Air battles between American and Soviet planes over the Iranian desert and combat at sea had become daily features of the news. There was no doubt that once U.S. and Soviet forces met on the ground, they would do so with drawn knives and with blood in their eyes.
The ball was already degenerating by ten in the evening. Husbands and wives who desired to spend as much time as possible alone with each other or their families were already bidding good night to their commanders and their commanders’ wives. The bachelors had rallied around the bars and were preparing to move down to the pub to continue the party. A few couples danced, while others sat at tables cluttered with glasses and coffee cups and talked about everything but the war.
Scott and Fay Dixon sat with some of the other officers of the 3rd Battalion of the 4th Armor and their wives. The wives talked about the children and other subjects while the men listened to them or conducted encrypted conversations among themselves. Dixon sat to one side watching the whole affair with a cynical eye as he slowly got himself drunk. Fay had been so busy that she had not noticed how much he was putting away. No doubt there would be hell to pay once she found out.
She never did approve of drinking to excess, especially since it usually made Dixon sick.
Dixon watched a group of young officers from the battalion at one of the bars. In the middle of them was First Lieutenant Randy Capell, the battalion’s scout-platoon leader. Capell was, for the most part, a good officer. Technically proficient, he handled his platoon well. On the debit side, Capell had a tendency to be impetuous to the point of recklessness and self-assured to the point of arrogance. While in moderation those were good qualities for scout-platoon leader, Dixon would have preferred a slightly more timid man leading the battalion’s scouts. He had spent a great deal of time with
Capell trying hard to train him in his duties and what was expected of the scouts. Given a little more time, Capell would do well. But time, as Dixon knew, was a commodity he didn’t have.
At that moment, Capell appeared to be doing quite well with Lieutenant
Amanda Matthews, the assistant brigade S-2. The two were obviously quite tipsy and becoming far more intimate than protocol normally permitted.
Dixon thought about that for a moment as he watched Capell run his free hand down Matthews’ side, letting it come to rest on her hip. She simply smiled and drew closer. At the rate they were going, it wouldn’t surprise
Dixon one bit if Capell screwed her right there.
With that thought in mind, Dixon turned and looked at his wife. She was talking to the battalion XO’s wife and ignoring him. He turned, placed his hand on her knee and ran it up her thigh. This sudden and unexpected contact startled her, causing her to jump and turn. Then she slapped his hand and scolded him as if he were a little boy, “Scott Dixon, you behave.”
Dixon leaned forward, running his hand up higher on her thigh and said, so that all at the table could hear, “I don’t want to behave, that’s no fun.”
Fay blushed and turned to the others at the table to apologize for his behavior. She was cut off, however, by Dixon announcing to them, in slightly slurred voice, “Now, if you ladies and gentlemen will excuse us, my wife and I are going home to reenact the consummation of our marriage.”
Without waiting for a response or saying another word, he stood up and dragged his red-faced wife away by the hand as she finished apologizing, halfheartedly now, for her husband’s behavior. In truth, she hoped that Scott wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t deliver on his promise.
Amanda Matthews was enjoying herself. She had met Randy Capell at the club one night during an evening “stress reduction” session. The two had talked for a while but nothing more. A few nights later they had met again by accident and had dinner together. Matthews found herself drawn to Capell.
He was tall and solidly built, with a physique that suggested great power, yet he carried himself with an easy grace. His sandy blond hair and blue eyes were soft and inviting. He was the image of what a soldier should be-a warrior. He was also brash, self-confident, boastful and, on occasion, crude. In short, Capell was all those things that a modern woman was supposed to disdain in a man. Yet Amanda found that those traits were enjoyable and exciting.
When she saw Capell at the ball she decided to find out how interested in her he was. But rather than charge forth, she decided to charm him.
Not sure how an officer went about seducing another officer, Matthews started by making sure she was sufficiently conspicuous at her unit’s table that she and Capell could make eye contact. At first, Capell was so engrossed in his conversation with other people at his table that he didn’t notice her.
In desperation, she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. On her way back to her table she took a roundabout way that let her pass right behind Capell and brush against him. It worked. He turned, his face showing anger at first until he saw who it was. Matthews stopped, put her hand on
Capell’s shoulder, leaned over and apologized. Capell turned to face her, putting his hand on hers while they talked. His touch sent a warm, tingling surge through her. She felt herself blush as she stood there staring into
Capell’s soft blue eyes. When she finally told him she needed to get back to her table, her speech was faltering and barely audible.
As she walked back she felt embarrassed and happy. Embarrassed that she was acting like a schoolgirl who had a crush on a boy for the first time, and happy that she had gotten his attention. She wasn’t sure, however, whether he was interested or not. Throughout the rest of the meal the two exchanged glances. When the formal part of the evening was over, Matthews forced Capell to make the first move by restraining herself from bounding up and rushing over to him. When he stood and began to approach, she beamed with a childish glee, proud that she had succeeded and excited about the prospects that the night held. She hadn’t felt the way she did since her high-school prom. That thought caused her to wish she were wearing something more feminine. The occasion called for a sleek, low-cut black gown, with bare shoulders and slit skirt, not her dress-blue uniform.
That bothered her until they danced for the first time. Capell crossed the room and asked if she would like to dance. Matthews, trying hard to conceal her excitement, simply answered, “Yes, I’d love to.” The two started at a respectable and proper distance that didn’t last long.
Matthews drew closer to Capell, looked into his eyes, then rested her head on his shoulder. As they danced, she felt Capell become aroused, and her own excitement increased. She turned her face toward his and smiled. In response, he leaned over and kissed her.
For a brief moment they stood still, lost in the passion of the moment.
