Sword Point

Chapter 13

Instead of diminishing, the volume of small-arms fire directed against the advancing Soviet formations was increasing. Isolated pockets of enemy infantry were coming out of hiding and engaging the men of the 1st Battalion, 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment. The Americans had not crumpled as before and had, instead, recovered from their initial attack and in some cases seemed to be counterattacking.

Neboatov's company had again been the second attack echelon of the battalion. As before, the preparatory artillery bombardment had silenced all resistance as the attacking force approached. Again the battalion had rolled over the American forward positions and driven for the regiment's objective. This time, however, the battalion had been hit by a combination of close-in antitank rockets and long-range antitank guided missiles. The antitank guided missiles, or ATGMs, had been set up behind hills and in wadis in the Americans' rear areas.

From these well-covered and well-concealed positions, the ATGM teams were impossible to detect before they fired.

Even when the positions were detected, by the time effective fire could be massed against them the ATGM teams were gone, moved to another hidden position farther up the valley.

While the American level of fire was insufficient to stop the attacking columns, it slowed the advance, delayed the commitment of follow-on forces and forced the lead regiment to turn against the resisting Americans. This task fell to the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment. It was forced to dismount its riflemen, in order to clear the shoulders of the penetration in preparation for the commitment of the 127th Motorized Rifle Division's own tank regiment and the 33rd Tank Division.

The resulting fight pitted the regiment's riflemen, backed by their tanks and BMP-2 infantry-fighting vehicles, against an elusive foe that moved from one hidden position in the high ground to the next. American infantrymen, deployed on the lower heights, defended the antitank-guided-missile teams located farther up the hillside. When Soviet riflemen began to close on a position and threaten to overwhelm it, the ATGM teams would move while the infantry covered them. They, in their turn, would move to the next prepared position that covered the ATGM teams already in place.

The problem for Neboatov's battalion was to get past and around the Americans, isolate them. bring superior firepower and numbers to bear and then crush them. While they had the advantage of having BMPs to carry them, the vehicles were easily tracked and often frustrated by obstacles, mines or antitank guided missiles. A hit on a BMP by an antitank guided missile resulted in the dual loss of a fighting vehicle and a squad of riflemen.

Cutting off the Americans did not seem to bother them; they remained just as dangerous, moving about along concealed routes in small groups, infiltrating past the surrounding Soviet riflemen. On occasion, they would fall on the rear of Soviet riflemen who were maneuvering against another position. The result was a confusing swirl of battle that knew no front or rear, no friendly lines or hostile positions. Just chaos and sudden death.

After a failed attempt to destroy a pocket of resistance, Neboatov was trying to rally his men and plan their next move. After three hours of playing cat and mouse among the rocks and the wadis, he was running out of ideas and was frustrated. He ordered his driver to tuck their BMP into a small draw near one of his platoons so that they would be out of harm's way while he collected his command and his thoughts. No sooner had they pulled in than his battalion commander's BMP rolled up. Both officers dismounted from their vehicles and walked over to a spot near some large rocks to discuss the situation out of earshot of their men.

The crews of the two BMPs, exhausted and hot from driving about buttoned up, dismounted and took the opportunity to relax and eat something. Sitting on top of their vehicles, they picked at their combat rations, drank from their canteens and speculated among themselves what would happen next.

The battalion commander, like Neboatov, was frustrated. The regimental commander wanted the Americans cleared before the division's tank regiment was committed. He, in turn, was being pressured by Division to give the all clear. The two officers knelt to study a map the battalion commander laid out on the ground. As he pointed with a grease pencil to key areas that he wanted Neboatov to clear, sweat from his brow dripped onto the map.

Neboatov wiped his own face with a dirty rag as he listened to his commander explain how the battalion would systematically clear the valley.

The task would be long and tedious, not to mention dangerous.

A sudden warning shout from one of the BMP crewmen was cut short by a burst of automatic fire. Neboatov and his commander, looking up to see what was happening, watched in horror as the crews of the two BMPs were cut down by accurate small-arms fire. The two officers turned in the direction the fire was coming from in time to see four American infantrymen jump out from behind one of the rocks. The two in the lead were firing their rifles from the hip as they rushed forward. The other two were lobbing grenades in the direction of the BMPs.

The battalion commander was the first to react and the first to fall.

