Sword Point

Chapter 9

In the distance a huge C-5A Galaxy transport could be heard rumbling down the runway. The whine of its engines cut through the clear night air as they strained to lift the cavernous body of the plane aloft.

Like an approaching locomotive, the noise grew in intensity, increasing to an ear-splitting sharpness until the aircraft lifted clumsily into the air and turned toward the far horizon. The engines' pitch changed to a low roar that trailed off behind the aircraft like an invisible tail.

Ed Martain sat on a gray metal folding chair outside his tent and peered into the darkness in the direction of the departing C-5A, trying hard to see it. He knew it was impossible to do so; its marker lights were already cut off and would remain off until the aircraft was one hundred miles out over the Gulf. There was no need to make it easy for the Soviets and their friends who tracked the comings and goings from Bandar Abbas. Unable to sleep and restless, Martain listened to the nonstop activity out on the runway. Each time a transport lifted off, he would wonder about its pilots and crew, where they would sleep that night and whether they would see their families. While he had always wanted to be a fighter pilot and derived endless pleasure from pushing himself and his aircraft to the limit, he envied the trash haulers who flew the long-range transports from their home station at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware to Bandar Abbas and back.

Despite the monotony and thankless ness of their job, they were lucky.

Every thirty-six hours they would be able to walk into their homes and be greeted by wife and kids.

Martain thought about the strange lives the transport pilots led. They would walk out the front door and go in to work just like any other day.

Mission briefings, preflight checks and normal prep, just as always.

Lift off from a real airbase talking to real air controllers and dodging normal civilian flight patterns. The long, tedious transatlantic flight would be no different from any other flight at any other time. Only when the transport swung lazily toward the northeast over Saudi Arabia did the mission profile change. That was where the insanity began. The turn, no different from any other flight maneuver, was a signal to the transport crews that they were heading into danger.

No doubt they felt the same buildup of tension that he felt before going into combat. The mind begins to focus. Images begin to sharpen.

Pulse rates slowly climb as the body prepares itself for sudden action and reaction. Though the transport pilots faced only the potential of combat, it made no difference to the mind or the body. Danger is danger, and the potential of mutilation or death elicits the same response from everyone.

The lumbering transports flew along invisible air corridors that changed daily to keep the Soviets from planning raids on them. The pilots strove to maintain their aircraft within these established corridors, which not only acted as a means of controlling traffic going into and out of Bandar Abbas, but also represented the only place in the sky where the transports were safe from friendly antiaircraft fire.

As they flew closer to Iran, people on ships prowling the Persian Gulf and combat air patrols flying between the air corridors had greater freedom to engage unidentified aircraft. The sky was divided up into areas other than air corridors.

There were missile-free zones where any aircraft that was not positively identified by friendly forces could be engaged by heat-seeking or radar-guided missiles, missiles that could not read nation symbols on aircraft mistaken for enemy and break off the attack at the last minute.

There were positive-identification zones where the pilot had to have visual ID of his target before engaging. The United States could not afford to allow its pilots the freedom to go about gunning down anything that flew and that didn't answer special electronic interrogation signals called IFF-identify, friend or foe. The skies over the Persian Gulf were still crowded with civilian air traffic despite a thirty-day-old war and the declaration that the Gulf was a war zone. There were many civilians who insisted on exercising their right to fly over international waters.

Once on the ground at Bandar Abbas, the transport pilots entered an alien world. It was a world of substandard living conditions where Americans had to make extraordinary efforts simply to maintain life.

The seemingly utter chaos, destruction and clutter were in sharp contrast to the neat, clean airfields at home, with their grass bordered runways, well-painted buildings and efficient organization.

Here air raids left craters and scars, and hasty offloading operations resulted in mountains of discarded packing and blocking materials along the runways. The shuffling of aircraft, Army and Air Force, combat and transport, added to the confusion. Without exception, the transport pilots dreaded most the wait on the ground.

After along flight, they were thrust into a dangerous and confused environment over which they had no control. They eagerly sought to make their stay in Iran as short as possible. Through careful control, wellplanned and — executed defense of the air corridors, and the extreme range that Soviet pilots had to travel to get at them, losses to the transports had been "minimal and acceptable." This, however, was a concept that was incomprehensible to a four-year-old child who was told that her daddy wouldn't be coming home anymore.