Then slowly their lips parted, and they began to sway to the rhythm of the music again. With his arms around her, she put her head back on his shoulder and followed his lead, letting herself relax and enjoy the moment.
She had no doubt where the night would lead them and eagerly looked forward to it.
Major Percy Jones watched the couples dance while he sat in his own little corner and quietly got drunk. After two years with the 25th Armored
Division, the British officer still had difficulty accepting the large number of women the American Army had in its ranks. It just didn’t seem proper. The two young lieutenants, however, seemed perfectly at ease dancing with each other. The blond female intelligence officer, a striking beauty by any measure, was quite competent and professional.
Jones had worked with her on several occasions and, despite 141 his prejudices, had come to depend on the intelligence products she developed. Still, it didn’t seem quite proper.
As they disappeared into the middle of the group that was dancing, his thoughts returned to his own plight. Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to terminate his assignment to the corps staff and return to the 7th
Royal Tank Regiment. This failure had hit home when he and several other officers from the corps staff flew to Britain for a liaison visit with the
British 33rd Armored Brigade, to which his regiment belonged. The regimental mess had been alive with young officers eager to have a go at the Iranians. The older officers, while doubting the wisdom of the commitment the British government had made, were, in their own way, just as eager to get on with it. Though everyone was friendly, Jones, for the first time in his life, did not feel at home in the mess where his father’s picture hung in a place reserved for the regiment’s most honored members.
After one visit to the mess, he avoided it for the rest of the trip, spending his time alone in his room instead. And now the American unit he had worked with for so long was also going and he was staying behind with the corps staff. Eventually he would make it over to Iran, but not for some time. This last indignity was almost too much to bear.
As the anger within him began to build, he stood up. This action served only to show how drunk he was as he staggered forward uncontrollably and bumped into a table, sending half-filled glasses and cups flying. A couple passing him stopped, the young captain asking whether he needed any help.
Jones waved him on, with muddled thanks. He looked around the room, trying to regain his balance and composure. Well, as usual, Sarah was right, he told himself. It was a bloody stupid idea to come here tonight. Best crawl back to my little hole before I make a complete ass of myself. With that thought, Jones began to carefully pick his way between the tables in search of his wife.
Despite his best efforts, Dixon could not make the room stop spinning.
He lay in the dark for another minute, sweating, trying desperately to keep what little he had left in his stomach, but decided that he wouldn’t succeed. Without a moment to lose, he threw the sheets off and dashed for the bathroom, arriving at the toilet seconds before the first wave of nausea crested.
He knelt there before the great porcelain bowl for what seemed like an eternity. What a hell of a way to spend my last night at home-that thought and a stream of obscenities passed through Dixon’s muddled mind. When he was sure he was finished, he stood up and went to the sink, looking into the mirror as he brushed his teeth and took some aspirin. The face that he saw looked like death warmed over. Well, at least the outside matches the inside, he thought. When he was through, he turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom.
Only the sound of the air-conditioner broke the stillness. He crossed the room, carefully avoiding the clothes and shoes that had been discarded carelessly about the room in a rush of passion. When he reached the bed, he paused for a moment and looked down at his wife. In the faint light he could see her naked body curled up before him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but didn’t for fear of waking her.
She looked too peaceful and lovely to disturb. Instead, he pulled the sheet up and covered her before turning away.
Stumbling toward the closet, Dixon groped about until he found some running shorts. He pulled them on and left the bedroom, closing the door carefully so as not to awaken Fay, then plodded down the hall toward the kids’ room.
Exercising even greater care than before, Dixon picked his way through a maze of toys strewn about the floor until he reached the bunk bed where his two sons slept. As he had with Fay, he covered them and looked at each of the boys for a moment. In turn, he reached out and stroked his fingers through their hair. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought how much he would miss them, wondering when he would see them again.
Robat-a Abgram, Iran 0830 Hours, 25 June (0500 Hours, 25 June,
GMT
) The physicist leaned against the building and looked out across the desert.
Even in the shade he was sweating as he smoked his second cigarette in a row. This was the first break that he had allowed himself since late the night before. He needed it. No doubt it would be the last for a while. The
Air Force colonel was pushing him to complete the first device as soon as possible. The physicist and his team were working almost around the clock, under primitive conditions and with few capable helpers, in an effort to meet the joint demands of the holy men and the military to deliver functional nuclear devices. Surprisingly, for the first time the physicist finally was able to announce with certainty that he would be able to do so.
After having run several tests, he and his small team had a functional triggering system. Early that morning they had completed a test with a full-scale model containing everything but the plutonium. It had worked. All that remained was to assemble the entire device and put it into a deliverable package. That task would be completed within two weeks, three at the outside. After that, it was in the hands of the colonel and Allah.
The motivation of the colonel bothered him. At one moment, the colonel appeared to be against the project, doing everything in his power to delay it. The next moment, he would turn around and breathe fire in an effort to speed it up. Whom, the physicist wondered, was he working for? Was he still loyal to the Shah and part of the resistance? Was he Tudeh, attempting to delay development until the Russians finally caught them? Or was he simply like the rest of them, torn between their loyalties and common sense, and praying that Allah, in his infinite wisdom, would show them the way?
The physicist considered that for a moment as he watched members of the
Revolutionary Guard patrol the area. His thoughts then turned to the more practical problems at hand. How would the colonel deliver the device?
Because of the bulkiness and the odd shape, a missile or a rocket was out. Hiding it in a truck and driving it to the target was too risky. Only a plane could penetrate enemy lines and get the device to its intended target quickly and in good shape. But the device was not a bomb that could be dropped. There were no provisions for that. No doubt it would be a one-way trip for a group of young religious zealots anxious to achieve martyrdom in a most spectacular manner. A two-megaton explosion would serve their needs well.