Sword Point

by Harold Coyle

  Above the din of the helicopter's engines and the roar of the storm, the pilot yelled to Ilvanich, "Comrade Lieutenant, we are going down!"

  The sudden announcement galvanized Ilvanich. He undid his seat belt and moved up behind the pilot. "What do you mean, we are going down? Are we crashing?"

  The pilot was fighting with the controls and peering into the impenetrable sandstorm and darkness. Sweat from exertion and fear covered his face. He answered in a harried manner, "The dust is clogging the engines and the entire system. There are warning lights coming on all over." With a sweep of his hand, he showed Ilvanich a half-dozen flashing red lights on the instrument panel. "Either we land now, while we still have control, or we crash in five minutes."

  Ilvanich looked at his watch. "How far to the landing zone?"

  Without hesitation, the pilot responded, "Fifteen minutes."

  "No, kilometers. How many kilometers?"

  "Oh, sorry." The pilot looked at his instruments and thought for a moment.

  "Fifty kilometers."

  "That's too far. You must get us closer. Keep going as long as you can before you put it down."

  The pilot protested, "if I wait too long, the engine will seize up and the helicopter will never fly again. We must land now." Angry, Ilvanich leaned closer to the pilot's ear. "The hell with your helicopter. What happens to it is unimportant. You must get us closer. Do you understand?"

  The pilot, his face grim with fear and concentration, nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, Comrade Lieutenant, we will do the best we can. Now go back and strap in, just in case."

  Fifteen Kilometers Southwest of Robot-a Abgram, Iran 0610 Hours, 18 July (0240 Hours, 18 July, GMT)

  The smell of burnt flesh and rubber permeated the area. The wreckage of a Soviet M-8 transport helicopter sat just inside the patch of green vegetation that surrounded the well. The bodies of its crew and passengers were sprawled about the wreckage. Only one survivor, a major, apparently overlooked by the attackers in the darkness and confusion, had been found.

  Unfortunately, he was severely wounded and could not, or would not, speak English. While the company medics tended to him, Second Lieutenants Cerro and Kinsley, followed by Lieutenant Commander Hensly, USN." checked out the area. They decided that most of the Russians had been out of the helicopter when it was hit. The discovery of an expended LAW antitank-rocket-launcher tube and small piles of 5.56mm. rounds left no doubt who had hit the Russians as they were disembarking.

  Cerro walked up to the helicopter, looked around, then kicked it and let out a string of curses. To date, the whole operation had been plagued with problems. One of the C130 transports that had been loaded on for the jump blew an engine, requiring some of Cerro's company, overburdened with parachutes, weapons and ammunition, to off load and move to a backup plane while the rest waited. When they were all set, they were put on a weather hold-a sandstorm had suddenly cropped up in the area of the drop zone.

  After they finally did take off and then made their jump, they found themselves five kilometers from the intended drop zone. As a fitting conclusion to the string of mishaps, the Special Forces team and the pro-U.S. Iranians were not at the well when Cerro's company arrived. Instead of finding them, the company found a smoldering Soviet helicopter and dead bodies, left by the Special Forces team.

  Hensly waited for a minute before he asked the question that was on everyone's mind. When Cerro had gotten over his fit, Hensly said as nonchalantly as he could, "Well, I suppose this puts an end to this operation."

  Cerro replied, "No bullshit, sir. Unless you happen to know where the place is, how many troops are there, how they're deployed, how many buildings there are and a few other minor details, this operation is officially over."

  Hensly was more surprised than upset. "Didn't they tell you anything?"

  With a sneer, Cerro shot back, "Yeah, bring lots of ammo and be on time. The green beanies were going to brief us on all the details once we got here." Looking up at the twisted tail boom of the M-8, he mused, "Guess they had everything figured out except for these yahoos. Wonder what they were after."

  "Could be a routine patrol or a strike force looking for our friends the snake eaters and their friendly rag heads Maybe they were after the same thing we're here for."

  Cerro looked at his platoon leader and laughed. "Now, wouldn't that be a trip. Both we and the Reds chasing a bunch of Irans with the Device." Both Cerro and Kinsley laughed.

