by Harold Coyle
Sulvina knew he was a lost man. Nothing he said mattered anymore.
There was no going back. He had, by doing what he believed correct, dug his own grave. He straightened up in his chair, looked each member in the eye and spoke. "Then we must stop the war. If, Comrades, we are going to fight this war, we must fight it with every means available. If we want to win, the nation must be mobilized behind the effort. Otherwise, Comrades, we are asking our men to die for nothing. I cannot go back and order our soldiers to go forward and die in the name of the State if the State is unwilling to provide the means for victory."
Colonel Sulvina jumped into his grave with both feet and a clear conscience.
Aboard the Hospital Ship U.S.S. Tranquility in the Gulf of Oman 2205 Hours, 26 July (1805 Hours, 26 July, GMT)
Between bouts of pain and short periods of restless sleep, Randy Capell pondered his current state and his future.
Lying on his stomach with most of his body encased in bandages, Capell could do nothing on his own. That he had lived, he had been told, was nothing short of a miracle The battalion aid station, overwhelmed by incoming casualties, had classified him as being beyond help. He had second- and third-degree burns over half of his body, multiple fragment wounds, several broken bones and a severe loss of blood. A medic gave him morphine and set him aside while those who could be saved were worked on. Eventually the physician's assistant did work on him, stabilized his condition and had him evacuated.
In the two weeks he spent at Bandar Abbas, Capell began the slow and painful process of recovery. While there he sent several notes to Amanda Matthews. A b medic had to write them for him. In return, he received two letters. The medic had to read them for him. As Amanda was quite graphic in describing her love for him, this proved embarrassing to Capell. His only regret was that he had not seen her before he was shipped out. Ca pell kept consoling himself with the thought that they would have plenty of time together after the war was over.
Besides, he was not sure he wanted her to see him as he was. That might have been hard for Amanda to accept and could have put an end to their relationship. By leaving, he would have time to recover and get back into shape. There were only two things that mattered to him now: Amanda Matthews and getting back into shape so that he could pursue his career. Capell pondered which was the more important of the two.
The launching of several cruise missiles from a sub marine set off alarms on escort ships throughout the area.
By the time the missiles broke surface, fire-control computers were already feeding data to the Seasparrow point defense-missile launchers.
On cue from the computer, air-defense officers began to launch the Seasparrows. While Soviet missiles flew toward their marks in the darkness, American missiles raced toward the Soviet missiles in an effort to head them off. Great balls of fire blossomed in the distance every time one of the defensive missiles found its target and destroyed it.
Not all Soviet missiles were felled by the Seasparrows. American radar continued tracking the surviving cruise missiles and preparing the close-in defense systems. The phalanx gun systems, set to automatic mode, picked up their targets and tracked them. The 20mm. mimgun, controlled by a computer, fired a stream of projectiles into the night in a last-ditch effort to bring down the remaining cruise missiles. As with the Seasparrows, each success was marked with the violent explosion of a Soviet missile.
When all active measures had been expended, the computers on the escorts began to fire chaff. Millions of tiny strips of aluminum were blown out of launchers, creating instant clouds to confuse the cruise missiles' targeting radar. Those ships that had chaff escaped as the missiles broke radar lock and flew about, searching for a new target, until they ran out of fuel. Those ships that didn't and were marked, died.
As in a nightmare, Capell heard the ripping of metal and the detonation of the cruise missile's warhead. Unused fuel from the missile was ignited by the explosion and propelled forward by the momentum of the missile. The burning fuel was sprayed across the ward, covering everything in a sheet of fire. The bandages wrapped about Capell's body to protect his burns now provided fuel to the fire that engulfed him and his ward mates. Only the crushing rush of seawater and the mercy of drowning saved Capell from burning to death.
Five Kilometers South of Saadatabad, Iran 0545 Hours, 27 July (0215 Hours, 27 July, GMT)
The mounted patrol, making its morning sweep of the division's main supply route, came across an overturned hummer and the dismembered remains of three people. In a single glance they could tell it had been done by Iranians.
