Bright Star

Chapter 6

A sharp buzz in his left ear woke Captain Ilvanich. Opening his eyes, he looked to his right and saw that the noise had been the intercom's buzzer. The crew chief of the Ilyushin 76 had already picked up the phone and was talking to someone in the cockpit. Unable to hear both sides of the conversation, Ilvanich looked around, all the while wondering how much further they had to go.

"YOU MUST BE VERY USED TO THIS BY NOW!" The shout came from Lieutenant Shegayev, who was sitting across the aisle from him, a nervous smile on his face.

Ilvanich had no doubt that Shegayev had been awake and staring at him the whole trip. He was nervous. It would be Shegayev's first jump with the unit. Ilvanich considered the young KGB officer across from him. I suppose I looked just like him two years ago, he thought. He considered harassing the young officer but decided against it. There still was the possibility that they would meet resistance at the airfield. There was no point in making things more difficult for the young political. Instead, Ilvanich just grunted, "Yes, one becomes used to this."

The crew chief hung up the phone to the intercom and turned to Ilvanich. Speaking loudly, slowly, and exaggerating his pronunciation so that he would not be misunderstood, the crew chief relayed to Ilvanich the message he had just been given by the pilot. "No jump. We will land you. We are twenty minutes out."

Relieved that there would be no jump or fighting, Ilvanich unsnapped his seat belt and stood up. As he did so, all eyes turned to him, waiting to hear the news or his orders. When Ilvanich announced that they were to remove their parachutes and prepare for an unopposed landing, a murmur of relief could be heard up and down the row of paratroopers. Everyone save Shegayev smiled and instantly began to shed the heavy parachutes that cut into their arms and legs. Noting Shegayev's disappointed look, Ilvanich bent over and whispered, "Have faith, my friend. I have great faith that the party will provide another opportunity for us to die a grand and glorious death for the motherland."

Shocked by Ilvanich's remark, Shegayev stared at him, ashen. Ilvanich, pleased that he had gotten the young officer's goat again, stood upright and smiled a sinister smile, winked, then continued to watch his men as they removed and stored their parachutes under their seats.

"Better look sharp there, Andy. Someplace down there is an aircraft carrier that has fifty-eight hundred pounds of fuel and a clean latrine waiting for us."

"Head, sir. Sailors use heads, not latrines. You go around asking those swabbies where the latrine is and they'll mess with you till you piss your pants."

Mennzinger laughed. "First, Andy, it wouldn't be the first time I pissed my pants. And second, if those yahoos fuck with me, I'll whip it out and piss all over their nice clean floor, or deck, or whatever they call it." After eight hours of being cramped into the gunner copilot seat, flying in total darkness over the monotonous ocean, Mennzinger was looking forward to stretching his legs, even if it meant landing on a carrier in the middle of the night. With nothing better to do, since it wasn't his turn to fly, he decided to scan the area to see if there was anything about. Seeing nothing on the screen displaying the pilot night-vision sensor, or PNVS, he leaned down, put his head up to the multipurpose sight, and switched on the target acquisition and designation sight. Once he had a good picture, Mennzinger began to scan the area to the front of the Apache, looking for a hot spot that would be the carrier.

Warrant officer Andy Post, Mennzinger's pilot, spotted the first ship before Mennzinger did. Post announced that he had a contact on the right. Automatically, Mennzinger traversed his sight over, centered the hot spot in his thermal sight, then increased the magnification. The thermal sight, detecting heat sources and translating them into a visible picture, displayed the image of a ship. The image, however, was not a carrier: there was no flat deck. "I think that's an escort, Andy. Try contacting the carrier. If that doesn't work, we'll try the E-3 Sentinel."

Flipping to the designated frequency, Post called the carrier. On his first try, the carrier's flight control responded and informed them that they were twenty miles out and on course. With an air of triumph, Post announced, "See, what did I tell you! Right on the money."

"Before we start congratulating ourselves," Mennzinger shot back without a pause, "let's see if we can put this bird down on the deck of that carrier in one piece, and soon."

"Your wish, sir, is my command."

The early-moming sun, streaming into the window of the Aeroflot Ilyushin 86 jet, scanned the faces of the passengers like a spotlight as the aircraft turned and began its approach into the airfield. The sudden flash of the sun and the steep banking of the jet woke Neboatov from his fitful sleep. A major of artillery seated next to him was turned sideways and staring out the window. "Huh," the major grunted to no one in particular. "Will you look at this! I doubt if they've ever seen this much activity in this pisshole of a country. No doubt we're going to find ourselves asshole deep in really big operations this time."

Curious, Neboatov stretched, then turned to look out the window himself. The scene before him was, as the artillery major had stated, most surprising. Lined up on the runway below them were four Red Air Force Antonov AN-124 transports and six Ilyushin 11–76 transports. Interspersed between the oversized military transports were several smaller civil aircraft, mostly Ilyushin 86s with Aeroflot markings, like the one they were on. Farther down the runway were a number of fighter aircraft — MIG-29s by the look of their tail sections. Between the aircraft, personnel were scattered, some obviously ground crews, others passengers lined up or in small groups waiting for embarkation.

The major of artillery turned toward Neboatov. "There's enough transport down there to move more than two thousand troops in a single lift. Whatever is up is certainly big."

Neboatov nodded, then turned away from the window. All the Soviet and Cuban advisors, including Neboatov, had been picked up and whisked away before dawn without warning. They suspected that some type of major operation was at hand. Exactly what, no one could imagine. The sight of the large number of aircraft at an isolated airfield like the one below them and the magnitude of the activity there confirmed their beliefs while at the same time baffling them. Closing his eyes, Neboatov began to go over the possibilities. Airborne assault? That would explain the transports. But he ruled that out quickly: the openness of the operation would negate the surprise factor. No doubt by now every rebel unit in the country was alert and preparing for such an operation. Mass reinforcement? Possibly; the Ethiopian forces had been taking a beating in the last six months. The stepped-up efforts of the insurgents, backed by the United States, again threatened to topple the Marxist regime in Ethiopia. Perhaps Moscow was putting forth a great effort to crush the rebels in one mighty push. That was possible — but not likely. Moscow was trying to reduce its commitment in Africa for the second time in ten years. Advisors who had been killed or wounded in the last three months had not been replaced. A sudden reversal of policy did not make sense. Then there was the often discussed possibility of withdrawal. Perhaps an agreement had been reached in the protracted peace negotiations and it was time to leave. That possibility was the least likely: if they were withdrawing, there would have been no need for the great rush or the secrecy. All the Soviet and Cuban advisors had been instructed to carry only what they would need for a short trip — no extra clothing, ammo, or personal gear.

