Sword Point

Chapter 1

A casual glance would have revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The sandy track running east to west disappeared into a pine forest, where it was lost from sight as it made a sharp L turn to the north. The tall grass and the branches of the trees were motionless in the stillness of the late afternoon. The only sign of life was the occasional lazy buzz of an insect flitting about. Sergeant First Class Donald Duncan and the men of the 1st

Platoon, B Company, 3rd Battalion, 503rd Infantry, had spent hours making sure that that was all anyone would see.

Only upon closer inspection of the tree line south of the track could the steel-blue barrels of several rifles and machine guns be seen protruding from concealed positions. Behind each weapon was a man, hunched down, his face distorted by camouflage paint, his battle-dress uniform, or BDUs, soaked in his own sweat. They lay there motionless, waiting for the signal to fire. That signal would come from one of two sources. The primary cue to fire was a booby trap on the trail. A smoke grenade with its pin removed had been placed back in its shipping tube in such a manner as to hold down the spoon that triggered it. A thin wire was attached to the grenade and stretched across the track six inches above the ground and tied to a tree on the other side.

Anyone walking down the track would be snarled in the wire, pulling the smoke grenade from its shipping tube and allowing the spoon to flip up and detonate the grenade. When that happened, everyone in the platoon would commence firing along his assigned sector of responsibility. If, for some unseen reason, the opposing force, or OP FOR did not trip the booby trap, the platoon leader would order the platoon to open fire.

The ensuing firefight would be short but bloodless. The men of both Duncan's platoon and the OP FOR-opposing force-were using MILES, short for "multiple integrated laser engagement system." Each weapon was tipped with a rectangular gray box which emitted a laser beam every time the weapon was fired. Every man, friendly or OP FOR had laser detectors on his helmet and webb gear that would detect the laser beam from another weapon. When this happened, a buzzer, also attached to each man's gear, would go off, telling him and his buddies that he was "dead." The use of MILES ensured that there would be no doubt who won and who lost, a far cry from the days when most training exercises degenerated into screaming matches of "I shot you" and

"No you didn't. "

Duncan watched the track from his position. Beside him was his platoon leader, a young second lieutenant of twenty-two who had been with the unit less than three weeks. This was the first time the lieutenant had been out on tactical training, and, as a result, he was nervous and fidgety. Duncan, a veteran of nine years' service and numerous second lieutenants, was a patient teacher. He had tactfully explained to his lieutenant everything the platoon was supposed to do and had walked him around, showing him what to check and look for. The lieutenant, visibly chafing to "take charge," wisely accepted Duncan's advice and coaching, asking many questions and mentally noting whom Duncan left on his own and whom he micromanaged. In time he would be running the show. But not today.

Waiting to spring an ambush is, at best, tedious and nerveracking. The frenzied activity of preparing the ambush and the fighting positions was followed by hours of lying in dirt and grass. The young soldiers, used to ceaseless banter and ear-splitting music, were required to maintain a high state of vigilance in silence and almost total isolation. The same cover and concealment that protected them from the enemy separated the men of the 1st Platoon from one another and from their leaders. Each man in the platoon was alone except for the man in the fighting position with him and perhaps the men in the positions immediately to their left and right. The urge to talk and keep each other company was countered by the need to remain silent so that the platoon's position would not be given away. Those who craved a cigarette were discouraged from smoking, because the point element advance party-of the OP FOR would be alert to the smell of cigarette smoke.

Each man's ordeal was made worse by the heat and the insects that populated the pine forest. Soaked from their exertions in preparing for the ambush and from the humidity, the soldiers had sweat rolling down them from every pore on their bodies. Even if there had been a breeze, it would have been unable to penetrate the pine forest. What sweat had evaporated left large white circles of encrusted-salt stains on everyone's BDUs. Sweat from their brows burned their eyes as it ran down and settled in their eye sockets.

But uncomfortable as this was, it did not compare to the annoyance of the insects. Bugs of every description buzzed about freely or crawled on the soldiers, biting exposed skin as they worked their way into the clothing.

Few of the men were able to fight the urge to swat and scratch-actions which, however, were mostly futile; efforts to kill or shoo the bugs seemed only to encourage them. These little annoyances did much to increase each man's desire for combat. At least when the OP FOR came, he would be able to lash out at someone, with tangible results.

Duncan's mind, wandering from one random thought to the next, was brought back to the problem at hand by a report from the platoon's forward security element, located one hundred meters down the trail.

Using a sound powered phone, they reported movement to their front.

Duncan's only instructions to them were, "Stay alert and keep me posted." He glanced at his watch. It was 1658 hours. Those shit-for-brains idiots really took their time, Duncan thought before he turned to his platoon leader and whispered, "Show time, Lieutenant."