Russians weren't in the habit of mutilating the dead.
As the platoon leader watched his patrol check the vehicle and the bodies for booby traps, his platoon sergeant came up to him. "No signs leading away from the ambush site. All we found were a few shell casings. What do you suppose they were doing out here alone last night?"
The platoon leader leaned against his vehicle and pulled out his canteen.
"Doesn't really matter what they were doing, does it? They're dead now."
The lieutenant took a drink from his canteen. "Hell of a way to start the day."
The platoon sergeant watched as two men checked a body. "You don't suppose that the Iranians.. well, do you think they.. ?"
Finishing a second drink, the lieutenant looked at the body. "You mean raped her? I really don't want to know, Sergeant. And you have no need to know. If some shit in grave registrations wants to find out, that's his business. We just find 'em, mark 'em and report 'em."
A soldier picked up something from the body and brought it over to his platoon leader. A pair of dog tags. The lieutenant poured water from his canteen over one of the tags and wiped away the blood. "Well, Sergeant Mullen, at least we'll be able to notify the next of kin of one Matthews, Amanda, that their daughter died in the service of her country."
Chapter 19
God is always with the strongest battalion.
— FREDERICK THE GREAT
Fifteen Kilometers North of Hajjiabad, Iran 0500 Hours, 1 August (0130 Hours, 1 August, GMT)
For weeks forces had been moving forward on both sides of no-man's-land, assembling within striking distance of each other.
Savage little skirmishes between Soviet recon units and American armored cavalry units, sent forth to screen friendly preparations and uncover those of the enemy, punctured the lull. Units jockeying for positions from which to defend or attack clashed in the night, holding when possible, drawing back when faced by superior force. Therefore, the simultaneous eruption of over eight hundred howitzers, guns and mortars that heralded the commencement of the "final" offensive came as no surprise.
The Soviet 17th Combined Arms Army, the main instrument to be used in destroying U.S. forces in Iran and seizing the Strait of Hormuz, was well rested and prepared. For this purpose it had absorbed the remnants of the 28th Combined Arms Army, so that it now had four motorized rifle divisions, two tank divisions and several independent regiments, one of which was the 285th Guards Airborne Regiment. Front artillery and air units made the 17th CAA a formidable force with over 1600 tanks, 2500 armored personnel carriers and other armored vehicles, 900 pieces of artillery and heavy mortars, and close to 100,000 men.
To oppose the 17th CAA, Allied ground forces in the central area, the area of operations, consisted of the bulk of the 10th Corps and the 13th Corps.
The 10th would be responsible for taking on the main Soviet force. For this it had three divisions-two armored divisions and one mechanized infantry-an armored cavalry regiment and a British armored brigade.
Units from the 13th Airborne Corps were available if needed. The 17th Airborne Division was being held ready for use in either the air assault mode or a combat drop deep in the Soviet rear once the counteroffensive began. A French airborne armored-car regiment had been transferred from the eastern sector, where the 6th Marine Division was operating, to reinforce the 17th Airborne in preparation for those operations. The 12th Division, th
ough a shadow of its former self, had the role of securing the rear of the central area. The primary force to be used for this mission was a brigade comprised of four reconstructed and reorganized infantry battalions that had survived the fighting in late June. It was called the Phoenix Brigade, and each and every man in it was ready and anxious to avenge the earlier defeats.
Though the Allied ground forces in the central area were outnumbered and, initially, on the defense, the goals of the ground-force commander, Lieutenant General Weir, were far more ambitious than merely stopping the Soviets from reaching their goal. Weir intended to allow the Soviets to attack first and smash themselves upon the 10th Corps.
When they were broken, he planned to seize the initiative and attack north, destroying them through the use of slashing ground attacks in conjunction with bold airborne and air assault operations against critical Soviet command, control and support facilities. Over his desk hung a hand-painted sign reminding his commanders and staff to THINK NORTH. Not to be outdone, his operations officer had a sign that told his, people, TEHRAN OR BUST. With more flair than his superiors, the corps G-3 plans officer created his own sign that advertised SKI TABRIZ.
