Sword Point

Chapter 14

When the orders to attack were received by the 2nd Brigade, the brigade staff had no doubt that the staff of the 13th Corps was hallucinating.

The orders came by courier shortly before 1900 hours at a brigade CP that was shadow of its former self. Most of the wheeled vehicles were still unaccounted for or lost. The signal platoon, unable to break down its multichannel equipment in time, lost much of it. The TOC itself, while it had not lost any of its M-577 command-post tracks, had little of its equipment left. Personnel losses were equally staggering. Many of the brigade staff who had not been on duty at the time of the attack were either dead, wounded or missing.

Worse than the physical losses, bad as they were, was the psychological damage. The survivors suddenly found themselves face to face with the reality of war. "Battle" was no longer a paper drill of moving little markers about on a map or writing orders. The idea that their primary task was the cool analytical process of thinking about and debating tactics had been smashed. They had seen the face of war. It was the shattered remains of a body left in the dirt.

It was Major Price, a first-class runner and all round jock, reduced to a helpless cripple with a severed spine. It was the smell of fear and the look of panic in the eyes of people with whom they had worked for so long. And, worse, it was the realization that only the dead had seen an end to the suffering and horror.

This was the brigade staff-stunned by their introduction to combat, left with three M-577 command-post tracks, operating with an ad hoc communications lash-up which was less than adequate-that received the order to attack. Their reactions, though slow at first, were surprisingly positive. The senior officers and NCOs led by example and deed. "You're a soldier, start acting like one" was heard time and again. Old habits and training prevailed as the staff began to function. The brigade commander, along with the brigade S-3 and the assistant S-2, Amanda Matthews, analyzed the mission and developed several courses of action based on the enemy situation as they knew it.

The status of subordinate units, their locations and their needs were reported and fed to the command group as the plan evolved. Orders went out to the units, instructing them to break contact with the enemy and move to tactical assembly areas. Combat-support elements were drawn into the plan and began to. position themselves. Coordination to refuel and rearm the combat elements was effected.

The corps commander arrived shortly before midnight for the express purpose of ensuring that the brigade fully understood his intent and their role in the counteroffensive. With the brigade commander and his staff, Lieutenant General Weir reviewed the entire operation: The main Soviet offensive continued south toward Saadatabad with two divisions abreast, one division moving along the road and a second division to the west. The third Soviet division, heavily attrited by its attack and the combined efforts of the Air Force and attack helicopters, was now following the two lead divisions.

Despite the fact that all the Soviet divisions were less than full strength and were experiencing difficulties with resupply, they were still more than capable of overpowering any defense the corps could create. There simply was not enough ground-combat power available to stop the Soviets. Therefore, Weir stated with a gleam in his eye, "Since we cannot hold 'em, we must attack."

The reserve brigade from the 17th Airborne Division had the task of delaying the Soviet forces moving south against Saadatabad. With priority on all close air support from the Air Force until the 2nd Brigade actually made contact, they would act as a matador's cape being waved in front of bull. Their job was to hold the bull's attention and keep it in check, or at least controlled. In addition to providing close air support to the reserve airborne brigade's delay-and-deception role, the Air Force had the task of gaining air superiority and keeping Soviet tactical air recon in check. Nothing could be done to counter the Soviet surveillance satellites.

The best anyone could do was hope that the operation would develop too rapidly for the strategic-intelligence people in the Soviet Union to figure out what they were seeing and provide that information down through the chain to the 28th Combined Arms Army.

In this operation the 2nd Brigade would be the matador's sword. While the Soviets pushed south, the 2nd Brigade, reinforced and supported by all Army aviation as well as Navy and Marine air, would make an end run and attack the Soviets in the rear. Like a rapier, they would drive for the heart.

Moving east from Saadatabad along an axis running through Soltanabad to Dasht-a Bar to Aliabad, the 2nd Brigade would cut the Soviets' main supply route and tear up its rear areas. With air superiority all but guaranteed-thanks to the high cost in aircraft that resulted from the Soviets' late-afternoon all-out effort to save the 127th Tank Regiment-most of the operation could be conducted under clear skies and against a half-blind enemy.