The sudden motion as he stood up and reached for his pistol caught the attention of the Americans. One of them stopped in place, turned toward the two officer's and, firing from the hip, let go two quick bursts. Both bursts hit the battalion commander square in the chest, ripping it open and throwing him backward on top of Neboatov, who was still kneeling. The impact of his colonel's body sent him sprawling, and he hit his head against a rock.

Though not unconscious, Neboatov had the wind knocked out of him and was unable to clearly focus or react. Pinned beneath the body of his dead commander, his head reeling, he watched the Americans rush forward and drop grenades into the open hatches of the two BMPs. One of the American infantrymen noticed the map on the ground and walked over to recover it. As he was bending over, Neboatov tried to reach for his pistol. His spastic fumbling-served only to catch the American's attention. Dropping the map, the American swung around and raised his rifle, its muzzle stopping inches from Neboatov's face.

Neboatov knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes. After what seemed to be an eternity, the familiar burst of several AKs caused him to open them.

The threatening rifle muzzle and the American were gone. From where he lay,

Neboatov could see several of his men from the nearby platoon running forward. While some of them pursued the surviving Americans, a lieutenant and two men came over to give their company commander a hand. Gently, they moved the battalion commander's body off Neboatov and helped him up.

Neboatov scanned the area as he collected his thoughts and caught his breath. He was shaking like a leaf. Two Americans, one of them the soldier who moments before had held Neboatov's life in his hand, were down. The other two were gone. Small-arms fire from beyond the rocks told that they were fighting as they withdrew. The battalion commander's BMP was burning, and ammunition on board popped as it cooked in the fire. Neboatov's BMP was smoking. The bodies, wounded and dead, of both BMPs' crews were scattered about the ground or hanging limp off the BMPs. Half-eaten rations and spilled canteens were scattered among the bodies or held in lifeless hands.

Neboatov walked over to his BMP on shaky legs, stopping where the body of his driver lay. He knelt and pulled the leather helmet from the soldier's head, freeing a crop of dirty blond hair matted down by sweat and oil. The soldier was more boy than man, not more than nineteen years old. He had been born and raised on a small collective farm in the eastern Ukraine, a true son of Mother Russia. Though Neboatov seldom bothered with the enlisted men in his command, he had taken special interest in this youth because of his loyalty to family and country, his skills as a tracked-vehicle driver, and a shy, easygoing manner that Neboatov found refreshing. Now he was gone, killed in a barren land miles from his beloved family and country. The young girl he spoke of often would probably never know how he had died. His mother would never be able to tend to his needs again. He was dead, killed in action in the service of the Party and his country.

Neboatov stood up and turned his face to the rising sun. He felt its heat.

How brutal, he thought, this day is going to be.

The two attacking A-10 aircraft were a long time gone before all firing ceased. Once the tank crews did cease fire, they automatically turned 180 degrees, preparing for an attack by a second pair of American planes.

Vorishnov knew that the Americans would not come from the same direction again. As he picked himself up off the ground, he looked about in an effort to guess which way they would come if they did return. Deciding that this was an exercise in futility, he turned his attention to more immediate problems.

The 3rd Battalion was scattered about in an open field, dispersed as a precaution against air attack. That, however, had not saved them this time.

Two A-10s had come swooping down out of the sun as the tanks sat waiting for the order to move forward, an order that had not yet been given. From where he stood, Vorishnov counted three of his battalion's tanks burning. He was about to heave a sigh of relief when his eyes fell upon his BTR-60. Smoke was pouring from its open hatches. It had been hit.

As he rushed over, the chatter of machine-gun fire announced the approach of the attacking aircraft. The low pitch ripping sound of the A-10s' miniguns sent Vorishnov diving. As he flattened himself against the ground he imagined he could feel the planes' 30mm. projectiles passing right over him. The pock-pock-pock of the rounds hitting metal, followed by a low, rumbling explosion, told him that another tank had died. When the screech of the jets' engines had again passed, Vorishnov picked himself up and ran toward the BTR.

The BTR was a total loss. Flames were now shooting from the open hatches.

A man trying to pull out the body of one of the crewmen was beaten back by the heat of the flames. Looking around, Vorishnov saw the battalion's second officer sitting on the ground next to a sprawled out body. Vorishnov went over to him.

He could see that the second officer, a young intelligence captain, was hit in the shoulder and bleeding. His helmet was off and his face was quite pale. Speckles of blood seemed to cover his tunic. No doubt he was going into shock: As Vorishnov knelt down next to the young captain, he noticed that the body on the ground was that of the political officer. He knew this only from the insignia-the body was without a head.