Raising himself ever so slightly from his concealed position, Duncan signaled the squad leaders to get ready. There was a slight rustling as men readjusted their positions and prepared to engage the OP FOR In a few seconds all was again still. They were ready.

The first sign that told them the OP FOR was near was the crunching of sand beneath boots and the sound of someone scurrying about in the grass and the bushes. It was the OP FOR point element. Two men from the 2nd Platoon, the OP FOR for that day, were leapfrogging down the track in advance of their platoon's main body. Their job was to alert the rest to danger before the whole platoon became involved. The two-man point element worked its way slowly, in no hurry to "die." One man would over watch ready to cover by fire if necessary from one side of the track while the other dashed ten to twenty meters ahead to a new firing position in the bushes on the other side of the track. Both men would then scan the area, looking for signs of the enemy. When they were satisfied that all was clear, the man who had been over watching would get up and dash down the trail to a new position past his partner, who would now be over watching

Duncan watched the progress of the point element. The call light on the sound-powered phone signaled an incoming call. Duncan picked it up and whispered, "Duncan." It was the security element reporting the passing of the 2nd Platoon's main body. Duncan didn't reply. He settled down next to his lieutenant and whispered, "Two more minutes and they're in the bag."

From the machine-gun position to his left, the sudden beep-beep-beep of a digital watch announced that it was 1700 hours. Duncan, his eyes as wide as saucers, turned to the source of the noise, then back to the OP FOR point element. They had gone to ground, only the swaying of branches to show where they had disappeared. Duncan looked about, noticing that the call light of the sound powered phone was on. He picked up the phone and answered. The man on the other end announced that the 2nd Platoon was deploying on either side of the trail. The 1st Platoon's ambush had been blown.

Further reports from the security element were cut short by the popping of small-arms fire.

Without hesitation, Duncan turned to his lieutenant and shouted, "We've blown the ambush!" then yelled to the squad leaders, "Break contact and move to the rally point, now!" Without waiting for a response or needing one, Duncan grabbed the phone, yanked the wires from it and shouted to his platoon leader, "Let's go, Lieutenant, time to get out of here."

Under the control of their squad leaders, the 1st Platoon began to move.

The 2nd Platoon, however, was on top of them before they could make a clean getaway. A running gun battle resulted as the 1st Platoon attempted to get back to its rally point, where it would be picked up by helicopters. The 2nd Platoon tried to get around them and pin them.

As they dashed from tree to tree, Duncan grabbed the platoon leader and told him to take the 2nd and 3rd Squads while he tried to delay the 2nd Platoon with the 1st Squad. The platoon leader agreed, shouted out for the 2nd and 3rd Squads to continue to withdraw, and moved out. Duncan turned to look for Staff Sergeant

Hernandez, the squad leader for 1st Squad. He didn't see him or the assistant squad leader. Seeing no alternative, Duncan attempted to regain control of the situation. From his position, he yelled, "First Squad, rally on me!"

That was a mistake. Command and control of the platoon had been long since lost. No one knew where anyone else was in the thick pine forest. Instead of serving to rally the 1st Squad, Duncan's order served only to draw attention in his direction. Assuming a crouch, he turned to move to a position from which to set up a hasty defense.

Breaking out from between two trees, he suddenly found himself confronted by two men from the 2nd Platoon.

Instinctively, all three of them leveled their M16s and began to blast away.

Although he was able to get one of his attackers, Duncan also was hit, which caused his MILES buzzer to begin squawking in his left ear.

Disgusted, he straightened up to look about. The early evening stillness of the pine forest was shattered by the squawk of dozens of MILES buzzers and the tapering off of small-arms fire. A shout from the controller signaled the end of a fruitless day's effort. The 1st Platoon had been wiped out in less than ten minutes.

The predawn darkness covered the tank column like a cloak as it moved off the dirt road into its assembly area. Traffic regulators from the regiment directed the tanks into their assigned positions. The move went like clockwork, with the lead company moving forward and occupying positions in a shallow arch facing west. The next company in line peeled off and occupied a similar arch facing to the south, with its far-right tank making contact with the far-left tank of the first company. The third company did likewise, facing north and completing the circle by linking itself with the first two tank companies. In this manner, the 3rd Battalion of the 68th Tank Regiment cleared the main road and deployed with nothing more than a few quick motions from the faint flashlights of the traffic regulators.