Weir continuously stressed how critical the situation was. If they failed, there would be no fall-back positions, no second chance. If they succeeded, maybe they could hold on till the rest of 10th Corps arrived. Everything was being risked on a winner-take-all proposition.

"To 262 succeed," he said, "this operation calls for a little deception, some fast maneuvering and ruthless execution." He told the brigade commander that once the 2nd Brigade was in the Soviets' rear, they were to avoid enemy strong points but rip up support facilities and units with "the finesse of a chain-saw murderer."

Not all was gloom and doom. Both of the maneuver battalions had suffered little in the fighting on the eighth. Both would begin the operation with over 90 percent of their assigned personnel and equipment available. The brigade's third tank battalion, the 4th Battalion of the 4th Armor, was assembling just north of Bandar Abbas.

Sufficient pressure had finally been brought to bear on those reluctant to draw from the NATO war stocks. Tanks drawn from storage sites in Germany and Holland were being flown in by C-5 transports, one at a time. That operation, Weir explained, was costly in human terms as well as in resources. Two of the overworked C-5s, long overdue for routine maintenance, had already gone down with a loss of crew and cargo. The losses, however, were considered acceptable. Although the 4th of the 4th would be unable to participate in the initial part of the operation that was about to commence, it would be ready for any follow-on missions.

By the time Weir left, initial reports from the maneuver battalions were coming in. No resistance had been encountered as units hit their checkpoints on time and intact. The brigade staff, put back on track by the brigade XO, was functioning. Though communications were still shaky and stretched to the limit, they worked. The battle, planned and coordinated by

Corps, orchestrated and controlled by Brigade, was now in the hands of the warriors.

The scout platoon, well forward and spread out like a great net, crossed the line of departure. They were the forward screen, sent in advance to find and fix the enemy. Behind them, at a distance of two kilometers, the battalion's lead companies, Alpha and Bravo, were in the process of deploying; they would be followed by Charlie and Delta. The 3rd of the 4th Armor would be in a box formation when all companies had completed their deployment. In this formation the battalion presented a formidable front as well as good all-round protection.

In the early-morning light Major Dixon watched the companies as they began to spread out. From his vantage point on an M-1 tank behind Alpha Company, he could see three of the four units. Only Delta was hidden from his view by dust and terrain. The battalion commander, now riding in the Bradley that had belonged to Dixon, was between Bravo and Delta Companies. In a surprising move, the battalion commander had asked Dixon whether he would mind giving up his Bradley. An old cavalryman, he did not like operating from the tank. Dixon, with the BMP incident still fresh in his mind, gladly consented to the swap.

When the main body came up to and crossed the line of departure, Dixon was at ease. With sixty-one tons of tank wrapped around him, and a 105mm gun, he felt invincible. He stood on the commander's platform, his upper torso out of the tank, hands grasping the cupola, body swaying with the motion of the tank. The M-2.50caliber machine gun was turned out to the right in order to give him an unobstructed view.

He was standing far too high in the hatch, but didn't care. He needed to see what was going on. As he explained to his assistant on many occasions, "Ya gotta see what's happening in order to exercise command and control."

The regular crew of the tank was good but a real diverse lot. "From where he stood, Dixon could see the back of the gunner, a Sergeant Maxfield.

Maxfield had his eye glued to the gunner's primary sight, scanning his assigned sector. With six years on active duty, he was due for promotion to staff sergeant and a tank of his own. The loader, a Specialist Four Wilard, was up in his hatch and facing to the rear, covering his assigned sector.

A farm boy from Idaho, Wilard was far too tall for tanks. When he stood erect on the turret floor, his whole head stuck out of the loader's hatch.

During the road march he had a hell of a time staying alert. Only when Dixon told him that they were approaching the line of departure did Wilard's vigilance increase.

The driver was a Private First Class Casper, a young black kid from New York City. Dixon, born and raised in Virginia, had a hell of a time understanding him when he talked. But the man could drive, and that, Dixon decided, was all that mattered.

