Libyan commando unit, which just happened to be ready for just such an operation, conduct the assault. It didn't take Sadiq long to realize that Nafissi had been planning and preparing for this operation. Sadiq's news had only given them the time and provided the catalyst for pulling the trigger.

Secrecy was uppermost in everyone's mind. Only those people who needed to know were told what was to happen. Sadiq doubted if even the leader of the revolution knew what was happening. The commandos who would be executing the operation themselves were given the plan one phase at a time: first, their instruction for infiltration into Egypt and a rally point. At the rally point, they would be given the route to and location of their assembly area. There they would be told of the nature of the operation but not the target or the time. In this manner, if someone was accidentally captured, he would be unable to provide much in the way of useful information. Even Sadiq did not know the whole plan. He knew what he had to: that the commandos, dressed as military police and riding in jeeps, would approach the position where the two presidents would be. The jeeps would go to the reviewing stand, one to either side. Once there, the commandos would simply get out and kill everyone in the stand.

Because of the need to get close to the reviewing stand, the operation could not be an all-Libyan affair. Support was needed from sympathizers within the Egyptian military. That was the single greatest concern Nafissi had concerning the operation. Security would be extremely tight. The memory of the assassination of President Anwar Sadat was always foremost in the minds of Egyptian security forces. To allow a second calamity such as that would be disastrous to the regime. If the American President were also killed, it would be cataclysmic. Sadiq, however, was adamant that he could make the necessary arrangements that would allow the Libyan commandos to get within striking distance. As he told Nafissi repeatedly, he had people in the right places who could make things happen. One of those people was Lieutenant Colonel Hafez.

While the taxi wound its way through the crowded streets of Cairo, Sadiq reviewed the plan in his mind. Three Egyptians, himself included, and five Libyans would make the attack. They were to be dressed in uniforms of the Egyptian military police and using two Soviet-built jeeps painted as MP vehicles. Two actual Egyptian MP vehicles would be diverted at the last minute to secure a crossroad far from the scene of the attack by an officer sympathetic to the Brotherhood. The two jeeps with the assault team would assume the mission of the real Egyptian MPs, driving through all the check points and right up to the reviewing stand where the two presidents would be. Once they were there, resolute hearts, grenades, and automatic rifles would be all that was needed.

Nafissi had liked the plan. It was like him — simple, direct, brutal. Looking at his watch, Sadiq decided that he had enough time to visit his favorite mosque before meeting with Hafez. Leaning forward, Sadiq told the driver to go to the Mosque of Hassan near the Citadel. Sadiq always enjoyed praying there, mere meters from police headquarters. It was, to him, the ultimate challenge.

The newsroom of the World News office was sheer panic and pandemonium, and Fay Dixon was loving it. A joint news release from the Egyptian Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of State early that morning had announced the impending visit of the President of the United States and the conduct of unannounced joint military maneuvers involving the United States and Egypt. Since then there had been a scramble to gather everything that would be needed to cover the story and provide background information.

Arrangements had already been made to fly in two additional camera crews from WNN's London and Paris offices. Press passes and security badges for all the members of the camera crews and support people had to be obtained from the Egyptian military. Interviews with the U.S. ambassador, briefings by the military attache, Egyptian military officials, and such had to be set up, shot, edited, and beamed back to the States by satellite. This process always required more time than was available. This was where Fay Dixon came in. She was responsible for developing the concept or angle that Jan would use in her news story. Once Jan approved, Fay put the production together and made sure everyone was doing his or her job. Far from being a simple producer, Fay had become Jan's assistant and the number-two honcho in the office in fact if not in name. Once the tape had been shot, it was Fay who reviewed it and pieced together news stories that would address the preparation leading up to the visit and the maneuvers as well as the actual thing. There was much to do and very little time.

That she had the job at all was more than a simple matter of luck. Through Jan's efforts, her former field producer disappeared almost overnight. Though he was due a promotion and reassignment back to the home office in the States, the speed with which Jan made it happen amazed everyone in the office. It shouldn't have. Jan had a way of moving heaven and earth to get what she wanted. In this case, she wanted the old producer out and her friend in. Nothing, not even the home office, could stop her.

Since her arrival in country and her assignment as Jan's field producer, Fay had been on the run. With Jan's help, she had secured an apartment in a neighborhood populated mainly by Americans and Europeans. They were mainly business types that Scott did not care for and refused to have anything to do with. Not that he was ever home. As always, Scott was gone from sunup to well past sundown, doing whatever it was he did. As far as getting the family settled in, that was left to Fay to handle. Other than a few handouts that weren't of much value, Scott gave her no guidance or advice, assuming that she would be able to sort it out on her own.

