Sword Point

Chapter 18

The crowd at the Club was unusually heavy despite the fact that payday was still a week away. The lure of live showgirls and a discount on all drinks until nine o'clock that evening did wonders to bring the GIs out on a night cooled by a late-afternoon shower and a lingering drizzle. The Germans who owned the shops along the cobblestone street were long gone, tucked into their homes or visiting their own local Gasthaus. Only the American soldiers and "the ladies" populated the street in front of the Club, a local establishment that, if called a dive, would be giving it more class than it deserved.

To its patrons, however, it was where it was happening, at least for the moment. Inside, the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume, mixed with cigarette smoke and an occasional whiff of a controlled substance, permeated every nook and cranny. Dim lights hid the faces of most of the patrons from anyone more than a few feet away. The blare of music and the continuous chatter of numerous conversations were as numbing to the body as the beer the Club's patrons drank and spilled. Except for small knots of friends here and there, most of the people there that night were strangers, people with nothing in common except the desire to escape the boredom of the barracks, training that of late seemed endless, and homesickness that no amount of beer could wash away.

A block down the street from the entrance to the Club, a nondescript Volkswagen van sat parked. Four men dressed as painters, with their black hair covered by hoods or hats, sat in the van. They said nothing. They only watched the Club in the van's rearview mirrors and occasionally looked at their wristwatches. The man in the driver's seat leaned back and tried to relax, but the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel told that he could not. They were tired, having spent the entire day working in the basement under the Club. To the casual observer, their presence should have been suspicious. But the Germans who lived on the street and the police who patrolled it were used to strange comings and goings because of the Club and the foreigners it attracted. It was obvious that the four men, probably Turkish workers earning money for families they had left behind, had nothing better to do.

As nine-thirty approached, the man seated next to the driver raised his arm for the last time and looked at his watch. When the sweep hand reached that time, he said in Farsi, "Now."

The stillness of the night was shattered by a series of explosions that ripped through the Club. Balls of fire, followed by great sheets of flame, erupted from every window and door of the building. Fragments of glass and splinters from window and door frames flew in all directions, showering the street. Two American soldiers and a young "lady" who had been talking in front of the Club were cut to ribbons.

In a second, all was silence again.

Only the hiss of the flames billowing out from every opening interrupted the stunned quiet that momentarily returned to the street.

The man next to the van driver turned away from the scene and muttered, "Allah be praised." Then the van drove away.

Like shadows, the ten figures moved slowly and silently among the rocks. The path they weaved doubled the distance they traveled but avoided positions defended by the enemy or areas under observation.

They were not interested in killing the enemy and didn't bother to find out what was in each position. The leader of the small platoon had but one goal in mind, to get past the enemy without detection and back to friendly lines. Since 28 June, that goal had become an obsession with Sergeant First Class Duncan.

The closer to no-man's-land they advanced, the more difficult it became to avoid the enemy. In the rear areas units are more spread out and less vigilant but this did not mean that Duncan and the survivors of the battle at Rafsanjan had it easy. Soviet patrols, on foot, mounted and heliborne, were constantly searching for guerrillas throughout their rear areas. By day they would sweep through suspected hideouts and at night set up ambushes along trails. The Iranians, both civilians and guerrillas, were also a constant threat. The civilians hid the guerrillas, fed them and supplied information. A sighting by civilians was almost as dangerous as one by the Soviets. Duncan had found this out the hard way after going through a small village one night. The next day their hideout was hit by group of Iranian guerrillas.

Contact with Soviets and Iranians was not completely avoided by the platoon. When commodities such as food, water and weapons were running short, Duncan would move closer to supply routes or track down Soviet installations. From carefully reconnoitered ambush sites, his men would wait for a small convoy or, even better, lone vehicles. Once the ambush was sprung, selected men would rush in, grab whatever they could that looked useful, and run like hell for the rally point. When Soviet convoys appeared to be out of the question, Iranian villages were hit.