As they moved forward, Dixon listened to the radio and watched the high ground to the north and the south. So far, they had hit nothing, not even a screen line. That the Soviets' flank was so open seemed incredible. The battalion commander and Dixon had cautioned the company commanders to watch out for Soviet fire sacks. Whole battalions, blundering forward blind and unwary, could be swallowed up in a matter of minutes by a wellplanned and — executed Soviet defense.

The terrain that 3rd of the 4th Armor was now moving into was made for such a defense. Dixon prayed that the deception being run by the 17th Airborne was working. If not, this would be the shortest counteroffensive in history.

The young engineer captain from Virginia stood on the edge of the antitank ditch and watched his last operational D-7 bulldozer as it scraped another two inches of dirt from the bottom. Two other dozers, broken down and idle due to a lack of spare parts, were being loaded onto flatbed trucks. Behind him a crew of engineers were placing round wooden blocks on the north lip of the antitank ditch, in the same pattern used in laying a surface mine field.

The engineers, along with hundreds of other engineers, had been busy all night creating defensive positions and obstacles that would never be used.

The men, used to hard work and doing things that ranged from not so smart to downright dumb, could not understand what in hell they were doing. First the captain told them that the Russians were charging down the road at full speed and the world was coming to an end; every man, he said, needed to do his job or the foothold held by the 13th Corps would fail.

Then he turned around and ordered them to plant a dummy mine field and dig ditches where there were no units. As hard as he tried, the captain could not make his men understand the importance of what they were doing.

Watching his men, he decided that it didn't really matter what they thought. They had done the best they could, given the time and resources available. The Russians would either believe them or not. It was no longer in their hands.

The situation that the 28th Combined Arms Army faced was deplorable and at the same time pregnant with possibilities. The lack of fuel had brought the attack by both divisions to a screeching halt. Only enough fuel for the recon elements had been scraped up. Most of that had been obtained by siphoning fuel from vehicles belonging to the army's second-echelon division. On orders from Colonel Sulvina, in the name of the army commander, the recon continued to push forward, maintaining contact, gathering information and searching out American weak points.

In all three tasks, they were successful. The information they provided confirmed the intelligence officer's projection.

Light-infantry forces, in conjunction with massive close air support, were conducting a delaying action south toward Saadatabad. Agents and an occasional recon flight indicated a great deal of activity south of Saadatabad by engineer units.

Fuel, so simple a commodity, normally so plentiful, had become the key to success or failure. How ironic, Sulvina had thought. Here we are in the middle of a region that contains most of the world's oil reserves, and we run out of fuel. History, no doubt, will laugh if we fail here. No one, however, was laughing that morning in the 28th CAA.

Everyone's full attention and energies were 266 geared to obtaining the fuel and pushing it forward.

The Red Air Force, depleted by the previous day's efforts, was being pressed by Front Headquarters to clear the skies and provide cover to transport aircraft flying fuel to makeshift airstrips or dropping it by parachute. Helicopters, loaded to maximum capacity, carried fuel drums right up to the front-line units. Despite continuous interference by and heavy losses to American fighters, fuel was being delivered. Anything that could carry fuel was being used.

Not all units were being resupplied. Priority went to the lead divisions.

On the basis of the intelligence picture being painted for him by the army's second officer, the army commander was gambling that two divisions would be sufficient to blow through the Americans' final positions and reach the Strait of Hormuz. All other units had to manage with what they had. As a result of such draconian measures, fuel was beginning to reach the forward combat elements in sufficient quantities. By 0900 the lead regiments would be refueled and ready to move. The logistics officer promised that both first-echelon divisions would be refueled and on the move by noon, provided no calamity befell the army. To ensure synchronization of effort and to leave some time for errors, orders had gone out to the lead divisions to reinitiate the attack commencing at 1000 hours with those units that were then refueled. Saadatabad was designated as the army's intermediate objective, with the final objective of the day being Qotbabad. Plans for a joint airborne and ground attack against Bandar Abbas on the eleventh of July were being worked out.

Both the commander of the 28th CAA and Sulvina were exhausted. Neither had slept for more than an hour since the beginning of the attack, on the eighth. Satisfied that all was being done and that the situation would soon be in hand, they walked out of the command post for a break.

