Sword Point

Chapter 20

Ed Martain's eyes darted from his instruments to the ground they were skimming along. His damaged F-15E shook and vibrated every time he attempted the simplest maneuver. Only by reducing speed could he reduce the vibrations. But to do so only meant that it would take them longer to make it back across the forward line of their own troops. For better or worse, he pushed his aircraft as far as he dared. In the backseat, Martain's wizzo sat tight-lipped. Most of his equipment was malfunctioning or simply out.

Whatever happened to him depended on Martain. There was nothing he could do except check their six, or rear, and pray.

The mission, like most of the others, had been hastily planned and came too soon after their last. At Bandar Abbas the ground crews were literally falling over from exhaustion as they tried to turn the squadron's aircraft around in preparation for the next strike.

Maintenance crews did their damnedest to keep a high number of planes on line, but they were fighting losing battle as scheduled maintenance services, postponed too many times, were finally beginning to take their toll. This, coupled with losses to ground fire, had brought Martain's squadron down to seven operational aircraft. The squadron had been slated to be replaced and pulled back to Egypt for rest and recovery, but the latest Soviet offensive had caused that plan to be shelved.

The current mission had been going fairly well until they neared the target. Coming in at one hundred feet to hit a supply dump, the flight of two aircraft making the run found themselves flying over a Soviet recon unit sitting in a wadi. The lead plane got through before the ground fire reached a high level of intensity or effectiveness, but Martain, in the trail aircraft, was not nearly as lucky. His plane caught the full force of the Soviet ground fire, which knocked out the right engine, tore great holes out of the wings and the control surfaces and screwed up most of the electronics. Fortunately, just before he entered the worst of the fire Martain had dumped his entire load of bombs, exacting a large measure of revenge but doing little else. The punishing ground fire could not be avoided. That they were still airborne was nothing short of a miracle.

"Hang in there, Frank, we'll make it. If I gotta hold this thing together with my bare hands we'll make it." A sudden shudder shook the aircraft.

"I sure hope you do a better job holding on to this plane than you did holding on to that blonde back at Langley. "

Martain was thankful for the wizzo's effort to relieve the tension. He looked down at his left leg for a moment. He had been hit. Some dumb Commie dogface, firing wildly, and probably with his eyes closed, had drilled him.

The wound, in his upper thigh, was bleeding and painful. Martain hadn't bothered to tell his wizzo. Things were, after all, bad enough without heaping on more problems. Martain moved his leg slightly and was rewarded with a sharp pain that racked his entire body.

Biting back the urge to scream, he answered his wizzo's taunt.

"Thanks, pal. I really needed that vote of confidence. But I don't think you appreciate the situation. As I remember-"

His story was cut short by the wizzo's scream, "Two boggles, five o'clock!"

Martain cranked his neck around to the right and searched for the enemy. He caught a glimpse of them as one of them began a sharp dive in their direction. "Shit! No way in hell we're going to get away from them. Hang on and get ready to punch out." With that, Martain began to increase their speed and slowly turn away from their potential attackers.

The vibrations of the aircraft increased and were joined by a violent bucking. Martain could almost feel the frame pulling itself apart. The increased vibrations caused him a great blinding pain. He had no idea how long he could keep control. Ten seconds? Ten minutes? However long it took, he was hell-bent on pushing the plane and himself to the limit. The last thing he wanted to do was eject behind enemy lines.

If he did, he had no doubt how it would end for him. With the wound he had, he wouldn't be able to escape or evade. Ejection was a last resort.

"What are they doing?"

His wizzo, body twisted and head bobbing from one side of the cockpit to the other, endeavored to keep track of their attackers. "I lost them. Can't see the has There they are! Christ, they're right fucking on top of us!"

Martain couldn't fight the urge to turn and look. If he was going to get spattered, he at least wanted to see the sonofabitch that did it.

As he began to turn, the wizzo cried out again. "Oh my God, oh my God! They're ours! They're ours!"

Two French Mirage fighters nosed forward, taking up station on either side of the crippled F-15. The pilot of the Mirage on the left, sun visor up and oxygen mask hanging from his helmet, smiled and waved at Martain, then gave him a thumbs up, signaling that everything was all right, that they would escort him in. Martain relaxed, sweat still rolling down his face. Despite his pain, he forced a smile and waved back. Yeah, everything will be OK now. We got it made, we got it made.

Clearing his throat, he continued the story that had been cut short.

