At least the Air Force would be able to come back and level the place if his efforts didn’t do the job.
Satisfied that he had done his best, Hensly paused for a moment before leaving. He took out his pocketknife and pried the metal data plate off one of the containers. No doubt the
CIA
would be interested.
Seeing this, Ilvanich did likewise when Hensly was not looking. The
KGB
major would be proud of him.
When the two green star clusters streaked skyward, the platoons on the north and the south increased their rates of fire, then began to back off.
The platoon with Cerro withdrew outside the compound and took up positions two hundred meters from the outer perimeter. There they stayed in place, waiting for the demolitions to go off. Cerro, Hensly and Ilvanich watched and waited. Two machine guns and the mortars continued to sweep the compound in order to keep the Iranians pinned and away from the demolitions.
As they lay there and waited, Hensly asked, “By the way, has anyone considered which way the wind is blowing?”
Ilvanich asked why.
Hensly turned to the two lieutenants. “I hope you gentlemen realize that when that demolition goes off and starts cracking the protective shields of the plutonium containers, we could have a radioactive accident that will make Three Mile
Island seem like Disneyland.” llvanich turned to Cerro. “What is a three-mile island?”
Glumly, Cerro replied, “America’s Chernobyl.”
Any further discussion was cut off by the first blasts of the demolitions.
Hensly was on his feet first. “Let’s get the fuck out of Dodge!”
As they ran, Ilvanich called to Cerro, “Where is Dodge?”
Fifteen Kilometers Southwest of Robot-a Abgram, Iran 2035 Hours, 20 July (1705 Hours, 20 July,
GMT
)
The winds that day had been from the west. While the raiders were quite relieved, the Marines and the Soviet 89th Motorized Rifle Division in eastern Iran would experience a period of alarm and near-panic as radiac meters and Geiger counters registered the passing of the radiation cloud and the fallout.
The two lieutenants had agreed not to tell each other of their plans for extraction. With the mission over and the common goal met, there would always be the temptation to turn on the temporary ally. Once all were assembled at the well, Cerro and llvanich reorganized their companies. As
Ilvanich had been wounded and the American pickup zone was several kilometers away, Cerro let the Russians have the well. When the Americans prepared to depart at twilight on the twentieth, neither lieutenant knew how to bid the other farewell. As they stood facing each other, many thoughts raced through their minds. They were so much alike, had so much in common. Men who should have been friends under any other circumstances were returning to serve in the defense of people who would never know the horrors of battle or the trial of leadership in combat as they knew it. In the end, they simply said goodbye and saluted each other, before Cerro turned and walked away.
A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic.
-
JOSEPH
STALIN
Frankfurt-am-Main, Federal Republic of Germany 2130 Hours, 23 July (2030
Hours, 23 July,
GMT
)
The crowd at the Club was unusually heavy despite the fact that payday was still a week away. The lure of live showgirls and a discount on all drinks until nine o’clock that evening did wonders to bring the GIs out on a night cooled by a late-afternoon shower and a lingering drizzle. The Germans who owned the shops along the cobblestone street were long gone, tucked into their homes or visiting their own local Gasthaus. Only the American soldiers and “the ladies” populated the street in front of the Club, a local establishment that, if called a dive, would be giving it more class than it deserved.
To its patrons, however, it was where it was happening, at least for the moment. Inside, the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume, mixed with cigarette smoke and an occasional whiff of a controlled substance, permeated every nook and cranny. Dim lights hid the faces of most of the patrons from anyone more than a few feet away. The blare of music and the continuous chatter of numerous conversations were as numbing to the body as the beer the Club’s patrons drank and spilled. Except for small knots of friends here and there, most of the people there that night were strangers, people with nothing in common except the desire to escape the boredom of the barracks, training that of late seemed endless, and homesickness that no amount of beer could wash away.
A block down the street from the entrance to the Club, a nondescript Volkswagen van sat parked. Four men dressed as painters, with their black hair covered by hoods or hats, sat in the van. They said nothing. They only watched the Club in the van’s rearview mirrors and occasionally looked at their wristwatches. The man in the driver’s seat leaned back and tried to relax, but the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel told that he could not. They were tired, having spent the entire day working in the basement under the Club. To the casual observer, their presence should have been suspicious. But the Germans who lived on the street and the police who patrolled it were used to strange comings and goings because of the Club and the foreigners it attracted. It was obvious that the four men, probably Turkish workers earning money for families they had left behind, had nothing better to do.
As nine-thirty approached, the man seated next to the driver raised his arm for the last time and looked at his watch. When the sweep hand reached that time, he said in Farsi, “Now.”
The stillness of the night was shattered by a series of explosions that ripped through the Club. Balls of fire, followed by great sheets of flame, erupted from every window and door of the building. Fragments of glass and splinters from window and door frames flew in all directions, showering the street. Two American soldiers and a young
“lady” who had been talking in front of the Club were cut to ribbons.
In a second, all was silence again.
Only the hiss of the flames billowing out from every opening interrupted the stunned quiet that momentarily returned to the street.
The man next to the van driver turned away from the scene and muttered, “Allah be praised.” Then the van drove away.
Five Kilometers West of Harvand, Iran 0005 Hours, 24 July (2035 Hours, 23 July,
GMT
)
Like shadows, the ten figures moved slowly and silently among the rocks. The path they weaved doubled the distance they traveled but avoided positions defended by the enemy or areas under observation.
They were not interested in killing the enemy and didn’t bother to find out what was in each position. The leader of the small platoon had but one goal in mind, to get past the enemy without detection and back to friendly lines. Since 28 June, that goal had become an obsession with Sergeant First Class Duncan.
