Sword Point

by Harold Coyle

  Boleylev stormed into the control room, out of breath and yelling, "Fire, damn it, fire!" just as the first U.S.made Harpoon missile slammed into the Gorki just above the waterline.

  Bandar Abbas 1107 Hours, 16 June (0737 Hours, 16 June, GMT)

  The C-141 was coming into Bandar Abbas low over the Persian Gulf as instructed. Aboard it, Major General Edgar Thorton, commanding general of the 12th Infantry Division (Light), was miffed. The General wanted to make a grand entrance into Iran. Skipping over the water like a stone seemed undignified somehow. At least he had taken the precaution of sending his chief of staff and the division's public-affairs officer, or PAO, with the advance party to ensure that all would be ready when "Condor Six," as Thorton was called, came walking down the ramp into the war.

  The greeting Condor Six got was far from the one that he had planned for.

  As he walked down the ramp of the C-141 onto the runway, what he saw was an MP lieutenant and two hummers with machine guns mounted and manned. The 12th Division's band, the PAO and his photographers and the special honor guard with the division's colors were not there. Thorton stopped midway down the ramp and let out a stream of obscenities. Refusing to continue, he ordered his aide to find out from the MP lieutenant what was going on and why the reception for the division was not ready.

  Dutifully, the aide trotted down the ramp, spoke to the MP lieutenant and trotted back up to his general's side to report. The MP lieutenant, according to the aide, knew nothing of the planned reception, had no idea where the 12th Division's chief of staff was and had orders to take the General to meet with the corps commander without delay.

  Thorton swore loudly. Totally put out by the failure of his people to do as they had been told, he was in no mood to hop into a hummer with a second-lieutenant messenger boy and miss the chance of a lifetime. The first units of his division were due to arrive momentarily. He intended to greet them with full honors, a speech and a review of troops. He began to issue a string of orders. His aide was sent to find a photographer from somewhere. A major was sent with the MP lieutenant to find out what the corps commander wanted.

  Another officer was instructed to begin marshaling the soldiers of the division into ranks as they deplaned and to find a suitable place from which the General could address them when they were assembled. The 12th Infantry Division was going to march into Iran and be greeted by the division commander in a manner befitting the occasion.

  The preparations for the General's greeting to his troops were interrupted by a pair of hummers that came careening across the airstrip and stopped in front of the ad-hoc reviewing stand. Thorton was beside himself with rage until he saw the deputy commander of the 13th Airborne Corps get out of the lead hummer. As if he had flipped a switch, Thorton's face changed from anger to a broad grin, and he walked over to greet the deputy commander, extending his hand.

  Instead of accepting the hand, the deputy blurted, "Thorton, what in hell do you think you're doing? The corps commander is waiting for you and is fit to be tied."

  Thorton stopped. Obviously the people at Corps were in a foul mood.

  Continuing to grin, he tried to put the best possible light on the subject.

  "Gee, Tom, I sent one of my people to find out what the corps commander wanted while I stayed to greet my people as they came in."

  "Don't give me that crap," the deputy said. "You ignored the commander's instructions so that you could stay here and put on your Hollywood production. Don't you know there's a fucking war going on?"

  The deputy had gone too far, had hit too near the mark. Thorton changed expressions and went over to the attack. "Yeah, I know there's a war on.

  And the division that's going to take care of those camel herders is coming in and is going to receive an appropriate welcome. The Muslim rag heads can wait another hour before we make them martyrs." The deputy looked at Thorton for a moment before he continued.

  "Obviously, General, you don't understand what's going on. We're no longer concerned with the Iranians.

  It's the Russians we're concerned with now. Since this morning we have been at war with the Soviet Union. Now get off your high fucking horse and get in the hummer. The corps commander is waiting."

  Thorton was dumbfounded. He had had no idea that the Soviets were now fighting the United States. Without further ado, he followed the deputy and headed off to see his commander.

  Memphis, Tennessee 0237 Hours CST, 16 June (0837 Hours, 16 June, GMT)

  Like most of the men in the 2nd Battalion of the 354th Infantry, Ed Lewis had taken advantage of the three-day break they had before departing for

  Iran to visit his family and say goodbye properly. He was almost sorry he had. The situation at home was very strained. Everyone, including Lewis himself, was trying hard to make believe that this was nothing more than another training exercise. No one talked about Iran or Lewis' impending departure. This pretense made everyone even more uncomfortable and on edge.

  Each night Lewis' wife would lie next to him awake, unable to settle down.

  When she thought he was asleep, she would get up and go into their bathroom and cry. Lewis heard her tonight, but said nothing. When she finally calmed herself and returned to bed, he rolled over and put his arm around her.

  With her emotions vented, and comforted by her husband, she drifted off to sleep. When she had done so, Lewis got up carefully and went downstairs to watch the news on the cable network, something that he didn't do when his wife was awake, for fear of upsetting her.

  The news of the U.S.S. Franklin and the retaliations by aircraft from the Hornet against Soviet warships in the Indian Ocean did not surprise Lewis, disturbing though it was. A confrontation had been inevitable.

  Everyone had expected it. In fact, now that it had happened, things seemed clearer, easier.

  What did disturb Lewis the most was that while he watched satellite films of the Franklin burning, while men were dying thousands of miles away, the news program was interrupted by commercials for a product to shrink swollen hemorrhoids and for a new improved panty shield to protect ladies' underwear. The new war, obviously, wasn't interfering with the pressing demands of life in the United States.

  Chapter 8

  Logistics is the ball and chain of armored warfare.

  — HEINZ GUDERIAN

  Fort Hood Officers' Club 2150 Hours, 24 June (0350 Hours, 25 June, GMT)

  When the farewell ball for the brigade had been proposed by the wife of the brigade commander, it had seemed like a good idea-at least to her and to some of the other older wives. True, no one was sure of what proper etiquette demanded when it came to sending one's spouse to war.

  The last war that anyone had any experience with had been Vietnam. But that war had been far different for the wives, who had seen their husbands go to war one at time except in a few rare cases. They remembered it as a very lonely and personal affair. It was because of this that the older wives pushed for the ball. It would give them a last night together before the two groups, the husbands and the wives, parted and dealt with their own little wars.

  The commencement of hostilities between the U.S. and the Soviet Union had acted like a wet blanket on the entire affair. While it had been disquieting to imagine one's spouse going to war against the Iranians, it was even more so now that the Russians were actually shooting at Americans. The more realistic wives said that it had been inevitable, some even claiming it had been planned. But even the most cynical had hoped that somehow that conflict could be avoided. There had always been the hope that this crisis would blow over and go away.

  The latest news reports coming from Southwest Asia crushed those hopes, however, on a daily basis. First there was the commitment of the 17th Airborne Division, followed by strong resistance from the Iranians and by mounting casualties. The sinking of the U.S.S. Franklin and the Gorki began a cycle of retaliation and escalation.

  Air battles between American and Soviet planes over the Iranian desert and combat at sea h
ad 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.