Regardless of the operation, the unit Neboatov advised would not be ready. His battalion, badly mauled in the ambush earlier that month, was still at less than 70 percent strength in personnel and less than 50 percent in heavy weapons and essential equipment. Training of the replacement personnel had barely begun. It would be months before the unit was ready for field operations. Other than simple guard duty, it would be murder to commit the battalion to battle. Suspecting the worst, Neboatov began to categorize the reasons for leaving his battalion out of the upcoming operation, regardless of what it was.

Upon landing, Neboatov found out that he could have saved himself a great worry. He and the rest of their group were shocked to find out that they were not in the desert region of Ethiopia but in western Sudan. That information was provided by an air force captain who greeted the group of advisors with whom Neboatov was traveling. To a man, everyone in Neboatov's group turned this way and that, looking for telltale signs of a struggle. But there were none. On the contrary, upon closer examination they saw Soviet officers and personnel working with their Sudanese counterparts, who were still armed. Confused, they followed the cheerful and bouncy air force captain to an open hangar near the airport's main administration building, mumbling among themselves as they went. The hangar was already crowded when Neboatov's group arrived. Soviet paratroopers, with rifles held at the ready, were posted at the door as guards. A young lieutenant of paratroops — probably KGB, Neboatov thought — checked the ID of each of the new arrivals against a list before he was allowed to enter the hangar. The procedure, standard whenever a classified briefing was about to be given, heightened everyone's curiosity and Neboatov's apprehensions.

Once past the guards at the door of the hangar, the new arrivals, unable to find any seating, simply pushed their way in and stood against the back wall. Many of those seated turned to see who the new arrivals were, just as those in Neboatov's group examined those who were already there. No one, apparently, had any idea what was going on. Neboatov recognized several other advisors. Judging from the sheer number of Soviet and Cuban officers present, he decided that whatever was about to happen, it involved just about every unit in northern, central, and eastern Ethiopia.

The babel of hundreds of conversations came to a sudden halt when a voice called the auditorium to attention. Everyone jumped up and locked himself into a rigid position of attention. From the front of the hangar, the click of several boots reverberated on the concrete floor. A different voice called for the assembled group to be seated. As the audience took its seats, the guards at the doors closed and locked them.

The speaker, a colonel of whom Neboatov had never heard, began the briefing by announcing that the officers assembled were now assigned to the newly created North African Front under the command of Colonel General Uvarov. Starting with a brief overview of the current military situation in Libya, the briefer discussed, with the aid of slides, how troops from the Soviet Union, Iran, Angola, and Ethiopia— in particular, combat forces — would be moved to equipment-storage sites in Libya, where they would draw equipment, be reformed into combat units, and then be moved to an area west of Tobruk, where they would form the second operational echelon for the combined Soviet-Cuban-Libyan exercise. The briefer then lapsed into a discussion of political matters and a lecture on the threat American exercises in the area created, to the party and Mother Russia. After the initial five minutes, few details were covered. Neboatov wondered particularly how Soviet forces had managed to gain access and use of an entire airfield in Sudan, a country that was actively supporting guerrilla groups trying to bring down Ethiopia. He had no doubt, however, that when the time came, someone would tell him. The Red Army was notorious for waiting until the last minute before telling a person what he was to do.

At the completion of the briefing, the Soviet and Cuban officers filed out of the hangar and were led to an area set up to feed the mass of troops and air crews. The meal was rather bland, a stew with some vegetables, meat, and potatoes. Neboatov found a seat across from two colonels and began to eat his meal and listen to their conversation. The first colonel was a general staff officer and obviously part of the organization that was running the deployment exercise. He was explaining to the second colonel, a new arrival like Neboatov, how the Soviet government had "convinced" the Sudanese government to allow Soviet forces to use the airfield at Al Fasher. It was, as he put it, "in their best interest." "You see, Lysenkovich," he stated, as if he were lecturing a student in political science, "the ambassador simply told the Sudanese president that it would be far better to allow us the temporary use of selected facilities in his country now than to face the possibility of losing those same facilities for good."

The second colonel looked at him skeptically. "And I suppose he simply agreed, with no protest."

"Yes!" the first replied triumphantly. "He is no fool. He and his entire government know that they stand to lose the entire southern portion of the Sudan to the rebel forces we back. They are hanging on to it by a string — a string supplied by the United States. It would not take a great deal for us to escalate the civil war in the south. They know it, and the Americans do also. Our efforts have achieved an equilibrium — one that could easily be upset, since in reality the Sudan is not considered an area of vital interest to the United States. When the civil war starts to get too expensive, in men and dollars, for the United States, the Americans take their string away and leave the Sudanese to their fate, just like Vietnam. The Sudanese know this. So the President of the Sudan made the best possible choice of two bad ones. He has gambled that we will come, use the airfield for three weeks, then go away and leave him to go about running this forsaken land."

The second colonel paused. "Will we, at the end of three weeks, simply walk away from here, as you said?"

The first colonel shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows. Much can happen in three weeks."

Neboatov, quietly eating his meal and listening, wondered if the first colonel was simply being mysterious, as many general staff officers like to be, or if he knew of other, bigger plans for the airfield at Al Fasher. Regardless, Neboatov found himself wishing that the new operation he and the hundreds of others about him were embarking on would come and go without a hitch. At age thirty-five, he had had more than his share of adventure.

To Fay, the last seven days had been like a dream. In fact, she had to stop every now and then and look around, trying to convince herself that it was all true. Whether it was preordained, as Jan liked to say, or simply good luck, Fay was in the middle of the biggest news story of the day. And if that wasn't enough, in short order Fay and Jan found that, despite the long years between the time they last worked together and today, they had not lost that special magic that made them a great team. Like in the old days, their minds were as one. Fay's ability to predict what Jan wanted and needed astounded everyone in the office and allowed them to put together a package in half the time it had taken before.