"Alexis," Vorishnov asked, "are you hit anywhere else?"

The second officer only shook his head in response. He was obviously losing blood.

"Come, we must get that arm tended to."

As Vorishnov helped him up the captain spoke hesitantly, his voice barely audible. "We.. we were walking away from the BTR, talking about the delay. We heard the planes begin to fire. We both turned to see what the noise was. Then I looked toward Lieutenant Teplov, just as he was hit. A round hit him in the head and exploded. It.. " The second officer stared into Vorishnov's 243

eyes before he continued. "His head just exploded. It blew apart, all over me. It just.. it blew apart." As he talked, the captain ran his hands down his tunic, which, Vorishnov realized, was spattered not only with blood but also with scraps of human brain tissue. The young man's eyes were wide and showed his bewilderment and shock. "We must help him. How are we going to fix him, Comrade Major? His head is gone. What are we going to do,

Comrade?"

Vorishnov cradled the captain's face gently in his hands and spoke softly, the way his father had spoken to him when he was a boy and was hurt or confused. "Lieutenant Teplov is dead. He has done his duty.

We must now take care of you. There is nothing we can do for him. Do you understand?"

Tears welled up in the captain's eyes as reality began to take hold. He looked into the major's eyes for a moment, then nodded that he understood.

"Good," Vorishnov said. "Let us tend to your arm." With that, he led the second officer away from the smashed BTR and the shattered remains of the political officer.

Throughout the initial phase of the engagement that morning it had been difficult to believe there was a real life battle going on, a battle that involved killing and dying. Everything had been working so well, too well.

The American maneuver battalions submitted their reports on enemy activities and their own status as if this were nothing more than a training exercise.

Militaryintelligence units operating well forward were picking up all the information they needed to show that the main attack was coming into the 3rd of the 4th Armor's sector. That battalion's reports confirmed that and the battalion's success in defeating the attack.

Everything suddenly changed when the truth was finally known. The discovery of Soviet forces in the rear of the sector of the 1st of the 503rd Infantry, coupled with Brigade's inability to raise that battalion, caused concerns at Brigade and near-panic in 3rd of the 4th Armor. The commander of that armored battalion wanted to withdraw immediately toward Tarom. With the infantry battalion penetrated, he saw no way he could hold where he was. The brigade commander, unsure of how bad things really were, wanted the situation clarified before he began giving ground. Besides, even if the 1st of the 503rd Infantry had been penetrated, Brigade could still shift the 1st of the 29th Mech from the east into the infantry battalion's sector and counterattack. At least that was what the brigade commander wanted. Initial orders to execute that contingency plan were issued. Units began to shift in compliance.

Well to the north, Soviet electronic-warfare units waged a different, silent and unseen war. With electronic equipment that rivaled the best that the West had to offer, Soviet intelligence officers and technicians listened to the airwaves, scanning the full spectrum of FM, HF and AM radio waves. When they caught a transmission in progress, they locked onto it and studied it. Although they could not understand what was being said over the various American command radio nets because of speech secure equipment, they could determine which nets were brigade command, which were battalion command and so on. When the traffic on the command nets suddenly increased, followed shortly by an apparent shifting of forces from the mech infantry battalion's sector in the east, Soviet electronic-warfare units went into action.

Some of the American locations that FM radio emissions were coming from had already been pinpointed through radio direction-finding and targeted for attack by artillery. But the Soviets held back, waiting for the right moment when disruption or loss of the American command-and-control elements would have maximum effect. With the situation now changing rapidly, the decision was made to take out selected targets.

Orders went out to the Soviet artillery battalions to fire on some of those locations. Other radio nets were simply jammed with high volumes of interference. Some of the 245 jamming was silent jamming, a technique whereby the subscribers to the radio net do not hear any unusual noise or see any effect until they try to transmit over their radio; when they do try but cannot make contact, they often assume their radio is not operating or that terrain is blocking the transmission. Other radio nets were jammed with loud noises and unusual sounds designed to annoy the listener. Regardless of the means used to jam or interfere, the results were the same: commanders could no longer control their subordinate commands or pass information.

