Sword Point

Chapter 10

The morning sun greeted the men of the 3-4th Armor and warmed them as they lay in clusters not far from the flight line, the aircraft parking and servicing area. Most slept soundly in spite of the noise of the planes coming and going on the flight line. This was the first time in over thirty-six hours that they had had an opportunity to sleep horizontally.

Since Fort Hood, it had been one plane after another. Marshal at the airfield, manifest, board the plane, fly to another airport, get off the plane marshal somewhere else, manifest for the next flight, board the next plane, on and on. The misery of their odyssey was to have ended that day.

They had deplaned at Ras Banas in order to transfer from the commercial 747 to military transports for the last leg of the trip. With the Russians fast approaching Bandar Abbas, it had been judged too risky to send commercial charters straight into Iran. The transfer, however, did not take place immediately, despite the fact that there were a number of Air Force transports sitting on the ground. Rumor had it that there was a big air raid going on.

Whatever the reason, their misery continued. Upon arrival at Ras Banas, the men had been directed to an area just off the airfield tarmac. Their duffle bags, which contained their sleeping bags, were left on the aircraft. The only things the men had were their individual weapons and ALICE packs, rucksacks that held the bare-bones necessities such as a change of underwear, shaving kit, a sweater and clean socks. Rallying by company in small clusters, the men settled down in the sand as best they could, using the ALICE pack as a pillow.

They soon found that there were no toilets.

Those unlucky enough to be in the center of the mass of soldiers had to wander through the knots of sleeping men out into the desert before relieving themselves. These arrangements, however primitive, were still preferable to staying on the overcrowded transports.

Major Dixon found it hard to sleep once the sun had risen. As he sat up, his body was racked by spasms of pain. He felt as if he had been beaten up.

His eyes were puffed out, his mouth and throat dry, his nasal passages clogged with dirt. While he sat sipping water from his canteen, he considered whether he should save his water for drinking or use some of it for cleaning up. His mind, like his body, was in terrible shape.

Jumping time zones, being crammed into the confines of an airplane for hours on end with little to do, facing one delay or diversion after another, had reduced Dixon's brain to mush. Slowly he considered the pros and cons of washing up. Since the troops had been issued their kevlar helmets with fixed webbing, he could no longer use his helmet as a washbasin. That meant he had to use his canteen cup, which was, to say the least, a pain in the ass.

Making small decisions was hard. "What the hell," he mumbled to himself as he began to dig through his ALICE pack for his shaving kit.

"At least I can look decent." By the time he was finished, Master Sergeant Nesbitt came up to him carrying two cups of coffee. "And a good morning to you,

Major. Welcome to Egypt."

Dixon reached out and took the cup Nesbitt offered him. "I trust you came across this legally."

"Sir, would I ever do anything wrong or illegal, like? I mean, what do I look like, a supply sergeant or something?"

As Dixon sipped the coffee, still hot enough to steam his glasses, he thanked the Lord for being blessed with a man of Nesbitt's talents. It seemed the more senior an officer became, the more helpless he was.

That was why it was handy to have a talented sergeant around to deal with the mundane tasks such as keeping the unit running and taking care of the officers. "Sergeant Nesbitt, there wouldn't happen to be any food nearby that's worth the walk?"

"The Air Force people I got this from said the mess line will be open over by those hangars in about thirty minutes. They're going to be serving hot A's. Real food, not that T-ration shit."

"What's the matter, Sergeant Nesbitt, creamed beef over chunks of potatoes not to your liking? Why, didn't you know that tests have proven that the rations have revolutionized tactical feeding?"

Nesbitt got a disgusted look on his face, turned and spat. "Tests my ass, sir. When I was growing up my mom threw away leftovers that looked better than the stuff they expect us to survive on. Let the bastard who invented that shit try living on it for a couple of weeks."

Nesbitt was old Army, a tanker for over twenty years. He missed the old days and many of the old ways. Vietnam, VOLAR and other "reforms"

had changed the Army. Each year after his twentieth year he had told his wife that he was fed up with the Army and was turning in his retirement papers.

And each time he went to do it, someone always talked him out of it.

Dixon had been the last in a long line of officers to do so. The only reason Nesbitt had stayed the last time was because of Dixon. He had served with him in Germany. They got along well and were friends. Besides, Nesbitt liked tanking and the battalion

"Hey, Major, have you heard about our young scout platoon leader this morning?"