Jan, ever conscious that the news limelight now focused on the Middle East was fleeting, was thankful to have someone at her side who could make things happen. With Fay tending to the technical side of the story and setting up the next series of stories, Jan was free to go out and develop leads and do a lot of on-the-scene shooting. Every minute of satellite time Fay could beg, borrow, or steal was filled with Jan's story from "the scene of the newest East-West confrontation."

Blowing into the office like a storm, Jan dropped her coat on a chair without looking where it fell, reached out to grasp a preoffered cup of coffee without seeing who gave it to her, and headed right for Fay's desk. "Fay, what have you got for me today?"

Looking up and over her reading glasses, Fay smiled. "Well, I see you survived the President's reception last night."

Jan made a face of mock despair, looked up at the ceiling, and put her right hand over her forehead, palm facing out. "It's a nasty job covering receptions, but someone has to do it." Dropping her hand, she rushed up to Fay, grabbed her shoulders, and swung her swivel chair around. "Fay, you have to save me. It's a jungle out there!"

Unable to restrain herself, Fay broke out laughing. Jan followed suit. The rest of the staff in the office pretended to ignore them as the Terrible Two laughed hysterically.

Finally able to gain some degree of composure, Fay picked up Jan's schedule for the day. "If you feel up to it, my love, you have an interview with Congressman Lewis at 0830 in his suite at the Sheraton Nile."

Jan's eyebrows arched and her eyes widened. "A suite? Well, the junior representative from the state of Tennessee certainly knows how to travel when he's looking for facts. Do you suppose some of those facts are hiding in that suite?"

Fay got a stem look on her face. "Now, Jan, be kind to that dear man. He's news. If you play him right, he may come up with some good lines we can splice in with the official garbage we're getting from the military affairs officer in the embassy."

"I'll try to remember that, Mother," Jan said, laughing.

Continuing, Fay briefed Jan on the rest of the day and on projects in the works and gave her a rundown on what she had been able to get from the Soviet and Libyan news releases on their exercises west of Tobruk. As a last item, Fay reminded her that she had to be back from her luncheon appointment in time to catch a copter to the training area for a recon of the site where the presidents of the United States and Egypt would view the live fire demonstration.

The reminder caused Jan to pause. "Isn't Scott going to be there?"

"Yes, he and an Egyptian colonel are responsible for pulling that part of the show together," Fay responded too matter-of-factly.

Jan noticed the change in Fay's voice: there was trouble at home. Fay had mentioned something about Scott opposing her working, but she dropped the matter within days of returning to work. Now every time Jan mentioned Scott's name or home, Fay became very quiet and quickly tried to change the subject. "Is there anything you want me to tell Scott if I see him?"

Fay looked up at Jan. The look in her eye was now cold and unnerving. "Yes, if you would be so kind. Remind him that if God and country could spare him for a few hours, his family would enjoy the presence of his company." There was a long pause before she continued. "Now, when you return from the desert…"

The platoon sergeants called the raggedy collections of men to attention as First Sergeant Duncan emerged from the tent that served as the command post for B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne. Duncan placed himself in the center of the formation, twelve paces to the front, came to attention, and called for the company to fall in. When the men in the ranks stopped their shuffling, Duncan called for a report. Starting with the first platoon, each platoon sergeant rendered his report, yelling out either "Present" or "All accounted for." Finished with the formalities, Duncan called for the formation to stand at ease, then announced the duty schedule for the rest of the day and the personnel who would be on detail the next day. The schedule for that afternoon, like that of yesterday afternoon, and the afternoon of the day before, and every afternoon since they had been in country, would be cleaning and maintenance of weapons and gear followed by an inspection commencing at 1600 hours.

Like the rest of the men in the company, including the Old Man, Duncan was looking forward to the end of this exercise. It had been nothing but a pain in the ass for him since it began. Things got off to a bad start right from the beginning of the unit's deployment. Upon landing, B Company had been detached from the rest of the battalion and told it had a special mission. For the briefest of moments, the prospects of doing some kind of gee-whiz special operation made up for the sudden deployment exercise so close to Christmas. This momentary boost in morale, however, was quickly dashed when their company commander, Captain Harold Cerro, returned from a meeting and informed the men that they were going to participate in a combined arms live fire demonstration involving their company and Egyptian units. Though Cerro and the rest of the leadership endeavored to make the most of their task, the excitement and energy that the men of the company had begun with back at Fort Campbell had slowly worn away. Mindless, lock-stepped drills and careful rehearsals for the set-piece demonstration in the desert were not what the young soldiers were interested in. By the evening of the third, fights between platoons were becoming common as men began to seek an avenue to vent their frustrations and excess energy.

The first sergeant, ever inventive and ready to meet any challenge to unit discipline and threat to cohesion, stepped in and introduced measures designed to discourage lax performance and in-fighting. Always trying to solve his own problems in-house, Duncan organized the B Company Rifle and Hiking Club. Anyone not performing to standards or involved in a fight was automatically "nominated" for membership to the club by his platoon sergeant. Starting on the evening of the third, the "nominees" met in front of the company CP tent at sunset in full combat load and marched out into the desert. The first sergeant himself set the pace and led the men. After marching five kilometers, they would stop and dig a proper individual fighting position. This position was inspected and measured by Duncan to ensure that it was in accordance with standards set down in the field manual before it was covered in by the man who dug it. When everyone' was done, the group would march five more kilometers, then repeat the digging-and-inspection process — the first of four repetitions. When they returned, the men would have to clean their weapons and gear and stand at full inspection by Duncan before they were allowed to catch what sleep they could. Normally this was precious little, as everyone was up early, preparing for the next day's training and round of rehearsals.