The artillery attack (called a fire strike by the Soviets) that had been directed against 2nd Brigade's headquarters was a rude awakening for the brigade staff. The calm, businesslike atmosphere was suddenly smashed as heavy artillery projectiles screamed in and burst nearby.

Because the FM radio antennas were located away from the actual command post, the incoming rounds did not hit squarely on the tactical operations center. The effects, however, were devastating just the same. Chunks of shrapnel, some no larger than a pin, others the size of a fist, carried by overpowering bursts, ripped through the canvas sides of the TOC extensions. Maps, paper, books, phones and people were brushed aside. The staff, once they were down on the ground, remained there, covering their ears or their heads as round after round detonated and sent its own wave of heat, dirt and shrapnel into the TOC.

Though the attack lasted less than two minutes, it transformed the TOC from a neat, orderly command-and control node to a tangled heap of paper, tables, wire and assorted equipment. Moans from the wounded broke the stillness as the staff began to untangle themselves from the debris. Lieutenant Matthews pulled herself up and looked around. The canvas sides of the extensions were shredded and hanging limply from the support poles. The situation map was hanging at an angle from one of its supports. Field desks were overturned, their contents scattered about and mixed with the contents of tables and other desks. Other staff officers and NCOs were also picking themselves up. Some, however, were not.

Matthews began to help those around her by clearing off debris and giving them a hand. When she went to help her boss, Major Price, get up, she noticed the bright-red spot on his back. Bending down, she turned his face toward her. His eyes were shut tightly; his face was frozen 'in pain. He let out a scream, then yelled not to move him.

Matthews stopped, unsure what to do. She called for the S-2 NCO.

Master Sergeant Trent came over and, kneeling next to the major, asked how badly he was hit. Without opening his eyes, Price replied that he couldn't move his legs or feel them. Trent looked at Price's back.

Carefully he ripped the BDU shirt. A deep gash ran across the major's lower back. Trent thought the spine might have been severed and said so.

Matthews, fighting back nausea, told them she would get some help. She stood and looked around. Others were beginning to move about and help one another. When she saw the brigade XO, she went over to where he stood. He seemed unaffected by the calamity that had befallen the TOC.

Standing in the middle of the remains of it, he was directing the brigade signal officer to sort out their communications status.

Matthews waited till he was done before she told him about Major Price.

The XO sent her out to find a medic while he walked over to where Price was.

Outside the TOC not much had changed. In the distance Matthews could see numerous shell holes where the antennas had been. Men from the signal platoon were already scurrying about, putting up spare antennas and checking cable connections. Matthews headed for the medical team assigned to the command post. As she approached its area, located on the far side of a small rise that separated the TOC from where the CP's admin-support vehicles were, she heard the sound of tracked vehicles.

The ambulance, which was a tracked vehicle, she thought, was cranking up and coming to the TOC. She had almost reached there when the scream "BMPs!" from that direction told her she was wrong. Matthews froze for a moment and-listened:- A burst of machine-gun fire, joined by the sound of small-caliber cannon confirmed her fears. The Soviets had somehow managed to penetrate into the brigade's rear and were attacking the CP.

Her immediate instinct, to turn and run, was overridden by the urge to see exactly what was going on so that she could render an accurate report. Dropping down, she rapidly crawled up to the top of the rise and looked over.

To her front she saw six BMPs moving forward in a loose formation.

Trucks and personnel from the headquarters company were scattering about in an effort to escape them. The BMPs, given so many easy targets, slowed or stopped and fired wildly at whatever happened to be in their sights. They obviously did not know that there was a CP on the other side of the hill.

Having seen all she needed, Matthews ran back to the TOC. The XO had heard the firing and was already directing the remaining staff to throw what was really critical into the M-577 tracked command-post carriers and get ready to move. Matthews reported to him what she had seen. He thought about it for a moment, then told her to get the S-2's M-577 track ready and moving.

She asked about Major Price, reminding the XO that they couldn't move him.

He barked at her, telling her to get the M-577 out of there.

At the back of the S-2 track she saw Sergeant Trent and another NCO, who had managed to get Major Price strapped onto a long wooden table and were in the process of carrying him into the track. Matthews gave a hand as best she could as they eased the major down onto the floor.

Despite the fact that he was in a great deal of pain, he did not scream. He clawed at the edges of the table while the lieutenant and two sergeants bounced and bumped it against the side of the track. His face was contorted in pain.

His knuckles were white. But he did not scream.