And, as always, she did. Taking the advice of the people from the WNN office, Fay enrolled the boys in an exclusive school catering to the Europeans instead of the one used by most of the American embassy staff, something that sent Scott ballistic. He was opposed to sending the children to a non-American school, isolating the boys from their own kind. The fact that his boys wouldn't receive any American history didn't help matters. Fay was prepared for Scott's disapproval but not for the viciousness of his attacks.

Though she suspected that his new assignment contributed to his dark moods, she didn't care at the moment. She was finally realizing her dream of many years — to be back in a newsroom with the flurry of activity and the rush of events. She was among the first to see the news that would shape the world, and she had a hand in shaping it. The mere thought of that was intoxicating. For the first time in years she felt completely and fully alive. The hours were long, the work stressful at times,but all in all it was wonderful.

To add to the bargain, Fay once again was working with Jan. Though they had kept in touch over the years, their worlds had drifted apart since Fay's marriage to Scott. Fay was all but chained to house and home: her life was one of dealing with children, doing laundry, running errands, performing all the pressing little duties expected of an officer's wife and playing substitute father to the children in place of the real one, who seemed always to be away from home at the wrong time. While Fay had been enjoying the so-called benefits of married life, Jan was romping around the globe, earning her spurs as an international reporter in Lebanon and Africa. It was in Africa that she really made her mark. Fortune smiled on her one day when, traveling with guerrillas, she happened across a village that the government forces, with the support of the Soviets, had hit with chemical weapons. The gruesome scenes of dead mothers clutching their dead children, cut down in mid-stride, were seen across the world. Jan appeared before both the U.S. Senate and the U. N. That story made her a star overnight. Along her way to stardom, Fay moved to the backwaters of her life. Until now.

Jan's entry into the newsroom was always like an event. She liked it that way. Returning from a late lunch, she strutted into the newsroom with a determined, businesslike pace. Those who were so privileged to be able to greet her as "Jan" received a smile or a nod of the head as she went by. The lesser lights of the staff addressed her as Miss Fields and received nothing in acknowledgment.

Jan stood a full-figured five foot six: while not heavy, she was slightly heavier than she cared to be. Fortunately, she was well proportioned and carried herself well; her size 10 outfits complimented her figure. Her oval face, framed by long brunet hair, was pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. What made a difference between Jan Fields and many other bright young female news reporters was that she had the knack of being at the right place at the right time and knew what to do. She was always able to gauge the people she interviewed and to get what she wanted from them, using charm, wit, and a disarmingly casual manner. Her admirers called her intelligent and brilliant; her detractors jealously referred to her as lucky.

Walking over to Fay's desk, Jan flashed her award-winning smile as she greeted Fay, then let it fade into a worried frown. "Fay, we have a beast of a problem. I have an interview with the U.S. ambassador in less than an hour and then a Colonel Wilford immediately after that. I really don't think we'll be able to put together a piece in time for the late news in the States."

Fay glanced at her watch and thought for a moment, then answered very matter-of-factly. Turning a yellow legal pad around so that Jan could see, Fay showed her a draft schedule and explained each event, using a pencil to point to each as she discussed it. When she had gone down the entire schedule point by point, Fay looked up to Jan and stated, in her simple, efficient manner, "So long as I can have the material in hand by three o'clock, no problem. We have a bird at four o'clock with thirty minutes feed time."

Sitting on the edge of Fay's desk, Jan leaned over, smiling again. "Great! You don't know how good it is to have you back where you really belong. We're a great team."

Fay smiled. "I wish Scott understood that. I know he doesn't like this, but so far he hasn't said a thing."

Jan and Scott Dixon never did see eye to eye, except when they were fighting. She never forgave the last of the Neanderthals, as she referred to Scott, for taking the best field producer she ever had. Besides, despite the fact that she associated with military types frequently in pursuit of all the news worth making into news, she had no use for them. They were hard to interview, seldom provided information of any value, and often restricted themselves to a simple "yes" or "no" or "I'm not at liberty to say." She talked to them — or, more correctly, used them — only when absolutely necessary. Politicians, always anxious to get their faces in the news, were far better sources of information, even if they seldom fully understood what they were talking about. The interview with the ambassador, therefore, would be followed by the military interview. The ambassador would tell the story, and the segments with Colonel Wilford would add credibility.