Though Cerro was against such "additional training" as a means of motivating the malcontents and lazies, he could see no other solution. He and the other officers in the company were heavily involved in the planning and coordination for the exercise and had little time to deal with minor breaches in discipline. They depended on Duncan and the platoon sergeants to deal with them. Time was pressing, and the men who had failed to respond to other, more positive leadership techniques had to be brought back into line. Though morale was still low, the fights stopped and the men performed. Besides, Duncan knew what he was doing. He had earned his Distinguished Service Cross for leading the remnants of his encircled platoon through 120 miles of enemy territory, fighting all the way and maintaining unit cohesion. That Duncan himself led the additional training sessions each night did much to end all debates and bitching, from both officers and enlisted men, on the matter and techniques he used.

In the shade of the platform where the two presidents would watch the demonstration, Cerro and his officers listened to a critique of the morning's rehearsal. Also present were Egyptian and U.S. officers from the artillery units, the relieving tank company, and other elements participating in the exercise. The two officers doing the critique were an Egyptian and an American lieutenant colonel. When Cerro had met the lieutenant colonel named Dixon, he was struck by the feeling that he had seen or met him before. That, however, seemed highly unlikely, since Dixon was an Armor officer and Cerro made it a point to stay away from treadheads.

As Dixon went through the points that had been missed or messed up that morning, Cerro tried to place the name or face. Suddenly it dawned upon him. Dixon had come out of the last war as one of its most decorated officers. Reaching back into his memory, Cerro recalled an article that recounted Dixon's deeds and awards, which included the Congressional Medal, two Silver Stars, and a Purple Heart. Though pleased that he had finally solved that mystery, Cerro wondered why Dixon was here in Egypt and not in some high-speed job getting ready to be a general. With a reputation like his he had to be a shoo-in.

His thoughts were interrupted as Dixon introduced the two civilians who would be in charge of security at the site. One was a tall, light-haired American who wore sunglasses and an open-collared white shirt. The other was an Egyptian, as short and dark as the American was tall and light. The two looked like a regular Mutt-and-Jeff routine — and as they got into their briefing, that analogy began to apply more and more. The two security agents interrupted each other frequently, holding quick, impromptu discussions in front of the assembled group whenever one said something with which the other disagreed. In no time at all it seemed that neither of them— much less the soldiers they were briefing — really understood how security would be handled. In the midst of a discussion, as if to highlight the confusion, a white van with a World News Network sign taped to the right side of the windshield rolled up to the pair as they bickered. A shapely, good-looking female reporter hopped out, went over to the American security man, and asked if this was where the presidents would view "the tank battle." The American soldiers began to cheer and whistle.

Seeing that the situation was totally out of hand, Dixon stepped forward, yelling "At ease!" Hafez, also taken aback by the confusion, followed suit and called for the Egyptian officers to be silent. With calm restored, Dixon turned to face the two security men. "Gentlemen, you no doubt have an important job to do, and I am ready and willing to assist you in any way possible. First, however, I recommend you figure out what it is you need, then tell Colonel Hafez and me what it is you want. We will, in turn, brief the troops and make it happen."

Turning to Hafez, Dixon asked, "Sir, is that agreeable with you?" Hafez shook his head in agreement, then barked something to the Egyptian security man that could only be an order or a rebuke, or both. The Egyptian security man looked at Dixon and agreed, backing away and pulling his American counterpart with him. The American security man, obviously unhappy with being spoken to in such a manner by a green suiter, turned to Dixon and stared at him eye-to-eye for a moment. Dixon, meeting the silent challenge, put both hands on his hips, jutted his head out slightly, and returned the stare. Seeing that his attempt at intimidation had failed, the American security man joined the Egyptian. Together they went to their vehicle, where they sulked and talked for a few moments before they departed. No doubt, Dixon thought, he'd hear from them through "official channels."

Turning to the female reporter, Dixon folded his arms, forced a smile, and let out a sigh. "Ms. Fields, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Your pursuit of truth and/or a news story has taken you a little off the beaten path. May I ask what you are doing here and how you managed to clear the security checkpoints?"

Imitating the stance Dixon had just used with the security man, Jan put her hands on her hips and stared at Dixon. Rather than being intimidating, however, her posture was provocative. "First off, Colonel Dixon, the news and the truth are one and the same."

Dixon let out a slight "Ha!" making Jan visibly angry.

"Second, Mr. Colonel, I have a right and the permission to be here." She pulled out a pass and a copy of the agenda of the visit listing where journalists were permitted. She flashed both inches away from Dixon's nose. Jan wore a coy smile and spoke sweetly. "I'm the reporter drawn from the media pool to cover this event. Guess you sort of lucked out, Scotty dear."

To her surprise, Dixon grabbed the agenda and examined it. As he read the agenda, an exact duplicate to the one he had that was marked Secret, he began to shake his head. "Where did you get this?"

"At a press conference this morning in Cairo. The American ambassador held a briefing for the press. How lucky for the American people that there are a few government officials who believe the press and the American public have a right to know."

Dixon continued to shake his head. He turned to Hafez, handing him the pass and paper. Hafez looked at them, then up at Dixon. "This will make security very hard. We cannot guarantee the safety of our presidents if everyone knows of their exact schedule."

Dixon was slightly taken aback by the colonel's comment. While the security was far looser than Dixon had wanted, Colonel Hafez's statement seemed to be one of fact, not mere concern. "Colonel Hafez, I too am concerned, but I am sure there are measures being taken to ensure the entire maneuver area is secure and entry is limited."

A concerned look on his face, Hafez tilted his head. "Yes, no doubt you are correct. But still, we must voice our concerns to our commanders. I, after all, am responsible for manning the outer security perimeter. It is not very good to have so many knowing where our presidents will be and when. Perhaps they can make some changes in the schedule and not come here."

Without waiting for a response, Hafez turned, called to several of his officers and stepped off smartly, leaving a slightly flabbergasted Dixon to figure out what he was up to.

"What's a matter, Superman, someone tuggin' on your cape too hard?"

Dixon turned to Jan, her defiance now turned to a smile, a mocking smile.

"No, it's just been one of those days. Two days to go and everyone suddenly is getting nervous and wants to change things." He turned his head and looked in the direction of the Americans still waiting in the shade of the bleachers. The Egyptians had all left. "Well," he continued, turning back to Jan, "since you know so much, there's no harm in introducing you to the star of this performance — Captain Cerro!" he called out to a man a few feet away.

