Sword Point

by Harold Coyle

  Although he was able to get one of his attackers, Duncan also was hit, which caused his MILES buzzer to begin squawking in his left ear.

  Disgusted, he straightened up to look about. The early evening stillness of the pine forest was shattered by the squawk of dozens of MILES buzzers and the tapering off of small-arms fire. A shout from the controller signaled the end of a fruitless day's effort. The 1st Platoon had been wiped out in less than ten minutes.

  The Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic 0230 Hours, 25 May (2230 Hours, 24 May, GMT)

  The predawn darkness covered the tank column like a cloak as it moved off the dirt road into its assembly area. Traffic regulators from the regiment directed the tanks into their assigned positions. The move went like clockwork, with the lead company moving forward and occupying positions in a shallow arch facing west. The next company in line peeled off and occupied a similar arch facing to the south, with its far-right tank making contact with the far-left tank of the first company. The third company did likewise, facing north and completing the circle by linking itself with the first two tank companies. In this manner, the 3rd Battalion of the 68th Tank Regiment cleared the main road and deployed with nothing more than a few quick motions from the faint flashlights of the traffic regulators.

  Major Anatol Vorishnov brought his eight-wheeled BTR-60 armored personnel carrier to a halt in the lee of a huge boulder in the center of the circle created by the tanks. At a distance of fifty meters he could barely make out the image of the battalion commander's tank coming to a halt in a shallow depression. That pitiful attempt to seek cover served to remind

  Vorishnov just how vulnerable the battalion was in this bleak mountainous region that the regiment was traveling through; more vulnerable to sudden attack than in open steppes like those around Kiev which were far more suitable for mechanized warfare. And there at least, thought Vorishnov, the dark earth and the lush green spring grass were more inviting and easier to live with.

  As the driver shut the BTR down and the other staff officers piled out of the vehicle, Vorishnov mentally reviewed the upcoming operation, scheduled to commence in two hours. The 28th Combined Arms Army, consisting of three motorized rifle divisions and one tank division, the 33rd, to which the 68th Tank Regiment belonged, was to advance along a line from Jolia to

  Marand, then to Tabriz-a total distance of over 270 kilometers. While no one expected any serious resistance from the rabble that the once proud Iranian Army had become, the division's line of march was through the Zagros mountain range along narrow, twisting valleys. Here a handful of fanatics could stop the most sophisticated weapons in the world with a few rocket launchers and a barrier. Reaching Tabriz wouldn't be the end of their difficulties; in fact, it wouldn't even be the halfway point. Not until they were near Tehran, over six hundred kilometers from their start point, would the 28th Combined Arms Army have some open terrain to maneuver in.

  As selfish and unprofessional as the thought was, Vorishnov was thankful that the 33rd Tank Division would be following the motorized rifle divisions. The thought of being trapped in a narrow valley by an ambush sprung by crazed Muslims trying to become martyrs was terrifying to him.

  Stories of such incidents in Afghanistan had been passed around by word of mouth from people who had been there. He glanced at his watch. Two more hours and it would all begin. With a little luck and a lot of help from Spetznetz commando teams, from the KGB, from Tudeh-the Iranian Communist Party-and from a couple of well-placed airborne assaults, the 28th Combined Arms Army would be overlooking the Strait of Hormuz in four weeks.

  Or, Vorishnov thought, that's what the plan is.

  Aboard a USAF. liaison jet en route from Washington, D.C." to Fort Hood, Texas 1730 Hours, CST, 24 May (2330 Hours, 24 May, GMT)

  Lieutenant General Francis Weir sat staring out the small window at the clouds below. Absentmindedly his fingers drummed upon the red-covered document labeled SECRET sitting on his lap. He still found it difficult to accept that he had just been ordered to move his entire corps from Fort Hood and Fort Polk to Iran and be prepared to conduct combat operations against

  Soviet forces now massing to invade that country. The 10th Corps was tagged to go to NATO, not Southwest Asia. They didn't have plans covering any such contingency. That was supposed to be someone else's job. Yet less than three hours ago he had been told to forget about Europe and prepare his corps for deployment to the Persian Gulf.