"Like I was saying, Frank, I don't think you appreciate the situation back at Langley. There I was…"

Slowly, and in a stupor, the young Soviet lieutenant made his way through the wadi that was littered with a maze of tangled and burning wreckage. Fifteen minutes before, that wreckage had been a reconnaissance battalion.

In a flash it had been wiped away, smashed. Now it was nothing more than a collection of corpses and stunned survivors. Some of those survivors were attempting to save or help those who were wounded.

Others, in shock or simply despondent as a result of the speed at which disaster had struck, sat or wandered about in a daze. Even the lieutenant, a platoon leader and a veteran of many fights who was accustomed to seeing death, was appalled at the magnitude of the disaster. That, and the fact that he was the senior surviving officer, was numbing to all who survived.

When he came to the place where, just before the attack, the battalion commander had gathered the company commanders to issue orders for that night's operation, he stopped and attempted to clear his head. His thoughts turned to the series of events that had led to the destruction of the unit.

Despite the fact that everyone knew better, the battalion had set up in a wide wadi. While the wadi kept them below ground level and therefore hidden from sight except when someone passed directly overhead, the vehicles were packed in too closely. All was fine until two jet aircraft, American F-15s heavy with bombs and missiles, flying low and fast, began to approach the battalion's position. With the company commanders away from their units, some of the junior officers had ordered the aircraft engaged because the F15s looked as if they were preparing to attack the battalion.

The wild firing had damaged one of the F-15s, but not before they both released their bombs, resulting in catastrophe for the battalion.

Perhaps, the lieutenant thought, we can still carry on with the mission. In the vain hope of finding something that would tell him what their mission was, he began to search the charred remains of the bodies that had been the battalion's leadership. The stench of burned flesh and the sight of bodies ripped and burned beyond recognition, however, was too much for him. Wiping his hands on his tunic as he backed away from the corpses, he fought the urge to vomit. Whatever it was that the division had wanted from them, someone else would have to do it.

In his confusion, it never occurred to the lieutenant that perhaps Division did not know that the battalion was now combat ineffective and no longer executing its assigned mission.

Within forty hours of commencing an attack that had been so well planned and prepared, the commander of the 17th Combined Arms Army found himself facing the same problems and grasping for the same solutions that the former commander of the 28th Combined Arms Army had faced. The waste of men and equipment was appalling Two motorized rifle divisions were totally combat ineffective, reduced to less than 40 percent strength. The other two had sustained heavy losses in exchange for little gain and no clean breakthrough. Even the two tank divisions, held back to exploit the projected break through, had suffered from American heavy bombers and attack helicopters. Faced with the prospect of losing the initiative and whatever advantages had been gained from the efforts of the motorized rifle divisions, the leadership of the 17th CAA decided to commit the two tank divisions As a hedge against possible problems, they also requested permission to use chemical weapons.

The order that committed the 68th Tank Regiment to an attack beginning at 2130 hours on 2 August was received by the staff with an air of indifference. They had been through the drill many times before. The process and procedures needed to move the unit were almost rote.

Major Vorishnov noted the lack of enthusiasm with which the commanders and the staff of the battalion conducted their preparation. Even he found it difficult to muster the necessary motivation.

Reports coming down from Regiment were less than favorable and revealed a situation ominously similar to what had prevailed during the failed attack in July. The 68th Tank Regiment was to be committed into a situation that was, at best, ambiguous. The attacking motorized rifle division that the regiment was to pass through was no longer capable of offensive action. It had punched a small gap through the enemy's main defensive belt but had been chewed up by incessant counterattacks and air attacks. Unable to penetrate any farther on its own, the division had faltered, stopped and finally held. To expedite the passage of the tank regiment through the stalled unit and steer it past pockets of enemy resistance, the recon battalion of that motorized rifle division would lead the tank regiment through the gap that had been created.

Vorishnov's mind began to wander as he sat and listened to the second officer present the assembled commanders the current enemy situation in the zone in which the regiment would attack. How many times, he thought, can we tempt death before it consumes us? Perhaps we will succeed this time.

Perhaps we will perish. The differences between success and failure were no longer clear to Vorishnov. The fact that he was willing to accept either worried him.