"Doesn't your husband work for this Colonel Wilford, Fay?"

"Jan, you can forget about that angle. Scotty doesn't even tell me what he's up to, let alone telling you." Fay leaned forward and whispered, "Although he did tell me that he will be working with an Egyptian unit during this exercise and has to present a briefing with an Egyptian tank battalion commander. As a matter of fact, you may run into him at the embassy. He'll be there this afternoon for a briefing on the visit." As an afterthought, Fay added, "And Jan, if you do see him, though he's been a real shit lately and deserves it, try not to gouge out his eyes in public. He always sulks so whenever you two get into it."

Jan Fields, with a wicked smile across her face, replied, "Fay, would I do that to poor Scotty?"

Without batting an eye, Fay replied, "You know damn well you will." With that, they laughed and went about their harried pursuit of news and truth.

Despite the best efforts of the air conditioner, the briefing room was fast becoming hot and stuffy. At the front of the room, a young captain was going over the plan for the upcoming maneuvers and the President's visit with the aid of hastily made viewgraphs and an overhead projector that could not be focused properly. Dixon, who had developed the overall plan for the exercise and had initiated the coordination, had lost control of the project once the exercise had been announced and the bulk of the Corps staff began to deploy to Cairo. The captain doing the briefing was the protocol officer from 3rd Army, responsible for coordinating visits to military units and briefings, answering questions concerning the VIPs, arranging their transportation, and all the nitty-gritty chores that go with the care and feeding of VIPs. A lack of details and the captain's inability to answer even the simplest questions convinced Dixon that many of the people involved in running the exercise had been told of it only after the units had been alerted that morning. That opinion was reinforced as he watched briefer after briefer come forward and develop their portion of the plan right then and there.

The captain's briefing, sketchy though it was, at least provided him with a warning order that he was to present a briefing during a live fire demonstration. On a draft agenda for the VIPs, marked "Secret" at the top and bottom, that had been handed out to everyone entering the briefing room, Dixon stumbled across a one-hour slot labeled "Combined Arms Live Fire Exercise: Relief of air assault forces by Egyptian armored units." Under the column that named the briefers, LTC Hafez and LTC Dixon were listed. Hafez's battalion was listed as the force that would relieve B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne. This exercise was at the end of the visit to the maneuvers on 7 December. It was to be the grand finale. Because Dixon had been working with Hafez, it had been decided to attach him to the Republican Brigade temporarily as a liaison officer for the duration of the presidential visit. Dixon, wanting to watch the procedures used by the incoming units to draw equipment from the combat equipment site, and work in the corps headquarters as he should, had protested; but his protest had been overridden. What made sense in the long run was not important at that moment. Putting on a good show overrode all appeals to common sense and sanity. Dixon therefore spent all morning handing off his notes and plans to another lieutenant colonel, who had just arrived from McDill Air Force Base.

When the captain reached the portion of the briefing that addressed the live fire exercise, Dixon asked several questions but got few answers. In Dixon's initial proposal for the exercise, there had been no joint live fire; he had considered that type of training too hard to put together on such short notice. Not that it couldn't be done. The training benefit that would be derived from doing so would be minimal, he pointed out, versus the expenditure of resources. But his protests were in vain, and the decision was made to put on a really grand live fire show-and-tell for the VIPs.

Once the decision was made, however, no one pushed that part of the exercise much beyond the concept phase. When all was said and done, no one had a firm grasp on what was going to happen or how the exercise was going to go down. Instead, responsibility for that exercise, as well as the briefings to go along with it, was passed to Dixon and Hafez — Dixon was reminded of the old adage that people who ask questions usually get asked to find the answer.

Tuning out the rest of the briefing, Dixon began to consider the problem and formulate a plan and several options. With a little luck he could catch Hafez and discuss the options with him as soon as the briefing was over. Dixon had met Hafez twice and had done some training with his unit. He was impressed with both the unit and its commander. As Hafez had a good command of the English language and was a graduate of the Command and General Staff College at Leavenworth, Dixon saw no major problems with putting the briefing together. The exercise was a different story. Piecing together a combined-arms live fire exercise requires a great deal of planning, coordination, and preparation, not to mention resources. The use of forces from two different armies and an air assault company that wasn't even in country yet complicated the matter. They had eight days in which to pull it together. The sooner they came to an agreement on the concept of operation, the faster they could concentrate on pulling in all the resources and units needed in order to put on, as Colonel Wilford said, "a good show."