For a moment Martain was overcome by a desire to go home. In that instant nothing mattered to him more than to see his wife and daughter.

He wished there were some way he could go back with one of the transports for a day, a half day, an hour. All he wanted to do was hold his wife in his arms, feel her arms around his neck, run his hands down her sides and embrace her. Martain dreamed of looking into the round smiling eyes of his young daughter as he lifted her. The smell of baby shampoo in her hair and the ceaseless sweet babble of her stories without beginnings or ends evoked tears as the soft images passed through his mind.

Martain stood and began to walk in an effort to compose himself. He would not be going home today. Nor tomorrow or the next day. Instead he would fly two or three missions, the same as he had done yesterday and the day before. He would continue to fly until the conflict had been resolved or he could no longer fly. Already the squadron had lost three of its aircraft and two crews. One crew had died with its plane as it disintegrated after being hit by a Soviet air-to-air missile. The crew of a second aircraft had ejected safely but had landed in the no man-land between the advancing

Soviet and U.S. forces four days prior. Attempts to recover the crew had been unsuccessful. If the Iranians didn't take them the desert would.

Omaha Flight had, to date, been successful in surviving and in carrying the war to the Russians. Martain had accounted for three confirmed kills, and his wingman had one to his credit. Martain's first kill had been so simple that he had difficulty accepting the fact that he had actually shot down another fighter. All he had done was listen to the AWACS as it vectored him into a position where his wizzo picked up the target. When the wizzo had good track on the target and the target did not respond to the IFF interrogation, Martain fired from a range of fifteen miles. The blip that had represented a multimillion-ruble jet fighter simply disappeared from his plane's radarscope and that of the AWACS. His second combat, a real knife fight during which he used his guns, was more like what Martain had expected. High-speed maneuvers with turns that pressed his body into his seat as the invisible vise known as Gs tore at his frame were countered and followed by the Soviet fighter he pursued. One minute Martain was the hunter, the next the hunted as the two opponents hurled themselves at each other. He had enjoyed that victory. He had worked for it and could see the shattered remains of the MIG plummet toward earth in a ball of fire.

His thoughts were interrupted by. the sound of a sergeant running from tent to tent waking the squadron's air crews. Martain looked at his watch. It was still too early for normal operations. Something was up. He was about to turn when the sound of a C-5A transport rumbling down the runway caught his attention. Another transport was headed home, without him.

The buildup of Soviet air activity had been slow and near normal that morning. Transports on routine flights deep behind the lead elements of the advancing Soviet forces lumbered to and fro. Activity over Iraq started to build earlier than normal and began to appear as if it had a purpose for a change. Soviet recon flights, sent aloft to get a picture of the situation at first light, lifted off airfields around Tehran and were detected by the AWACS' radar and tracked by its computers. Operators at their stations watched and reported but were not concerned. Another day of war was beginning.

With a suddenness that bewildered the operations officer aboard the AWACS, the entire situation changed. The clear screens of the operators degenerated into a cluster of static and sparkling clutter.

Powerful electronic jamming from what had been thought to be transports en route to forward bases began to blanket the AWACS' radar frequencies. A war waged by computers and electronic devices began as the AWACS' computer flipped its radar frequencies in milliseconds in order to escape jamming, and the Soviet electronic-warfare aircraft beamed barrage after barrage of static toward the AWACS in an effort to degrade or jam its radar. For brief seconds the operators were able to see clearly before the Soviet radar and computers found the AWACS' new radar frequency and jammed it.

From the brief glimpses, the operations officer began to put together a picture of what was happening. The aircraft that had been loitering over Iraq had turned and were now making high-speed runs toward the Gulf.

The aircraft that had been mistaken for recon flights were likewise headed for the Gulf. The computer, working with these brief glimpses, began to piece together an attack profile. The straight flight patterns being followed by the Soviet aircraft and their speed left the operations officer no doubt as to what was happening. The Soviets were making for Bandar Abbas, for the air corridors that transited the Gulf and, worse, for the AWACS.

Orders immediately went down to the air wings in Iran, Oman and Saudi Arabia to scramble all fighters and intercept the incoming bandits.