They were, after all, the enemy too. Besides, fresh fruit from the Iranians was a welcome change from canned Russian meat and bread.

These raids were not without cost. Eighteen men, including Duncan, had started out on 28 June. By 24 July there were only ten left. Some had been killed. As regrettable as that was, those killed outright presented no problems to the platoon. Duncan would simply take one of the dog tags, write in his little green notebook the time and circumstances of the death, and, if possible, bury the man. Duncan had no idea where they were and could not record the grave's location. Nor could he mark it, for fear of leaving a trail that Soviets or Iranians could follow. Once they interred a friend in his lonely grave in a hostile land far from home, it was forever.

But wounded had always been a problem. As the platoon neared their goal, Duncan reconsidered his decision to leave the seriously wounded behind.

Simple wounds that did not debilitate the man were patched up using a Russian medical kit. In those cases, infection, pain and loss of blood were the greatest concern. Duncan himself carried a grenade fragment in his left arm. It was the men who could not go on and would die without medical attention who had presented Duncan with his greatest leadership challenge.

The first time a man was seriously wounded, they tried to carry him with them. The wounded man did the best he could to keep quiet but soon became delirious from fever caused by unchecked infection. Without drugs or hope of saving him, Duncan had been forced to decide whether to abandon him and hope the Russians would find and care for him or to relieve the man's misery himself.

For two days Duncan had put off that decision, until the platoon suffered another severe casualty. The agony he had experienced when he finally made the choice still haunted him. He recalled every detail, every footfall as they moved down close to the road, carrying their wounded. Mercifully, both men had been unconscious as a result of pain and infection. When the road was clear of traffic, the two wounded men were set on the shoulder. Duncan himself placed a stick with a white rag, held up by a pile of rocks, in the middle of the road and watched from a hidden position until the first Soviet column came along. He had to satisfy himself that all would be well, that the wounded men would be recovered and cared for. It was not long before a column did show up. The lead vehicle stopped and dismounted troops to check out the flag and the area. They found the wounded. After checking to ensure that the wounded men were not bait for an ambush, the Russians loaded them on their vehicle. After that incident, two more men from the platoon had been left to the clemency of the enemy. Duncan was relieved, but not satisfied. He had abandoned his wounded, he could never forget that.

As hard as it was, he had to turn his mind to the immediate problem at hand. That their odyssey was near an end was hard to believe. After the battle at Rafsanjan, their life had been reduced to seemingly aimless wandering, constant hunger and the ever present threat of sudden death, or worse. To actually be in a position to end their ordeal, one way or the other, was welcomed.

The platoon faced two problems. First, they had to get past the Russians' positions and through their kill zones without detection. As they were approaching the Russians from the rear and the Russians' attention was focused mainly on the front, this would be, relatively speaking, the easy part. The hard part was getting through the American mine fields, kill zones and positions without being killed.

Duncan had no idea what unit's sector they were going to enter, what the password was or even what the land looked like. They were going in blind. And if, while they were between the lines, someone accidentally started a firefight, both the Russians and the Americans in position, knowing they did not have anyone out there, would fire up Duncan's platoon.

In single file they followed Duncan. He would creep along for several meters and stop, look and listen. When he was sure they had not been detected, he would decide which way to move and creep along another forty to fifty meters before stopping again. Progress was slow, but that was the safest, and only, way to do it.

The first serious obstacle they came across was a barrier of barbed wire.

Leaving the platoon behind, Duncan crawled up to it and checked it and the area around it. The wire was not the type used by the Army. It was Russian.

Worse, on the other side Duncan could see small dents in the ground. A mine field. That meant that they were at or near the very forward edge of the front lines. He had the choice of either low-crawling through the mine field or following the barbed wire until it ended. No doubt the Russians had the mine field covered by fire. By the same token, if the platoon tried to go around, they could just as easily run into a Russian fighting position covering the mine field.