Ed Lewis paced back and forth in the battalion TOC, from the situation map hung from the TOC extensions at one end of the work area to the rear of the M-577 command-post carrier and back again. Master Sergeant Ken Mayfree, sitting at a field desk, was monitoring the radios and recording a summary of all transmissions in a duty log. Although Lewis could listen to the same radio transmissions over remote speakers located near the map, he preferred to stand in front of Mayfree and listen there. The major's nervous restlessness was contagious and annoying. Finally, while Lewis was standing in front of him, Mayfree looked his major in the eye and whispered, "Ed, if you don't sit down and cool it, I'm gonna break your kneecaps. You're makin' me nervous."

Lewis looked at Mayfree with a blank look, mumbled an apology and went over to the situation map, where he sat down next to the speaker of the battalion radio net. He sat there for all of five minutes before he was up pacing again.

The 2nd Battalion of the 354th Mechanized Infantry had crossed the line of departure on time at 2100 hours as part of an attack to support the corps's main effort, also commencing at 2100 hours. The main attack, farther to the west, was being made by the 4th Armored Division and a British armored brigade. The 52nd Infantry Division, Mechanized, would follow. The 3rd Brigade's mission was to confuse the Soviets as to where the main effort was being delivered and pin as many enemy forces for as long as possible.

Since 2100 hours the only reports received at the TOC of the 2nd of the 354th had been that the line of departure had been crossed by the scout platoon, followed by the two lead companies. Either the enemy had withdrawn or they were sucking the battalion into a fire sack. While the unopposed progress was welcome, everyone knew that it would not and could not last.

The Soviets were out there, somewhere, waiting.

The battalion staff at the TOC was impatient. Every time the radio crackled to life, ears perked up and breath was held. Reports of negative contact did not bring sighs of relief, only heightened tension.

Until something happened, there was nothing for the people at the TOC to do.

Those staff officers with the command group, which was following the lead companies, were out there, moving forward, which at least gave them the sense of accomplishing something, doing something. The idle minds of the staff at the TOC, removed from the danger of battle, were fertile ground for nightmares and fear.

"Mike Four-four, this is Tango Three-two. Spot report. Over."

Lewis turned to the board where the radio call signs were posted. It was the scout-platoon leader calling the S-3.

Tango Three-two, this is Mike Four-four. Send it. Over." The in tell sergeant prepared to write the information down on a blank spot-report form. Lewis watched as Captain Norm Smithson, the assistant operations officer, stood near the map with grease pencil in hand, ready to mark the enemy locations sighted by the scouts.

"This is Tango Three-two. Six tanks moving south correction make that nine tanks moving south vicinity five two zero, seven seven five. They look like T-80s, but we cannot confirm. Continuing to observe. Over."

Lewis thought about that for a moment. Who else could they be? The thermal sights of the Bradley, great for seeing in the dark, did not always provide a good clear image. Vehicle recognition was, at times, difficult.

The battalion commander called Lewis. "Mike Sixeight, this is Mike One-six. Get with higher and find out if we have any friendlies stumblin' about in the dark to our front. Over."

Lewis acknowledged and picked up the hand mike for the brigade radio net.

He was about to make the call when the scout-platoon leader came back with another report:

"Mike Four-four, this is Tango Three-two. Update on that last spot report. Eighteen T-80 tanks-I say again, T-80 tanks-moving south. Lead element now at five two zero, seven seven zero. We are assuming hasty defense vicinity checkpoint zero eight and preparing to engage. Request artillery and permission to engage. Over."

All eyes in the TOC were on Smithson as he moved the plastic symbol that represented the battalion's scout platoon and placed it on the map where checkpoint 08 was located. The in tell sergeant took a red plastic armor-unit symbol imprinted with the number 18 and placed it where. the scout-platoon leader had reported the enemy formation. The fire-support officer, hearing the request for fire, was already on his radio, talking to the artillery unit supporting the battalion.

After a moment, the S-3 called back to the scout platoon leader,

"Tango Three-two. This is Mike Fourfour. Are you sure they're T-80s?"

The scout-platoon leader, without hesitation, replied, "Affirmative. If we wait another minute I can give you the bumper numbers of all twenty-five T-80 tanks."

Slightly disturbed by the wisecrack about the bumper numbers, the S-3 replied sharply, "Permission to engage. Break." Then, to Smithson, "Mike Nine-one, this is Mike Four-four. Get the red legs on that target. Report to higher we are deploying to engage an enemy tank battalion attacking south. I will keep you advised. Over."

The waiting was over. The tension and stress of waiting was replaced by a flurry of frantic activity in the TOC. Calls went out to the brigade S-2 over the in tell net, to the brigade S-3 over the brigade-command net and to artillery units. The S-3 began to issue orders to the company commanders over the battalion-command net, telling them where to deploy and how to orient their units. Lewis watched and listened to all that was happening.