Dixon stopped what he was doing and looked at Nesbitt. "What's Capell gotten into now?"

With a twinkle in his eye, Sergeant Nesbitt replied, "Lieutenant Matthews."

Amanda Matthews lay next to Randy Capell and watched him sleep.

Although it was already becoming hot in the small tent where they had spent the last few hours, she didn't mind. The more she got to know Capell, the more she was overcome by his charm and his strange ideas of romance. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he would be waiting for her when the transport with the brigade staff on board landed in Ras Banas. Even more amazing were the arrangements Capell had made. They included an Air Force hummer, a tent with an ad-hoc double bed in an area that had been abandoned by the 17th Airborne Division, a meal of cold cuts and fresh bread, and even water to wash up in. When she protested that it wouldn't be smart to leave the group, because the unit might depart on a moment's notice, Capell had reassured her that he had it from reliable sources that no one would be leaving before noon that day. Besides, he continued, his platoon sergeant knew where he would be and would get them if either one of their transports was alerted for movement.

Matthews rolled over on her side until the length of her body was against Capell's. Propping her head on one hand, she ran her free hand across his chest. Matthews felt guilty for a moment. Here she was, enjoying herself, sleeping with Randy, while the rest of the brigade staff had only the desert for a bed and the sky for a roof. No doubt she would get an ass-chewing, at the least, for wandering off from the rest of the staff.

But it would be worth it. Besides, with the brigade going into Iran, a minor indiscretion such as this might just be overlooked.

Capell began to stir, and Matthews slowly ran her hand across his stomach.

As she began to fondle him, she leaned over and softly nibbled on his ear.

The reaction was predictable and immediate. Capell smiled as he opened his eyes. He turned and kissed her before he spoke. "Well, trying to sneak up on me when my guard is down, I see."

Matthews smiled back. They kissed again. "From the looks of it, Lieutenant, that's the only thing that you let down."

With speed that startled her, Capell bounded over on top of her, pinned her shoulders down and stared into her eyes, all signs of a smile gone.

While she lay there, wideeyed and unable to move, Capell bellowed in a deep and threatening voice, "It seems I'm going to have to teach you what the price of attacking a defenseless man is." With that as a prelude, they began another long, passionate session of love.

The sergeant had a devil of a time rousing Junior Lieutenant Ilvanich, who lay in the shallow foxhole with his back against a side wall, his AK assault rifle cradled in his arms. Ilvanich opened his eyes slightly and looked about him. He was totally disoriented and not quite conscious. When the sergeant was sure the lieutenant's mind was in the receive mode, he told Ilvanich that the captain was looking for him and wanted him to report immediately.

For a moment, Ilvanich was puzzled. Slurring his words, he asked haltingly, "What captain?"

The sergeant, confused for a moment, replied, "Captain Lvov, of course."

Then he added, "The company commander."

Ilvanich stared at the sergeant for a second, then sat upright.

"Lvov? Where in hell did he come from? Where is he?"

The sergeant pointed to their rear. "Over there, near the hangars. Come, will take you to him."

Ilvanich slowly stood up. Standing in the shallow hole, he stretched himself, slung his AK over his shoulder and pulled his canteen out.

After taking a sip of water, he turned and surveyed the area around him. The desolate landscape he viewed bore no resemblance to the wild and chaotic scenes he had lived through just hours before. To either side there stretched a line of shallow foxholes like the one he was in. They belonged to the remnants of the company. Dotting the landscape all about them were the bodies of his dead and wounded and those of the enemy. Medical teams were going about picking up the wounded and marking the dead.

Smoke still lingered at scattered points about the airfield.

Helicopters were coming and going at seemingly lazy pace. In the distance other units could be seen moving about, forming up or going about their assigned tasks.

"What is the final count this-morning, Sergeant?"

"One platoon leader, besides you, and thirty-eight men." Then, as an afterthought, the sergeant added, "And Captain Lvov."

Forty-one out of seventy-eight. Not bad. Better than Ilvanich had expected.

The battle had been short but extremely violent. Once the Americans had gotten over their initial shock, they had fought like tigers. The final stages of the fight had been hand to hand. In the predawn twilight men grappled with each other using knives and fists as the battle swayed in the balance. Only the sudden appearance of the regiment's follow-on forces finally decided the issue. Even then the American infantry had refused to yield, withdrawing into the desert rather than surrender. Only American ground crews and support personnel had been captured. The sergeant, watching his lieutenant, tactfully reminded him that Captain Lvov was waiting. Ilvanich thought as he returned his canteen to its case.