Duncan rolled over on his back and stared at the sky. He was tired of making decisions. For the last twenty seven days he had had to not only live by his wits but lead others in and out of danger. His decisions had cost the lives of four men, maybe more if the Russians had killed the wounded.

Days of wandering and physical exertion, malnutrition, the stress of combat, the pressure of leadership, the agony of making life-or-death decisions, little rest and less hope had all worked to reduce Duncan's effectiveness and ability to function. As he weighed the two alternatives, he wondered whether their efforts had been worth it and what value, if any, their wandering had had.

He rolled back onto his elbows and looked at the mine field again.

There was less than a quarter moon. He decided to go through the wire and the mine field. As it would be dawn soon, there was little time to find another way around. Besides, he was anxious to end it that night, one way or the other.

Before returning to the platoon, Duncan moved along the wire to find the nearest Russian position. Thirty meters from where he had been, he came across a machinegun pit with three men in it. They were covering the mine field in that area. Only one man appeared to be awake. It would be so much easier if that position was silenced before they started. Besides, it would create a blind spot.

Returning to his platoon, Duncan briefed the plan and selected two men to go with him to take out the machinegun pit.

The three men crept forward, their bayonet-knives at the ready. The one Russian on guard was leaning against the forward edge of the pit, wrapped in a blanket and watching to the front. Duncan would go for him. The other two Russians were sitting with their backs against the rear wall, asleep.

The three Americans inched forward with Duncan in the middle. When they were at the rear edge of the pit, Duncan raised his left hand with three fingers up. The men with him watched the hand. He dropped one finger, then a second. When the third came down, the man on either side reached down, put his free hand over the mouth of a Russian leaning against the back wall and, with a long arching swing, drove his knife into the Russian's chest.

Duncan jumped up and bounded across the open pit, diving for the Russian on guard. The Russian rolled over and opened his mouth to scream. The thrust of Duncan's bayonet into his throat stifled the scream before it could come out.

Finished, Duncan called the other men in the platoon forward and prepared to cross the mine field. They would move forward in single file behind Duncan. He had considered asking for a volunteer to lead the final leg, but decided against that. He would go all the way. Using the dead Russians' rifles, they propped up the barbed wire and crawled under it into the mine field. Duncan, leaving his helmet behind, rolled up his sleeves and took off his watch. That way he would be able to feel on his bare arms any trip wires that might be strung between the mines. With his bayonet he began to probe for mines across his front. Slowly he slid it into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. As the mine field was old and the people putting it in had been sloppy, loose dirt placed over the buried mines to cover them had sunk down. This left an easily detected depression wherever there was a mine. Duncan still probed, however, just on the off chance that there were new mines or that someone had buried some properly. As he moved forward, the sweat rolled down his brow 338 and into his eyes. It would have been so much easier to let someone else lead. Inch by inch he moved forward, probing for mines. He wondered how deep the mine field was. The rumble of artillery in the distance reminded him that other people were awake and alert, ready to kill. Slowly he crept on, fighting the urge to make larger sweeps as he probed for mines. He wondered how often the Russians checked their outposts. Duncan cursed himself for not checking to see if there had been a phone or a radio in the pit. How stupid. He was getting tired. Inch by inch he moved forward. The mine field seemed to be never ending. How many mines could the Russians have used? Inch by bloody inch he crawled, probing, sweating, praying.

Suddenly Duncan realized they were no longer surrounded by the shallow depressions that marked where the mines were. Slowly, he raised himself and looked around. The barbed-wire fence to their rear was no longer visible in the darkness. To his front were dark hills and a wadi. Turning to the man immediately behind him, he told him to hold there while he checked out the area in front. Unslinging his rifle and cradling it in his arms, Duncan crawled forward. He watched for telltale signs of mines, but found none.

Satisfied that he and his men were clear of the mine field, he signaled the platoon to follow.