Cerro came up to Dixon, saluted, and reported.

"Captain," said Dixon, "I'd like you to meet Ms. Jan Fields, the hottest little TV reporter this side of the Nile. Jan, Captain Harold Cerro, commander of B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne, Air Assault."

Though Jan was displeased, to say the least, with the manner in which Dixon introduced them, she saw a great chance to get some interviews with the people who would be participating in the exercise. Turning on her charm, she began to fire questions at Cerro about his unit, its mission, and the demonstration.

Cerro hesitated, turning to Dixon with a worried look. Dixon knew the question. Nodding his head, he indicated that Cerro didn't need to worry about what he told her; Ms. Fields was clear. Satisfied, Cerro began to answer her questions in a careful and deliberate manner.

Dixon walked away to wait until they were finished. For a moment, he felt bad about handing Fields off to Cerro — but only for a moment. He knew that had he stayed, eventually he or Fields would have taken a cheap shot, pissed the other off, and began a fight.

When Jan finished with Cerro, she walked over to where Dixon was sitting, going over a briefing book and making notes. "I'm finally going to be able to get the last of the Neanderthals on tape. What a treat!"

Dixon looked up at her and smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you, but that's been changed. Seems like someone decided that the presidents deserved higher-paid briefers than Colonel Hafez and I. This morning we were replaced by the commander of U.S. brigade that's deployed over here and the commander of the Republican Brigade. The only thing Colonel Hafez and I have to do is make sure that everyone is in their places with bright smiley faces on the seventh."

Jan frowned. "What a shame! I was so looking forward to listening to you try to answer Congressman Lewis's questions. That would have been a wonderful experience."

Dixon looked up. "Lewis? What the hell is that little communist doing here?"

Seeing that Dixon was surprised, Jan decided to have a little fun. "Communist? The distinguished congressman from the state of Tennessee would beg to differ with you on that. He happens to be a war hero and a leading spokesman for quite a few groups concerned about America's international policy and disarmament."

Closing his book and getting up, Dixon skewed his face into a frown. "He's a fucking communist. He took that war-hero image and used it to get elected. As a distinguished member of Congress, he's done more damage to the military's recovery and buildup in one year than the KGB could possibly hope to do in ten. That rotten little shit should get an Order of Lenin for his efforts."

Enjoying the fact that Dixon was pissed, Jan continued to egg him on. "Didn't you two serve together in Iran?"

Looking down at the ground, Dixon thought for a moment, deciding whether or not to answer. Then he thought, What the hell. "Yeah, we sort of served together. He was the XO of a National Guard battalion from Memphis that was ordered to move forward to counterattack and relieve my battalion, which was surrounded. The Soviets had broken through us earlier in the day and ripped us apart. Intelligence reports given to the National Guard unit before they attacked mentioned a Soviet recon battalion. Lewis's unit expected only scattered and light resistance from depleted Soviet units. They were unprepared for an encounter with a full tank regiment that the Soviets had moved forward after nightfall. The two units, Lewis's and the Soviet tank regiment, had a meeting engagement in the dark which neither expected or were ready for. They fought for eight hours." Dixon paused. His eyes were blank and staring into the distance. His face showed no expression. "When it ended, it was a draw — a draw that cost the Guard unit over 60 percent casualties. Lewis knew most of the men that had died and took it hard. A lot of people in Memphis did too. It was one of those things, you know — friction of war. You will never have one hundred percent intelligence in war, especially when someone breaks through like the Soviets did. There were bits and pieces of units all over the place, many of them out of contact with their higher headquarters. That things happened the way they did shouldn't have been a surprise."

Dixon paused again. Jan saw he was lost in his story, oblivious to the world around him. She also saw in his eyes that what he was recounting was painful. Suddenly, for the first time, she felt sorry for Dixon. She had seen what wars did to people. Though she had never had to pull a trigger or order others to do so, she had little doubt that it had to be difficult. What she saw in Dixon at that moment was a man who had had to do both and had found the experience shattering.

Dixon continued. "But Lewis didn't see it that way. He blamed the Army for sending his unit, a Guard unit, forward to be sacrificed to save a 'regular Army' unit. When he got home, he demanded an investigation into the conduct of the battle, then the war in general.

His efforts gained in popularity in Memphis, which was stunned by the loss of so many of its citizens. When the congressman from that district attempted to fend off the investigation, he signed his political death warrant. Lewis was elected in his place and took his fight to the Hill, where he enlisted the support of every radical liberal against rearmament he could find in the House and Senate." Standing up, Dixon sighed, looked out to the horizon, and mused, "And to good effect. We' re no better off fighting the Russians today than we were three years ago." Turning to Jan, he let a faint smile light across his face. "But why am I telling you this? You're the one with her finger on the news."

"Can I quote you on this?"

Giving her a dirty look, Dixon didn't answer. Instead, he changed the subject. "I'm getting ready to head into the cantonment area. Do you know your way back?"

Seeing the change in Dixon's mood and tired of her game, Jan thanked him but told him she and her crew needed to survey the site for the best camera angles and location for the mikes. Without so much as a wave, Dixon climbed into his vehicle and roared away in a cloud of dust.

Colonel Hafez took evening prayer alone in his tent that night. In the stillness of the early evening, he prayed hard. First he prayed for guidance, then the wisdom to make the right choice. Finally, he simply asked God to see him through the next day. He ended his prayers by placing his fate in God's hands.

Finding no answers and little comfort in prayer, Hafez turned his attention to preparing himself for the next day. First he cleaned his pistol, taking care to ensure that all parts were clean and functional. When he was finished, he loaded a full magazine, chambered one round, and put the pistol in his holster. Finished with that, he laid out his uniform, checking the ribbons, the insignia of his rank, and his crests.

Satisfied with that, he turned to his last chore, a letter home. For the longest time, he considered not writing anything. What was he to say? What could he say? He still did not know what he would do when the moment came. His attempts at writing a letter showed this. After writing three paragraphs, he stopped and tore it up. It sounded like a suicide note. His second letter was no better. After two paragraphs it sounded like a press release from a radical Islamic group. Hafez tore it up too.

