Sword Point

by Harold Coyle

  Chapter 15

  Leadership is intangible, and therefore no weapon ever designed can replace it.

  — GENERAL OMAR BRADLEY

  Moscow, Headquarters, STAVKA 0845 Hours, 13 July (0545 Hours, 13 July, GMT)

  Deep in the bowels of the building that served as the Red Army's nerve center, a captain by the name of Dubask sat at a small desk overcrowded with papers and photos. He was hunched over, studying the latest glut of satellite photos. On one corner of the desk was a pile of photos awaiting his review. They had long since swamped the in box, flopping over onto his desk. He had little time to examine each in detail. For his task, however, he did not need much time. Unlike most of the other photo analysts in his section, Dubask was looking for a specific target. He could therefore ignore anything that did not fit his target criteria. He noted in very general terms items of interest he stumbled across, but left the detail analysis to someone else.

  The target he was interested in seemed at first as though it would be simple to locate. He had to find a base camp with manufacturing facilities.

  The KGB major who had briefed Dubask stressed continuously the importance of pinpointing this facility, though no reason was given. Nor was one expected. You did not ask questions unless you really had to.

  The simple task, however, became frustrating. Dubask was amazed at the number of villages there were in the areas that were officially labeled uninhabited. It took him several days to confirm that most were in fact permanent settlements. His next problem was sorting out the roving bands of Iranian partisans. Once the permanent settlements had been tagged, he concentrated on these groups. Clearing them from the clutter took over a week as Dubask tagged each group and checked for them over the next several days.

  If they moved, he stopped worrying about that area and reduced his list of likely targets. He didn't even bother with the numerous photos showing small groups, some as small as ten people, wandering about the great expanses of Iran. In Dubask's section, any group that numbered fewer than twenty-five people was considered tactically insignificant and was not reported. There was too much that needed to be reported to waste time on such a small number of people.

  On this particular day Dubask came across two photos that caught his attention. The first was of an area in the Dasht-a Lut near a place called Robat-a Abgram. Several days before, when an early-morning photo dated 9 July showed a number of trucks gathered there in a compound of several buildings, he had marked that area as one that needed to be watched.

  The photos of 8 and 10 July had shown no vehicles present. Digging back, he found that in earlier analyses of the area he had discounted the compound as being a permanent settlement and had scratched it from his list. The unaccounted-for appearance of trucks, however, was out of the norm. He had not seen trucks at any of the other settlements, the Iranians having been reduced to animals and foot for transportation. Dubask began to watch that area with greater interest, alerting his superior that Robat-a Abgram was a possible target.

  The second item of interest, though not falling within his target criteria, was also sufficiently significant to warrant alerting his superior. In the southeast corner of the Dasht-a Lut he came across a large number of armored vehicles. A quick check showed that they did not belong to the 89th Motorized Rifle Division, the unit responsible for that area of the front.

  The American unit opposing the 89th MRD was the 6th U.S. Marine Division, unit that did not possess large armored formations. The sudden appearance of these vehicles was out of the norm.

  Dubask's first reaction was to pass the photo off to someone else, with a simple note on it, as he had done with another such photo on 9 July, the day he found the trucks at Robat-a Abgram. On that day he had come across a photo that showed large numbers of armored vehicles moving north around the eastern flank of the 28th Combined Arms Army. Dubask had thought this odd and important, but it was not his concern. He had already noted the trucks at Robat-a Abgram and wanted to go back and study that photo more closely. Dubask therefore placed a note on the photo and dropped it into an out box behind him. There it sat for an hour, until a runner making his rounds came by, emptied the out box and dumped the photo and the note into another overfilled in box on another analyst's desk. Somewhere in the process, the note and the photo became separated.

  It was not until the tenth that Dubask made the connection between the disaster that befell the 28th CAA and the photo of the armor column he had looked at but passed on. All day on the tenth and the eleventh he sat at his desk, fearing that someone would find out that he had seen the photo but had taken no action. He feared what might happen to him and his family when it was found that he could have alerted STAVKA to the threat to the 28th CAA's flank. But no one said anything or even broached the subject.