Fuck Lvov. We fight all morning and lose half the company before he shows up. His story, no doubt, will be fascinating. Then, to his sergeant, "Lead on, Sergeant, I am anxious to report to our commanding officer." The cutting sarcasm was not lost on the sergeant, who smirked and replied, "Yes, Comrade Lieutenant, we must not keep our commanding officer waiting."

Lvov was talking to the battalion's first officer when Ilvanich entered the hangar. The captain acknowledged the lieutenant's presence with a nod, but continued his 181 conversation. Ilvanich stopped several meters away and waited. As he stood there, arms loosely folded across his chest, his AK dangling from his shoulder and his eyes riveted on his captain, Ilvanich fought back his anger. The bastard, he thought.

He loses contact with his company all night, he has not been seen by anyone since the battle began, and he has no idea what the company's positions look like. Instead of running out to the line, he stands there like a pompous ass, talking to the battalion staff and summoning me like a schoolboy. As Ilvanich thought about Lvov and what had happened that morning, his hand slowly dropped to his AK. If I were half sane, I would kill the bastard right now, he told himself.

Finished with his chat, Lvov slowly walked over to him. Ilvanich, fighting back his urge to choke the captain, came to attention and rendered a smart, regulation salute.

"Junior Lieutenant Ilvanich reporting as ordered, Comrade Captain."

The captain was pleased. "What is your report, Junior Lieutenant?"

Lvov had accentuated the "Junior."

"Third Company has accomplished all assigned tasks. We cleared the hangars, pushed out from the airfield a distance of three hundred meters and established our portion of the defensive perimeter as ordered. Current strength is two officers and thirty-eight men. Ammunition resupply has been effected. Total losses for the action to date are twelve dead and twenty-one wounded. Senior Lieutenant Anatov is among the wounded."

The two men looked at each other while Lvov thought about Ilvanich's report. The captain had clearly winced when Ilvanich stressed the "we."

After a moment, Lvov replied, "Thank you for your report, Lieutenant. It is unfortunate that Lieutenant Anatov is wounded. Until he recovers, you will assume his duties as the deputy company commander."

Lvov waited for a response from Ilvanich, but did not get one.

Awkwardly, he continued. "I became separated from the company last night when the American jets came in. I went forward as soon as the helicopters lifted off. Unfortunately, the men did not follow, because of the jets and the air battle."

Ilvanich thought, You lying bastard. This company always follows. How convenient that the Americans provide a nice cover story.

Lvov, talking more to himself, went on. "When I found there was no one behind me, I went back to the landing site, but the company was gone.

Unable to find them, I attached myself to the regimental staff. I am glad to see that things were able to work themselves out."

For the first time Ilvanich thought of his commander as a coward. That anyone would believe his story was incredible. The two men stood and stared at each other for several seconds. Only the intervention of the battalion commander interrupted their private thoughts.

"Comrade Captain, the regimental commander wishes to see Lieutenant Ilvanich at regimental headquarters immediately."

Ilvanich turned to his battalion commander and asked why he had been summoned. His colonel replied that he did not know but that Ilvanich, Lvov and he had best go over and find out.

The three officers were greeted at the entrance of the airfield's administration building by a regimental staff officer, who escorted them to a conference room. Upon entering, Ilvanich froze. The entire regimental staff was assembled in the room, standing against the side walls. At the front of the room were the division commander and the regimental commander.

Between them were the regimental colors, guarded by two stern-faced paratroopers.

The regimental commander, standing at. attention, called out, "Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvaich, come forward. "

As he made his way past the unsmiling faces of the staff officers, he suddenly became painfully aware of his disheveled appearance and of the AK loosely slung over his shoulder and banging against his side. Once he was at the front of the room, the regimental commander guided Ilvanich to a position between him and the division commander. Behind Ilvanich were his regimental colors.

With a nod, the regimental commander signaled the regimental adjutant to begin.

"In recognition of his heroism and leadership during the capture of the airfield at Kerman, Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvanich is being awarded the Order of the Red Star. Through his efforts and example, his men were able to seize the initiative, overcome numerically superior enemy forces and allow the regiment time to reinforce and capitalize on the success achieved by 3rd Company. Lieutenant Ilvanich's leadership and courage are of the highest order and deserving of the appreciation of the Soviet people and the Soviet Union."