The F-15s in Iran were directed to cover their base, those in Saudi Arabia were dispatched to cover the air corridors, and the Omanbased fighters were called to wrap themselves around the AWACS. In addition to the scrambling of the fighters, incoming transports were waved off to alternate landing sites out of range of the Soviet threai. The AWACS began to leave their oval tracks and fly south, attempting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the incoming attack.

Given time, the Soviets would catch up with the AWACS if the American fighters didn't make it. Every second, however, helped in combat.

In the flurry of activity and orders, the controllers, now personally involved in the life-and-death struggle in the sky for the first time, did not see the real threat of the day wind its way slowly and insidiously toward the American front. Like snakes slithering through tall grass, hundreds of transport helicopters from the north began to converge on several points along the perimeter held by the men of the 12th Division and the 17th Airborne.

The move from Tabriz to bases south of Tehran had been greeted with mixed feelings by the men of the Soviet 285th Airborne Regiment. Some of the men had become quite comfortable with their garrison duties and were in no hurry to put themselves again in danger of mutilation or death. Others had found their duties either boring or distasteful and sought combat as an acceptable form of escape.

Junior Lieutenant Ilvanich was one of those who sought escape. His duties as an executioner had been a source of pain and conflict to the young lieutenant. Hiding behind the excuse of duty did nothing to wipe away the images of dead civilians falling before the rifles of his men with a regularity that was maddening. Each day he promised himself that he would leave what he did during the day in the confines of the courtyard where the executions took place. Each night, however, he failed as the images of the dead crept into the small room where he struggled to sleep. Only the intervention of the KGB major who had given him the task in the first place saved Ilvanich from total insanity.

The KGB major took a liking to the young lieutenant and his men, and, content that Ilvanich was deserving, he arranged for better billeting and rations for them as a reward. Ilvanich, though at first reluctant, accepted the improved conditions. A few days later, the major began to use Ilvanich for special missions, including courier and liaison duties. For this Ilvanich was given a vehicle that, the major casually mentioned, could be used by Ilvanich when he wasn't needed for official duties. The young lieutenant, taught from an early age to distrust the KGB, made sure to do only what was required and not abuse his freedom or status.

This behavior, noted by the major, in turn resulted in greater trust and new duties, including the guarding of the KGB headquarters in Tabriz by Ilvanich's men. Though boring, it was preferable to being executioners.

The greatest surprise came when Ilvanich was made a Hero of the Soviet Union for his role in stopping a breakthrough at the airfield in Tabriz during the opening days of the war. Though he was pleased to receive the honor, realization that the KGB major had probably been instrumental in securing the award for him frightened Ilvanich. Slowly he was being drawn into the KGB major's power. The major had adopted the young lieutenant and seemed to be preparing him for other duties that the State required. It was therefore a blessing when orders came down to report back to the regiment and prepare for future operations.

The regiment had changed. In his old battalion there were new officers and men. Ilvanich was surprised to find that a captain from the division staff, rather than the old deputy company commander, had been put in command. From the beginning Ilvanich and Lvov did not get along. The captain had not made the jump into Tabriz and had no combat experience. He knew how to give a good political indoctrination to the company, but that failed to impress those of the unit who had survived the jump. Ilvanich, on the other hand, was looked up to by all the officers and men. First, he was a veteran, a recognized leader and a decorated hero. Second, he had been able to take care of his men by securing special privileges and rations for them.

Finally, the men could trust him and talk to him. They felt comfortable in his presence and he in theirs.

Captain Lvov sought to humble the young junior lieutenant in an effort to solidify his position as the commander, but failed when Ilvanich responded with cold but proper military courtesy. As the unit trained and prepared for the upcoming mission, the junior lieutenant always had his men ready before anyone else and without fail was always one or two steps ahead of the captain in anticipating requirements or reading the tactical situation.

Rather than use his lieutenant's ability to his advantage, the captain only redoubled his efforts to break him. Public ridicule and dressing-downs for trivial matters became a routine for Ilvanich. This treatment, however, never seemed to bother him. Lvov's efforts to evoke a hostile response with abuse were always returned by a cold, hard stare from Ilvanich's steel-blue eyes and expressionless face. There was nothing the captain could do to penetrate the hard shell that the junior lieutenant had created and withdrawn into out of necessity.