Once they were in, Trent yelled to the driver to crank the track up and raise the back ramp. Matthews looked about and saw that the intelligence situation map was already loaded. She turned to Trent, told him to wait a moment and ran out of the track. The S-3 track was already pulling away, leaving the shredded extensions and support poles as well as field desks and unnecessary paper and books.

Matthews looked around what had been the S-2 area and grabbed a couple of books and binders. The sound of machine-gun fire grew closer.

Sergeant Trent's yells hastened her search. She looked down at the mass of papers scattered about the ground and decided that efforts to recover more would be useless.

She turned and ran up to the crew door located on the rear ramp, which was now up and locked. With a heave she dumped the books she held in her arms into the open door and then hopped in after them. Sergeant Trent grabbed her arm and pulled her in as he yelled to the driver to move out and follow the S-3 track. Matthews, lying on the floor of the track as it began to move and bounce away, saw through the open crew door a BMP come over the rise. It began to fire at them. With effort, Trent was finally able to close that door just before a burst of machine-gun rounds tapped on the outside of the ramp.

For a moment, all was silent except for the sound of the M-577's engine, the grinding of its tracks and the heavy breathing of its occupants. The four people in the rear sat or lay where they were in the dark interior of the command-post carrier, drained by the close escape. None of them knew what was going on outside, let alone with the battle, a battle now obviously out of control and being lost.

Despite his better judgment, Lieutenant General Weir had gone into the corps operations center when he got word that the Soviet attack had begun. Anxiously he watched the situation turn sour. Successive cups of coffee did nothing to calm him as the corps staff, already used to a string of disasters, thrashed about in a futile attempt to gain an understanding of what was happening. Weir, pacing and fuming, saw Air Force and Army air units thrown into the fray without coordination at widely scattered targets and enemy concentrations, most of which were not an immediate threat to the 2nd Brigade. Orders to withdraw the entire brigade to Tarom were canceled and then put back into effect twice in the space of one hour.

The deputy corps commander, a major general, went from staff section to staff section in an effort to influence the situation. He alternated between yelling at the corps signal officer and the operations of cer whom he threatened to relieve of his duties unless he got a handle on the situation. Sometime during midmorning the deputy commander received word that the corps commander, who was at the forward corps command post at Saadatabad, had collapsed. Seizing the opportunity to escape the chaos and ignorance of the main command post, the deputy decided to go forward and "get control of the situation." Weir watched and listened as the deputy ordered the corps chief of staff to reorganize the staff as he saw fit, reestablish communications and begin to focus combat power at the point of penetration, wherever that was. The deputy then left by helicopter for Saadatabad.

Weir stayed for another half hour without seeing any change. Unable to bear sitting there doing nothing while he watched the 13th Corps, and one of his brigades, go down the tubes, he stormed out and headed for his own advance command post. En route, he scribbled notes, his mind racing through options open to his corps. As he did so, he wondered whether any of the naval officers in the area had ever studied the British evacuation at Dunkirk. As distasteful as that thought was, he could not discount the possibility that the U.S. forces could be forced to withdraw. The warning his friend had given him the night before he left Washington, that the United States could not afford to lose all the ground forces in Iran, kept popping up in his mind. He included

"Evacuation of forces" on his list of options right after "Request for release and use of tactical nuclear weapons."

At his headquarters Weir was greeted by his own chief of staff with word from the chief of staff of the 13th Corps that the helicopter carrying the 13th Corps's deputy commander had been shot down. Initial reports were that there were no survivors. Given the current situation and the rapid loss of both senior officers, the 13th Corps's chief of staff had requested that General Weir assume command.

For a moment, Weir considered telling him no, or at least consulting with the CINC. That, however, would take time, a commodity quickly running out.

Weir asked his chief how long it would be before the 10th Corps headquarters could assume control of the battle. The chief, having anticipated the question, told him that while not all the staff principals were in place, the operations staff, the fire-support element, the plans section and the airspace-management element were preparing to do so and could be ready for a battle takeover from 13th Corps in three or four hours, but that the 13th would need to continue to control all personnel and logistic operations for at least another twenty-four hours. The 10th Corps G-1 and G-4 as well as the corps support command were still heavily involved in assembling the 10th Corps. Satisfied that his chief had the situation well in hand, Weir told him to inform the 13th Corps chief of staff that he was en route back and wanted to see all 13th Corps staff principals and special staff officers upon his arrival. He handed his chief his scribbled notes, told him to have his staff start working on those options, and left.