Ilvanich was dumbfounded as the division commander pinned the medal on his tunic and congratulated him. Even more surprising was the division commander's announcement that it was high time Ilvanich was given the rank he deserved. On cue, the regimental adjutant handed two lieutenant's epaulets to the division commander, who in turn handed one to the regimental commander. The two commanders removed Ilvanich's junior lieutenant's epaulets and replaced them with the others. In the excitement of the moment, Ilvanich did not notice that there were bloodstains from the former owner on the "new" lieutenant epaulets. He was overwhelmed. Someone shoved a glass of vodka into his hand while the staff officers congratulated him and patted him on the back. The division commander, raising his glass high, offered a toast to the young hero.

For the moment, all was smiles. The 285th Airborne Regiment had again succeeded, by the narrowest of margins. It was time for a brief break from the stress of battle, the arduous task of burying its dead and preparing for the next battle. It was time for the victor to decorate its heroes and count its losses. A new battle streamer would be added to the regimental colors. New names would be inscribed in the regiment's roll of honor. The ofcers in the room were all smiles and good cheer. All except one man. As they drank up, Ilvanich saw his company commander across the room. He did not drink the toast. Lvov merely stood there, glaring at him. Waiting.

The day had been long and difficult for the men of the 1st Platoon.

They had been on alert all day, waiting for an attack that never came.

Reports of Soviet activity just to the north of them and attacks at other points of the division's perimeter put the men on edge. Rumors that the airfield at Kerman had been overrun added to their nervousness.

Sergeant First Class Duncan's platoon leader had moved up and down the platoon line almost constantly all morning, checking the men, their positions and their equipment. It wasn't until noon that Duncan was finally able to convince him that all was in order and that the best thing he could do for the platoon was to settle down and wait, like everyone else.

Duncan was almost sorry that he had succeeded in settling the lieutenant down, because the lieutenant decided to stay with him in his foxhole. Every few minutes the lieutenant would ask a question about a noise or movement to their front, make a line check on the telephone that ran to the squad leaders, or check the action on his M-16 to ensure that it was functioning.

That had gone on all afternoon. Duncan could understand the lieutenant's nervousness. He was nervous himself. Still, Duncan wished his platoon leader would go away and bug someone else for a while.

In little clusters the men of the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment waited for the attack to commence. All day they had waited, sitting in the open without cover or relief from the sun that beat upon them and their armored vehicles. Their first orders had been to attack immediately once they had made contact with the Americans. That had been changed, however, when a patrol accidentally alerted the Americans to their presence. With the element of surprise gone, the decision was made to conduct a deliberate attack rather than hit the Americans from the march.

Preparation for battle began shortly after dawn. Information concerning the location of American positions gained by the regimental recon unit as well as air recon was received at the regiment's headquarters. There it was carefully reviewed by the first officer, responsible for operations, the second officer, responsible for intelligence, and the artillery officer.

Based on that information, the three officers developed a plan of attack, a schedule of artillery fires and orders. The plan of attack incorporated the concepts of maneuver and shock. The motorized rifle battalions, reinforced by companies from the regimental tank battalion, provided the maneuver, while massed artillery would provide the shock.

Orders were issued to the attacking battalions and the follow-on units.

Details outlining the routes they would take from their assembly areas to the line of departure, their axis of advance, lines of deployment, intermediate and final objectives for the first attack echelon and follow-on echelons of the regiment were all addressed. They could have attacked sooner in the day, but it had been decided to hit just before dark. In that way, the first echelon battalions would be able to make the breakthrough during the daylight, while the exploitation force would be able to move forward and drive deep under the cover of darkness.

The artillery battalions supporting the regiment received their orders in the form of a schedule of fires, a detailed listing telling each battery of guns what targets it would fire on and when. Based on this schedule, the regimental and division artillery were brought forward and em placed along with ammunition required to fire the preparatory bombardment and other missions listed in the schedule of fires.

Carefully worked-out formulas specified how many rounds were required by each caliber of weapon to achieve the target effect desired. For this attack, besides the regiment's own 122mm. self-propelled artillery battalion and the heavy mortars of the battalions, two additional 122mm. artillery battalions, a 152mm. artillery battalion and a battalion of BM-21 multiple-rocket launchers were allocated for support. These units would be grouped together under the command of the regimental artillery officer into a regimental artillery group.