Dixon's calculations and gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He turned, his eyes meeting the impassioned eyes of the Marine corporal who had tapped him. Without saying a word, the Marine extended his right hand, which held a brown shotgun envelope. Dixon took the envelope, whispered a short "Thank you" to the Marine, and then turned back to the current briefer. Half-listening, he absentmindedly opened the envelope. There was a single-page message attached to a yellow routing slip signed by his intelligence officer. Turning to the message without reading the slip, Dixon looked to see who its originator was, then read the body of the message.

The message had been given a FLASH precedence and sent from the Office of Military Cooperation in Sudan. Its first paragraph blandly announced that Soviet forces, with the permission of the Sudanese government, would begin using the airfield at Al Fasher for deployment of a force of unknown size from Ethiopia to Libya commencing 1 December. The second paragraph stated that U.S. military personnel, at the request of the Sudanese government, would be restricted from operating within three hundred miles of Al Fasher for the duration of the Soviet deployment exercise. For several seconds Dixon wasn't aware that his reaction to the message, sprinkled with four-letter expletives, had halted the briefing in its tracks.

Sergeant Johnny Jackson stuck his head into the room where Kinsly sat on the comer of his cot, writing out a response to a message he had just received. The room, barely big enough for two cots, served as a communications center for the team. Jackson coughed to gain Kinsly's attention. "Sir, the major's here to see you."

Kinsly looked up in surprise. "He's up out of bed?"

Jackson shook his head in the affirmative, then stepped back to allow the lanky Sudanese major in. Kinsly rose and greeted the major, offering him the only chair in the room. Still weak from his wounds, the Sudanese major shuffled over to the chair and seated himself.

"Sir, I am glad to see that you are able to get up and around. I hope this is a sign that you will recover soon."

The major did not respond immediately. Kinsly watched him. He was in distress — a distress that was not the result of his wounds. Without saying a word, Kinsly knew that the major had come over personally to inform him that the Soviets were in the Sudan with the permission of his own government. Kinsly already knew that, but he did not let on to the major that he did. To do so would only make it harder on the man.

Without looking at Kinsly, the major told him that due to political necessity, his government had favorably considered a Soviet request to use selected facilities in his country. Furthermore, the major continued haltingly, he had been ordered to inform Kinsly that he and his A Team were to be restricted to the immediate area of the compound during the period when the Soviets were in the Sudan. At the end of his speech, the major looked up at Kinsly. "You must understand, my friend, we have little choice in this matter. As much as it pains me to do so, I have little choice."

Kinsly put his hand on the major's shoulder. It was the first time he had ever touched the man. "Sir, I understand. We each have our duty. Regardless of what happens, however, our friendship will survive."

Looking into Kinsly's eyes, the major smiled. "Yes, our friendship will survive."

As before, Sadiq pulled his friend Hafez into a dark comer of a small mosque. Hafez had debated whether or not to go to the meeting. How easy it would have been to call the police and inform them that Sadiq, a wanted man for years, was in Cairo! But there was no way he could do that without involving himself. The question of how he, a colonel in the Egyptian army and a battalion commander in the Republican Brigade, had come upon information concerning a known terrorist and fugitive from the law would surely be asked. Even if Hafez could come up with a good explanation, there was always the danger that Sadiq would break under interrogation and implicate him in the plot and reveal his earlier dealings with the Brotherhood. Seeing a greater danger in not doing so, Hafez decided to cooperate, but with open eyes.

Somehow he had to find an honorable solution to the problem that faced him. There had to be a weak point in Sadiq's plan that would allow him to escape without losing face, or worse.

Sadiq was confident and quite pleased with himself. "All is going well. The assault party is in place and preparing for the day when we, together, will strike down those who would tear us from the bosom of Islam and the True Faith."

Hafez was nervous. Sadiq actually was involved in something, something that was going to happen soon. But he saw a possible opening through which to escape. "If all is ready, then what need do you have of me? Surely your people are more qualified than I?"

Smiling, Sadiq reached out and grabbed Hafez's shoulders with both hands. He believed Hafez's plea was one of humility, not an attempt to back out of the plot. "No, my friend, you are very important. Without you, all will fail."

Hafez felt his heart sink. He stood there for a moment, half of him wanting to strike down the traitor who stood before him and run, the other half fascinated by the unfolding mystery and anxious to leam more. Curiosity won out. "What possible role could you have for me?"