He made sure that all people who needed to be notified were and that the orders that were being put over the battalion command net by the S-3 were written down and accurately posted on the situation map in the TOC. There was much activity but no confusion. They had done this before. The procedures the staff were now going through were no different from those they had used when conducting command-post exercises back in Tennessee. The difference this time, however, was that there were now real people out there. Real bullets were going to be fired, and real people were going to die. It was Lewis' job to see that everything was done to ensure that it would be the Soviets who did most of the dying.

Through the darkness the 3rd Battalion rolled. Vorishnov was concerned about their lack of coordination and of intelligence about what was to their front. Reports of enemy activity had been received on and off for the last hour at the regiment from its own recon elements operating somewhere to the 3rd Battalion's front. Vorishnov had hoped to go forward during the day and coordinate with the commander of the recon unit they were supposed to follow. He had wanted to get a feel for the terrain the battalion would cross as well as some information on enemy unit locations and mine fields.

For security, however, additional recon had not been permitted. The division did not want to risk revealing when and where the tank regiments were going to be committed.

The failure in coordination now began to manifest itself. When the tank regiment reached the point where it was to link up with the recon battalion of the motorized rifle division, no one was there. Continued efforts to contact someone and effect a link-up failed. Falling behind schedule, the tank regiment was ordered forward without an escort.

Ignorant of exact locations of both friendly and enemy forces, the 3rd Battalion, 68th Tank Regiment, plunged into the night and hoped for the best.

The sudden flashes on the battalion's flank therefore came as a surprise.

In the darkness, they at first appeared to be artillery impacting at a distance. It took a moment for the tank commanders to grasp the true situation as flame from the rocket motors of antitank guided missiles closed on the battalion's tanks. The lead-company commander reported the missile attack while his tanks traversed their turrets in the direction of the oncoming missiles.

The impact of the missiles, the detonation of the reactive armor and, in two cases, secondary explosions lit up the night. Three more flashes from the opposite flank pulled everyone's attention in that direction. The battalion was in an ambush of some type. Instead of being greeted by the recon battalion of the forward motorized rifle division, it had run into the Americans. At least, Vorishnov hoped it was the Americans and not the recon battalion firing. How terrible, he thought, to have come all this way and be killed by our own people.

While the battalion commander issued orders to deploy into battle formation, Vorishnov reported the attack to Regiment. The regiment, tracking the battalion's progress, had concerns similar to Vorishnov's.

Regiment wanted confirmation that it was the Americans doing the firing.

Vorishnov replied that there was no time for that. Regardless of who they were, the battalion was attacking. The battle drill that it executed put into action the contact drill practiced many times by the battalion. The lead company deployed and turned to attack. The next company followed, ready to deploy and support the attack or bypass the lead company if it became too heavily involved. The third company also followed, ready to swing around and hit the enemy in the flank or the rear once the flanks were found. The battalion was committed.

Reports of the scout platoon's initial success were welcomed by all at the TOC. There had been a great deal of concern over the effectiveness of the Bradley's TOW missile against the T-80. Although not every hit was a kill, at least some Russians were dying. The scouts had the task of developing the situation as well as screening and buying time for the deployment of the remainder of the battalion. Lewis followed the orders being issued by the S-3 to the companies and watched as Smithson plotted the progress of the battalion. In another five minutes all the units would be in their assigned positions. The S-2 plotted the advance of the Soviets. The fire-support officer called out that artillery-fire missions were on the way.

Two of the battalion's own companies, reinforced with improved TOW vehicles, called ITVs, deployed on either side of the line of march they expected the Soviets to take. They formed a funnel that led into a tank company, a Kentucky National Guard unit, attached to the battalion. That company took up positions in the center, blocking the path of the onrushing Soviets. The fourth company of the battalion, held in the back of the center, stood ready to swing to either the left or the right, depending on how the Soviets reacted.

With nothing more to do for the moment, Lewis listened to the reports and watched Smithson and the S-2 plot the progress of the battle. The scouts continued to engage, drawing back slowly. Somehow the first report of a loss in the scout platoon passed unnoticed, until the number six listed as the number of operational Bradleys for the scouts was changed to a five.

It's begun, Lewis thought, the dying has begun. That the same thought had not occurred to him when the destruction of Soviet tanks had been reported was not unusual. After all, the scouts were killing tanks; the crews of the T-80 tanks had no faces, no names. The men in the scout Bradleys, however, were very real to Lewis. They were people who lived in Memphis with him.