Major Anatol Vorishnov brought his eight-wheeled BTR-60 armored personnel carrier to a halt in the lee of a huge boulder in the center of the circle created by the tanks. At a distance of fifty meters he could barely make out the image of the battalion commander's tank coming to a halt in a shallow depression. That pitiful attempt to seek cover served to remind

Vorishnov just how vulnerable the battalion was in this bleak mountainous region that the regiment was traveling through; more vulnerable to sudden attack than in open steppes like those around Kiev which were far more suitable for mechanized warfare. And there at least, thought Vorishnov, the dark earth and the lush green spring grass were more inviting and easier to live with.

As the driver shut the BTR down and the other staff officers piled out of the vehicle, Vorishnov mentally reviewed the upcoming operation, scheduled to commence in two hours. The 28th Combined Arms Army, consisting of three motorized rifle divisions and one tank division, the 33rd, to which the 68th Tank Regiment belonged, was to advance along a line from Jolia to

Marand, then to Tabriz-a total distance of over 270 kilometers. While no one expected any serious resistance from the rabble that the once proud Iranian Army had become, the division's line of march was through the Zagros mountain range along narrow, twisting valleys. Here a handful of fanatics could stop the most sophisticated weapons in the world with a few rocket launchers and a barrier. Reaching Tabriz wouldn't be the end of their difficulties; in fact, it wouldn't even be the halfway point. Not until they were near Tehran, over six hundred kilometers from their start point, would the 28th Combined Arms Army have some open terrain to maneuver in.

As selfish and unprofessional as the thought was, Vorishnov was thankful that the 33rd Tank Division would be following the motorized rifle divisions. The thought of being trapped in a narrow valley by an ambush sprung by crazed Muslims trying to become martyrs was terrifying to him.

Stories of such incidents in Afghanistan had been passed around by word of mouth from people who had been there. He glanced at his watch. Two more hours and it would all begin. With a little luck and a lot of help from Spetznetz commando teams, from the KGB, from Tudeh-the Iranian Communist Party-and from a couple of well-placed airborne assaults, the 28th Combined Arms Army would be overlooking the Strait of Hormuz in four weeks.

Or, Vorishnov thought, that's what the plan is.

Lieutenant General Francis Weir sat staring out the small window at the clouds below. Absentmindedly his fingers drummed upon the red-covered document labeled SECRET sitting on his lap. He still found it difficult to accept that he had just been ordered to move his entire corps from Fort Hood and Fort Polk to Iran and be prepared to conduct combat operations against

Soviet forces now massing to invade that country. The 10th Corps was tagged to go to NATO, not Southwest Asia. They didn't have plans covering any such contingency. That was supposed to be someone else's job. Yet less than three hours ago he had been told to forget about Europe and prepare his corps for deployment to the Persian Gulf.

The corps commander turned to the order and opened it to the page with the mission statement and read it again: 10th Corps will mobilize and deploy from home station to designated ports of embarkation (see Annex E), for movement to the Persian Gulf.

The U.S. Navy will transport 10th Corps to ports of debarkation (to be determined); 10th Corps will assemble and prepare to conduct combat operations against enemy forces in cooperation with other U.S. and allies' forces as directed.

Weir turned to the list of annexes. Next to Annex E was: "To be Published."

He closed the document and turned back to the window. Christ, he thought, not only can't they tell me yet where I'm leaving from or where I'm going to land, they don't even know who I'm supposed to fight. He turned to his operations officer. "Chris, did you get word back to Hood to have the corps orders group ready when we get back?"

"Yes, Sir. I talked to the chief of staff. He indicated that most of the staff and all of the division commanders were still there. Of course, we might not be able to get General Allen from Fort Polk there, but the chief said he will try."

Have you figured out what we're going to tell them when we get there?"

The operations officer thought for a moment. "Well, sir, other than what they told us in D.C." no, sir, I haven't. "

The corps commander considered that response. "Well, Chris, neither have I.

But don't worry, we still have another hour to pull something out of our ass that makes sense."

The operations officer didn't answer, watching as his commander turned back to the window and continued drumming on the order in his lap.

Without rising from his desk, Master Sergeant Jack Nesbitt covered the phone receiver and called out to his boss, the battalion S-3, "Major Dixon, the brigade three is on the line for you."

Dixon looked at his watch. He mumbled out loud to himself, "Shit!

That's all I need. Doesn't he know this is Friday?" Then to Sergeant Nesbitt,

"Tell him I'm not here, that I went home to play with my wife."

Nesbitt put the phone back to his ear and relayed the first part of the message, listened for a moment, then covered the receiver again. "No go, Major. He says it's very important."

Everything in the 25th Armored Division was important. The trick was to know what really was important. Dixon decided that Michaelski, the brigade S-3, wouldn't be calling this time of day on a Friday unless it really was important. He picked up the phone, "Dixon here. What's so hellfire important that it can't wait till Monday?"