The interior of the M-8 helicopter was black as a coal mine. Yet Ilvanich could feel the captain's eyes on him. The feeling was more than mere paranoia. When the company began to assemble and prepare for the mission, the captain always seemed to be behind Ilvanich, watching him. Ilvanich's men had noticed the captain's behavior and casually asked whether there was something the young lieutenant needed. Each time one of his squad leaders asked him that question, the lieutenant merely answered that he would not require any assistance in doing what was necessary. Ilvanich clutched his assault rifle and pondered what would really be necessary.

The announcement by the pilot that they were fifteen minutes out tore Ilvanich's thoughts away from his dilemma and switched them to the impending operation. Two battalions of the 285th Airborne Regiment were going in to seize the airfield at Kerman by air assault. Defending the airfield was a battalion of Americans from the elite 12th Light Infantry Division. This would be the first confrontation between Soviet and American ground forces. The men new to the regiment were uneasy, not knowing what would happen and unsure how they would act. The veterans, almost to a man, slept. Only Ilvanich, clutching his rifle, was awake, peering into the darkness in the direction of his captain.

Like a thunderclap, the realization of what the Soviets were up to hit the operations officer of the AWACS. As an Air Force officer, he had looked at the situation from a purely Air Force view. The incoming raids, oriented on obvious targets of concern to the Air Force, had evoked the reaction the operations officer had been trained to execute and the Soviets had hoped for. At the time when the massive Soviet air assault forces were still airborne and thus the most vulnerable, U.S. aircraft that could have smashed the assault had been placed in a defensive posture well to the south.

With precious little time, the operations officer had to completely reorient his attention. While the situation over the Gulf continued to build and demanded attention, forces had to be shifted to the north against the air assault. A quick analysis of the enemy situation and the location and status of friendly forces resulted in few good choices. The Air Force could defeat the threat to U.S. forces in and along the Gulf or its aircraft could charge north and strike at the Soviet air mobile forces. To attempt both would run the risk of failing in both areas.

As the operations officer discussed the situation with the small staff of the AWACS, he watched the situation screen and half listened to the reports coming in. The wing from Bandar Abbas, the one nearest and best capable of influencing the situation to the north, was beginning to engage the incoming Soviets near its base. In another minute, it would be fully involved in combat and unavailable for commitment to the north. The next group available were the fighters scrambling from Oman, which were tagged to protect the AWACS. Options narrowed rapidly. One, send the F-15s from Bandar Abbas north, leave that base open, and accept, at best, severe damage to the airfield and the port facilities. Two, send the fighters coming from Oman north and jeopardize the AWACS. Third, have the fighters from Oman cover Bandar Abbas and have the F- 15s go north.

Fourth, do nothing about the north and leave all fighters to perform their assigned missions.

The seconds passed and the window of opportunity to influence the situation slipped as the opposing aircraft joined battle. Already new radar tracks representing ai rto-air missiles could be seen on the screen. The Soviets had achieved surprise. Realization of the error in assessing the situation came too late for effective reaction. By saying nothing, the operations officer could let all orders stand.

It would be so easy not to make a decision.

But no decision was a decision, a decision that would have terrible results for the Army.

Despite the fact that the radar tracks representing the first wave of Soviet helicopters were descending on their targets, the operations officer decided on a compromise. He ordered a squadron from the F-15 wing at Bandar Abbas north to Kerman. There was little probability that they would make it there in time to influence the situation. The effort, however, had to be made.

Martain could not believe that they had just received the order to break contact and head north. Most of the aircraft had already engaged or were about to enter combat. Omaha Flight was on the verge of bouncing a flight of four MIGs when the order to recall came. From the backseat Martain's wizzo exclaimed, "Shit! Another thirty seconds-that's all we need."

Martain looked at his displays. He had complete situation awareness.

All was in order. Everything was set for their attacks. He and his wingman could each get a single short-range missile shot, kick in their after burners for a second, clear the remaining MIGs before they could react, and be on their way north. There was no sense in pissing away a perfectly good setup. Without further thought, he hit his radio transmit button. "Omaha Two, this is Omaha One. I got my fangs out. Follow me."