  From his desk he watched the routine continue unabated. Every hour a new glut of photos was distributed on the stack of unviewed photos already in the in boxes of the analysts in the section. Dubask's error went undetected.

  Dubask finally satisfied himself that nothing would ever happen.

  Everyone was too overwhelmed worrying about what was about to happen and did not have time to go back and try to figure out what had happened. Free of his unfounded fears, he began to concentrate on his immediate task, sorting through the stack before him, looking for the latest photos of Robat-a Abgram. He had already made two serious errors, discounting Robat-a Abgram the first time and the 9 July photo showing the U.S. armored column. They had been costly. Dubask doubted he would be as lucky a third time.

  Northwest of Chah-a Qeyser 1915 Hours, 13 July (1545 Hours, 13 July, GMT)

  The sun had already dipped below the western horizon when Staff Sergeant Hernandez woke his platoon leader, Sergeant First Class Duncan.

  Hernandez and three other men of the I st Platoon were completing their four-hour tour of guard duty. This did not mean, however, that they were finished for the day. On the contrary. Since they had escaped being annihilated with the rest of the battalion at Rafsanjan, Duncarrand his men had been operating exclusively at night.

  By day the platoon went to ground, concealed in the nooks and crannies of the wadis and draws that cut through the Iranian wilderness like unhealed scars. It was only at night, hiding under the cloak of darkness, that they came out like the other desert predators. Their sole purpose in life since the twenty-eighth of June had been survival.

  They moved south in the forlorn hope of eventually finding friendly forces. Making it back was only a hope-a dim, flickering light at the end of along, dark and dangerous tunnel. The more immediate tasks of escaping detection and finding sufficient food were the reality of the day, two problems that constantly loomed before each of the men with Duncan.

  Simply put, these two tasks were in direct conflict with each other. On one hand, in order to live the men had to avoid being detected by the Soviet patrols searching for such ragtag collections of men. Besides the Russians, Iranian bands also roamed the desert looking for unwary infidels, Americans and Russians alike. On the other hand, Duncan and his men had to hit either the Soviets or the Iranians to secure food, water, weapons and medicine. The trick was to find isolated groups or small convoys moving around at night, sneak up on them and hit them hard, fast and without mercy. They could not afford to take prisoners, who would only compound Duncan's problems. By being selective about whom they hit and backing off from questionable confrontations, Duncan and his men had managed to survive two weeks and put many miles between themselves and their start point.

  As Duncan passed from sleep to consciousness, his first reaction was to tighten his grip on the Kalashnikov assault rifle that lay at his side.

  He had picked the Russian rifle up one night to replace his own M-16 when the platoon became short of 5.56mm. ammo. Hernandez watched this and calmed his platoon leader's fears. "Nothin' happening, Sarge. Just sunset."

  Duncan raised his head and turned slowly. Around him he could see the rest of the platoon being rousted o
ut of their cubbyholes by Specialist Four Thorton, one of Hernandez's men. Duncan turned back to Hernandez.

  "What's for supper?"

  Faking an Oriental accent, Hernandez said, smiling, "Oh, no problem, GI. fix you right up, chop chop." He reached into a wide fatigue-pants pocket, pulled out a clump of foil and offered it to Duncan. "I got just the ticket for you, GI. Number one. Fresh five months ago."

  Duncan sat up and accepted the clump of foil. He looked it over before unwrapping it. When he began to peel away the foil, he did so with great care, not wanting to lose a single crumb. The prize in the center was a chunk of black bread. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have tossed it away. These, however, were not ordinary circumstances. Duncan knew that the chunk of bread, captured four days ago in the ambush of alone Soviet truck broken down on the side of the road, represented his entire evening meal.

  As he inspected it, he decided that the fuzzy green mold growing on it had to go, starvation or not. He reached into one of his ammo pouches and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. As he carefully cut away the offending mold, he talked to Hernandez, the second man in the platoon's chain of command.

  "Everyone else get something to eat?"

  Using his normal conversational voice, Hernandez replied, "Roger that, Boss. Thorton's passing out the last of the rations as he goes along."