"Tuesday, Scott. Don't forget this was going to be a three-day weekend."

"Yeah, I remember. And I intend to keep it a three day weekend. So what is it you want?"

"I just got a call from Division that we are to stand by to receive a warning order. No one seems to know what it's about or when this warning will be given. I do know that anyone who is on leave is to be recalled and that the corps commander was called to D.C. and is currently en route back with some kind of order."

Dixon straightened up and began to consider what the brigade S-3 was saying. "Are we having an emergency re deployment exercise?"

"No. I know that for sure. You're not due a re deployment exercise.

But that's about all I know. Whatever it is, the division orders group is on alert to be prepared to assemble in fifteen minutes, and the Old Man wants the brigade orders group ready to go once Division is done with him."

"So, no one knows anything except that everyone is to stand by. Are we initiating a full recall?"

"No one has said as much yet, Scott, but I would strongly advise you that you hang on to your staff and company commanders until we know what's going on for sure."

There was a pause before Dixon replied, "OK, Ralph, wilco. Just keep me posted. Colonel Childress isn't going to be thrilled about sitting around on a Friday evening waiting for Division."

After hanging up the phone, Dixon walked out to Nesbitt's desk.

"Sergeant Nesbitt, get hold of the company commanders and tell them not to leave for home until they get word from the CO. If they've left already, have the company CQs get them back in. Pass the same word around to the staff, including our people. I'll be in the colonel's office for a few minutes."

Without waiting for a response, Dixon headed down the hall toward the battalion commander's office, but stopped, turned and went back into his own office. He reached over his desk, picking up the phone receiver with one hand while hitting the preset button labeled HOME.

The colonel could wait another minute. Dixon needed to tell his wife not to hold dinner for him.

As luck would have it, Ed Lewis had no sooner closed and locked the door than the phone rang. He stood there for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and half turned, debating whether to forget it and walk away or go back in and answer it. From the car, his wife called for him to leave it. Lewis looked at the car, loaded with kids, camping gear and food. Three days' camping with a visit to the Grand Ole Opry was waiting for him. But wait it would.

He yelled to his wife to hang on a little longer while he answered the phone.

Put out by the untimely interruption, Lewis picked up the receiver and answered dejectedly with a simple "Hello."

"Ed, I'm glad I caught you." It was Colonel Franklin from State Headquarters. "I tried the armory, but no one was there. Is Hal still in town?" Hal was Harold R. Green, the commander of the 2nd Battalion, 354th Infantry (Mechanized), Tennessee National Guard.

"Yes, I believe he was going to stick around and catch up on some rest.

They've been dogging him kinda hard down at City Hall. What's up?"

"Ed, you've been federalized."

Lewis stood there for a moment dumbfounded. "Federalized? Me? What in the hell for?"

"Not just you, the whole battalion. Actually, the order doesn't go into effect until midnight tonight."

"A Presidential order?"

"They're the best kind, aren't they?"

Lewis did not appreciate the colonel's poor attempt at humor. "Christ, sir, what's going on?"

"I don't know, Ed. As soon as I have something, I'll let you know.

Until then, let's get the show on the road. Get your people moving and I'll start getting things ready from this end."

"Who do we work for, the state or the 25th Armored Division?" "Don't know, Ed. The order didn't say. It looked like someone simply copied the format out of the reg and sent it out without any additional instructions. Like I said, as soon as I have something, I'll pass it on. I have to go now, the Adjutant General just walked in."

Ed went to the front door, yelled to his wife to get the kids out of the car and ran up the stairs to change into his BDUs.

After a dash through the city, through two stop signs, one red light and three near-misses, Lewis made it to the armory. He parked his car, still loaded with camping gear, in the slot marked "Battalion XO."

Captain Tim Walters, the full-time training officer and assistant S-3 for the battalion, was already in his office, talking on the phone. Other people were also present, most still in civilian clothes. Lewis saw the operations NCO, Master Sergeant Kenneth Mayfree, and motioned for him to come over.

"Kenny, have we gotten hold of the Old Man yet?"

"No, sir. Tim tried his office, his home and City Hall. No one has seen him since midafternoon, and no one answers at home."

Lewis thought, Great, just great-the one time the stalwart of our community decides to slip out of town early for the weekend is the day someone decides to start World War Three. That last thought gave Lewis a sudden chill. Until that moment, he hadn't thought of war. His mind had been so busy trying to sort out what to do and whom to call that the reason for their being federalized wasn't given a second thought.

He looked around at the people in the armory moving about, going in and out of offices or talking on phones. They were all familiar to Lewis.