  The corps commander turned to the order and opened it to the page with the mission statement and read it again: 10th Corps will mobilize and deploy from home station to designated ports of embarkation (see Annex E), for movement to the Persian Gulf.

  The U.S. Navy will transport 10th Corps to ports of debarkation (to be determined); 10th Corps will assemble and prepare to conduct combat operations against enemy forces in cooperation with other U.S. and allies' forces as directed.

  Weir turned to the list of annexes. Next to Annex E was: "To be Published."

  He closed the document and turned back to the window. Christ, he thought, not only can't they tell me yet where I'm leaving from or where I'm going to land, they don't even know who I'm supposed to fight. He turned to his operations officer. "Chris, did you get word back to Hood to have the corps orders group ready when we get back?"

  "Yes, Sir. I talked to the chief of staff. He indicated that most of the staff and all of the division commanders were still there. Of course, we might not be able to get General Allen from Fort Polk there, but the chief said he will try."

  Have you figured out what we're going to tell them when we get there?"

  The operations officer thought for a moment. "Well, sir, other than what they told us in D.C." no, sir, I haven't. "

  The corps commander considered that response. "Well, Chris, neither have I.

  But don't worry, we still have another hour to pull something out of our ass that makes sense."

  The operations officer didn't answer, watching as his commander turned back to the window and continued drumming on the order in his lap.

  Fort Hood, Texas 1730 Hours, 24 May (2330 Hours, 24 May, GMT)

  Without rising from his desk, Master Sergeant Jack Nesbitt covered the phone receiver and called out to his boss, the battalion S-3, "Major Dixon, the brigade three is on the line for you."

  Dixon looked at his watch. He mumbled out loud to himself, "Shit!

  That's all I need. Doesn't he know this is Friday?" Then to Sergeant Nesbitt,

  "Tell him I'm not here, that I went home to play with my wife."

  Nesbitt put the phone back to his ear and relayed the first part of the message, listened for a moment, then covered the receiver again. "No go, Major. He says it's very important."

  Everything in the 25th Armored Division was important. The trick was to know what really was important. Dixon decided that Michaelski, the brigade S-3, wouldn't be calling this time of day on a Friday unless it really was important. He picked up the phone, "Dixon here. What's so hellfire important that it can't wait till Monday?"

  "Tuesday, Scott. Don't forget this was going to be a three-day weekend."

  "Yeah, I remember. And I intend to keep it a three day weekend. So what is it you want?"

  "I just got a call from Division that we are to stand by to receive a warning order. No one seems to know what it's about or when this warning will be given. I do know that anyone who is on leave is to be recalled and that the corps commander was called to D.C. and is currently en route back with some kind of order."

  Dixon straightened up and began to consider what the brigade S-3 was saying. "Are we having an emergency re deployment exercise?"

  "No. I know that for sure. You're not due a re deployment exercise.

  But that's about all I know. Whatever it is, the division orders group is on alert to be prepared to assemble in fifteen minutes, and the Old Man wants the brigade orders group ready to go once Division is done with him."

  "So, no one knows anything except that ever
yone is to stand by. Are we initiating a full recall?"

  "No one has said as much yet, Scott, but I would strongly advise you that you hang on to your staff and company commanders until we know what's going on for sure."

  There was a pause before Dixon replied, "OK, Ralph, wilco. Just keep me posted. Colonel Childress isn't going to be thrilled about sitting around on a Friday evening waiting for Division."

  After hanging up the phone, Dixon walked out to Nesbitt's desk.

  "Sergeant Nesbitt, get hold of the company commanders and tell them not to leave for home until they get word from the CO. If they've left already, have the company CQs get them back in. Pass the same word around to the staff, including our people. I'll be in the colonel's office for a few minutes."

  Without waiting for a response, Dixon headed down the hall toward the battalion commander's office, but stopped, turned and went back into his own office. He reached over his desk, picking up the phone receiver with one hand while hitting the preset button labeled HOME.