It took them an hour to cover the two or more kilometers between the mine field they had left and an antitank ditch that blocked their way.

As before, Duncan crawled forward and checked it out. It could be Russian or the beginning of the Americans' barriers. With the platoon following, Duncan moved slowly along the edge. When they found the end of the ditch and began to go around, Duncan probed for mines. Finding none, he led the men on until he saw what appeared to be the outline of a fighting position.

Slowly he crept forward. There was no sign of movement. When he reached the edge of the hole, he carefully peered over. There were two men in the hole.

Both were asleep. In the faint light, he could make out an M-16 rifle.

They had made it. The long nightmare was over.

Her excuse that she needed to ask more questions of the sergeant from the 12th Infantry Division who had infiltrated from Rafsanjan was very transparent. Everyone in the 2nd Brigade headquarters knew that Lieutenant Matthews' real objective was her wounded scout-platoon leader. The brigade XO let her go, however. He reasoned that she needed the break. Since the loss of the brigade S-2, she had been working harder than any two people in the TOC. The results of her efforts showed. Matthews and her section produced intelligence that kept the units in the brigade one step ahead of the Soviets and allowed the commander to make effective plans and decisions.

It would do little harm to let her go while there was a break in the action.

As anxious as she was to see him, Matthews became apprehensive as she approached the ward where Capell was. She had been told by Major Dixon that he had been severely burned over much of his body when his Bradley was hit.

The burns, along with wounds from on-board ammo going off and several broken bones, had nearly killed him. That he lived, according to Dixon, was only due to the fact that Capell was either too stubborn or too dumb to die. Meant to cheer her up, this only increased her fears.

She knew Capell would still be the same person inside. She knew it wasn't his fault that he had been wounded. What she didn't know was how she would react when she saw him. Nor did she know whether she could look at him and love him as she did before. She told herself that it didn't matter what he looked like so long as he was alive, but she knew that that was a lie.

Prepared for facing Capell, regardless of what he looked like, she entered the ward. Instead of being full of patients, the room was full of empty bunks with their mattresses turned up. The only person in the room was a soldier mopping the floor with soapy water that smelled of disinfectant.

She called to him, "Excuse me, but is this Ward Four B?"

The soldier turned around and saw her for the first time. "Sorry, ma'am, didn't see ya. Yes, this is Four B, but ain't no one here anymore. They all got shipped out this mornin'."

"Damn!" she mumbled. "Do you know when they took them to the airfield?"

"Didn't go to the airfield. There's a hospital ship in the harbor.

Started takin' 'em out after breakfast this mornin'. Could be they're still there."

Seizing any chance to see Randy, she thanked the soldier for his help and ran down to the hummer she had come down to Bandar Abbas in. She directed the driver to head for the docks and see if he could find out where they were loading the hospital ship. The sergeant who was riding shotgun warned her they needed to be heading back. He didn't want to be on the road alone after dark. Looking at her watch, she told him they had plenty of time.

Without further discussion on the matter, she ordered the driver to move out.

Their entrance into the dock area took far longer than expected.

Equipment from a newly arrived unit was being moved from there to its marshaling area outside Bandar Abbas. As she waited impatiently in the hummer watching a column of National Guard Bradleys go by, she was struck by the apparent difference in age between the men in the Guard unit and those in Capell's battalion. No doubt they knew what they were doing. Perhaps, she thought, older men would be less impetuous and more cautious, unlike Randy.

Once the hummer had been admitted, it raced down the line of piers, weaving between crates and vehicles just offloaded. It was stopped once by a Navy shore patrolman who cautioned the driver to slow down and provided directions to the pier where the hospital ship had been tied up. That pier, however, was empty when they arrived. In the distance, the white hospital ship could be seen moving out to the open sea.

Disappointed and struggling to hold back her tears, Matthews ordered the driver to turn around and head back. The sergeant suggested that they stay in Bandar Abbas for the night, but she did not hear him. Her mind was on other things. At least, she thought, Randy was safe. When the current mess in Iran was over, they would have plenty of time together.