Not only had he been in the Guard with most of them for years, he had grown up with some of them and did business with many of them daily. At a glance, there seemed to be no difference from any night at the armory when the staff gathered for a short meeting or a weekend drill. But this was different. This wasn't going to be a short meeting or a drill. They were going to war.

That thought kept swimming around in his head as he went into his office and sat down at his desk. While millions of Americans were fleeing cities across the nation to enjoy the Memorial Day weekend, the 3rd Battalion, 354th Infantry, was going to war.

A small convoy of four long black Zil limousines raced through the deserted streets in the early-morning light. The General Secretary of the Communist

Party and the Foreign Minister, both fresh from the military airfield, were riding in the third car today. They, as well as other selected Party officials, had been "out of place," visiting other countries or at locations other than their normal duty positions. The General Secretary, having completed a visit to Finland, had been en route to a meeting with the

President of France when his aircraft was rerouted over East Germany back to Moscow. The Foreign Minister had been in Vienna, conferring with representatives of Israel on the matter of emigration of Soviet Jews.

He had left the Soviet Embassy in Vienna without notice and been whisked away on waiting Aeroflot liner. The two men had arrived at the military airfield outside Moscow within minutes of each other, satisfied that their part in the deception plan had been a success.

The General Secretary reclined in the backseat, his eyes closed but still awake. He was resting from his trip and preparing himself for the ordeal he knew they would all have to face shortly. It was important that he be able to portray the sincere, friendly image the Western news media had come to love, when he announced before the cameras that the Soviet Union had been forced to take military action to stabilize its southern borders. He knew that his story would not hold with those who knew the truth. It was not they whom he was interested in. It was the uninformed, the timid and those who favored "peace in our time," at any cost, that he wanted to sway. He had complete confidence that he could do so as he had done in the past.

Across from him, the Foreign Minister was less confident. He fidgeted with the hand loop hanging on the side of the limousine as he looked out the window with a blank stare. Hours of debate that had often degenerated into screaming matches had led to nought. The Foreign Minister knew they were making a serious error. Years of diplomacy were about to be washed away in an ill conceived military adventure of dubious value. He still could not understand how stupid and blind the other members of the Politburo were. They were opening Pandora's box, and only he saw it.

The General Secretary opened his eyes slightly and looked at the Foreign Minister. "You still do not believe we can succeed, do you?"

The Foreign Minister turned his blank stare to the General Secretary.

"Succeed? It all depends on what you consider to be a success. If we want to own a few thousand more square kilometers of sand and rock, we will succeed. If our goal is, as you say, to fulfill our national destiny and seize a warm-water port, we will succeed. If it is our goal to put a stranglehold on the West's oil supply, we will succeed.

But I ask you, Comrade, will the price be worth it? Will we ever be able to gain the confidence of the West again? Even if no one lifts a finger to stop us, which I doubt, what kind of arms race will this start and where will it end?"

Without moving or changing expression, the General Secretary replied,

"It would appear that I have selected a conservative for a Foreign Minister.

You have become, over these past few months, quite a spokesman for the "loyal' opposition."

The emphasis on "loyal" caused the Foreign Secretary's face to flush with anger. "I am, and always will be, a loyal Party member. It is my duty to show you the reality of the world, even when it goes against the conventional wisdom of the rest of the pack."

Still showing no emotion, the General Secretary continued, "No one doubts your loyalty to the Party or me. You must, however, see that the time for debate is over. We are committed. You know as well as I that it is useless to have power and not use it. Our Party and our nation depend on the continuous and measured exercise of power. The world respects, and fears, our power. No one would respect a toothless bear. The day we become too timid to use it will be the end of the Soviet Union. We will decay from within and without. Besides, the West has short memory. The securing of Eastern Europe was a matter of great concern in 1948 and an accepted fact by 1960. Afghanistan was seen as a threat to world peace in 1979 and forgotten by the time we signed the INF Treaty in 1987. No, I see great gains with little to lose."

The Foreign Secretary did not respond. He merely turned back to the window and looked at the buildings that raced by, buildings that held fellow countrymen unaware that in a matter of minutes they would be at war again.

The road that ran from Herat in Afghanistan to Mashhad in Iran really didn't deserve the title of 'road. As he lay on the sand dune, peering through his binoculars, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Kurpov considered the road for a moment. He had seen, and traveled, many bad roads in his three years as a member of the 89th Reconnaissance Battalion. This road, however, had to be the worst. While the tracked vehicles could travel it with no problems, he wondered how well the supply trucks would be able to hold up. Everything the 89th Motorized Rifle Division would need during the operation they were about to launch would have to travel down that road. No doubt, the road would claim many a truck.