Endless hours in an operations center with staff officers rushing about, radios blaring, phones ringing, and half a dozen conversations being conducted at the same time can best be likened to living in a pressure cooker. Stress and lack of sleep destroy a person's ability to think clearly or work effectively. An occasional break, just a simple walk outside, is required every so often in order to maintain sanity and effectiveness. Outside, the two officers stood fifty meters from the command post, not far from anSA-8 surface-to-air antiaircraft-missile battery. Neither said anything. They smoked their cigarettes and let their minds go blank as they watched a convoy of fuel trucks move south along the highway. Both knew that was a good sign.

From his perch, Capell watched a convoy moving south along the main road.

With his binoculars he could see that many were fuel trucks and that the escort was light, very light. Before leaving his observation point and returning to his Bradley, he made one more sweep of the area.

Though he didn't expect to see any, he searched for telltale signs of combat units or defenses. The only thing that came close was what appeared to be an air-defense unit equipped with missiles. They could do nothing to his scouts.

Satisfied, he slithered down off the rock pile he was on and trotted back to his Bradley, where he switched his radio to the battalion-command frequency and called the S-3. "Bravo Four-five, this is Mike Eight-eight. Spot report. Over."

"Mike Eight-eight, this is Bravo Four-five. Send it. Over."

With the aid of a preprinted form in which he had filled in the blanks, Capell began to send his report. "This is Mike Eight-eight. Two zero trucks with three BRDMs escorting moving south along the highway at grid four six five, nine eight five, and one air-defense unit located at three nine six, nine eight zero, time now. Request permission to engage. Over."

After acknowledging, Dixon plotted the location on his map and considered Capell's request. "Mike Eight-eight, 268 this is Bravo Four-five. Do you see any other enemy units or activity? Over."

Capell replied in the negative. Dixon called the battalion commander, who had been monitoring the transmissions. Dixon recommended that the scouts lead off the attack by hitting the convoy. The battalion commander concurred. They had gone as far as they could expect to go without being detected. It was time to go in and begin hacking away at the Russians.

Capell, tired of sneaking about and reporting, was looking forward to doing some serious fighting. He did not need to be told twice.

With the six Bradleys of his scout platoon on line, concealed behind a small hill crest, Capell prepared to attack. He stood high in the turret of his vehicle, waved his arm over his head and then dropped it, pointing in the direction of the convoy of fuel trucks. Yelling over his intercom, he ordered his driver, "Kick it in the ass!" The other track commanders in the platoon did likewise. Together, the six Bradleys lurched forward and began their attack.

The platoon crested the rise that had concealed them. Dead ahead, at a range of three kilometers, was the convoy. As the Bradleys began to accelerate, track commanders marked their targets and issued fire commands.

"Gunner-HEAT. Moving truck."

With eyes glued to their sights and hands on their controls, the platoon's gunners searched for their targets and yelled out, "Identified!" when the first truck they saw was in their sight.

Automatically the track commanders let go of their controls and let the gunners prepare to do their thing.

Rapidly the platoon closed. Two kilometers. Drivers in the convoy and men at the SA-8 battery, their attention drawn by the huge clouds of dust to the east, watched the six tracked vehicles racing at them and wondered what they were doing. Sulvina and his commander also watched.

Sulvina was angry that a BMP company commander would allow such a flagrant waste of fuel. He was determined to find out who their commander was and personally rip his rank off him.

Fifteen hundred meters. Two Bradleys strained to keep up, while another slowed to maintain alignment. Capeli stood upright in his turret. With goggles down and olivedrab bandana covering his mouth and nose, he held on and swayed with the rocking of the Bradley as it rolled forward. He could almost feel adrenaline pumping into his system. With the sun to his back and their field of fire clear, he keyed the platoon radio net and yelled, "Fire!"

The tracked vehicles charging from the east began to fire. In bewilderment and horror the Soviets at the SA-8 battery and Sulvina saw half a dozen fuel trucks explode. The crews of the BMPs must be insane-they were actually firing on their own trucks. Even when one of the officers from the SA-8 battery, using his sight, yelled that they were Bradleys, Sulvina still could not move. His commander shared his disbelief, turning to Sulvina and yelling, "How can this be? Where did they come from?"