  The colonel could wait another minute. Dixon needed to tell his wife not to hold dinner for him.

  Memphis, Tennessee 1745 Hours, 24 May (2345 Hours, 24 May, GMT)

  As luck would have it, Ed Lewis had no sooner closed and locked the door than the phone rang. He stood there for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and half turned, debating whether to forget it and walk away or go back in and answer it. From the car, his wife called for him to leave it. Lewis looked at the car, loaded with kids, camping gear and food. Three days' camping with a visit to the Grand Ole Opry was waiting for him. But wait it would.

  He yelled to his wife to hang on a little longer while he answered the phone.

  Put out by the untimely interruption, Lewis picked up the receiver and answered dejectedly with a simple "Hello."

  "Ed, I'm glad I caught you." It was Colonel Franklin from State Headquarters. "I tried the armory, but no one was there. Is Hal still in town?" Hal was Harold R. Green, the commander of the 2nd Battalion, 354th Infantry (Mechanized), Tennessee National Guard.

  "Yes, I believe he was going to stick around and catch up on some rest.

  They've been dogging him kinda hard down at City Hall. What's up?"

  "Ed, you've been federalized."

  Lewis stood there for a moment dumbfounded. "Federalized? Me? What in the hell for?"

  "Not just you, the whole battalion. Actually, the order doesn't go into effect until midnight tonight."

  "A Presidential order?"

  "They're the best kind, aren't they?"

  Lewis did not appreciate the colonel's poor attempt at humor. "Christ, sir, what's going on?"

  "I don't know, Ed. As soon as I have something, I'll let you know.

  Until then, let's get the show on the road. Get your people moving and I'll start getting things ready from this end."

  "Who do we work for, the state or the 25th Armored Division?" "Don't know, Ed. The order didn't say. It looked like someone simply copied the format out of the reg and sent it out without any additional instructions. Like I said, as soon as I have something, I'll pass it on. I have to go now, the Adjutant General just walked in."

  Ed went to the front door, yelled to his wife to get the kids out of the car and ran up the stairs to change into his BDUs.

  After a dash through the city, through two stop signs, one red light and three near-misses, Lewis made it to the armory. He parked his car, still loaded with camping gear, in the slot marked "Battalion XO."

  Captain Tim Walters, the full-time training officer and assistant S-3 for the battalion, was already in his office, talking on the phone. Other people were also present, most still in civilian clothes. Lewis saw the operations NCO, Master Sergeant Kenneth Mayfree, and motioned for him to come over.

  "Kenny, have we gotten hold of the Old Man yet?"

  "No, sir. Tim tried his office, his home and City Hall. No one has seen him since midafternoon, and no one answers at home."

  Lewis thought, Great, just great-the one time the stalwart of our community decides to slip out of town early for the weekend is the day someone decides to start World War Three. That last thought gave Lewis a sudden chill. Until that moment, he hadn't thought of war. His mind had been so busy trying to sort out what to do and whom to call that the reason for their being federalized wasn't given a second thought.

  He looked around at the people in the armory moving about, going in and out of offices or talking on phones. They were all familiar to Lewis.

  Not only had he been in the Guard with most of them for years, he had grown up with some of them and did business with many of them daily. At a glance, there seemed to be no difference from any night at the armory when the staff gathered for a short meeting or a weekend drill. But this was different. This wasn't going to be a short meeting or a drill. They were going to war.

  That thought kept swimming around in his head as he went into his office and sat down at his desk. While millions of Americans were fleeing cities across the nation to enjoy the Memorial Day weekend, the 3rd Battalion, 354th Infantry, was going to war.

  Moscow, USSR 0355 Hours, 25 May (0055 Hours, 25 May, GMT)

  A small convoy of four long black Zil limousines raced through the deserted streets in the early-morning light. The General Secretary of the Communist

  Party and the Foreign Minister, both fresh from the military airfield, were riding in the third car today. They, as well as other selected Party officials, had been "out of place," visiting other countries or at locations other than their normal duty positions. The General Secretary, having completed a visit to Finland, had been en route to a meeting with the

  President of France when his aircraft was rerouted over East Germany back to Moscow. The Foreign Minister had been in Vienna, conferring with representatives of Israel on the matter of emigration of Soviet Jews.