A twenty-minute preparatory bombardment would commence at 1940 hours.

American command posts, artillery units and key positions would be hit.

The preparatory bombardment would also cover the noise of the maneuver battalions as they deployed. In accordance with the schedule of fires, the artillery would shift their fires to selected targets at 2000 hours. Some of the batteries would concentrate on the Americans' forward positions to pin or destroy the defend drs Some batteries would fire smoke rounds to cover the attacking force. Other batteries would hit targets deep in the Americans' rear. The multiple-rocket launchers were to be held back for the purposes of counter battery fire and attacking command posts identified through radio direction-finding. As soon as the American artillery began to return fires, Soviet counter battery radar units would be able to locate where the American rounds originated and feed that data to the multiple-rocket-launcher batteries.

In the shadows of the setting sun, the 2nd Company, 1st Battalion, 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment, waited to move forward. Captain Neboatov had received his orders early in the afternoon. Along with the battalion commander and the other company commanders, they had gone as far forward as was prudent.

For Neboatov, the plan of attack was simple. It was, in fact, nothing more than the battle drill that they had been trained in and had used so effectively to date in Iran. The battalion would leave the assembly area in a column of companies. At a predesignated point, the battalion would split up and move, with each company on its own route. At a second point, the companies in turn would split off into platoon columns. Finally, at the line of deployment, the two lead companies would deploy into a line with the tanks in the lead, followed by BMPs of the rifle companies. Neboatov's company was the second echelon for the battalion, which meant he would follow the battalion command group and be prepared to replace one of the two lead companies or punch through, if one of them succeeded, to the battalion's final objective of the day.

While the battalion was moving forward and the artillery bombardment was going in, Neboatov's company would unfold from the march column into the line of attack. Neboatov had no doubt that his men would be able to execute their maneuvers without a hitch. This would be the third breakthrough attack that the battalion had conducted since the war with Iran had begun.

What concerned Neboatov was the unknown quality of the American fighting man.

Since his days as a cadet he had studied American tactics, society, culture, politics and history. While the books provided clear, concise answers as to American tactics and equipment, some of the more informed instructors always cautioned that the Americans were a strange race of people who did not follow norms. Nor were they a predictable breed.

Their history and politics were filled with contradictions and strange actions and reactions to world events. In one instance, they allowed the Iranians to hold their embassy for 444 days without doing anything.

Within a few years, they turned around and launched an invasion of a tiny island country simply because the government had changed. One passage that Neboatov had read summed up the problem by stating: "One of the serious problems in planning against American doctrine is that the Americans do not read their manuals nor do they feel any obligation to follow their doctrine." The American fighting man, a product of that unpredictable society and philosophy, was an unknown that Neboatov and his men now had to meet and deal with.

For the fourth time in as many minutes, Neboatov raised his left arm and glanced at his watch: 1939 hours. Sixty seconds. The die was cast. All was set, all planned. Now all they had to do was execute the plan. How simple that seemed. How awfully bloody and simple.

The sound of fifty-four howitzers, eighteen heavy mortars and eighteen multiple-rocket launchers firing simultaneously appeared to the 1st Platoon as a distant rumble, like a thunderstorm far away. The lieutenant, nodding off to sleep in Duncan's foxhole, opened his eyes and asked what the rumbling was. Duncan, peering out to the side of the foxhole's parapet, replied casually, "Artillery. I think they're-"

The whine of large-caliber artillery projectiles passing overhead and the impact of 120mm. mortars on the platoon's positions cut Duncan's answer short. The sudden overpressure of near-misses hit all those in his foxhole like a sledgehammer. The clear evening air was corrupted with dust, smoke and fumes. Across the front the men of 1st Platoon cowered in the depth of their foxholes, foxholes that suddenly seemed dangerously shallow. The shock of their initiation to combat was a fearful and lonely experience as each man withdrew into himself in an effort to survive or block out reality. Combat, long prepared for and discussed, was upon them.

Within seconds, the impact of individual mortar and artillery rounds was no longer distinguishable. A steady pounding and an unending chain of detonations dulled the men's senses. Dust and fumes settled down in the bottom of the foxholes where the men sought escape. Those who had presence of mind tied handkerchiefs or bandanas over their noses and mouths. Those lost to panic simply gagged and choked. Eardrums shattered and bled. Men no longer able to control themselves defecated and urinated where they sat, crouched in the corner of their foxholes.