The greeting he got at 13th Corps headquarters was cold and strained.

He was no longer a visitor or an observer. He was their commander, come to replace two who had failed or died. The officers and the men watched him the way the condemned watches the executioner. The staff was assembled in a small dirty conference room, seated around a long table cluttered with scraps of paper. When Weir walked in, they slowly stood to attention. Their faces betrayed a mixture of fear, exhaustion and stress. They're beat, Weir thought to himself as he stood there and looked at them. They've lost the battle and have given up. For an awkward moment, they looked at each other, not knowing quite how to proceed.

In his desperate search for some way to get the 13th Corps staff going again, the Battle of Marengo suddenly came to his mind. During that battle, a French general, Louis Desaix, who commanded a detachment of the main French army, was recalled by Napoleon to save a losing battle. When the two met, a discouraged Napoleon asked what he thought of the situation. Desaix, according to the story, casually pulled out his watch and replied, "This battle is completely lost, but it is only two o'clock. There is time to win another."

The slight smile that flitted across Weir's face confused the staff officers. Without further ado, Weir announced, "Gentlemen, we have much to do. There is a battle that needs winning, and you're going to do it."

The Iranian major dressed himself slowly. The dim light from an oil lamp gave a soft yellow cast to everything in the small room that was nothing more than a hovel. A mattress on the floor and a chair comprised all the room's furniture. The major's worn flight suit was carefully draped across the back of the chair. How fortunate he was, the major thought, to be selected for this mission. Since the Soviets came he had resigned himself to dying. Doing so was easy. What concerned him was dying in a manner befitting his heritage as a Persian and in the service of Islam.

His selection to fly an F-4, hidden for months, and strike at both Satans was truly a gift from Allah. The Air Force colonel in charge of the operation had personally selected him and asked him to fly the mission. The major had accepted willingly despite the colonel's warning that it would be a one-way trip. He had replied, with a smile, that it would be a trip to glory and martyrdom.

The mission was simple. The major would fly the F-4 along a roundabout route to a point just north of Saadatabad. The Americans and the Russians were locked in combat there, busily hacking away at one another, according to the colonel. The F-4 would carry just one bomb, an atomic one. Once he reached the designated point, the major would hit a switch that would begin the chain reaction. It was not possible to drop the bomb.

The device was too crude and the trigger mechanism needed for such a drop was beyond their capability. Even if the aircraft crashed, the device would not go off. Only a precise sequence of firing would cause it to detonate. The F-4 would, in effect, be a manned guided missile.

Since little on the aircraft worked, that was about all it was good for.

He did not ponder what would become of his family or the nation. When compared to what he was about to do in the name of the Islamic Revolution, those matters were unimportant. What was important was the punishing of the nonbelievers and those who had defiled his country. He knew that what he was about to do was right. He placed his trust in his skills as a pilot to get him there. Everything else after that was in the hands of Allah.

The day that had begun so well and had held so much promise for the 28th Combined Arms Army had turned bad before noon. The breakthrough and encirclement that should have taken place before in a matter of hours never happened. Instead of blowing through the American infantry deployed south of Harvand, the attacking regiment became involved in a slugfest. By the time the last of the die-hard enemy infantry had been dug out or had withdrawn, it was late afternoon and the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment was combat ineffective.

Even that had not spelled the end of problems for the 28th CAA. When the 127th Motorized Rifle Division finally committed its tank regiment to pass through the infantry melee and seize Tarom, it was greeted by an American battalion equipped with AH-64 attack helicopters.

Constricted by the terrain and the narrow opening held by the 381st MRR, the tank regiment was an easy target. Volleys of Hellfire missiles rained on the tight tank formations and wreaked havoc without the tanks being able to strike back.

Only through extraordinary effort and great sacrifices by the Red Air Force was the attack-helicopter threat finally checked. That success came too late for the 127th MRD's tank regiment.

It wasn't until midafternoon that there appeared to be a slackening of the Americans' resistance. Air activity ceased. Troops broke contact and withdrew. For a while, Colonel Sulvina suspected that the Americans were preparing to employ tactical nuclear weapons. To prevent that, subordinate commanders were ordered to reestablish contact and stay close to the enemy. (You don't set off atomic weapons on your enemy when he is so close to your own forces that you will also be affected by your own weapons.) The army's intelligence officer reported, however, that there were few indicators other than the reduction of activity that pointed to imminent use of nuclear weapons. Instead, the withdrawals were felt to be part of a general retreat south to positions below Saadatabad. Still unconvinced, Sulvina ordered the army's nuclear-capable weapons to stand by for immediate use, just in case.