Movement from the docks into the unit's staging area went without a hitch.

Some of the officers had been worried that the men would have problems moving the equipment after being away from it for several weeks. The battalion XO, Major Ed Lewis, laughed. "What are you talking about?

Back home we meet once a month and get to use our equipment once every two months, maybe three. Then we march off to summer camp and expect our people to hop in and drive away. Why should this be any different?"

It was different, however, and Lewis knew it. Summer camp, as annual training was still called by many, lasted only two weeks, then they all went home to their families and their civilian jobs. No one had any idea how long the war in Iran would last. Some thought they would be there only a few months. Others brought up the fact that they were committed for the duration-however long that was-and a year.

Regardless of how long the war and their commitment to the federal government lasted, even the most optimistic among them knew that some would not return home. The loading of a hospital ship that morning served as a reminder to them that they were actually entering an active war zone.

Upon arriving in the marshaling area, Lewis met up with his battalion commander and the S-3, both of whom had gone up to the headquarters of the 25th Armored Division the previous day to receive an operations order, while Lewis had been left with the job of supervising the offloading and marshaling of men and equipment. The three officers now met at the dock and watched before they went to the battalion TOC, then in the final stages of being set up, and sat before the S-3 situation map. As the S-3 read the order out loud, Master Sergeant Kenneth Mayfree, the operations sergeant, posted the operational graphics on the map. Once the battalion had assembled and completed arming and refueling, it was to move from its current location to a tactical assembly area south of Saadatabad. There it would become part of the 25th Armored Division's 3rd Brigade. The three officers had expected to join the 2nd Brigade, the active-component brigade they had normally trained with. The nature of the operation, however, required a large counterattack force, of which the 2nd Battalion of the 354th Mech Tennessee National Guard was now part.

All three men accepted their mission with a feeling of relief. By being in reserve, they and their company commanders would have more time to prepare their men and units for battle. Training in the marshaling area and the tactical assembly area, while limited, was better than none. The prospect of rolling off the ship right into combat had haunted them for the past three weeks. While they did not underestimate the difficulties they would face, at least they would not have to face a battle hardened Soviet army their first day in the country. Every day they had in which to prepare and train increased their odds of success.

Lieutenant General Weir reviewed the information papers and reports before going into the 1700 hours briefing. Shortly after he assumed control of the 13th Corps, he had been appointed overall commander of all ground forces in Iran by the Commander in Chief of CENT COM While this meant more work for Weir and his staff, it simplified the coordination of operations between the 1st Marine Corps in the east and the two Army corps in Kerman Province to the south.

The briefing that evening was an important one. Decisions made during it would shape the next round of operations. The corps G-3 was going to present the revised operations plan for the upcoming campaign. While the U.S. situation had improved tremendously in the past two weeks, they were still far from ready to assume offensive operations. All the reports pointed to the fact that the Soviets, despite the best efforts of the Air Force and Special Forces to interdict the flow of supplies, would be ready to commence their offensive before the 10th Corps was completely assembled. It was simply a matter of time, space and numbers. The Soviets, at the end of a shorter supply line, were able to make good their losses and deficiencies faster than the U.S. forces in Iran could. In addition, the number of heavy ground-combat units available to the 10th Corps was limited, while the Soviets had many. In fact, the Soviets had more heavy divisions in Iran at that moment than the U.S. Army had throughout the world.

With the writing on the wall, the 10th Corps had no choice but to accept the Soviet offensive before commencing their own. This, however, was not all bad. Properly done, the 10th Corps could channel the Soviets into those areas where Weir wanted the Soviets to go, bleeding them all the way and setting them up for a counter blow Once the Soviets' main effort was identified and contained, the 10th Corps could pile on and destroy it. With the Soviets broken and weak points uncovered, the 10th Corps could then launch its own offensive in conjunction with the 13th Corps, now recovering, and the newly formed 1st Marine Corps operating to the east.