Minute after minute the pounding continued. Steady, unending, terrifying. The sobs of men broken by the experience of their initiation to battle could not be heard above the din of explosions by the men next to them.

For the lucky, death came quickly. The probability of a mortar round landing right on top of a foxhole is slim. But even when the odds are a thousand to one, there is always that one.

Fire enough rounds in a small area, and probability begins to take its toll. The overhead cover that protected the men of 1st Platoon did well to stop shell fragments but was sadly insufficient when a direct hit was scored. When the shell's fuse setting was on super quick action, the round detonated as soon as it touched ground. In those cases, the force of the explosion rammed the overhead cover that was meant to protect the foxhole's occupants down on top of them, crushing or burying them. When the shell's fuse setting was on delayed action, the shell penetrated the overhead cover and detonated in the foxhole among the occupants. Death was instantaneous. All signs that the foxhole had once been occupied by humans were eradicated in a twinkling of an eye.

In this manner, 1st Platoon, B Company, 3rd of the 503rd Infantry, received its baptism of fire.

The speed of the attacking columns began to pick up as Neboatov's company moved into the open. Neboatov elected to remain standing in the hatch of his BMP, to better control his company and maintain his orientation. It was dangerous but necessary; buttoned up, he was as good as blind. To his front he could see the regiment's preparatory artillery bombardment going in. He was impressed. The entire forward slope of the far ridge was exploding.

That anything could live through that seemed unlikely. But there would be survivors, survivors that he would have to deal with.

The battalion was now moving forward at a steady pace of twenty-four kilometers an hour. The lead companies remained in platoon columns, BMPs following the tanks with mine plows and rollers attached to them.

Obstacles that had taken hours to emplace would be brushed aside with little effect.

Neboatov held the hatch cover firmly as his BMP rolled forward and hit bump after bump. With skill born of practice, his body swayed instinctively to maintain balance while he watched the advance of his company and the progress of those in the lead. The artillery to his front stopped. Neboatov looked at his watch: 2000 hours. The initial barrage was over. Time for the guns to shift to their next targets.

The stunned silence was welcome but frightening. For a moment Duncan sat and listened. Then, with his body pressed against the front wall, he slowly began to rise to peer over the lip of the foxhole. The dust hung in the air like fog. At first he could see nothing. Slowly, in the distance, he could make out the images of the advancing Soviet armored columns, moving forward as if on parade. As he watched, Duncan was conscious of the lieutenant next to him. At first neither said a word, they only watched. Then the lieutenant moved away from the front wall and began to climb out of the foxhole. In confusion, Duncan called out, "Where're you going, Lieutenant?"

Without stopping or turning back, the lieutenant shouted, "I–I gotta get back to my position. Call for artillery."

"Get back here in the hole. You'll never make it. The bastards are only shifting fires." Duncan turned and lunged to grab the lieutenant's leg, but missed. The lieutenant climbed out of the hole and stood upright just as the first round of the next artillery barrage impacted.

The explosions hammered Duncan down to the bottom of his hole. He stayed there for a moment, then rose to see what had become of the lieutenant. The first sight that greeted him was a hand hanging over the lip of the foxhole. The fingers, forming a half-clenched fist, twitched and jerked randomly. Then Duncan saw the lieutenant, lying on his back. His right arm reached out toward Duncan and quivered. His face, turned up to the sky, also quivered in spasms. There seemed to be no wounds. Perhaps he was simply stunned. With a single boost, Duncan pulled himself out of the hole so that he could help his lieutenant.

In an instant, he knew he couldn't. The entire left side of the lieutenant's body was a bloody pulp. From his thigh to his face the lieutenant's body was shattered and covered with bright-red blood that oozed from innumerable wounds. Bone and organs lay exposed in the dirt. The sight of the half man overcame Duncan's last reserves of self-control. Involuntarily he vomited as he leaned over the remains of his lieutenant, adding his own vile fluids to the gore before him. Only the intervention of the radio operator who shared the foxhole with Duncan and who pulled him back down saved him from sharing his lieutenant's fate.

With the smokescreen in place and the battalion clear of the mine field, it was time to deploy into line and commence the final assault.