Unfortunately, the road was better than what the division would eventually have to depend upon for a supply route. Once into Iran, the 89th MRD would advance twenty kilometers to Kariz, then strike southwest for Birjand, 155 kilometers to the southwest across desert, with dirt roads and goat trails the division's only link with the rear.

It was the job of Kurpov's scout-car platoon to find the best goat trails and mark them for the 208th Motorized Rifle Regiment that would follow him on the division's western axis. The other scout-car platoon of the company would do the same thing to the east, leading the 209th MRR. If at all possible, the division commander wanted to keep the division on two different axes of advance. Kurpov had his doubts as to whether they could do that. There just weren't that many decent roads or trails.

Movement to Kurpov's left interrupted his thoughts. He turned to watch three BMP infantry-fighting vehicles from the battalion's BMP company creep forward up the spine of a low ridge into firing positions. Four more square, squat BMPs sat just off the road, engines idling, in a wadi. The squeaking of sprockets and tracks and the rumble of the BMPs' engines cut through the predawn quiet. To Kurpov, the noise was enough to wake the dead.

He turned and looked at the Iranian border post again to see whether the guards had also heard the noise. The two Iranians who had been on duty for the last two hours were still there, in the same positions they had assumed when they relieved their comrades. One was leaning up against the side of the building, arms folded and rifle slung over his shoulder. The second was sitting in a chair at the pole barrier with his rifle across his lap and his head hanging. Kurpov was sure they were asleep. He looked up from his binoculars back to the BMPs moving into position. They were ready. A quick glance at his watch showed there were only two minutes left. He turned his body toward the BMPs in the wadi. With a red-filtered flashlight, Kurpov signaled to the commander of the BMPs-two short flashes, which meant that the Iranians did not appear to be alert. The commander waved back in acknowledgment.

His role finished for the moment, Kurpov looked beyond the BMPs in the wadi, toward the east. Although he couldn't see a thing, he knew that there were over twelve thousand men and thousands of tracked and wheeled vehicles hidden in wadis and behind sand dunes, ready to rush forward into enemy territory. Just as the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, the chatter of three machine guns, followed by the boom of a BMP's 73mm. main gun, split the dawn silence. Kurpov swung back around and looked toward the border post in time to see the first 73mm. round hit the building. He put the binoculars up to his eyes and searched for the two border guards who had been on duty. A bright-red splotch was on the wall of the building where the one guard had been leaning. The guard who had been in the chair at the pole barrier had been knocked over backward and was sprawled across the road. Other Iranians began to rush out of the building, only to be cut down in a hail of machine-gun fire.

The four BMPs in the wadi revved their engine and rolled out onto either side of the road. Once on line, they began to fire their machine guns.

Though not as accurate as the BMPs that were firing from the stationary positions, they appeared to be more threatening as they moved forward.

Two more Iranians came out of the building-now enveloped in flames-with their hands up. But their gestures were ignored as all seven BMPs turned their machine guns on them.

Kurpov let his binoculars drop slowly. For a moment, he took in the whole scene before him. The BMPs were now passing the burning building. As they went by, the two nearest the building turned their turrets toward it and sprayed it with machine-gun fire. The bodies of a dozen Iranians lay strewn about, cut down before they had had a chance to fire a single round.

So, this is war. Kurpov held that thought as he scrambled down the sand dune to his BRDM reconnaissance vehicle.

The conference room was slowly filling with commanders and staff officers of the St. with Brigade, so called be cause of the stand its heraldic predecessor had made at Saint-with, Belgium, against overwhelming odds during World War II. The brigade executive officer stood at the front of the room giving last-minute directions to the enlisted men setting up the room, while mentally taking note of who was still missing from the orders group.

As his eyes swept the room, they stopped when he came to the brigade assistant intelligence officer off to the side, going over briefing notes.

The intelligence officer, or S-2, could not be contacted, off camping somewhere. Ordinarily this situation would have been chalked up to poor timing or bad luck and left to the assistant to handle. But both the brigade commander and the executive officer had serious reservations about the ability of this assistant S-2, First Lieutenant Matthews-who not only was new to the staff, recently transferred from the 10th Corps G-2 section, but was the first female officer to serve on the brigade staff.

Despite years of equal-opportunity training and the slow evolutionary change of the character of the U.S. Army, the XO was ill at ease having Lieutenant Matthews on the staff. At five foot seven, Amanda Matthews had a figure that looked good even in her baggy BDUs. Her short blond hair framed a face that could only be described as stunning. The XO thought how terribly out of place she seemed. In a few minutes they would be talking about war, a real war that was going on as they sat there. A war that they were preparing to join. One tour in the closing days of Vietnam had shown the XO what war could do to people, mentally as well as physically. In his mind, he could not picture Lieutenant Matthews in battle. At home, yes.