The truck drivers either panicked, stopping their trucks and bailing out, or turned away from the attacking Bradleys in an effort to escape.

There was no escape however, as the Bradleys raced forward and began to fire up the fuel trucks with their machine guns as well as the 25mm.

cannon. Capell turned the killing over to his gunner. Still standing upright in his open hatch, he scanned the area, keeping track of his platoon and searching for targets. Once the fuel trucks were disposed of, he intended to turn on the antiaircraft battery. Until then, he called for the battalion mortar platoon to fire on them.

The reality of the situation finally hit home when large caliber mortar rounds began to impact on the SA-8 battery. Crewmen, scurrying about in an effort to prepare their vehicles for movement, were cut down or ripped apart by the mortar shells. Sulvina turned away and raced for the command post. As he drew near, he yelled to several drivers to crank up the commander's and his armored vehicles. He ran into the command center, pushing back young staff officers who were trying to go out to see what was happening.

Once inside, he yelled, "Ground attack. Grab critical items only and get to your vehicles. Rally at the 127th division's command post. Move."

Not waiting for a response, he grabbed his map, a briefcase with orders and papers, and ran out to his waiting vehicle. The commander's BTR was already moving off to the west. Sulvina waited only a few seconds in his own BTR for several staff officers to pile in before he ordered his driver to follow the commander's carrier.

The movement of two BTRs and several trucks heading west caught Capell's attention. He watched for a moment, then realized that he was probably looking at a command post of some sort. What a chance. What a fabulous chance. But there was nothing he could do. His platoon had driven among the burning trucks in pursuit of the survivors, and the smoke and confusion now frustrated his efforts to regain control. He called desperately over the radio for all tracks to rally on him and ordered his driver to stop.

Once stationary, he told his gunner to fire TOWS at the escaping BTRs before they disappeared. Capell watched as the TOW launcher slowly rose into the firing position, then locked. He looked back, to see that the first BTR had already disappeared. He ordered the gunner to aim at the second BTR. The gunner did so, but called out that he did not have a ready-to-fire light. Capell dropped down and looked. The safety was still on. He yelled to the gunner to switch his safety off.

When the gunner complied, the ready-to-fire light came on. Capell yelled "Fire!" and stuck his head up to watch the flight of the missile. The missile launched. It popped out of the tube and went several meters before its, rocket motor kicked in and it began to pursue the second BTR, now cresting the rise. Seconds, mere seconds, meant success or failure, life or death.

For Colonel Sulvina, acting chief of staff of the 28th Combined Arms Army, the issue was decided in his favor, this time.

An enemy that had come out of nowhere was suddenly everywhere. Wild reports from combat support and service unit personnel flooded a communications net that was rapidly collapsing as relay sites were overrun or moved. Rear-area personnel, unused to the proper reporting procedures and to being exposed to danger, added to the confusion rather than clarifying the situation. Some support-unit commanders requested permission to move. Others simply moved without informing anyone and clogged the limited road network. Panic became the order of the day.

Once at the headquarters of the 127th Motorized Rifle Division, the commander of the 28th Combined Arms Army ordered the commander of that division to move his entire unit north. They were to find, pin and encircle the enemy forces now rampaging throughout the army's rear. The division commander said nothing at first. In his bewilderment, he turned to his staff, but got only looks of amazement or blank stares in return. The army commander, still hyper from his brush with death and faced with the prospect of losing his army to an unknown enemy, became enraged when his order was not immediately acted on. He jumped in front of the division commander and yelled, "Did you not hear me? I ordered you to attack. I expect you to attack-now!"

The division commander began to sweat. The condition of his commander and the serious situation overwhelmed him. He fumbled for words.

"Comrade General, we, we.. " The word "cannot" came hard to him. One did not tell one's commander that one could not do something. There must be reasons for not doing things-unfavorable conditions, enemy activity, failure of a support element to be in place, and so on. Reasons.