  Finishing his carving, Duncan held the bread up before his face at arm's length and inspected his dinner one more time. "I hope they fared better than I did." With that he stuck it into his mouth, tore a chunk off with effort and began to chew, talking as he ate. "Well, looks like it's time to go grocery shopping. What do you feel like tonight? More Russian, or should we try the local cuisine again?"

  Hernandez made a face. "Fuck that Iranian shit. I've seen maggots turn down better food than what the Iranians eat. It's no wonder these people are so pissed at the whole world. If I had to eat their food all the time, I'd have a grudge, too."

  "Beggars can't be choosers. If we can't find a good target on the road by midnight, we go into the nearest village and grab what we can. We don't have the time to sit around and wait for the Soviets to send us a mess truck."

  Hernandez shook his head from side to side. "I don't like going into those villages, Sarge. The last time we did that it took two days to shake those rag heads We're asking for trouble screwing with 'em, if you ask me."

  Duncan turned serious. "I didn't ask you. And in case you haven't caught on, every time we hit a Russian convoy, we get visits from a pair of attack helicopters for the next twenty-four hours. Either way you split it, we're up shit's creek. We go for what we can deal with and run like hell. One way or the other I'm going to get this platoon back." The two men looked at each other for a few moments before Duncan continued. "You know the drill. Lineup and inspection in ten minutes. Get on it, Sergeant."

  Hernandez left without saying a word. What could he say? Duncan was right.

  Duncan was always right.

  As Duncan finished his bread, he dug a plastic bag from one of his pockets with his free hand. He took off the elastic band wrapped around it and pulled out a small dog-eared green army note pad and a pencil. Setting the pad on his leg, he began to write. Since their escape into the desert, he had been keeping a log of the platoon's activities. Each evening Duncan recorded the situation, his plans for the night and his observations on the morale and conduct of the men under his command. Every morning he would summarize the activities of the platoon and describe the land they had traversed, what they had seen and the status of men, weapons, ammunition and food. His comments were terse, often incomplete and at times nothing more than random thoughts scribbled by a hand being driven by a tired and frustrated mind.

  What the log did provide was a history of the platoon and its wanderings.

  Duncan held few illusions about their ultimate fate. They had started with eighteen men on 28 June. On this day there were only thirteen men left with him. Two were dead-one killed outright in an ambush by Iranians and the second during a strafing run by a Soviet attack helicopter. Two men had been severely wounded. Though Duncan had tried to bring them along, the effort slowed the platoon and exposed the wounded men to death from infection and lack of medical care. Both had been left near the road in the hope that they would be found by the Russians and treated humanely as prisoners of war. The fifth man Duncan had lost was missing, unaccounted for. One morning the platoon had settled into hiding with all men present, but that evening Hernandez woke Duncan to report that Private Slatter was missing.

  Sometime during the day Slatter had up and wandered off on his own. The platoon stayed in place that night in the hope that he would return.

  He didn't. Nor did he return the next day. With great reluctance, Duncan left the area where they had lost Slatter, never knowing what had happened or why.

  This disturbed Duncan-not knowing. This concern for knowing and giving others the chance to know was what motivated him to record what they did.

  If fate dealt them a bad hand and the platoon was wiped out, the story of their wanderings would be preserved. Duncan hoped that someone would find the log and see it for what it was. Perhaps the Russians would even turn the green notebook over to someone in the International Red Cross. For all the propaganda, Duncan knew that the Russians were, in reality, people. The Iranians, on the other hand, were fanatics.

  Religious fanatics, yes. But a fanatic is still a fanatic and as such is totally insensible to anything or anyone not conforming to his narrow way of thinking. If the green book fell into the hands of the Iranians and was destroyed, it would mean that the platoon lost more than their lives-they would lose their souls. This Duncan feared more than death.

  Watching his men, Duncan gathered his thoughts before he started to write.

  When he was ready, he jotted down the night's entry.