  He had left the Soviet Embassy in Vienna without notice and been whisked away on waiting Aeroflot liner. The two men had arrived at the military airfield outside Moscow within minutes of each other, satisfied that their part in the deception plan had been a success.

  The General Secretary reclined in the backseat, his eyes closed but still awake. He was resting from his trip and preparing himself for the ordeal he knew they would all have to face shortly. It was important that he be able to portray the sincere, friendly image the Western news media had come to love, when he announced before the cameras that the Soviet Union had been forced to take military action to stabilize its southern borders. He knew that his story would not hold with those who knew the truth. It was not they whom he was interested in. It was the uninformed, the timid and those who favored "peace in our time," at any cost, that he wanted to sway. He had complete confidence that he could do so as he had done in the past.

  Across from him, the Foreign Minister was less confident. He fidgeted with the hand loop hanging on the side of the limousine as he looked out the window with a blank stare. Hours of debate that had often degenerated into screaming matches had led to nought. The Foreign Minister knew they were making a serious error. Years of diplomacy were about to be washed away in an ill conceived military adventure of dubious value. He still could not understand how stupid and blind the other members of the Politburo were. They were opening Pandora's box, and only he saw it.

  The General Secretary opened his eyes slightly and looked at the Foreign Minister. "You still do not believe we can succeed, do you?"

  The Foreign Minister turned his blank stare to the General Secretary.

  "Succeed? It all depends on what you consider to be a success. If we want to own a few thousand more square kilometers of sand and rock, we will succeed. If our goal is, as you say, to fulfill our national destiny and seize a warm-water port, we will succeed. If it is our goal to put a stranglehold on the West's oil supply, we will succeed.

  But I ask you, Comrade, will the price be worth it? Will we ever be able to gain the confidence of the West again? Even if no one lifts a finger to stop us, which I
doubt, what kind of arms race will this start and where will it end?"

  Without moving or changing expression, the General Secretary replied,

  "It would appear that I have selected a conservative for a Foreign Minister.

  You have become, over these past few months, quite a spokesman for the "loyal' opposition."

  The emphasis on "loyal" caused the Foreign Secretary's face to flush with anger. "I am, and always will be, a loyal Party member. It is my duty to show you the reality of the world, even when it goes against the conventional wisdom of the rest of the pack."

  Still showing no emotion, the General Secretary continued, "No one doubts your loyalty to the Party or me. You must, however, see that the time for debate is over. We are committed. You know as well as I that it is useless to have power and not use it. Our Party and our nation depend on the continuous and measured exercise of power. The world respects, and fears, our power. No one would respect a toothless bear. The day we become too timid to use it will be the end of the Soviet Union. We will decay from within and without. Besides, the West has short memory. The securing of Eastern Europe was a matter of great concern in 1948 and an accepted fact by 1960. Afghanistan was seen as a threat to world peace in 1979 and forgotten by the time we signed the INF Treaty in 1987. No, I see great gains with little to lose."

  The Foreign Secretary did not respond. He merely turned back to the window and looked at the buildings that raced by, buildings that held fellow countrymen unaware that in a matter of minutes they would be at war again.

  West of Balarn Qal'eh, Afghanistan 0425 Hours, 25 May (0100 Hours, 25 May, GMT)

  The road that ran from Herat in Afghanistan to Mashhad in Iran really didn't deserve the title of 'road. As he lay on the sand dune, peering through his binoculars, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Kurpov considered the road for a moment. He had seen, and traveled, many bad roads in his three years as a member of the 89th Reconnaissance Battalion. This road, however, had to be the worst. While the tracked vehicles could travel it with no problems, he wondered how well the supply trucks would be able to hold up. Everything the 89th Motorized Rifle Division would need during the operation they were about to launch would have to travel down that road. No doubt, the road would claim many a truck.