The order had gone out to remain mounted throughout the assault. With few exceptions, there had been no return antitank fire to speak of.

Artillery fire had been light and had missed the fast-moving columns.

Every time American artillery did fire, a volley of rockets from the multiple-rocket launchers screamed overhead in return. All was in order, all going forward as planned.

It was at this point that Neboatov became nervous. All seemed to be going too well. It was much too easy, like a summer maneuver. The Americans were waiting. They were intentionally holding their fire until the battalion was in a fire sack. Nervously he glanced from side to side for telltale signs of a trap. He saw none. The lead companies continued forward, disappearing into the smoke laid by the artillery and generated by the tanks in the lead. No orders or warning came over the radio. Nothing to indicate a change in the situation or a trap.

The battalion rolled forward at twenty-four kilometers per hour on a collision course with the Americans.

The second artillery barrage stopped. The rumble of the advancing Soviet vehicles could be felt before it was heard. Duncan stuck his head up over the lip of the foxhole and peered into the smoke and dust thrown up by impacting artillery. He could see nothing. But he could hear. The squeaking of tank sprockets and the rumble of their engines were joined by the higher-pitched whine of the BMPs, the chatter of machine guns, the pop and whoosh of antitank guided missiles being fired, and closein detonations.

The two companies in the forward positions were in contact with enemy forces.

Duncan reached down for the field phone and tried to ring up the platoon's squad leaders. No one answered. No doubt the wires had been severed by the artillery. He turned to the radiotelephone operator and ordered him to contact the company commander. While the operator tried in vain to raise anyone on the company-command net, Duncan raised his head again to see what was going on.

To his left he saw one of his Dragon gunners prop up his missile launcher in preparation. The sound of advancing tanks and BMPs grew louder. So did the machine-gun fire. The bursts of M-16 and SAW rifle fire were overriden by the sound of unfamiliar small-arms fire. Russian PKs and AKs, probably.

Every now and then a tank main gun would fire or the sharp report of a 30mm. cannon would rip through the air. Still Duncan could see nothing.

Suddenly, it was there. Like an apparition, the T-80 tank burst forth, its main gun sweeping from side to side menacingly. It was searching for targets, Duncan's men. The blast of a Dragon firing caught Duncan's attention. He turned and saw that the Dragon gunner who was to his left had let fly his missile at a tank farther to the left.

Duncan watched the flight of the missile as it raced for the tank. But it never made it.

Instead, the missile looped up, hung in the air for a moment, then grounded itself in a great explosion. Duncan turned back to see what had caused that. The Dragon gunner was no longer visible. The launch tube was lying on its side, its bipod legs turned askew in the air. The gunner had been hit.

He was probably at the bottom of his foxhole, wounded or dead.

The image of a great dark form in the corner of his eye caught Duncan's attention. He dropped to the bottom of his foxhole just as the track of a T-80 tank crushed the overhead cover. Broken beams, dirt and sandbags rained down on Duncan and his radio operator. The earth shook and quivered as the BMPs following bypassed Duncan's shattered position.

Desperately the two men struggled to free themselves.

Once clear of the rubble, Duncan stood up and looked to his left and right.

The line of tanks and BMPs that had overrun his platoon's positions was clearly visible to their 194 rear as they continued to roll south. To the right, the second-echelon company was passing through where the 2nd Platoon's positions were. Down in the valley before him he could see more Soviet vehicles moving toward them.

In an instant, he knew there was nothing more they could do there.

Yelling to his radio operator to follow, Duncan grabbed his rifle and bounded out of the foxhole. The two men ran down the platoon's line of foxholes, stopping at each one while Duncan reached in and shouted to those men who appeared to be alive to get their gear and follow him.

Some obeyed. A few didn't. Many couldn't. Those who could leaped out of their holes and followed their platoon sergeant at a dead run as they sought escape to the west, away from Rafsanjan and into the vast wasteland.

Neboatov didn't realize that they had actually overrun the American positions until his company went rumbling past smashed 105mm. artillery pieces. He was shocked. He stood upright and turned to his rear, trying to see where the defensive positions had been. He couldn't. It had all been too easy. Perhaps they hadn't yet hit the main defensive belt. Perhaps the Americans had withdrawn to better defensive positions during the day.

Bewildered, Neboatov returned his attention to the front and continued to follow the progress of the lead companies, watch the alignment of his platoons and listen for orders on the battalion radio net.