Not all was bleak. Weir had a few aces up his sleeve. One of them was the British 33rd Armored Brigade. That brigade was ready for commitment.

Through a great deal of effort and deception, the brigade had been "smuggled" into Iran. Though the world knew that the British were committed to send troops, a sham movement of forces and troops kept the media occupied while the 33rd Armored Brigade was brought into Iran on U.S. ships, then moved in small groups at night and assembled in the forward areas. Weir was betting that the psychological impact of the sudden and unexpected appearance in Iran of ground forces from a NATO ally would give the Soviets great concern and cause them to question their intelligence analysis. The French Airborne Division, operating with the 6th Marine Division, had, by accident, had that effect. Weir intended to hold the 33rd Armored Brigade back, using it at the right moment to kick off his counter blow the first step to the counteroffensive that would, with luck, smash the Soviet forces then facing them in the central area.

Weir's aide came in and told him the staff was ready. As Weir was leaving his office, he looked at the map on the wall. "Well, Ted," he said to the aide, "what it all boils down to is that we've got to keep the enemy from breaking through and wear him out without him doing the same to the 10th Corps. Pretty neat trick if we can do it. I sure hope the 25th Armored can pull it off."

The shock of returning from the front to Moscow was overpowering.

Colonel Sulvina had expected things to be different. He wasn't quite sure what should have changed, but surely something had to be different. After all, the Soviet Union was locked in battle with the United States. Yet as the Army sedan moved through the streets of the city, he saw no change.

People still came and went to work. Women queued up to buy everyday necessities.

Grandmothers walked babies and watched as children played in the parks.

Even the radio news, what little Sulvina heard, treated the war as just another news story.

Less than twenty-four hours before, Sulvina had been ordered to appear at the Moscow headquarters of STAVKA, the General Staff of the Red Army, concerning his written report on the operations of the 28th Combined Arms Army. That report, forwarded to Front Headquarters and STAVKA before the army's new commander had arrived, had been disturbing to both. It was to have been sent back to Sulvina to be rewritten. Instead, someone had forwarded a copy to a member of the Politburo. Rumors were that it was a STAVKA officer working for the KGB who had done that in an effort to discredit the Red Army and its conduct of operations in Iran. Now Sulvina, after a grueling session at STAVKA, was on his way to answer to the Politburo.

Colonel Sulvina was not politically naive. He understood the State and the system. He was, after all, part of 345 it. He was, however, a soldier, first and foremost.

Schooled in all aspects of military science, with years of command and general-staff experience, Sulvina believed that it was his duty to keep his commander and higher headquarters informed of the situation as it really existed, not as they wished it to be. He had been taught from his first year as a cadet that commanders can make the proper decisions only if they have good, accurate information. It was in that vein that he had written his report. Not to blame or condemn, or to record excuses. Sulvina wanted to record what had happened so that corrections could be made before the next offensive.

His debriefing at STAVKA that morning had been a rude shock. Only slowly had he realized that some saw his report as a threat to them and their position, while others saw it as "the whimperings of a man unfit for a position of great responsibility." When he was told personally by a Marshal of the Soviet Union to answer only yes or no to all questions of the Politburo, Sulvina knew he was on trial for telling the "wrong" truth.

For two hours Sulvina sat in a chair in the center of a room. Before him sat the eleven Politburo members who ran the Soviet Union. They alone determined national policy. They alone decided how the Soviet Union would achieve its national goals, goals which they established.

Each member had before him a copy of the report. Each member, with the exception of the Foreign Minister, asked Sulvina questions, most of which skirted the real issues at hand. Diligently, Sulvina answered their questions with either yes or a no. The questioning was punctuated by discussions, sometimes heated, between the members as some of the senior members became annoyed at the cat-and-mouse game.