He had no sooner finished his transmission than the squadron commander came back and ordered Martain to break off his attack. Martain's mind, however, blocked him out. All Martain's thoughts were focused on making the kill. He watched his displays and listened for the radar tone. For the next fifteen seconds his eyes were glued to the heads-up display to his front. Ever so carefully he guided his F-15 through an easy turn as he aligned the blip representing the MIG with a small box in the center of his display that represented the proper angle for a missile attack. As soon as the blip and the box were aligned, he got a steady tone. Launching a missile, he yelled to his wizzo to hang on, threw the F-15 into a violent turn and kicked in his after burners.

Only when they had passed the speed of sound did he acknowledge the squadron commander's order. A rebuke from the commander was followed by confirmation from an AWACS controller hundreds of miles away that Omaha

OI's missile shot was a kill. Fuck the Old Maneven he can't argue with a kill, Martain said to himself.

The men of 1St Platoon, recently stirred from their sleep, slowly made their way into their fighting positions from a wadi to their rear where they had bivouacked. Duncan, watching them, could hear the lieutenant yelling to the men to pick up the pace and get into position. While some of the platoon sergeants didn't mind having a second lieutenant who tried to do everything himself and therefore left little for them to do, it pissed Duncan. He hadn't worked to become a senior NCO and platoon sergeant just to have a lieutenant fresh out of Fort Benning come into his unit and try to run the whole outfit single-handed.

Duncan was a proud man. He took pride in his abilities as a soldier and an NCO. He loved his work and the training. It therefore bothered him when his young platoon leader didn't let him do what he was supposed to.

Two quick explosions, a small one followed rapidly by a bigger one, to the front of the platoon's positions, startled Duncan. Instinctively he dropped to the bottom of his position, shifted himself from the rear to the front wall and listened. Immediately a machine gun from the platoon's positions began to fire. Duncan slowly raised his head over the lip of the fighting position and surveyed the scene. In the darkness he could see nothing to his front except the tracers from the machine gun. At the top of his lungs he repeatedly yelled, "Cease fire!" until the machine gun stopped. When silence returned, he listened Nothing. Nothing could be heard or seen to the front.

Slowly, men who had been in the open when the explosions went off crawled or moved in a crouch to their positions. Duncan didn't bother to turn around when the lieutenant tumbled into his fighting position.

The lieutenant sat on the floor of the hole with his back against the wall facing Duncan. Out of breath and excited, he blurted, "What the hell was that?

Mortars?"

Duncan continued to peer into the darkness, searching for an answer, while he replied, "A mine. A grenade and a mine. Someone was out there fucking around and tripped a booby-trapped mine."

"Maybe an animal tripped a mine."

Still watching to the front, Duncan calmly replied, "If an animal had tripped a mine, the mine would have gone off first, not the grenade. Someone was out there fucking with our mines and got lucky."

"Iranians?"

"Maybe. Maybe Russians. Didn't the Old Man tell us we could expect their recon elements anytime?"

The lieutenant, now composed, got up and made his way to the front wall, next to Duncan, before replying. "Why would the Soviets bother messing around with our mines?"

"Maybe they wanted to clear a lane. Maybe they wanted to lift the mines and put them to our rear. Shit, Lieutenant, you tell me."

The lieutenant didn't reply. Slowly he lifted his head over the lip of the fighting position and began to search for any telltale sign that would answer his question. As much as he wanted to know why, the young officer was not sure he would like the answer.

A flash cut through the darkness and caught the attention of the young Soviet recon-platoon leader. Immediately he put his night-vision device up to his eye. He watched as machine-gun tracers stabbed out into the darkness, and made a mental note of where they came from.

Twelve seconds later he heard the two explosions, followed by the report from the machine gun. Then nothing. He scanned the area for other signs of activity or firing, but could not detect any. Slowly he lowered the nightvision device, then pounded his fist on the top of his armored car and cursed. His men had failed. Instead of clearing a path through the mine field and marking it for the dawn attack by the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment, they had killed themselves and alerted the Americans.

The lieutenant considered his options for a moment. There wasn't enough time to send another team forward. Even if there had been, the Americans were alerted. He hoped his other patrols would be able to make it back without incident. He looked at his watch. In another thirty-five minutes he had to make his final report. The thought of reporting that his men had been detected made the lieutenant ill. At least he had been able to locate all of the Americans' forward outposts and their main positions. If the remaining patrols came in with the command post and artillery locations, perhaps he could be forgiven for not clearing the lane. That thought passed quickly, however. His commander was the type that was never satisfied with partial results.