The lofty plans of the corps commander and his staff depended, however, upon the performance of men living at the far end of the spectrum.
Cavalrymen watching from their Bradleys, armored crewmen manning M-is and infantrymen huddled in their rifle pits girded themselves for the coming of the Soviets. Few knew of the plans the corps commander and his staff had.
Most did not fully understand the part they were supposed to play in the final defeat of the Soviet forces in Iran. What they did know was that their survival depended on how well they and the other men in the crew or squad performed their duties.
The crew of the M-lAl tank watched the T-80 tanks roll forward. Their tank commander, Staff Sergeant Steven Pulaski, stood high in the turret as he tracked the Soviet tanks with his binoculars. He listened to the platoon sergeant report his sightings to the platoon leader. Since he had nothing to add, Pulaski did not report. He watched, fascinated, as the Soviets moved forward, oblivious to the danger they were in. From where the platoon sat, Pulaski's first round would be an oblique, downward shot. Given that angle and the distance from the M-lAl to the kill zone, the 120mm. armor-piercing fin-stabilized Sabot round would have no problem penetrating the T-80s. Pulaski whispered to his gunner, as if the Soviets could hear them, "Hey, Teddy, can ya see 'em?"
"Sure can. Do you suppose they can see us, Steve?"
"If they could see us, do ya think they'd be pissing away all that artillery on those dummy positions on the hill behind us? No, and they won't till we shoot. Then all hell'll break loose." Pulaski told his driver, "Billy, you better be awake down there. When I tell you to kick it in the ass, I don't want any of your dumb-ass excuses."
From the driver's compartment, Billy simply answered, "Yeah." He was nervous. As he sat there maintaining the engine at a steady idle, he sweated. Alone in the forward nose of the tank, he could see nothing, only the dirt of the protective berm that covered everything but the tank's sights. At least the three men in the turret, physically located in close proximity to each other, could draw comfort from that closeness. The driver had only steel, fuel cells and instruments to share his ordeal.
As they waited for the troop commander's order to fire, Pulaski issued his fire command to the crew. With his hand on the tank commander's override, he yelled out, "Gunner-Sabot. Two moving tanks. Left tank first."
The gunner, already tracking their intended targets, quickly responded, "Identified."
The loader had little to do. There was already a round in the chamber.
He armed the main gun and cleared the path of recoil, and his response of "Up" quickly followed the gunner's cry.
Now they waited. The gunner tracked his target. He waited, watched and sweated. The driver, keyed up, was ready to move the tank into its final firing position. The loader, hanging on to his guards, watched the breech, ready to spring up and feed another round into it as soon as the gun fired.
Pulaski, still standing in the open hatch, looked down at the two men in the turret, checking to ensure they were ready. The impact of artillery just behind the lead Soviet tank drew Pulaski's attention to his front again. Seeing the enemy approaching the troop's kill zone, he lowered himself and prepared for battle.
The radio came to life as the platoon leader issued his orders. "All Hotel elements-this is Hotel Nine-five. Occupy firing positions."
On cue, Pulaski called out, "Driver, move forward. Gunner, take over."
The gunner bent over to his left and looked through the auxiliary sight, simple telescope attached to the right side of the main gun, to watch for the tank's main gun to clear the dirt berm. He held the main-gun control handles. This would keep the fire control's stabilization system engaged and maintain the sight and the gun on target as the tank moved. The driver moved the gearshift lever from park to forward and hit the gas. The M-IAI shot forward and began to rise, its gun automatically depressing. Once the gunner could see over the berm, he yelled out,
"Driver, stop!"
No sooner had they moved into position and the gunner returned to his primary sight, than the platoon leader came over the net again, "All Hotel elements-this is Hotel Nine-five. Fire!"
Pulaski bellowed out, "Fire!"
The gunner, still tracking the target, hit the thumb switch on his right control handle, activating the laser range finder. A digital readout showing the distance between the M-lAI and its target came up into view.