Finally, the Foreign Minister dropped the report, folded his hands before him and said, "We have all read the report, Comrade Colonel. We have all asked you many questions. I want you now, Comrade Colonel, to tell me in your own words what happened."

The General Secretary, visibly upset, leaned forward and glared at the Foreign Minister, but could not get his attention. Failing that, the General Secretary turned to face Sulvina.

Sweat ran down Sulvina's face. His eyes turned to the Minister of Defense.

The Minister of Defense returned the stare. Looking back to the Foreign Minister, Sulvina replied, "Comrade, the report before you is my own words. It is what I believe to be the truth." Sulvina did not look again at the Minister of Defense.

The Foreign Minister said after a moment, "Yes, of course. Now, Comrade Colonel, what must we, the Politburo, do to prevent another disaster such as this from happening?"

Sulvirta was taken aback by the term "disaster." Without realizing it, he went into the attack. "Comrade, there was no disaster. The actions of the commander of the 28th Combined Arms Army prevented a disaster. We merely withdrew so that we could regroup, resupply and reestablish conditions that favored the resumption of the offensive and the seizure of the Strait of Hormuz. A setback, yes. A disaster, no."

For a long time, there was silence in the room. Then the Foreign Minister asked the question again, in a harsher tone this time. "What must we do to prevent another disaster, Comrade Colonel?"

Sulvina considered the question before continuing. For a moment he wavered in his convictions. Then he decided that if there was nothing he could do to save himself, perhaps he could do something to help those who would soon have to face the same situation he had faced.

"First, Comrade, we must employ chemical weapons. The Americans have little in the way of retaliatory capability. Even if they assume a fully protective posture, which they will, the heat casualties from wearing the protective clothing will be just as devastating to their efficiency as would losses to the chemical agents employed. Our troops, better trained, equipped and used to working in a chemical environment, will have a great advantage. Next, we must mass all combat power in Iran. If insufficient forces are available in the country, they must come from the reserves if necessary. Finally, we must strike at the source of American supplies. The war zone at sea must include the entire Indian Ocean, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea and the Atlantic. It does us no good to wait until they reach Iran to kill them."

Again there was a long silence. This time the Foreign minister smiled when he broke it. "You must understand, Comrade Colonel, there are certain political realities that come into play at the strategic level. We cannot use chemical weapons. We know the Americans' limitations in that area, but if we did use such weapons the entire world would condemn us. Even those who support us now in the United Nations would be reluctant to continue that support. Nor can we afford to spread the conflict without endangering our interests in other areas. To do so could push America's reluctant allies into the conflict. And you know as well as I that the economy cannot sustain a large-scale mobilization. So, given those realities, what can we do?"

The General Secretary, agitated by the discussion, nonetheless allowed the Foreign Minister to continue his game. The colonel, after all, was expendable. Perhaps, if the Foreign Minister played out his fool's hand, he would discredit himself and give the General Secretary sufficient cause to replace him.

Sulvina knew he was a lost man. Nothing he said mattered anymore.

There was no going back. He had, by doing what he believed correct, dug his own grave. He straightened up in his chair, looked each member in the eye and spoke. "Then we must stop the war. If, Comrades, we are going to fight this war, we must fight it with every means available. If we want to win, the nation must be mobilized behind the effort. Otherwise, Comrades, we are asking our men to die for nothing. I cannot go back and order our soldiers to go forward and die in the name of the State if the State is unwilling to provide the means for victory."

Colonel Sulvina jumped into his grave with both feet and a clear conscience.

Between bouts of pain and short periods of restless sleep, Randy Capell pondered his current state and his future.

Lying on his stomach with most of his body encased in bandages, Capell could do nothing on his own. That he had lived, he had been told, was nothing short of a miracle The battalion aid station, overwhelmed by incoming casualties, had classified him as being beyond help. He had second- and third-degree burns over half of his body, multiple fragment wounds, several broken bones and a severe loss of blood. A medic gave him morphine and set him aside while those who could be saved were worked on. Eventually the physician's assistant did work on him, stabilized his condition and had him evacuated.