They were the people he worked with, had gone to annual training with, dealt with on a daily basis. Sam Cane, a young teacher who taught Ed's youngest son, commanded one of the Bradleys in the scout platoon. Was Sam dead? Or was it Tim Wheaton, owner of the gas station just off the interstate exit, now a scout-squad leader? Was it his track that had been hit? The black grease-pencil figures on the chart next to the situation map translated into very real people. Real people whom Lewis knew.

Slowly the Soviets drew near. The scouts ceased fire and pulled away.

Now the companies, in their hasty defensive positions, began to report sighting the Soviets and their readiness to engage. The tension began to build again. Everyone waited, the silence broken only by the traffic over the artillery-fire-control net as artillery lieutenants with the companies requested fires and submitted corrections after observing the impact of adjustment rounds. All waited for the battle to be joined in earnest.

There was no doubt that the regiment had run into an American force of some size. The increasing tempo of artillery, and its accuracy, betrayed the fact that someone was watching and directing it upon the 3rd Battalion. Vorishnov, his head raised slightly out of the turret, saw no sign of more TOW-missile firings. That, however, was not comforting. It could only mean that the forward elements were finished and were pulling back to clear the way for the main body of the enemy force. Vorishnov wondered whether the Americans had been in defensive positions that were missed by the regimental recon or whether the battle developing was a bona fide meeting engagement in which the Americans now had the upper hand. The truth, however, did not matter at that moment. What did matter was that the battalion was again going into battle, regardless of how it had come about. Their orders were to find and fix the Americans. Once the situation had been developed, the tank battalion behind the 3rd would move to the left or the right to seek the Americans' flank. The quickest and most effective method of finding the enemy was to continue the attack. Once contact was reestablished, the battalion would turn and attack whoever did the firing.

The bright flash, the dazzling shower of sparks caused by the impact of a kinetic-energy round on a T-80, followed by the sharp crack of a tank cannon, told Vorishnov that they had found the enemy's main body. Just as the battalion began to reorient on the source of the tanks firing, it was hit by a wave of antitank guided missiles, artillery and artillery-delivered mines. In less than a minute, command and control vaporized as the attacking force was overwhelmed with superior firepower and with confusion.

Having nothing left to control but his tank, Vorishnov joined the battle.

With his hatch buttoned up, he searched for a target. In his sight, the flash of an American tank firing caught his eye. "Target tank! Traverse left." The gunner turned his control handle and searched for the target.

Vorishnov saw it first. The green image of a tank's turret was protruding above a mound, its gun pointed in another direction. "Target twelve o'clock. Fire!"

The gunner now saw what his commander saw, Lined his sight on the center of the target, depressed the laser range-finder button and waited for the system to input the data. When he was ready, he announced, "Firing!" and pulled the trigger.

The T-80 rolled on, its sights continuing to track the tank they had just engaged. In the distance a brilliant light cut through the obscuration kicked up by the firing of the gun. Vorishnov watched as a ball of fire rose into the black sky, casting long shadows on everything around. The American tank was dead.

Without waiting for its crew, the T-80's automatic loader was already preparing for the next engagement. The gun jerked into the loading position, slamming the breech open with a bang. The mechanical arm reached down and scooped up the next projectile and guided it into the breech.

Finished, the arm reached down and scooped up the powder bag, ramming it home behind the projectile. As his gunner searched for targets, Vorishnov watched the loading of the main gun, careful to stay out of the mechanical arm's path. It's too slow, he thought, too terribly slow.

Targets were now plentiful. Less than four hundred meters to their front an American Bradley appeared out of nowhere. As Vorishnov prepared to engage, the reports of the follow-on battalion could be heard over the regimental command net. He was not concerned with those reports, however. The regimental battle was no longer his. His battle had degenerated to a one-on-one contest: his tank against whatever crossed its path.

"Mike Four-four, this is Oscar Six-eight. I have negative contact with my one six. I am assuming command. Over." The tank-company commander was dead.

Lewis watched the situation board as he listened to the reports and the orders.

The S-3 responded without hesitation, "Oscar Sixeight, this is Mike Four-four. I roger your last transmission. What is your current situation? Over."

"Mike Four-four, this is Oscar Six-eight. Five tanks and two Bradleys left that I know of. Enemy tanks are now passing to-"

There was a break in the transmission, then a moment of silence while everyone waited for the XO of the tank company to continue. But he did not.