In the meantime, Sulvina decided to commit the 33rd Tank Division. If the intelligence officer was right about the Americans retreating, that was the time to hit and hit hard. Shortly after dark, the 33rd Tank Division rolled forward and began its advance on Saadatabad. As he waited for word from the lead elements, Sulvina considered all the options open to him and the Americans. If the. Americans succeeded in making it to Saadatabad intact and establishing themselves in strong defensive positions south of that town, the 28th CAA would not have the combat power or the ammunition to dig them out or conduct a deliberate breakthrough attack.

With no fuel reserves, major flanking maneuvers were out of the question. All depended on the 33rd Tank Division catching the retreating Americans while they were still in the open and smashing them. To keep the pressure on, the 67th Motorized Rifle Division was ordered to move south along the main road from Hajjiabad to Tarom. The 33rd Tank, advancing farther to the west, was to race past the retreating Americans and hit them in the flank or, if possible, get around into their rear. All depended on speed.

For the fourth time in ten minutes, Sulvina looked at his watch, then at the situation board. It had not been updated in four hours. He got up and walked over to the operations duty officer. "What word do we have from the 33rd Tank Division?"

The major looked at his reports and began to read off the last status report received from that unit. Sulvina cut him short. "What time, Comrade Major, was that report received?"

The major looked at the time entry and replied, "Twenty-two forty-five hours, Comrade Colonel."

"Don't you think we should find out where they are now and what they have been up to for the last four hours?" Sulvina returned.

"Of course, Comrade Colonel. We have been trying. However, most of the networks are being jammed. The Americans are concentrating most of their electronic jamming from both ground and airborne platforms, against the 33rd Tank Division. The rest are being turned on the 67th MRD. We are having great difficulty-'

Sulvina's face went red as he pounded his fist on the table. He was so angry, spit flew as he yelled, "Damn you, Major! If I wanted an excuse, I would have asked for it. I want to know where in hell they are and what they are doing. Find out, now!"

The major, taken aback by the sudden outburst, looked at the colonel, then simply replied, "Yes, Comrade Colonel, at once."

Sulvina walked away and out into the cool night air. He was tired. As he stood in the darkness, smoking a cigarette, he looked at the stars and wondered what they saw to the south. How frustrating it was for him to be there, unable to influence the fight. He wished he were forward, with the lead column. At least there he could do something.

In the darkness Major Vorishnov walked along the line of silent tanks.

Hours of waiting and dodging air attacks had been replaced by a mad dash south through the dark along goat trails and wadis. When they had finally been given the word to advance, it was greeted with a collective sigh of relief.

At last they were going to have an opportunity to end the fight, once and for all. The speed of the move south strengthened that hope.

Shortly after 0200 hours, however, that hope died. One at a time, tanks began to drop out of the column. Vorishnov, bringing up the rear, stopped at each. At first, he thought the crews were falling asleep. As he approached the first tank, however, he found the crew awake but dismounted.

He immediately assumed that the tank had had a mechanical failure. The tank commander greeted him with news that was far more serious. They had run out of fuel. Vorishnov criticized the commander for not refueling and left without waiting for an excuse.

Before Vorishnov's own tank had traveled a kilometer farther he came across a second stopped tank. Its crew was also dismounted, and for the same reason: they were out of fuel. This time Vorishnov did not say anything. He returned to his tank and asked his driver how much fuel they had. The response sent a chill down his back. His own tank's fuel gage was reading empty. He immediately radioed the battalion commander and informed him of the problem. The battalion commander ordered the battalion to pull off the road and halt for ten minutes. That done, he radioed Vorishnov and ordered him to dismount and personally check each tank's fuel status and then report to him.

By the time Vorishnov finished and approached the battalion commander's tank at the front of the column, the regimental commander was there.

Vorishnov saluted the two colonels and reported, "As we suspected, the battalion is out of fuel. Half of the tanks' fuel gages, including nunc, show they are empty. A commander on one of those tanks said he had no idea what his tank was running on anymore.