  Hensly, picking through the wreckage, called out, "That, gentlemen, may be right on the money."

  "Come on, Commander. Do you know what the odds of that happening are?"

  "Before you put your money where your big mouth is, Lieutenant, come over here and look at this."

  Their curiosity aroused, Cerro and Kinsley walked over to where the lieutenant commander was picking through what appeared to be a tool bag.

  Without looking up, he asked, "You know that bag of special instruments I carry around?" He picked up a spanner and several other tools. "Look familiar, don't they?"

  Cerro stared at the tools, then at the helicopter. "I'll be damned."

  Hensly stood up and looked Cerro in the eye. "We'll all be damned if the Iranians pull off what I think they're after. Lieutenant Cerro, you're in command of the ground operation. I'm here only as a technician to identify anything we find and tell the Army what to blow up. I cannot order you to continue the mission. God knows, we've had enough bad luck as it is. But if we fail, and the Iranians do have another Device that they manage to set off, a lot of people are going to die. And that dying may not be confined to this country."

  The two lieutenants thought about that. "You mean that the Russians might think we set the bomb off and retaliate?" Kinsley asked.

  "Or, Lieutenant," Hensly replied, "it could be the other way around. Both the U.S. and the Soviet Union have a policy of retaliation in kind. Once we start popping nukes, who knows where it will end."

  For a long time the three officers stood there, looking at the burned tool bag and one another. Cerro finally broke the silence. "Well, I guess it's decided. We go for it. Now, anyone got any bright ideas on how we're going to do it?"

  Kinsley asked, "What about the Commie major? Maybe he can help us?"

  Cerro looked at Hensly, then at Kinsley. "Right. You've been reading too many spy novels." He scanned the wreckage and the bodies one more time, then turned back to Hensly. "Well, standing here isn't getting us anywhere. How about some lunch, Commander?"

  Fifteen Kilometers Southwest of Robat-a Abgram, Iran 1425 Hours, 18 July (1055 Hours, 18 July, GMT)

  Through binoculars the wreckage of a helicopter could be seen among the trees. Occasional movement could also be seen. What could not be discerned was who the moving people were.

  Ilvanich put his binoculars down and considered the possibilities. They could be the rest of the company. Perhaps one of the other helicopters had crashed, like theirs, because of engine failure. That could still leave the other platoon, if they had made it, to join the one with him to accomplish the mission. If that was so, Ilvanich hoped the helicopter that survived was the one with the KGB major.

  That thought surprised him. For the first time, he realized that he actually liked the man. In Tabriz he had hated the KGB major at first for having made him play executioner. When the major pulled the platoon off that duty, he had been grateful, but that was all. At Kerman, Ilvanich had actually been able to hold a decent conversation with the man and had found he was human. What really won Ilvanich over, however, was that the KGB major volunteered to go on the mission.

  In a guarded conversation, he told Ilvanich that he did not trust Lvov, but could not relieve him-Lvov's father was too well connected in the Party. Instead, the major said, he would go as the senior officer. That way he could ensure the success of the mission and protect Ilvanich from Lvov. When Ilvanich indicated to the major that he could deal with Lvov himself, the major told him to go easy.

  Lvov was not worth a tri
p to a gulag. Given time, they could take care of Lvov properly. The fact that the major was truly interested in him and was willing to risk his life in battle impressed llvanich.

  Putting all thoughts of Lvov and the major aside, Ilvanich considered the matter at hand. If the people moving about were not his, they were Iranians. Hostile ones, no doubt. Sliding back down behind the rise he was on, he turned to Malovidov and his senior sergeant. "Lieutenant Malovidov, you will stay here and cover me. I will go forward with one man and find out who is there. If I do not return in an hour, you will continue with the mission as best you can. Is that clear?"

  The junior lieutenant looked confused, but accepted the order. Several men volunteered to go with llvanich, forcing him to pick one. Without further ado, the two set out to crawl up to the well and find out who owned it.

  Cerro crawled into the rifle pit between its two occupants. In a whisper, he asked, "What's up?" The sergeant slowly pointed to a spot fifty meters to their front. "Movement. We've been watching them for about five minutes. Looks like one or two guys tryin' to sneak up on us."