The S-3 tried to reestablish contact. "Oscar Six-eight, this is Mike Four-four. Say again all after enemy tanks passing. Over." There was no response. Odds were that the XO's tank had also been hit. God, Lewis thought, I don't even know that kid's name.

Reports were no longer clear, concise or, for the most part, even rendered.

The battalion-command net was now cluttered by a series of short, incomplete radio calls between the battalion commander, the S-3 and the surviving company commanders. When both the battalion commander and the S-3 failed to reestablish contact with the tank-company commander, they tried to contact the mech-team commander on the western flank.

That effort also failed. Assuming that both the company in the center and the one in the west were overrun, Alpha Company, the mech company in the rear, was ordered to swing to the left and cover that area. No doubt the enemy was attempting to blow through the battalion there.

That maneuver, completed in less than ten minutes, ran head on into the bypass effort of the follow-on Soviet battalion. The focus of the battle now shifted slightly to the west as Bradleys went to ground and disgorged their infantry, preparing to fight T-80s. Bravo Company, on the eastern side of the sector, was running out of targets. The battalion commander, seeing the same thing that Lewis did, ordered it to shift farther to the west, move behind Alpha Company and swing around to the north, heading off another Soviet bypass attempt. As with Alpha Company, Bravo ran into the Soviets in the dark as the battle continued to slide to the west.

Lewis watched and listened, wondering how much longer this could go on.

Smithson, ever attentive to the reports, kept wiping off the grease-pencil numbers on the battalion status board and entering a new, lower number.

Turning to the S-2, Lewis asked how much more the battalion could expect to encounter. The S-2 did not answer, merely shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Lewis understood. No one, neither the people on the ground nor the people in the TOC, could follow what was happening anymore. Whatever ability the battalion commander had to influence the battle had been lost when the last company was committed.

It was now up to the tank and Bradley commanders.

As they listened to the calls and the fragmented reports, Smithson stepped back and looked at the status board for a moment, then turned to Lewis.

"Let's hope this was worth it."

Lewis did not answer. He watched the figures change, each loss hitting him like a blow. No, it can't be, he thought. It isn't worth it.

The pilot of the AC-130 began to bring his huge aircraft to bear on their target. Called Spectar, the AC-130 carried three 20mm. mmiguns and a 75mm. automatic cannon. It was the modern version of Vietnam's

"Puff the Magic Dragon," grown bigger, more sophisticated and far deadlier. Slowly the pilot angled the plane over until they were flying along a shallow bank to the left. His eyes were on the projected sight to his left as he superimposed it over the target area. When he had done so, he held the aircraft steady for a second, making sure that all was aligned and correct before he announced his intent to fire.

From his position on the outer perimeter, Ilvanich listened to the drone of the propeller-driven aircraft above, wondering what it was doing and why it lingered so long over them. It sounded like a transport preparing to drop paratroopers. That, however, made no sense here. What was left of his regiment was already surrounded and under continuous fire from artillery, mortars and a steady stream of air strikes. Though no enemy ground attack had been launched in hours, there was no doubt that that would eventually happen, just as soon as the Americans had finished pounding the regiment into pulp. Having had its supply line cut, Ilvanich's regiment could no longer influence the battle, and the Americans knew it. They were therefore in no rush to waste any more manpower in eliminating the decimated Soviet regiment.

Firepower and air strikes would do the trick.

The air strikes were the regiment's greatest problem. The men had no cover, other than hastily dug foxholes. At first, they had been able to keep the enemy planes at a respectable distance with man-portable, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. These, however, were rapidly used up, and the Americans were quick to sense this. By late afternoon American ground-attack aircraft called Thunderbolts lazily flew over their positions, attacking anything that moved or appeared to be worthy of attack. Ilvanich sat helpless as he watched the evil-looking aircraft swoop down and fire 30mm. explosive rounds at individual foxholes. It was this sight more than anything else that convinced him that this time all was lost.

A sudden sharp ripping sound jerked Ilvanich's attention back to the strange aircraft flying overhead. From one point in the sky three solid streams of tracers stabbed through the darkness. Like great evil fingers the tracers searched out positions on the far side of the regiment's perimeter. For a moment he thought the Americans were using some type of laser or energy beam. The endless chain of explosions, however, told him that the aircraft was firing conventional miniguns.