Letting one arm fall to his side, Sadiq half-tumed and leaned over to whisper in Hafez's ear. "Your tank battalion will be part of a demonstration on December 7, the last day of the American President's visit to the maneuvers."

Hafez felt himself go stiff. He had learned of this only several hours ago, when Colonel Dixon of the U.S. Army had approached him with the mission and several courses of action. The agenda and timing of the visit were secret. How had this terrorist found out so fast?

Sadiq continued. "Both presidents will be on a covered platform, where they will view the insertion of an American company from Egyptian helicopters. These Americans will dig in and defend against a fake attack. U.S. war planes and Egyptian artillery will fire in their support. At the end of the demonstration, a company from your battalion will break through an imaginary force and join the Americans. Some time during that demonstration, when all eyes are looking forward, two Egyptian army jeeps carrying my men dressed as military police will approach the rear of the platform. Men from your companies not participating in the demonstration, deployed in a defensive security arch around the rear of the platform, will allow these jeeps to pass. My men will do the rest."

There was a moment's silence while Hafez waited for more. But there was no more. That was it: simple, direct, quick. Hafez looked at Sadiq. "What about the presidential security at the platform? They will cut your men down before they get out of their jeeps. Anyone not expected will be suspect and stopped."

Sadiq smiled. "But these men will be expected. Additional escort vehicles and personnel will be on hand in case the two presidents are unable to fly out from the observation site. The real military police will be diverted en route and our military police inserted. All you must do is keep your men from examining the jeeps closely, merely waving them on. The presidential security teams will see the military police jeeps approach, watch your men wave them through, and turn back to watch for other threats. Once my men get within fifty meters of the platform, nothing can stop them."

Again there was a moment of silence. Hafez's mind was racing a mile a minute in an effort to discover a flaw that he could use to dissuade Sadiq from carrying out his plan. Failing that, he found himself rationalizing, in reality he would have nothing to do with the actual assassination. Neither he nor his men had to pull a trigger. All they had to do was turn a blind eye to the two jeeps, both obviously belonging to the military police, and do nothing. To do so would be so natural, so innocent. Turning to Sadiq, Hafez continued to question him. "And what am I to do when the shooting starts? You cannot expect me to stand there like stone and do nothing."

Straightening up, Sadiq grasped Hafez by both shoulders. "The two presidents will fall with the first volley. When that happens, you will do your duty."

"You expect me to fire on your men? To strike them down?"

For the first time Sadiq's face went expressionless; his eyes narrowed. "Yes! I expect you to kill them, and they expect to die. They are ready to become martyrs in the struggle against the infidels and the nonbelievers. As we have learned many years ago, there is no greater privilege than to die for Allah."

Shaken, Hafez nevertheless managed to collect his thoughts. "Yes, yes, my friend. So true, so true. All is in the hands of God."

There is always the tendency for planners and leaders at every level to meddle with a plan right up to the last minute. This tendency is not all bad in that few plans take everything into account. Variables not considered during the initial stages of planning have the nasty habit of popping up at the most inconvenient times. These variables can unhinge the whole operation if the commander on the ground lacks the training, flexibility, and agility of mind to deal with them. There comes a point, however, when the planners and leaders removed from the scene must leave well enough alone and allow the commander on the ground to do his job. The most successful commanders learn this early, which is why they are successful. Colonel Nafissi would never be a successful commander.

Nafissi was not only a commander but a man concerned about power, always seeking to gain and control it. Such men are reluctant to relinquish or delegate that power. In a system where virtually all power rested in the hands of a select few, to do so would mean competition and, possibly, a threat. While Nafissi was confident in the plan, he was always mindful that the world of international politics was an ever-changing sea of sand. He was unwilling to trust or delegate his power to someone who was less attuned to the politics and strategy of the cause.

His desire to retain tight control of the operation was also based on a basic distrust of his Egyptian "brothers." Though the operation was supposed to be Egyptian, it was not. The Brotherhood, like most clandestine organizations in Egypt, was infested with Egyptian security agents, making security impossible. Nafissi's distrust of his Egyptian brothers was also based on a deep conviction that they were not as dedicated to the cause as they should be. Though they all professed to the same beliefs and goals, the Egyptians carried an air of superiority borne of a cultural heritage and centuries of identity as a nation. Libya could never match either. It bothered Nafissi that some of the Egyptians who claimed to be working for the establishment of fundamentalism often confused the goals of Islamic fundamentalism with those of Egyptian nationalism. They could not be fully trusted.