Unable to concentrate, Hafez left his tent and walked out into the desert. He wandered for the better part of an hour, pondering what he would tell his wife and sons. Again, his indecision confused the issue. Finally, his mind muddled and confused, Hafez returned to his tent, sat down, and started to write his wife a simple love letter. In his expression of love, written in flowing prose, he found escape from the troubles he faced.

It was past midnight before he finished.

The signal and electronic traffic from Libya was anything but routine. Since midnight, the search radars of air defense units across the border from Egypt had been fully operational. All the Egyptian collection and monitoring stations strung across western Egypt were alert and actively collecting information on the type of signal, the strength of the signal, the direction of the signal, and the number of active emitters. This information was relayed to the headquarters of the Western Military District. There electronic warfare intelligence officers received and processed the information by putting the pieces together like pieces of a mosaic. This mosaic provided them with a clear and accurate picture of the air defense capability of the Libyan forces facing them.

Each type and model of radar has its own distinct signature. The Egyptian electronic warfare officers, trained to distinguish the radars and assisted by computers, had no problem identifying, classifying, and counting the radar units in use. With this information, they were able to study the coverage of the search, or surveillance, radars used to find and identify incoming threats. From that study, gaps in radar coverage could be found. The target acquisition radars used to guide surface-to-air missiles onto targets were also found. When the target acquisition radars were activated to illuminate, or "paint," Egyptian aircraft on patrol over Egypt's Western Desert, they were identified and located. From that information, the location of the actual surface-to-air missile launchers, slaved to the target acquisition radars, could be determined and classified.

The windfall of intelligence was welcome but, at the same time, troublesome. When informed of the activity, the commander of the Western District asked the inevitable question: why? Except in time of national emergency, the Libyans had never activated all their systems as fully as they now were. What was motivating them to do so puzzled both the commander and his chief of intelligence and led to a lively debate. While the maneuvers currently being conducted would prompt the Libyans to increase their vigilance, they could not account for such an all-out effort. Concerned that there was more involved than a simple test of the system or paranoia over the current maneuvers, the commander ordered his intelligence chief to double his collection and monitoring of Libyan command and control nets. If they were equally active, perhaps they could provide a clue as to what the Libyans were up to.

fust prior to 0300 hours, a series of short, encrypted burst transmissions were recorded on a high frequency normally used for command and control. Because they followed a pattern similar to those used by Libyan forces before, and since the point of origin of the initiating signal was near Tripoli, the recording was sent on to headquarters for analysis. A hasty analysis forwarded by the intelligence officer at the collection and monitoring station indicated that the second station, though not accurately located, appeared to be somewhere to the east, possibly within Egypt itself. It would be another twelve hours before this recording and its hasty analysis were received and reviewed by electronic warfare officers at the Western Military District headquarters. Six more hours would lapse before another copy, recorded at a different collection and monitoring station, provided enough data to accurately pinpoint the transmission. Its location was just west of Cairo.

The distant beating of helicopter blades through the hot desert air announced the arrival of the Egyptian helicopters. Cerro stood, adjusted his gear, and called out, "Mount up!"

The men began to stir, standing up, like their commander, and adjusting their gear. Cerro turned and surveyed his company, already divided up into small groups and spread out at fifty-meter intervals off to one side of a dirt landing strip. In less than a minute, the Egyptian MI-8 helicopters would touch down, one on each of the international orange panels staked into the ground opposite each of Cerro's small groups. On signal from the crew chief of each helicopter, the groups of soldiers, crouching low to avoid the helicopter's blades and the driving sand thrown up by the blades, would sprint out to the helicopter and climb in. Once the last man was in, each helicopter would, in its turn, lift off, circle to the west, and form up into formation. The drill that B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne was about to execute had been practiced, and practiced, and practiced, to the point where the helicopter crews and the soldiers could do it in their sleep in the middle of a moonless night. As with all such exercises, the men looked forward to doing it this time, for they knew that, regardless of the results, it would be the last time they would have to do it. This was, after all, show time.

As Cerro watched, he counted the helicopters. There were ten choppers, enough for his unit and two backups just in case one or more experienced a maintenance failure en route to the pickup zone. If there was a maintenance failure between the PZ and the landing zone, one of the spare helicopters would touch down, police up the squad of soldiers, and join the assault. This contingency had been practiced several times and had actually occurred once during one of the many rehearsals.

As soon as the lead helicopter touched down and the side door slid open, Cerro was on his feet and headed for the aircraft, his command group behind him. They were in a hurry. The sooner they were in the helicopter, the sooner they would be out of the manmade dust storm being kicked up by the helicopters. As before, each man scrambled for his seat, buckled in, and clamped his weapon between his knees with the muzzle pointed down. The Egyptian crew chief watched as each paratrooper did so, ensuring that each man was in his place and secure. When the last man was in and set, he turned toward the pilot, gave him the signal that all was ready, then strapped himself in. The whole process, from touchdown to skids up, took less than thirty seconds.

Once in the air, Cerro could relax. For the next five minutes there was nothing he could do to influence anything. He and his company were at the mercy of the helicopter pilots. It was their job to get them where B Company needed to go. Once they were on the ground again, there would be a flurry of activity — a scramble as men deployed and the initiation of the live fire exercise. Cerro, like his men, looked forward to the end of this exercise. Its completion would be the signal to begin preparation for redeployment.

As if on cue, the helicopters bearing the two presidents, their entourage, and the security personnel responsible for the immediate security of the VIP party touched down on the landing pad marked with three orange panels in the shape of an H. Unlike the helicopters dispatched to pick up Cerro's company, these helicopters immediately began to shut down their engines. No one approached until the huge blades of the Mark II Commandos stopped spinning. Thus the VIPs would not be peppered by the sand that pelted those awaiting them on the ground.

From a distance Dixon watched in amusement. The show no longer belonged to him or to Colonel Hafez. Other officers, "better" suited to handle such matters, had been flown in and were now in charge. Both Hafez and Dixon, relegated to secondary roles, sat in an Egyptian army jeep behind the platform, out of sight and, if all went well, out of mind. Their purpose now was to monitor, via tactical FM radio, the progress of all the various elements participating in the demonstration. From here on in the operation was supposed to happen automatically in accordance with the master time line, just as they had rehearsed it. If, however, something went wrong, if someone missed his cue or was delayed, Hafez or Dixon would be able to react and issue appropriate instructions to recover from the error.