The closer to no-man’s-land they advanced, the more difficult it became to avoid the enemy. In the rear areas units are more spread out and less vigilant but this did not mean that Duncan and the survivors of the battle at Rafsanjan had it easy. Soviet patrols, on foot, mounted and heliborne, were constantly searching for guerrillas throughout their rear areas. By day they would sweep through suspected hideouts and at night set up ambushes along trails. The Iranians, both civilians and guerrillas, were also a constant threat. The civilians hid the guerrillas, fed them and supplied information. A sighting by civilians was almost as dangerous as one by the Soviets. Duncan had found this out the hard way after going through a small village one night. The next day their hideout was hit by group of Iranian guerrillas.
Contact with Soviets and Iranians was not completely avoided by the platoon. When commodities such as food, water and weapons were running short, Duncan would move closer to supply routes or track down Soviet installations. From carefully reconnoitered ambush sites, his men would wait for a small convoy or, even better, lone vehicles. Once the ambush was sprung, selected men would rush in, grab whatever they could that looked useful, and run like hell for the rally point. When Soviet
convoys appeared to be out of the question, Iranian villages were hit.
They were, after all, the enemy too. Besides, fresh fruit from the Iranians was a welcome change from canned Russian meat and bread.
These raids were not without cost. Eighteen men, including Duncan, had started out on 28 June. By 24 July there were only ten left. Some had been killed. As regrettable as that was, those killed outright presented no problems to the platoon. Duncan would simply take one of the dog tags, write in his little green notebook the time and circumstances of the death, and, if possible, bury the man. Duncan had no idea where they were and could not record the grave’s location. Nor could he mark it, for fear of leaving a trail that Soviets or Iranians could follow. Once they interred a friend in his lonely grave in a hostile land far from home, it was forever.
But wounded had always been a problem. As the platoon neared their goal,
Duncan reconsidered his decision to leave the seriously wounded behind.
Simple wounds that did not debilitate the man were patched up using a Russian medical kit. In those cases, infection, pain and loss of blood were the greatest concern. Duncan himself carried a grenade fragment in his left arm. It was the men who could not go on and would die without medical attention who had presented Duncan with his greatest leadership challenge.
The first time a man was seriously wounded, they tried to carry him with them. The wounded man did the best he could to keep quiet but soon became delirious from fever caused by unchecked infection. Without drugs or hope of saving him, Duncan had been forced to decide whether to abandon him and hope the Russians would find and care for him or to relieve the man’s misery himself.
For two days Duncan had put off that decision, until the platoon suffered another severe casualty. The agony he had experienced when he finally made the choice still haunted him. He recalled every detail, every footfall as they moved down close to the road, carrying their wounded. Mercifully, both men had been unconscious as a result of pain and infection. When the road was clear of traffic, the two wounded men were set on the shoulder. Duncan himself placed a stick with a white rag, held up by a pile of rocks, in the middle of the road and watched from a hidden position until the first
Soviet column came along. He had to satisfy himself that all would be well, that the wounded men would be recovered and cared for. It was not long before a column did show up. The lead vehicle stopped and dismounted troops to check out the flag and the area. They found the wounded. After checking to ensure that the wounded men were not bait for an ambush, the Russians loaded them on their vehicle. After that incident, two more men from the platoon had been left to the clemency of the enemy. Duncan was relieved, but not satisfied. He had abandoned his wounded, he could never forget that.
As hard as it was, he had to turn his mind to the immediate problem at hand. That their odyssey was near an end was hard to believe. After the battle at Rafsanjan, their life had been reduced to seemingly aimless wandering, constant hunger and the ever present threat of sudden death, or worse. To actually be in a position to end their ordeal, one way or the other, was welcomed.
The platoon faced two problems. First, they had to get past the Russians’ positions and through their kill zones without detection. As they were approaching the Russians from the rear and the Russians’
attention was focused mainly on the front, this would be, relatively speaking, the easy part. The hard part was getting through the American mine fields, kill zones and positions without being killed.
Duncan had no idea what unit’s sector they were going to enter, what the password was or even what the land looked like. They were going in blind. And if, while they were between the lines, someone accidentally started a firefight, both the Russians and the Americans in position, knowing they did not have anyone out there, would fire up Duncan’s platoon.
In single file they followed Duncan. He would creep along for several meters and stop, look and listen. When he was sure they had not been detected, he would decide which way to move and creep along another forty to fifty meters before stopping again. Progress was slow, but that was the safest, and only, way to do it.
The first serious obstacle they came across was a barrier of barbed wire.
Leaving the platoon behind, Duncan crawled up to it and checked it and the area around it. The wire was not the type used by the Army. It was Russian.
Worse, on the other side Duncan could see small dents in the ground. A mine field. That meant that they were at or near the very forward edge of the front lines. He had the choice of either low-crawling through the mine field or following the barbed wire until it ended. No doubt the Russians had the mine field covered by fire. By the same token, if the platoon tried to go around, they could just as easily run into a Russian fighting position covering the mine field.
Duncan rolled over on his back and stared at the sky. He was tired of making decisions. For the last twenty seven days he had had to not only live by his wits but lead others in and out of danger. His decisions had cost the lives of four men, maybe more if the Russians had killed the wounded.
Days of wandering and physical exertion, malnutrition, the stress of combat, the pressure of leadership, the agony of making life-or-death decisions, little rest and less hope had all worked to reduce Duncan’s effectiveness and ability to function. As he weighed the two alternatives, he wondered whether their efforts had been worth it and what value, if any, their wandering had had.
He rolled back onto his elbows and looked at the mine field again.
There was less than a quarter moon. He decided to go through the wire and the mine field. As it would be dawn soon, there was little time to find another way around. Besides, he was anxious to end it that night, one way or the other.