Hence the reliance on Libyan commandos. Because most of the commandos were Libyan, Nafissi insisted that the assault team maintain communications with Tripoli. Again, an inbred desire to retain tight control over everything overrode common sense. He understood that there existed the danger that an electronic signal could, and probably would, be intercepted. But he considered that risk to be negligible from his viewpoint, and therefore acceptable. Should the timing not be right, he wanted the ability to cancel the attack. The parameters or conditions that would cause him to do such a thing were not clear in Nafissi's own mind. Still, he felt much better that he had some control over the operation and could influence it. Periodic status reports from the commandos and final clearance to conduct the attack would be given by Nafissi alone. After all, what use is it to be a commander if one cannot command?

To date, all had gone well. The commandos had gathered at the designated rallying point. There the equipment and weapons were ready and waiting. They had conducted several rehearsals and even had driven most of the route twice in a civilian van. With nothing to do until the commandos made their final clearance check with him, Nafissi began to consider the possibilities of what would happen if the raid failed. One of the first considerations was retaliation by either Egypt or the U.S. — or both. The American raid of April 1986 was still a sore point, especially for air force personnel. That raid was far more damaging, in the eyes of world politics, than the Egyptian incursion of 1977. Though he counted on the presence of Soviet forces in Libya to act as a deterrent to retaliation by either Egypt or the United States, no one could be one hundred percent sure what would happen if the plot failed or was traced back to Libya.

Therefore, as a belated thought, Nafissi had the commander of Air Defense Command report to him on the current status of air defense. Not satisfied with his report, Nafissi ordered him to personally ensure that all was in order, in particular the systems covering the Cyrenaica, the eastern part of Libya. When asked the cause of his concern, Nafissi merely stated that he wanted to watch the maneuvers being conducted by the Americans and Egyptians closely, just in case they were using them as a cover for an attack on Libya. Though that story was nothing more than a means of keeping the commander of the air defense forces from becoming curious, Nafissi failed to appreciate the chain of events he set in motion.

Stretching, Dixon got up from his desk and walked over to the window. He was tired. The day had been a long one, one that didn't seem to have an end. For a moment he looked out the window. He was not ready to deal with the rush of events that was overwhelming him and his family. Little had gone right since he had been ripped from his nice, safe job in Washington and thrown into the middle of a tempest. Instead of preparing for retirement in Maryland, he found himself in the Middle East, preparing to face a potential international crisis. Instead of bringing his family back together and healing the wounds the war in Iran had opened between himself and Fay, he found the gulf between them widening daily as she struck out on her own, leaving him to muddle about on his own, dealing with his own problems as best he could.

As bad as his domestic problems were, the internal strife was worse. In the Pentagon, he was a highly paid paper shuffler, many times removed from the decision-making process. In Egypt, however, he was again faced with the prospect of ordering men into dangerous situations.

Dixon paused in mid-thought and corrected himself. "Prospect" was a bad word — the wrong word. He was in fact ordering men into combat. Returning to his desk, he reread the message he was about to send out. Bypassing the Office of Military Cooperation (Sudan), the message would go directly to a newly promoted captain by the name of Kinsly. The message was an order that directed Kinsly to disregard all previous instructions to avoid the area around Al Fasher. Instead, Kinsly would take his A Team to Al Fasher by the fastest means available, place the airfield and any facilities used by the Soviets at Al Fasher under observation, and report any and all information on the units moving into and out of Al Fasher. The order was in direct violation of the official agreement between the United States and the Sudan that the United States would do nothing that would result in confrontation with the Soviets.

Dixon considered the order one more time. He didn't like the last paragraph. The bulk of the message enumerated the information that Kinsly's team was to gather. In the second-to-last paragraph, Kinsly was told that he could use whatever means he saw fit to accomplish his assigned mission. Then, in the last paragraph, Dixon added that Kinsly wasn't to take any unnecessary chances. Was Dixon using double-talk? Or was he sidestepping an unpleasant task and instead abdicating responsibility for deciding what was right and proper to some poor sap of a captain stuck in the bush?

Sliding the message into a folder, Dixon closed his mind to the matter. He didn't know, nor was he in any condition to sort out, what was right and proper. At that moment all he knew was that, like it or not, he had to issue that order and, for better or worse, trust that the man receiving it would act appropriately.