Ilvanich stood up and watched, transfixed. Wherever the tracers touched the ground there was a maelstrom of explosions. It was as if God were reaching down with a giant hoe and methodically digging them out. Of all the instruments of death he had seen, this one was the most sinister and horrible.

Lieutenant Malovidov came running up from behind.

"What is that thing?"

Without taking his eyes from the horror unfolding before him, Ilvanich replied in a hushed, resigned manner, "That, Comrade Lieutenant, is the angel of death heralding the beginning of the end."

Malovidov, angry at the response and anxious for a reasonable answer, came around to Ilvanich's front and shouted at the senior lieutenant, "Damn you! What do we do? I'm tired of your shit. Tell me, what do we do?"

Ilvanich looked at the junior lieutenant and thought, What does he expect? We have come to the end of the 391 line. We die, you stupid bastard, that's what we do.

That thought did not bother Ilvanich. He had been ready to die for a long time. In fact, after Tabriz and the firing squad, he had actively sought an honorable death in battle. Only death could cleanse his troubled soul and wipe away the images of blood spattered on the courtyard wall, images that were burned into his mind, images that visited him nightly. Death, however, eluded him. While he stood there, the circling aircraft stopped firing.

Darkness and almost total silence returned to the battlefield as the American plane lumbered away to the south. Again death has cheated me, Ilvanich thought. There is little for me to do but continue.

Turning to Malovidov, he focused on the problem at hand. "No doubt, my friend, in a few moments the Americans are going to commence a heavy artillery bombardment, after which they will begin their long-awaited ground attacks."

"Can we hold them?"

"I have no intention of finding out, Lieutenant Malovidov. By the time they go over the top, I intend to be several kilometers away from here with as many men as we can get out."

In amazement. Malovidov asked, "We are leaving? We are running?"

"Yes, we are leaving. At least I am leaving with what is left of the company. Do you wish to stay and join your comrades over there?"

Ilvanich pointed to the side of the perimeter that had been raked by the American aircraft.

"No, I'll go. But Lvov, what about Lvov?"

"We take the bastard with us."

"What if he refuses?"

Ilvanich smiled. "So much the better. He will die a hero's death as we break out. Come, it will be light soon and there is much we must do."

The sudden hail of small-arms fire caught Duncan and his men off guard.

Instinctively they sought the protection that the bottom of their foxholes offered. After a few moments, the volume of fire began to drop. Duncan slowly raised his head and peered over the top. As he did so, the sound-powered phone leading from the platoon leader's foxhole buzzed. Duncan picked it up and yelled, "Duncan."

"What the hell are they doing?"

Duncan looked out of his foxhole again. The firing continued to subside.

"I think they're getting ready to pull out, Lieutenant."

"They're attacking?"

"No, just trying to break contact." Then a thought struck Duncan.

"Hey, Lieutenant, call the Old Man and tell him to let them out."

"What? You mean let them get away?"

"No, let them out in the open. Let the bastards get out of their holes and get them in the open where we can take them out. Beats the shit out of digging them from their holes."

The lieutenant thought about it for a moment before responding. "Yeah, that sounds good. Get the platoon ready to move while I talk to the CO."

Duncan gave his platoon leader a "Roger" and turned to Sergeant Hernandez.

"Get ready to move out. We're going to go hunting Commies."

The breakout had been easy, too easy. Ilvanich, along with half a dozen men, were taking up the rear, watching to see whether they were being followed. Malovidov was in the lead, moving the company toward a rock-strewn ridge three kilometers to the west. Between the two lieutenants the remnants of the 3rd Company struggled to carry their wounded comrades and keep up with the point element. Of all the men, only Lvov had protested. Calling Ilvanich a traitor and a coward, he had demanded that they remain in place. A sergeant offered to silence the captain for good.

Ilvanich, though tempted, ordered the sergeant to keep Lvov quiet but alive. The sergeant did so with great zeal, stuffing a dirty rag into the captain's mouth and binding him.

"Move it! Come on, let's go. Keep it moving." Duncan pushed and yelled and did everything but pick up and carry those who were dragging behind. Not that the men needed much urging. They were all as eager as he to get in front of the fleeing Russians and finish them.

After a quick study, Duncan and his platoon leader had figured out that the only place the Russians could go was to the west, where a rocky ridge offered them protection and where they could hide during the day before they began their trek north. After having done the same thing for a month, Duncan knew what to look for.

He was sure he was right. Now all they had to do was beat the Russians to the ridge and set up there, and they would have them in the open with no place to hide.