Dixon watched Jan Fields and her TV crew jockey for position to his right. They too had rehearsed. Their movements shadowed those of the VIPs, who, ever mindful of the press, dutifully ignored the TV crew with their best profiles showing. Once the presidents were in place, the briefings began. One camera crew taped the briefings, given in Egyptian and English, and the reaction of the VIPs. To one side of the platform, where there was a view of the action, Jan Fields stood with a second camera crew. That crew would tape the actual demonstration and Jan as she made comments. Hundreds of feet of videotape would be shot and turned over to Fay Dixon. Her task, to be done in a matter of hours, would be to oversee and direct the cutting and splicing of the tape and commentary into a nice, neat, and meaningful twenty-second news blurb that told an important, world-shaking story.

The screech of four jets, two Egyptian Mirage 2000EMs and two American F-16s, followed by the rumble of bombs impacting several thousand meters from the platform, announced the beginning of the demonstration. Even before the last of the reverberations of the explosions had ceased, the beating of approaching helicopter blades could be heard from the southwest. At the same instant, Dixon heard the distant rumble of artillery, followed by the impact of their high explosive shells. Looking at his watch, he turned to Colonel Hafez. "Well, it's show time."

Hafez acknowledged Dixon's comment with only a nod and a faint smile before he turned away and scanned the vehicle parking area. Dixon watched for a moment as Hafez continued to glance from the vehicle parking area to the road leading to it. He seemed to be nervous, jumpy and on edge, almost as if he were looking for something. But for what? Everything seemed to be in place. Hafez's men, located in pairs along the road at a checkpoint leading into the vehicle parking area and at strategic points overlooking the whole area, were up and alert. The four fighter-bombers had come and gone. Dixon monitored the order to lift and shift the artillery fires to the next target given by the fire support officer to the gun batteries. The first wave of helicopters was about to touch down and disgorge their human cargo. The tank company commander who would rush forward and relieve the paratroopers was on the radio, awaiting his cue. All seemed to be in order. The operation was unfolding as planned and rehearsed. Dixon could not understand why the colonel was so tense.

He was about to lean over and ask Hafez what the problem was when he caught a glimpse of movement along the road leading to the parking area. He settled back into his seat and turned to watch the dust cloud that grew on the horizon. For a moment, Dixon couldn't imagine who that could be. He glanced around to the front and watched as several of the security personnel accompanying the presidents also alerted to the approaching vehicles. One of them cocked his head to one side to speak into microphones to report the sighting.

Dixon turned back to watch the approaching vehicles. Picking up a pair of binoculars, he focused the lenses and trained them on the lead vehicle. They were jeeps. Since no U.S. units in country had the old style jeeps, these had to be Egyptian army. Dixon continued to track the jeeps as they came closer and clearer. As they turned toward the platform, a momentary glimpse of a blue light and white markings was enough to identify them as military police. Okay, Dixon thought, the standby escort in case the presidential party has to travel by land. A quick scan of the parking area showed that there were no MP vehicles there. In all the last-minute confusion, no one had double-checked to see if the backups were on station. Well, no harm done.

They were here now. No wonder the colonel was so uptight, Dixon thought. He's probably the only guy that noticed they were missing.

Turning to talk to Hafez, Dixon stopped. Expecting to see a relieved man, Dixon was surprised to see Hafez get out of their vehicle, his face frozen in a dark, solemn mask as he watched the two jeeps continue their approach. It dawned upon Dixon that something was wrong — but what? What the hell is going on? Dixon's attention was diverted by a call on the radio from the American artillery officer, who announced that one of the guns had just had a hang fire and they were unable to clear the gun.

The moment was here. There would be no more delays, no more lies, no hiding. Colonel Hafez had to decide, right now, in the next thirty seconds, if he was a patriot or a — or a what? If he allowed the Libyan commandos to perform their tasks, what would he be? A martyr? A traitor? A rebel? What?

As he watched the jeeps approach the checkpoint at the parking area, he saw one of his men begin to lift the pole barrier to prepare to allow the jeeps to enter. Suddenly Hafez was incensed. The order he had issued to all of his men was that all vehicles and personnel entering the area were to be stopped and checked. Those were his own orders, and now his men were about to violate them. In his moment of crisis, it hit Hafez that the one thing he would not be if he allowed the Libyans in was a soldier — a soldier trained to obey and defend. In a flash he reached into the vehicle, grabbed the hand mike that was being used for administrative command and control, and called the sergeant at the checkpoint. Without waiting for acknowledgment, Hafez ordered him to close the pole barrier and check the identity of all personnel in the two jeeps as he had been ordered to.

Holding the hand mike to his mouth, ready to broadcast his next message, Hafez stood there and watched. He could see the sergeant call out to the soldier at the pole barrier. There was a moment of confusion, then hesitation before the soldier dropped the barrier down and unslung his rifle. The lead jeep, expecting to be waved through, had to break fast, fishtailing as it came to a stop in a cloud of dust just before the barrier.

The squeal of the jeep's brakes caused Dixon to turn his head in the direction of the checkpoint. He glanced at Hafez, who stood with the radio mike to his mouth, staring in the direction of the checkpoint.

Dixon, not knowing what was happening, also turned and watched the checkpoint. The sergeant there approached the lead jeep while the soldier who had been opening the barrier stood to the other side, rifle at port arms. The sergeant could be seen stooping over and sticking his head into the jeep as if to talk to the passenger in the front seat.

The unexpected muzzle flash, the image of the sergeant's body flying backwards, and the belated crack of rifle fire totally bewildered Dixon. "Colonel, what the fuck is going—"

Dixon was cut short by a volley of fire from the second jeep, which cut down the soldier standing at the barrier. The first jeep gunned its engine, then literally jumped forward, crashing through the pole barrier. Without hesitation, Hafez threw down the radio hand mike, drew his pistol, and began to run toward the vehicle parking area, waving and calling to several of his men to follow him.