For an awkward moment there was silence as the division commander faced his superior. Sulvina stepped in and broke the silence. "Comrade General, the 127th Division cannot attack. They have no fuel." The army commander turned to him. Sulvina continued, "We diverted all they had to the 33rd Tank Division." The army commander's expression turned from anger to shock as it began to dawn upon him that all was lost.

Seeing that his commander's mind was foundering under the weight of the disaster and grasping for a solution, Sulvina offered him the only practical one. "We must order the 33rd Tank Division to disengage and move north against the enemy in our rear. The 67th Motorized Rifle Division must also withdraw and assume a defensive posture facing south."

Automatically the army commander refused to break off the attack or withdraw the 67th MRD. He insisted that they must continue the attack or at least hold what they had. Patiently, Sulvina explained that even if the Americans were cleared from the rear areas in the next twenty-four hours, the army would expend in that effort whatever supplies it had left. A continuation of the offensive was out of the question. "As we speak, Comrade General, the Americans are destroying our support elements and supply dumps. We cannot, I repeat, cannot hope to reach the Strait of Hormuz and be able to stay there in our present state. It is time to save the army."

For a moment, there was silence. Then the army commander, a tired and defeated man, gave in. He ordered Sulvina to issue the necessary orders and seek permission from Front Headquarters to withdraw. As the army commander sat down, Sulvina looked about him at the spartan headquarters of the 127th MRD. To himself he mumbled, That, Comrade General, will be a feat.

The Soviet 68th Tank Regiment rumbled north at break neck speed. The poor condition of the trail that the tanks followed battered their already exhausted crews about. One of the gunners once compared the sensation of being inside a T-80 tank to that of being in a tin can being rolled down a rocky hillside. The driver, down low and covered with dust and dirt thrown up by the tank less than fifty meters to his front, drove mostly by instinct. The same dust that covered him hid the tank in front of him from view. The tank commander, perched higher above the ground, could see more, but also ate dust and dirt. In addition, while the driver sat and had the controls to hang on to, the tank commander had to grab whatever he could and do his best to sway the right way as the tank bucked and bumped down the road. When he erred in his judgment, his kidneys were bashed against the steel lip of the hatch opening.

Inside, the gunner was protected from dust being thrown in his face but from little else. The air he breathed hung heavy with dust that came down through the open hatch. It mingled with the smell of hot oil and grease. There was no air circulation. The sun, pounding down on the steel, pushed temperatures well beyond 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Every stitch of the gunner's black uniform was soaked with sweat. With nothing else to do, the gunner hung on to anything that was fixed to the turret wall and, like the commander, swayed with the motion of the tank.

Major Vorishnov missed his BTR. The T-80 tank was small, cramped and impossible to work from. When the order came down that the regiment was going to move north and execute a movement to contact, to find and destroy the American forces, confusion reigned. A short preparatory bombardment to kick off the attack south had already begun. Requests to confirm the orders or repeat them were met with shrill blasts from harried commanders or staff officers. Apparently something had gone terribly wrong. Neither Vorishnov's battalion commander nor he knew for sure, but their guess was that a large enemy force was in the army's rear. Vorishnov's effort to gain additional information or formulate any type of plan was frustrated by the speed of the move and the necessity of riding a tank. The T-80 he had did not have the proper radio nets, nor could he work effectively or think. As they raced north, all Vorishnov could do was hang on and hope to save his kidneys.

Turning a unit around and attacking in the opposite direction is a feat few commanders master. A combat unit is followed by a tail that drags behind it like a ball and chain. Immediately behind and mixed in with the combat units are combat-support units. These include the engineers and the air defenders. They maneuver at a set distance behind the lead combat elements, ready to rush forward, in the case of engineers, or to support by fire, in the case of the air defenders. Behind them are the artillery units.

Battalions and batteries of artillery leapfrog forward at a set distance in order to provide continuous fire support to the ground-maneuver units. In the case of a regiment making the main attack, the number of artillery battalions following and supporting is often greater than the number of maneuver battalions being supported.

Behind them are the combat service support elements: medical teams and aid stations, supply units, maintenance units, transportation units, signal units, military police units and so on.

On top of all these units are the headquarters of the regiment, the division, the division artillery, the combat service support units.