Modeling on Madison Avenue, yes. Crawling along a ditch, under fire, in some Godforsaken country, no. Lieutenant Matthews looked up at that moment and met his eyes. The XO felt himself blush, then turned away to continue his check of who was still missing.

Lieutenant Matthews paused for a moment and continued to stare at the XO. She knew what was going on in his mind: Is she good enough to do the job? How well will she hold up when the shit really hits the fan?..

Nothing changed. Every time she came into a unit, from 20 her first day at West Point to her assignments at Fort Hood, she had had to fight the same attitude. At least in the past she had not been the first or the only female officer in the unit. This assignment, however, was different. Since coming down to the brigade, she had been treated with the respect due an officer but not the confidence or trust that was accorded to the other junior staff officers. She had been warned by friends of hers on the staff of the 25th Armored Division that the brigade commander and the S-2 had fought tool and nail against her assignment. They had even stated that it was better to leave the position open rather than put a female in a tactical headquarters that would operate as far forward as the brigade would. In the end, the division commander had told the brigade commander to shut up and accept her. This he did, but reluctantly and with barely concealed hostility.

She had been warned it was not going to be easy. She felt, however, as if she were starting with two strikes against her.

Feeling rage slowly building, Lieutenant Matthews turned her thoughts away from her plight and to the notes she had for the briefing. She knew she was ready, having spent most of the previous night at corps G-2 reviewing every bit of information coming in on Soviet activities and Iranian reactions.

She had rummaged through the files, dragging out every old intelligence report and study on the area that she could find. Her preparation even included a trip to the post library, where she had pulled everything she could find on Iran, from National Geographic articles to area study books.

Maps of Iran were at a premium that day on Fort Hood. Everyone wanted one.

That's where having friends in the right place paid off. The 2nd Brigade was probably the only brigade in the corps that had a full range of maps not only of Iran but of the Gulf states and the southern USSR.

With the XO's announcement "Gentlemen, the brigade commander," the briefing began. After being introduced by the XO, Lieutenant Matthews began her briefing with an overview of the topography and demographics of Iran. "Iran lies on a large plateau bordered in the south by the Persian Gulf, in the north by the Caspian Sea and the Soviet Union, in the west by Turkey and Iraq, and in the east by Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Major terrain features are the Zagros Mountains that start in the northwest and run southwest, parallel with the Iraqi border, to the Persian Gulf. The second major mountain range, the Elburz Mountains, also starts in the northwest but runs almost due east, where it ends just short of Afghanistan.

In the center of the country, between the two mountain ranges, are two large deserts, the Dasht-e-Kavir, or Great Salt Desert, in the north and the Dasht-e-Lut to the south. Dasht is a word used for the gravel slopes that surround the kavir, a salt crust that covers marshes of black mud.

As the crust is easily broken, many parts of these deserts remain unexplored.

Iran's oil reserves are concentrated in the southwest near the Iraqi border, and offshore in the Persian Gulf.

"Less than fourteen percent of the country receives over fifty-two percent of the annual rainfall. This is mostly in the northwest, in the area that runs from Tehran to the Soviet and Turkish borders. Even though the land is quite mountainous, it is in this region, in the valleys, that the majority of the population and agriculture is located. Temperatures range from below the freezing point during the winter to a high of one hundred thirty two degrees in the summer, but there are parts of the Elburz Mountains where snow never disappears."

Lieutenant Matthews stopped for a moment while her NCO changed maps to show population densities and divisions. She looked at both the brigade commander and the XO to see whether they were tracking the briefing. The XO gave her a nod of approval.

"Last estimates place the population at approximately thirty-five million.

Because of the growth rate and the generally poor quality of the medical care, the population is an extremely young one, with a median age in the low twenties. While the majority of the population in the central region is

Persian with Indo-European origins, there are several minorities. The most important of these are the Turkomans in the northwest, who are interrelated with other members of this group in both Turkey and the Soviet Union; the Kurds in the west, who are related to compatriots in Iraq; and the Baluchis in the southeast, who are related to the Baluchis in

Pakistan. Ninety-eight percent of the population is Muslim. Iran is the only country in the world where the majority of the population is Shiite. Only among the Kurds, Baluchis, Turkomans and Arabs living in the country does the Sunni Muslim belief predominate."

She paused again while her NCO put up a new map, one showing the symbols of military units. The brigade commander was busily writing notes on small three-by five cards. The XO, with a faint smile of approval, nodded for her to continue.

"The first impression that the current invasion by the Soviets is a bolt out of the blue is incorrect." She paused for a moment and watched the brigade commander noticeably straighten up with a quizzical look on his face.