  Cerro lifted his binoculars to where the sergeant pointed, but saw nothing.

  "Iranians?"

  The private in the rifle pit replied, "Don't think so, sir. Looks like they got some kind of uniform on, camouflaged."

  More Russians, Cerro thought. Had to be. Turning to the sergeant, he said, "They're probably Russian. Chances are they're coming in here to find out what we're doing and what happened to their buddies. Take some men and capture them. I want you to do it quietly and without anyone out there seeing. No shooting, no screams. If you have to kill 'em, use the knife."

  After the sergeant left, Cerro sat in the pit and watched for a while longer, pondering his next move.

  Everything was spinning, and the back of his head hurt. Ilvanich had not felt that bad since his first true drinking bout as a cadet. The glare of the sun did not help his blurred vision. As he sat up, he saw others standing around him. "What happened?"

  The answer, given in English, was a shock. "You are a prisoner. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

  Ilvanich turned to see who was speaking. The images were still blurry.

  The one image that was not blurry was the muzzle of a rifle less than an inch from his nose.

  The speaker asked again, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

  Still befuddled, Ilvanich answered without thinking, "Nikolai Ilvanich, junior lieutenant, no, lieutenant, Red Army. Who are you?"

  A new voice from behind him spoke. "Sonofabitch, he does speak English. See, I told ya, Hal. Most of 'em do."

  Ilvanich's vision cleared. A group of Americans stood near him, a guard in front of him, a second guard farther back with his rifle at the ready, and two men who were apparently officers squatting down beside him. Ilvanich turned to see a third guard and another officer behind him. Americans.

  The younger officer in front smiled and said, "Give that man a cigar. OK, Ivan, what are you doing here?"

  Defiantly Ilvanich asked, "Where is the man who was with me?"

  Again it was the younger officer who spoke. "He's with your major. Took a bayonet in the side. He'll be all right, if you cooperate."

  Letting his astonishment show, Ilvanich shot back, "Major? Is he alive? Where is he?"

  "Not so fast, Ivan."

  Regaining his composure and going back to the attack, Ilvanich replied, "Ilvanich, Lieutenant Ilvanich. What is your name and rank?"

  Cerro considered the Russian before him. He was a hard cookie. The direct approach didn't seem to work. Maybe he could soften him up some. Perhaps little give and-take. "Lieutenant Harold Cerro, U.S. Army. Now, what are you doing here?"

  "Before we talk anymore, I must see my major." I must maintain the upper hand, Ilvanich thought.

  The younger officer, the lieutenant named Cerro, seemed to be in charge.

  Ilvanich kept looking at the other officer, the one with the insignia of an American major, who said nothing. Nor could Ilvanich detect any signals between the lieutenant named Cerro and that major. Perhaps he wasn't in command.

  The one named Cerro turned to the major. "I suppose it won't do any harm. What do you think, Commander?"

  He is in command, Ilvanich thought. How strange, though-the lieutenant did all the talking. He must be intelligence or CIA.

  Ilvanich was led to the KGB major. A medic and a guard were attending him and the man who had accompanied Ilvanich. The KGB major looked bad, very pale and in pain. When he saw Ilvanich he tried to speak, but could not.

  Ilvanich knelt down next to him and looked at the wounds. The dressing was clean and neatly tied off. Ilvanich turned to the medic, a young black soldier. "Will he live?"

  The medic looked at Ilvanich, surprised that he spoke English. Without a second thought, he began to talk. "He was hit twice by small-arms fire, in the side and the right arm, and he took a fragment, probably a grenade, in the left leg. He's lost a lot of blood, but no major arteries were severed. He was already in shock when we found him, but he seems to be responding well. If we can keep tine infections down, he'll do OK."

  The American in attendance had to be a doctor. How strange that such a small unit should have a doctor. "The other man, how is he?"

  The American doctor looked at the private who had come with Ilvanich.

  His arm was in a sling. "He's in good shape. His backhand ain't gonna be what it used to be, but he'll get used to it."

  The American guard laughed at that.

  American humor, no doubt, Ilvanich thought.