Dixon grabbed the hand mike on the American control net, called out the code word that an emergency was in progress, and, like Hafez, drew his pistol and began to run in the direction of the two jeeps, now approaching the platform at full tilt.

In the excitement of the moment, Dixon's call over the radio was missed by most of the people on the net. At the artillery battery, all attention was turned to processing the next fire mission, which for a peacetime operation was close. Cerro and his men, in hastily prepared positions, watched as ten Egyptian tanks rolled from around the side of a hill and deployed into line, firing over their heads as they went. Only the Air Force forward air controller caught the call; but, wanting confirmation, he called for Dixon to repeat the message. Dixon, now gone from the radio, failed to respond. Unfamiliar with the habits of Army types, the Air Force major let it drop. Besides, with two F-16s rolling in for an attack in less than sixty seconds, he didn't have the time to mess with the administrative control net.

The VIPs and the other spectators watched and listened as the two brigade commanders explained in detail the drama unfolding before them, blissfully unaware of the one developing to their rear. All except Representative Ed Lewis. The crack of an AK assault rifle firing to his rear caused him to start. Craning his neck around, Lewis attempted to determine what was going on. No one had mentioned anything about Egyptian infantry, the only ones armed with the AK-47, participating in the demonstration. The only thing the Egyptians should have been firing at that time was tanks. Almost instinctively Lewis knew something was going on, but he couldn't determine what it was.

Turning back to the front, he noticed the colonel next to him giving him a strange look. He was about to ask him about the firing but decided not to. The firing had stopped. If something was wrong, there were people paid to handle it. Besides, no one else seemed to be excited. The last thing Lewis wanted was to make an ass of himself in front of so many Army types. Instead, he watched the Egyptian tanks, now visible from the platform for the first time.

Jan was looking into the camera, commenting on the amount of training and coordination that an exercise like the one then occurring required. The popping of small arms fire from the parking area was masked by the crash of impacting artillery rounds behind her. In the middle of one of Jan's sentences, one of the British camera crewmen turned and yelled, "Jesus! Those bloody bastards back there are really killing each other!"

Angry that someone had interrupted her shot, Jan was about to lash the offender with a stream of obscenities when she saw Hafez and Dixon, pistols drawn and followed by Egyptian soldiers, running away from the platform. With her view masked by a slight rise, she called out, "What's going on down there?"

There was no response. The camera crew, veterans of Northern Ireland and Lebanon, had already turned and were running toward the unfolding drama, cameras rolling. They did not answer Jan. She stood there for a second before it dawned upon her that something big was going down. She wasn't sure what was happening but ran to join the camera crews anyhow, driven by one thought: assassination attempt on the president of the united states. film and story by jan fields at eleven.

Once through the barrier, the two jeeps separated, one headed for each side of the platform where the two presidents, still unaware of the danger they faced, continued to watch the demonstration. Dixon saw Hafez peel off and head for the jeep on the left, the one that had been the lead. Dixon veered off to the right and ran for the second one. As he did so, it suddenly dawned upon him that he had no idea what he intended to do. One man and a pistol against a jeep full of terrorists did not seem like an even match. Without stopping, Dixon glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

To his relief, there were two of Hafez's men coming up behind him. Dixon waved his pistol toward the second jeep and yelled to them in Arabic, "COME — FOLLOW!" At least he hoped that he had said that. The effect was immediate as the two soldiers quickened their pace in an effort to catch up with Dixon.

Confident that he now had enough firepower to do something, Dixon locked all his attention onto the approaching jeep. The scene before him now began to unfold in slow motion. The images that ran through his mind were like a series of snapshots instead of a steady stream of events: the glare of the sun on the jeep's windshield, the arm holding an assault rifle out of the passenger side of the jeep, the flash of that rifle firing, the cloud of dust and flying dirt. They all flashed through Dixon's mind as he rushed to place himself and his two followers between the jeep and the platform to his rear.

Satisfied that he and his two Egyptian soldiers were in as good a spot as they were going to get, he stopped. His two followers came up to his side and also stopped. No sooner had they done so than rifle fire from the jeep cut down the soldier to his left. Dixon knew it was time. Do or die. He lowered his pistol and then, in English, yelled "Fire!"

The surviving Egyptian soldier to his right did nothing. Shit! Dixon thought. How do you say "shoot" in Arabic? He had no idea. Nor did he have any more time to think. The jeep was less than one hundred meters away and closing fast. All he could do now was fire himself and hope the Egyptian soldier would follow his lead.

Holding his pistol with both hands, Dixon stood before the on-rushing jeep, feet spread shoulders' width apart. Fifty meters. Dixon, blinded by the glare of the sun off the jeep's windshield, aimed at where he thought the driver should be, then began to fire. After his second round the Egyptian joined in.

Dixon never did find out who actually killed the driver. The body had both 9mm and 7.62mm bullets in it. What did matter was that the driver, hit several times, cut the wheel and rolled the jeep, killing all on board. Even as the jeep tumbled and rolled, Dixon remembered, he continued to follow it, firing into the wreckage. He fired until he had emptied the magazine of his Beretta. His Egyptian companion also fired until he had expended all thirty rounds in his AK-47. When he had done so, the two of them merely stood there, aiming their empty weapons at the wrecked jeep. Past them rushed security men and other soldiers. It was only after one of the American Secret Service men at the jeep shouted out that all the terrorists were dead that Dixon let the arm holding his pistol fall to his side. Suddenly winded and shaking from the burst of activity and rush of adrenaline, Dixon turned to walk away from the jeep. Instead, he walked right into the lens of a camera.

Their eyes locked together for a moment. Neither Hafez nor Sadiq spoke. What was there to say? Pinned under the overturned jeep, Sadiq stared at his former Brother, now holding a pistol to his head. He had lost. He had lost everything. He closed his eyes as he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. Then he realized that he had not lost all. At least he had his soul. In a few seconds he would be a martyr. All that he had done, he had done in the name of God, the one God, the true God. And now, as always, he was in the hands of his God. With his last breath he called out "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar" — God is great, God is great.

Sadiq never heard the report of Hafez's pistol. Nor did he feel any pain.