  13 July. Nothing to report. Day was quiet. No Soviet patrols or Iranians spotted. Last of the food gone. Tonight we move down to the road and hit the Russians. Need to pick up more Russian weapons and ammo. Only three men have M-16s left and each of them are down to 60 rounds of 5.56. Targets have to be soft tonight, only have one LAW and 2 RPG rounds. If we do not find a good target by midnight, we will go into town and take whatever we need from the locals. Don't want to do this. The bastards chased us the last time we hit them and damned near caught us. Only going to do so if needed.

  Duncan Hernandez waited until Duncan had finished writing before announcing that the platoon was ready for inspection. Of all the men in the platoon, only Hernandez and Sergeant Younger knew of the green book and its purpose.

  Both NCOs were under orders from Duncan to recover the book and keep the record going as long as they could if he went down.

  Each night before the last ray of light faded and they moved out, Duncan inspected his platoon, checking the men, their weapons and the pitiful remains of their equipment. In spite of the desperateness of their plight, the grim reality of their chances of survival and their deterioration due to fatigue and approaching malnutrition, Duncan demanded discipline. His nightly inspections 288 were a method of reminding the men that they were soldiers. As he stepped in front of each man, Duncan looked him in the eye, searching for his deepest thoughts, gauging his will and ability to go on. He looked for doubts and fear. Usually he spoke to each one softly as he snapped the man's weapon from his hands and inspected it for cleanliness and proper function. After handing the weapon back, he gave the man a once-over, adjusting gear and equipment, judging each man's load as he did so to ensure that everyone carried a fair share. Though some of the men griped to Hernandez about the daily inspection, they stood and were inspected. They were, after all, soldiers, regardless of their plight and situation. Duncan used every opportunity to remind them of that fact.

  As the last hint of daylight left the sky, Hernandez and another man took point duty and moved out. Duncan waited a few moments, then led the rest of the men out. Younger took up the rear. As always, they moved s
outh, five meters between men, weapons at the ready. In an hour Hernandez would angle over to the southeast toward the road in search of an ambush site. With a little luck, the platoon would find an easy mark, be able to hit it and be alive in the morning to enjoy a full meal of Russian rations. Regardless of luck, they would be a little closer to friendly lines, wherever they were, in the morning. The pursuit of survival, like their trek, dragged on.

  On the Southern Edge of the Dasht-a Lut 1945 Hours, 13 July (1615 Hours, 13 July, GMT)

  The lead BRDM recon vehicle and the BMP moved off into the distance.

  Kurpov watched them with detached interest. His three-vehicle platoon was in pursuit of an other phantom. An image on a photo had no doubt caught someone's attention and he had decided it was a danger. An intelligence estimate had been sent down to Front Headquarters, where it was decided that action was needed. From there, orders had been passed to Army, Army had issued their own orders, and Division had done the same. Kurpov leaned down and told his driver to move out, the final order in the long chain.

  Kurpov's mission was to locate an enemy armored column that had been reported moving north. Despite the dearth of fuel, a reinforced battalion was being dispatched to deal with the threat. The commander of the 89th Motorized Rifle Division did not want to let the enemy get deep into his rear areas, as had happened to the 28th Combined Arms Army. Had aircraft been available, the threat would have been dealt with from the sky.

  Everything that could fly, however, had been diverted to the west to keep a bad situation from getting worse. The 89th MRD, long since relegated to last priority in everything, had even less.

  Kurpov followed the progress of his lead element and checked off their location on his map as they moved south. He had not been surprised by the order to move out. For over three weeks they had done nothing but spar with the American Marines across a front stretching from the Pakistan border to the Dasht-a Lut. The battles had been small, violent affairs fought by units numbering fewer than five hundred in most cases. Both they and the Americans in the eastern sector were spread thin, responsible for far more ground than could be properly patrolled, let alone defended. The result was a strange frontier war in which the opponents made sudden thrusts to seize key terrain features or destroy isolated outposts. The thrusts were normally met with a counterattack from either air or ground forces. The fighting never lasted for more than a day and resulted in few changes other than in the number of soldiers left on each side. It did not take Kurpov long to figure out that the 89th MRD and the American Marines were engaged in a sideshow, a battle that wouldn't influence the final outcome of the war. This, however, didn't change the fact that men fought just as hard and the losers were just as dead.