"Are you trying to tell me, Lieutenant, that we knew about this?"

Without flinching, Matthews continued, "Apparently the Central Intelligence

Agency, the National Security Agency and the Defense Intelligence Agency each were collecting data on the modernization and buildup of Soviet forces in the area but passed it off as either routine modernization or preparation for the rotation or reinforcement of forces in Afghanistan. The

Soviets have maintained a normal level of activities in all other areas of the world, especially in Europe, where they have already begun their semiannual rotation of recruits. As a result of this normality, there was an insufficient increase in intelligence indicators to warrant an increase in the Watchcon level." Again Lieutenant Matthews paused for a moment to let this last bit of information sink in before proceeding.

"The current Soviet offensive appears to be following the same basic plan as its 1941 invasion of Iran, with a few new twists, these primarily being amphibious landings along the Caspian Sea here at Bandar-a Anzali and Astaneh and airborne assaults reported at Khvoy, Tabriz and Rasht. Major ground forces in the northeast include one combined-arms army moving along an axis from Jolia 23 to Tabriz through the Zagros Mountains and a second combined-arms army moving along the coastal plain of the Caspian Sea. A third army of unknown composition is in reserve south of Baku. In the northeast, a corps sized element is moving west along an axis from KizylArvat to Gorgan, with a second corps-sized element moving south from Ashkabad to Quchan. Several other divisions are assembling farther inside the Soviet Union, here at Nebit-Dag and Mary. In the east a single motorized rifle division has been identified moving along an axis west from Herat in Afghanistan to, probably, Mashhad. Current intelligence gathered from several sources, including monitoring of official Iranian news agencies, indicates that the Soviet invasion came as a complete surprise to the Iranians. Only token resistance is being met by the Soviets. With the majority of Iran's forces involved in active fighting against the Iraqis, and in view of the country's lack of mobile reserves, the Soviets will meet little in the way of organized resistance for at least the next five to seven days, maybe longer."

Lieutenant Matthews paused to allow the commander to study the map showing the activity she had just described. When he was comfortable with the information, he nodded for her to continue.

"A preliminary analysis brings out three major points. The first clearly indicates that Tehran is the offensive's initial objective.

Seizure of the northwest, the coast of the Caspian Sea and Tehran will place the majority of the population, agriculture and industry of Iran under Soviet control.

This would leave only two other worthwhile objectives: the oilfields in the southwest and control of the Strait of Hormuz in the south. The second point is that the USSR is using relatively small forces along established lines of communication. Although it does have a large number of forces in the Transcaucasus region, they are being held in place to serve either as a threat to Turkey or as a second echelon.

There is insufficient information at this time to confirm either theory. This could also mean that the USSR's objectives are limited to the seizure of Tehran or that it is being careful not to shove more forces into the country than can be supplied.

"The final point, and perhaps the most important to us, is the fact that the Soviets have taken no other actions anywhere else in the world to increase their state of readiness. An intelligence summary released to 10th Corps earlier this morning from the DIA concluded that it appears to be the

Soviets' intent to keep the conflict localized to Iran. In fact, Soviet ambassadors in all NATO countries had scheduled appointments with the heads of those countries within an hour of the invasion to present the Soviets' position and explanation."

At this point, the brigade commander interrupted. "It's going to take one hell of a line of BS to turn this stunt into a lily-white crusade to save humanity." For the first time there was laughter in the room.

Turning to Lieutenant Matthews, he asked, "Amanda, do you have anything else?"

For a moment, Lieutenant Matthews was in shock. This was the first time since she had come to the brigade that the brigade commander had called her by her first name. She simply replied, "No, sir."

"That was a good briefing, thank you."

As she went to take her seat, the XO gave her a nod of approval. She was part of the team.

The captain finished making the rounds of the positions occupied by his paratroopers. All was in order. Brought in by helicopter in the predawn darkness, the airborne company had had no problem overwhelming the Iranians who were supposed to man the positions now filled by his men. Four months of training, rehearsals and preparation for this single operation had paid off.

At the cost of one man wounded and a sprained ankle sustained during the debarkation from the helicopters, the airborne company had taken out forty-five Iranians. There were, of course, no prisoners. The plan did not allow for the holding of prisoners.

Standing on the edge of a cliff, the captain looked down at the unending column of tanks, armored personnel carriers and trucks of the 28th Combined Arms Army passing below him. With the seizure of the Daradiz Pass, no defenses or major obstacles stood between the 28th CAA and Marand. The 28th would easily make its initial objective on schedule.

All was in order. Carefully, the captain limped back from the edge.

With nothing more to do for a while, he finally had time to find a nice comfortable spot where he could sit down and tend to his sprained ankle.