The range readout looked right to the gunner. With the ready to-fire indicator showing all was ready, he yelled, "On the waaay" to warn the crew he was firing and pulled the trigger on his control handle.
In an instant the tank bucked and was engulfed in a cloud of dust from the muzzle blast caused by the exit of the 120mm. projectile and propellant gases. Inside, the breech block moved back, opening automatically and spitting out the small base plate of the expended shell into a box hanging from the breech. The smell of cordite mixed with those of sweat and oil.
Without waiting, the loader opened the ammo storage door and hauled out the next round. The dual screech of "Target!" from both the tank commander and the gunner did not stop or slow him. There were more Soviet tanks out there that needed to be destroyed.
From his position with the second-echelon battalion, Captain Neboatov followed the battle as it was joined. The scene unfolding before him was far cry from his first encounter with the Americans in late June.
Then it had been a walk in the park. He had not even realized that they had penetrated the Americans' main defensive positions.
Today, however, would be far different. Despite an impressive thirty-minute Soviet artillery barrage, the Americans appeared to be not only alive but quite unaffected. The Soviet first-echelon battalions were still in columns of companies when American artillery began to fall on them. At first the artillery fire fell behind the companies That error, however, was quickly corrected, with telling effect. The rounds being used threw out many small bomblets that hit the tops of the tanks and BMPs of the lead battalion.
Each bomblet had a tiny shaped charge that could penetrate the thin armor covering the tops of the vehicles. Every volley of American artillery engulfed a large portion of the lead battalions in a sudden cloud of black smoke and flame. As it cleared, T-80 tanks and BMPs could be seen staggering out of line or simply burning where they had been hit.
Neboatov saw multiple puffs of smoke and dust appear in the distance to the front. Enemy tanks and antitank guided missiles firing. He watched as near-misses threw great clouds of dirt up in front of tanks and BMPs in the lead battalions. There were, however, few misses.
Armor-piercing penetrators traveling a mile a second impacted with a large, brilliant white spark when they hit steel. Reactive armor on the T-80s detonated but did not deter the depleted uranium penetrator as it literally pushed its way into t
he tank it hit. As the penetrator did so, it also pushed a plug of the tank's own armor, the same diameter as the penetrator, into the interior of the tank. Both the plug of armor and the penetrator, superheated by the rapid conversion of kinetic energy into heat, ripped through everything in their path.
Crewmen, on-board ammunition, hydraulic lines and fuel cells were torn open. Flammables were ignited. Propellants of stored main-gun rounds, blowing up in the confined space of a tank with all hatches closed and locked down, rocked the tank with thunderous explosions.
Sometimes the explosions tore the fifteen-ton turret from the hull and threw it into the air as if it were made of cardboard.
The pace of the advance did not quicken. As the lead battalions moved at what appeared to Neboatov to be a painfully slow pace, they left in their wake a trail of shattered and burning hulks quivering from the explosions of their own ammunition and cremating their crews. There was little doubt that Neboatov's company, part of the follow-on battalion, would be committed early that day. Watching the number of burning and disabled vehicles increase by the minute, he realized they would be needed even before they had cleared the American cavalry screen and hit the enemy's main defensive positions.
Ten Kilometers North of Qotbabad 0545 Hours, 1 August (0215 Hours, 1 August, GMT)
The paratroopers were slow to form up into squads and disperse. Too many stood on the drop zone waiting for someone to tell them what to do and where to go. Senior Lieutenant Ilvanich seemed to be everywhere that morning, directing men where to go, yelling at those too scared to react and using his boot to motivate the slow and reluctant. Junior Lieutenant Malovidov followed Ilvanich's lead as the two officers struggled to establish some semblance of order after a near-disastrous jump. Their efforts were assisted by the faint light thrown off by the burning wreckage of a transport plane brought down by American antiaircraft missiles.
As he ran from group to group, Ilvanich couldn't help but think how few of the men he knew. Losses sustained during two combat jumps, two major air assault operations, several raids and numerous patrols and ambushes had made serious inroads in the company's original complement.