There would be hell to pay for that mistake.

The sudden flash of explosions just ahead of the helicopters alerted the paratroopers that they were about to go into battle again.

Lieutenant Ilvanich could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The palms of his hands were sweating as he continued to grip his AK assault rifle. One minute to go, two at the most. Flashes of light from the explosions lit the interior of the helicopter for brief seconds Ilvanich could see others in the cabin shuffle and squirm. The new men leaned forward, glanced to their left and right and tried hard to see what was going on.

The veterans merely sat back in their seats, their faces fixed in an expressionless stare to their front. They knew what was going on and what was about to happen.

Ilvanich watched for the landing. Tracers were dashing wildly between the approaching helicopters. The Americans were alert and returning fire. The pilot was bringing the helicopter in fast and would no doubt hit hard. Instinctively, Ilvanich yelled, "Get ready!" When the aircraft was a couple of meters from the ground, he unsnapped his seat belt and swung himself in front of the open door.

A sudden jolt left no doubt that they were on the ground. With the battle cry of "Follow me!" Ilvanich leaped from the helicopter and charged into the darkness without looking back. He dashed for ten meters, then dropped to the ground. To his left and right other men from the helicopter dropped, too. Automatically they began to search the area immediately to their front for threats and targets. While they waited for the helicopters to finish disgorging their passengers, Ilvanich attempted to get his bearings. To his front at a distance of two hundred meters there were several American helicopters burning. The light from those fires was more than enough to allow him to make out the hangars and maintenance shops on the far side of the runway. The mission of his company was to clear those hangars and establish defensive positions three hundred meters beyond, facing away from the airfield.

Just after the last of the empty Soviet helicopters from the first wave had lifted off, several of them exploded, lighting up the sky and showering the paratroopers below with fragments. Ilvanich, who was in the process of getting up, dropped again and covered his head as the fragments pelted him on the back.

Neither Martain nor his wizzo had ever seen anything like it before.

Dozens of targets suddenly popped up on his screen at the same instant. Omaha Flight, flying low and fast, suddenly found itself saturated with them. While most of the squadron had gone in high to deal with Soviet air cover, two flights of two ships each had gone in low, looking for the helicopters. Martin had no doubt they had found them. "Omaha Two, this is One. Check six, then follow me. There's more than enough for both."

"Roger that, Omaha One. Nothing behind or above. I'm coming through."

There was no problem lining up on the slow-moving targets. Once Martain had the first blip aligned in his sight, he let fly a missile and turned to line up the next shot. His wingman did likewise, with terrible and swift results. The wizzo watched his screen in fascination as helicopters scattered in a mad rush to escape them. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

The roar of the jet engines just above their heads was deafening. The thought that American fighters had made it through the protective fighter screen was a shock to Ilvanich. For a moment he watched the burning crumpled wreckage that was the helicopter he had just exited.

Without effective air cover, there would be no follow-on waves. The men in the first wave were on their own.

Ilvanich turned his attention back toward his objective. He could hear the volume of American small-arms fire increase. The enemy was now bringing mortars to bear on them. The effect of the assault's initial surprise was being lost. Ilvanich knew they couldn't stay there. Their only chance was to go forward with force and violence. He glanced to his left and right.

"Where's Captain Lvov?" No one answered.

Ilvanich raised himself on one elbow and turned to search to his rear.

"Captain Lvov?" There was no response. He had to be dead. Why else had he not answered or taken charge? No loss, Ilvanich thought. His only regret was that he hadn't had the pleasure of doing it himself.

Without further thoughts on the subject, llvanich got to his feet and faced the company. "Men of the 3rd Company. Our objective is to clear those hangars over there and set up positions beyond them. Follow me. For the Motherland. Attack!"

As in the helicopter, the young lieutenant turned and went forward without bothering to look behind to see whether his men would follow.

He knew they would. Rushing forward in a half-crouch, Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvanich, Hero of the Soviet Union, charged into the inferno of burning helicopters and buildings and exploding mortar shells. Like a great white shark on the prowl, he turned his head from side to side as he went, his eyes going from point to point searching for targets. When something moved, without slowing he fired from the hip until it stopped moving. There was no more thinking required. No need for fancy maneuvers. Just attack, attack, attack.