Finally, there are Army assets such as FROG rocket units, attack-helicopter units, Army-level air-defense units and such.

All those units are stacked up behind the maneuver battalions in a set order. All compete for use of the same roads, require enough space to operate properly in and must be supplied from the same supply route.

Simply giving the order "Turn around, attack to the other way" does not work.

While a company can do so with relative ease and a battalion with minimal coordination, turning a regiment or a division requires monumental efforts and coordination. As the Soviet 33rd Tank Division rushed north, staff officers at every level and in every unit scrambled to make sense out of the chaos. Planning and coordination that required a day, at best, had to be accomplished in hours. With little direction or information from the army staff, subordinate staffs made do with what little information they had. The situation would no doubt clarify itself once contact was established with the enemy.

Outside a tumbledown building that had once served as a garage, the brigade command group caught up with the command group of the 3rd of the 4th Armor.

The impromptu meeting, called by the brigade commander, was for the purpose of getting an update on the unit and issuing new orders. While the tanks and the M-113 armored personnel carriers sat outside forming a small protective perimeter, the commanders and their key staff officers met in an open garage bay. Even in the shade of the building, the heat was oppressive. Men long overdue for sleep and given a break from the threat of sudden death or mutilation said little as they gathered. Some fell asleep waiting for the meeting to start.

While the battalion commander and the staff officers spoke, the brigade commander studied them and listened. He could see that they were tired or, more correctly, exhausted. The success of the day, however, added positive notes to their briefing. Overall, their units were in far better shape than could be expected. The day before, the brigade had fought a battle in the morning and conducted a withdrawal under pressure in the afternoon; that night they had planned an operation, conducted a fifty kilometer movement and rolled in the attack at 0500 hours. Since then the entire brigade had been on a rampage, spreading out and smashing anything and everything it ran across. While their losses had been minimal to date, they could not count on their good fortune lasting much longer. The Soviet divisions that had been poised to strike south for the Gulf had turned around and were beating feet north in a mad dash to clear their rear area and crush the 2nd Brigade. The brigade had accomplished its mission. It was time, the brigade S-3 said, "to take the money and run."

The brigade commander himself stood and began the orders briefing.

"Gentlemen, a situation that was hopeless less than twenty-four hours ago is now simply critical." He paused for a moment while those present chuckled. "Good, I'm glad to see some of you are still alive." More chuckles. Turning serious, he began to outline the next operation with the aid of a map board propped against the wall. "Radio intercepts and what little information Corps has been able to get to us show that the tank division that was headed south has been turned around and is charging back north. No doubt he is going to be looking for us. I do not intend to be here when he gets here. We've had our fun and have done what we were sent to do.

Commencing immediately, the 2nd Brigade will withdraw to the southeast along the same general route we used this morning. Upon reaching a point northeast of Tarom, we will link up with the 4th of the 4th Armor, now there, and turn either north toward Hajjiabad or south toward Tarom. That decision will be based on the enemy situation at the time. From that point on, our orders are to conduct a movement to contact. Once we have made contact, we will develop the situation. If we encounter only a light screen, we will push on until we find his main defensive belt. When we do find it, we stop, deploy and hang on.

The one thing we cannot do is become involved in a slugfest. There are simply too few forces in the country yet to afford that. While we have crippled the enemy and stopped him for now, he ain't dead yet. Be aggressive, but don't piss your units away. There's plenty of fighting left to do." He stopped and let that sink in before he continued. "Now that I have totally confused you, the S-3 will explain what I just said."

With that, the brigade commander sat on a wobbly chair while his staff went over the details.

In the gathering darkness the 3rd Battalion of the Soviet 68th Tank Regiment completed its pivot, deployed and began to sweep to the east.

The 2nd Battalion was to the south of Aliabad, and the 1st was following the 2nd. Security patrols had been flung out on both flanks to protect against a surprise attack. Patrols from the regimental recon were deployed well forward, seeking any sign of enemy activity or presence.

While they did not find the Americans, they found ample signs that they had been there. Smashed vehicles and equipment dotted the desolate countryside.

Scattered around the wreckage were the bodies of Red Army soldiers.