We also have three tanks that have completely run dry. The rest of the tanks are approaching empty." He was about to add that the battalion could no longer advance, but decided not to. That conclusion was obvious, but the decision had to be made by a commander, not by a battalion staff of cer

The regimental commander spoke first. "We must continue. Continue until we can go no further. Fuel, I am sure, will make its way forward."

The battalion commander did not hesitate to disagree. "Comrade Colonel, we cannot do that. If we run ourselves completely out of fuel, the battalion will be totally strung out and unable to maneuver.

We will be nothing more than steel pillboxes dotting the road and easy prey for attack aircraft or a counterattack. We must stop now and laager here into a defensive position until fuel arrives. We should go forward only when we can do so with all the tanks and with some measure of assurance that we will not run out of fuel in the middle of a battle."

"I cannot halt the attack. I do not have the authority to do that," the regimental commander said.

The battalion commander shot back, slightly agitated now, "Comrade, either we stop the attack now, while we are still together and have some fuel to maneuver with, or we wait until the lack of fuel stops us when we are not.

Your only choice, Comrade Colonel, is whether you want the regiment to be together and have some fighting capability or whether you want it to be scattered to the four winds. The lack of fuel has already stopped us."

With a sigh, the regimental commander acknowledged that the other was right. Before he returned to his command vehicle, he ordered the battalion commander to assume a defensive posture to the west. The battalion immediately behind would swing to the east and do likewise.

With the regimental commander gone, Vorishnov turned to his battalion commander and asked the question that neither of them had the answer for: "Now what?"

The AWACS controller had been tracking a single-aircraft plot for over fifteen minutes, coming from the northeast. At first he thought very little of it. The plane was flying relatively slowly and very low.

Then it dawned upon him that it was a recon flight. He informed the commander and immediately began to search the area for fighters providing high cover.

There was none. Both he and the commander thought that odd. Sending in recon without cover was not a normal practice. A single one without air cover was as good as dead. Satisfied that all was as it appeared, the commander ordered the alert fighters from Bandar Abbas to scramble and intercept. The order of the day was to keep the Soviets from getting any air recon through.

The Army was maneuvering about, doing something really weird, and didn't want the Russians to catch on before they were ready.

The order to scramble caught Martain dozing. The entire squadron was dead on its ass after yesterday. Omaha Flight alone had gone up eight times, four of them in the ground-attack role, three times to provide cover for their own air-recon flights and once to squash a Russian recon flight. The men and the machines of the squadron were reaching their limits. Martain had once thought he would never reach the point where he would hate flying.

He had been wrong. After yesterday, he was sick of it.

Mechanically, he and his wingman did their preflight. Though the ground crew tried, they too dragged as they did their thing to get the two F-15s airborne. Because of exhaustion, the whole procedure took far longer than normal. When the F-15s were finally up and Martain checked in with the

AWACS controller, the controller sneered, "Good morning. Hated to wake you guys up so early."

Martain was livid. "Cut the crap, clown, and give me a vector."

The commander on the AWACS, monitoring the transmission, got on both of them and ordered them to restrict 258 transmissions to proper radio procedures. Martain was about to tell him to fuck off, too, but decided against that. No need to piss off a full-bird colonel that early in the morning.

Following the instructions from the controller, Omaha Flight closed on the boggy. Once they were in the area, Martain's wizzo switched on the radar and began to search for their target. They had no trouble finding it, for the boggy continued on a straight-line course, flying low and slow. While his wingman covered him, Martain went down after the boggy. As he tracked it, the wizzo called out, "Hey, Ed, this guy's a real zombie. He just keeps flying low and dumb. Let's play with him for a while."

Martain thought about it but decided against it. "Screw that, Frank. This is too easy. Let's just bounce this clown and get back. No doubt today is going to be a real zoo, just like yesterday."

The wizzo agreed and gave Martain the final information he needed for the setup. Martain took over, aligned his sights. When he heard the tone telling him he had missile lock, he held his fire for a moment.

The boggy continued to fly straight and low, making no attempt to evade. "Jesus, Frank. That guy must be asleep. Or he's in a real hurry to meet his maker."

"Well, Ed, if that's so, go ahead, make his day."

Without further hesitation, Martain launched a shortrange Sidewinder air-to-air missile. Both he and the wizzo tracked it until it hit. In the predawn darkness, there was a slight explosion ahead and below them. Immediately after that, the plot disappeared, indicating that Martain had made his tenth confirmed kill.