In the two weeks he spent at Bandar Abbas, Capell began the slow and painful process of recovery. While there he sent several notes to Amanda Matthews. A b medic had to write them for him. In return, he received two letters. The medic had to read them for him. As Amanda was quite graphic in describing her love for him, this proved embarrassing to Capell. His only regret was that he had not seen her before he was shipped out. Ca pell kept consoling himself with the thought that they would have plenty of time together after the war was over.

Besides, he was not sure he wanted her to see him as he was. That might have been hard for Amanda to accept and could have put an end to their relationship. By leaving, he would have time to recover and get back into shape. There were only two things that mattered to him now: Amanda Matthews and getting back into shape so that he could pursue his career. Capell pondered which was the more important of the two.

The launching of several cruise missiles from a sub marine set off alarms on escort ships throughout the area.

By the time the missiles broke surface, fire-control computers were already feeding data to the Seasparrow point defense-missile launchers.

On cue from the computer, air-defense officers began to launch the Seasparrows. While Soviet missiles flew toward their marks in the darkness, American missiles raced toward the Soviet missiles in an effort to head them off. Great balls of fire blossomed in the distance every time one of the defensive missiles found its target and destroyed it.

Not all Soviet missiles were felled by the Seasparrows. American radar continued tracking the surviving cruise missiles and preparing the close-in defense systems. The phalanx gun systems, set to automatic mode, picked up their targets and tracked them. The 20mm. mimgun, controlled by a computer, fired a stream of projectiles into the night in a last-ditch effort to bring down the remaining cruise missiles. As with the Seasparrows, each success was marked with the violent explosion of a Soviet missile.

When all active measures had been expended, the computers on the escorts began to fire chaff. Millions of tiny strips of aluminum were blown out of launchers, creating instant clouds to confuse the cruise missiles' targeting radar. Those ships that had chaff escaped as the missiles broke radar lock and flew about, searching for a new target, until they ran out of fuel. Those ships that didn't and were marked, died.

As in a nightmare, Capell heard the ripping of metal and the detonation of the cruise missile's warhead. Unused fuel from the missile was ignited by the explosion and propelled forward by the momentum of the missile. The burning fuel was sprayed across the ward, covering everything in a sheet of fire. The bandages wrapped about Capell's body to protect his burns now provided fuel to the fire that engulfed him and his ward mates. Only the crushing rush of seawater and the mercy of drowning saved Capell from burning to death.

The mounted patrol, making its morning sweep of the division's main supply route, came across an overturned hummer and the dismembered remains of three people. In a single glance they could tell it had been done by Iranians.

Russians weren't in the habit of mutilating the dead.

As the platoon leader watched his patrol check the vehicle and the bodies for booby traps, his platoon sergeant came up to him. "No signs leading away from the ambush site. All we found were a few shell casings. What do you suppose they were doing out here alone last night?"

The platoon leader leaned against his vehicle and pulled out his canteen.

"Doesn't really matter what they were doing, does it? They're dead now."

The lieutenant took a drink from his canteen. "Hell of a way to start the day."

The platoon sergeant watched as two men checked a body. "You don't suppose that the Iranians.. well, do you think they.. ?"

Finishing a second drink, the lieutenant looked at the body. "You mean raped her? I really don't want to know, Sergeant. And you have no need to know. If some shit in grave registrations wants to find out, that's his business. We just find 'em, mark 'em and report 'em."

A soldier picked up something from the body and brought it over to his platoon leader. A pair of dog tags. The lieutenant poured water from his canteen over one of the tags and wiped away the blood. "Well, Sergeant Mullen, at least we'll be able to notify the next of kin of one Matthews, Amanda, that their daughter died in the service of her country."