Here and there groups of survivors came out of hiding upon seeing the advancing T-80 tanks. This, however, was dangerous. The tank crews, exhausted from two continuous days of movement, physically beaten by extremes of heat and bad roads, were on edge. They were moving into an area overrun by the enemy, an enemy they now sought; everything was suspect and assumed hostile. More than a few Red Army soldiers, relieved to see friendly forces and anxious to make contact, died that night at the hands of their saviors.

To Vorishnov's horror, the opposite was also true. On three separate occasions the battalion had been fired on by soldiers whom it had bypassed and who were expecting the Americans. Such encounters were generally harmless to the tanks of the battalion, thanks to their reactive armor and the inept handling of antitank-rocket launchers on the part of the combat service support troops. Some of the men firing the antitank rockets, however, paid for their error with their lives.

Vorishnov looked forward to the end of the current operation. He began to pray that they would not be the ones who found the Americans, if they were still in the area. He longed for a break from the stress of endless operations, the threat of imminent combat and the pressure of having to produce plans and orders with little or no guidance. How good it would feel to be able to lie down and sleep. That, above all else, was what he wanted, needed. He looked at his watch, then glanced at his map. He couldn't let his mind wander too far. They were out there somewhere. Still, if all went well, the battalion would reach its objective just east of Dasht-e Bar in another two to three hours.

There the regiment would assume a hasty defense and await further orders. With luck, orders would not arrive until dawn, maybe later. He could sleep. He would be able to lie down on the ground and wrap a blanket about himself and sleep. How wonderful that idea seemed to Vorishnov. One could always hope.

The two Bradleys slowly inched their way up the small hill. Their engines were barely running above idle, almost inaudible in the still night air. The sound of track grinding on the sprockets was, on the other hand, piercing.

Capell stood in his open hatch, stretching in an effort to see over the top of the hill. He should have dismounted the scouts, now sleeping in the rear of the track, but had decided against it. They were exhausted. The whole platoon was. Since midnight the night before, the battalion had been on the move. An attack in the north, a withdrawal, now a movement to contact the enemy. At least when the enemy was finally found this time, the battalion was to go to ground and hold for a while. Perhaps they would finally have an opportunity to rest. Until then, the battalion, with the scouts out front, continued forward.

The tank commander of the T-80 heard the squeaking but could not pinpoint it. He whispered to his gunner to search the area, but got no response.

Looking down, the tank commander saw the gunner hunched over, asleep.

With his left boot the commander kicked the gunner in the back. The gunner began to curse, but was cut short when the tank commander curtly reminded him that the penalty for sleeping while on outpost duty was death. When he had the gunner's attention, the commander ordered him to search the area. There was something moving out there.

The gunner switched on his night-vision sight and put his eye up to it.

The darkness turned to day. On his first sweep he scanned his sector without noticing anything. But as he traversed the turret back, he saw an antenna, not more than four hundred meters away. He yelled to his commander that he had them. The commander, watching through his sight, also did not see the antenna at first. Only when the turret of the Bradley slowly began to rise above the crest of the hill did he see the source of the noise.

Pleased and excited, the tank commander reported the sighting and ordered the gunner to prepare to engage.

As they pulled into a turret defilade, Capell ordered the driver to stop.

He keyed the intercom and ordered the gunner to search the area. Using his night-vision goggles, Capell leaned forward and also began to search for signs of the enemy. He never saw the T-80's muzzle flash or heard the crack of the 125mm. gun. A brilliant flash and a shower of sparks that lit the night and washed over Capell were the first indication that they were in the presence of the enemy. The noise of ripping metal was accompanied by the scream of the driver. Capell felt a wave of searing heat rush up between his legs. The gunner, his hatch closed, was engulfed in flames, screeching at the top of his lungs, like a wild animal in agony. The smell of burning flesh and the intensity of his own pain destroyed Capell's ability to reason. With fire racing up his back, he began screaming louder than his gunner.

The detonation of stored TOW missiles stopped Capell's screams, throwing him clear of the turret into the dirt, where he writhed and squirmed, his mind overwhelmed with pain and more pain.

The movement to contact was successful. The enemy had been located.