He stopped for a moment and looked to the east in the gathering light, then to the west. Less than a kilometer to go. A rifleman, panting and covered with sweat, came up behind him and paused. "Who told you to stop, soldier? Move your ass or Ivan will move it for ya."

The crack of small-arms fire and explosions of grenades at the front of the column startled Ilvanich. He turned and watched the company disperse and drop to the ground. Desperately the men scurried for whatever cover they could. There was not much. They were in the open, less than two hundred meters from the first line of rocks that would have meant safety. But those same rocks, instead of providing a hiding place for his men, concealed the enemy that was bringing effective fire down on them.

Dropping to his hands and knees, Ilvanich began to make his way forward.

His path was blocked by men trying to dig in with their helmets and by the bodies of those caught in the first volley. When his movement drew fire,

Ilvanich froze in place and hugged the ground. Although his face was pressed to the dirt, he could see one of his men crawl up behind the body of a fallen comrade, prop his rifle up over it and, using the body as cover, begin to return fire. The Americans soon located the soldier and began to concentrate their fire against him. Ilvanich listened in morbid fascination as bullets thudded into the body being used for cover. The soldier's lone stand lasted less than a minute. Ilvanich saw a stream of bullets from a machine gun climb up the body of the dead 394 soldier and hit the live soldier in the face, sending him sprawling.

This is madness, Ilvanich thought. He looked around. There were dead and wounded everywhere. The moans and screams of the wounded were momentarily drowned out by a sudden burst of fire and the explosion of a grenade.

Ilvanich decided there was nothing more to be gained from continuing the uneven contest. For a moment he considered grabbing his rifle and charging.

He would at last be able to end his nightmares in a manner befitting a soldier. But he hesitated. If he got up and charged, his men would follow.

And, like him, they would be cut down to no purpose. How easy it would be to end it now, he thought. I have wanted this. But not for them. I cannot do that to my men.

The sound of approaching helicopters in the distance finally convinced him the time had come. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a dirty white rag and stuck it into the muzzle of his AK. Yelling to his men to cease fire, he began to wave the white flag.

Duncan saw the flag as he sensed the slackening of return fire. For a moment, he wanted to ignore it. He wanted to continue firing. For the first time he and his men had the bastards pinned with nowhere to go.

Finally he had the chance to avenge his old platoon leader and all those they had left in their smashed positions on that day long ago.

This was his moment. He stopped firing, though, as did the rest of the platoon. Each man in his turn looked down at his enemy, now humbled and helpless. Whether it was out of mercy or a simple desire to stop the senseless killing, all firing stopped long before the platoon leader gave the order.

When all the men who could stand finally stood up, Ilvanich counted eleven men. A few others, including Junior Lieutenant Malovidov, were wounded and could not stand. As Ilvanich made his way forward, he saw Lvov, still strapped to the makeshift stretcher he: had been carried on. He was alive.

Ilvanich carefully moved over to the captain, watching the Americans as they 395 approached. When he reached Lvov, he knelt down and looked into his commander's eyes.

"Well, Comrade Captain, we have come to the end of the line. At least you have." With that, Ilvanich reached down into his boot and pulled out a knife. "You will finally be able to give your father, the great Party man, the only thing that will make him proud of you, death in battle. Goodbye, you miserable bastard."

Duncan watched from his position as the Russians began to stand and throw down their weapons. He ordered the 1st Squad to gather the prisoners while the 2nd Squad swept the area and checked the wounded and the dead. He stayed with the 3rd Squad, covering the other two. As he did so, the actions of one of the Russians caught his attention. He watched as the man, obviously an officer, went over to a wounded man on a stretcher. The

Russian bent, then knelt. For a moment, Duncan thought he was trying to help the man.

He was about to direct some men to help the Russian when he noticed a sudden glint of sunlight from a piece of metal the Russian pulled from his boot. The Russian then put it to the wounded man's throat. The bastard's pulled a knife! Without hesitation, Duncan brought his rifle up and fired a burst, hitting the Russian in the shoulder and knocking him backward. He watched for a moment until the Russian he had hit began to move. Two of Duncan's men ran over, grabbed the knife from the Russian and made him stand up. Duncan cursed himself. Shit, the bastard was only wounded.

The idea of killing one's wounded appalled Duncan. Animals, we're dealing with animals, he thought.

As the Americans marched Ilvanich off, he looked at Lvov, now being treated by an American medic. He shook his head. Lenin was right, he told himself.

There is no God.