  The doctor said to Ilvanich, "Let me see your head." He looked at where Ilvanich had been hit. "Hell of a bump. Cut too. I'll clean it." He opened his medical bag and worked on Ilvanich for several minutes. When he was done, he handed Ilvanich two white pills. "You're gonna have a helluva headache. Take these."

  Ilvanich looked at the pills suspiciously. A drug to make him talk? He took them in his hand and thanked the doctor before he was led away.

  While he walked, he let the pills drop to the ground when he was sure no one was looking.

  Ilvanich was taken to where Cerro sat alone. Cerro dismissed the guard and asked Ilvanich to sit across from him. Deciding that there was no time to play games and that the Russian was better trained to play them, anyhow, Cerro went straight to the point. "Lieutenant Ilvanich, I know why you're here. You're after the Iranians making the atomic bombs, just like us."

  Ilvanich was taken aback by Cerro's statement. He shot back, "I do not know what you are talking about. We were on patrol." "Bullshit, Lieutenant. My explosive-ordnance expert found your explosive-ordnance expert's tools on the helicopter your major was on," Cerro countered.

  The American is after something, Ilvanich thought. But what? If he knows what we were up to, what more does he need? To Cerro, "And if we are, what does that mean to me? I am your prisoner."

  Cerro thought for a minute. Years of training had taught him not to trust Russians. If he told the Russian everything, he would be giving classified information to the enemy. But there was little choice. His men could not pull off the raid on their own with the little information he had. It was a gamble, but perhaps the Russian had information, and maybe, just maybe, he would cooperate. Kinsley's far-out idea didn't seem so far out anymore.

  "We need each other. The people I was supposed to meet ran into your major and his helicopter. Apparently they left after they fired up the helicopter. I have the men to pull off the operation, but I don't know anything about the Iranian installation, troop strength or layout. If you have this information, we can work together."

  "What makes you think I might have any such information? I am, after all, only a lieutenant, like you. Besides, we are at war with each other. To tell you anything would be treason. Surely you know that. You are a soldier. "

  Cerro became angry. "Yeah, I know that, Ilvanich. But I also know that we, both you and I, are at war with Iran. I also know those crazy rag heads have an a
tomic bomb. They tried to use one on us already. Your people may be next. Do you know what that means?"

  Ilvanich thought before he answered. What a strange situation. Three countries at war with one another. Two men, each trained from childhood to hate and distrust the other. Now one was asking the other to trust him.

  Ilvanich said to himself, I wonder what Lenin would have done. Then to Cerro, "And if we do cooperate, what will happen after the raid? Do we start killing each other again?

  "Good question," Cerro said. "No, at least not right away. I propose we simply withdraw from each other. I let you and your people, along with your wounded, be extracted, and you let me and my men go."

  "How do I know you will do this when we are of no further use to you?"

  "You don't-at least, not for sure. Just like I don't know for sure if you'll let me go. You'll have to accept my word."

  "And if you are killed, what good is your word?"

  "Lieutenant Kinsley will honor our agreement."

  Ilvanich was confused. Why was the lieutenant doing this? "What about your major? What does he have to say?"

  Cerro looked at him, bewildered for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, you mean Lieutenant Commander Hensly. He's Navy. He's my bomb expert. He has nothing to do with running the operation, just checking out the bomb and showing us what to blow. "

  "Like my bomb expert," Ilvanich enjoined.

  "Yeah, like yours. Is it a deal?"

  How strange war is, Ilvanich mused. "You realize we may be killing each other in another week."

  Cerro looked him in the eye and returned, "If we don't pull this off, none of us may be around in a week."

  Chapter 17

  Time is everything: Five minutes makes the difference between victory and defeat.

  — ADMIRAL HO RATIO NELSON

  Robat-a Abgram, Iran 0150 Hours, 19 July (2220 Hours, 18 July, GMT)

  The two lieutenants crept along the ditch to get a closer look at the buildings in the center. The darkness made their advance easier. Five hundred meters away six men, three American, three Soviet, waited for the return of their lieutenants. After agreeing to work together, the two commanders had decided that a recon of the site was needed. That would mean delaying the attack until the next night. They had, however, decided that the intelligence gained was worth the risk. As Ilvanich pointed out, time spent in reconnaissance was time well spent.