fours, ferretlike in his agility, the youngster felt completely at home. He had been doing this work for years and accepted as an article of faith that he was immortal. A grimy headband with a religious slogan testified to his devotion.
The Razlavi Division had moved into place east of Al-Kuneitra during darkness over the previous several nights, relieving the Syrian unit which usually held that portion of the front. It was considered a signal honor to lead the assault on the Golan, but the Razlavi Division expected no less. Most of the Iranian soldiers awaiting the jump- off signal fully expected to die in the next several hours; their imams had told them as much. But the Muslim priests also had promised that paradise awaited.
With infinite calm, Omar Razlavi probed the earth before him.
His plastic knife, unable to detonate a magnetic mine, struck something solid. The metal outline of instant death. It was a sensation Razlavi had experienced thousands of times. He had long since lost count of how many Soviet, French, American, and Israeli-manufactured mines he had located. He inserted a wooden stake with its white cloth next to the mine and continued forward, probing as he crept along. Behind him, his platoon leader watched through night-vision glasses, noting the path to follow as the hour of attack approached.
Nearly 500 meters to the west, another set of night goggles was in use. The Israeli sergeant carefully scanned left and right, taking in the green-tinted imagery of the Litton glasses. Catching a movement, he swung on the location and stabilized the device. After what seemed an interminable wait, the motion repeated itself. There… emerging from behind a discarded spool of barbed wire. The human form edged along the ground with surprising economy of motion.
Picking up his field phone, the sergeant called his command post. The sleepy young lieutenant who answered was mildly upset at being disturbed. He listened to the NCO's professionally terse report and consulted the area's topographical chart on the wall. With a routine phrase, the officer ordered the sergeant to take routine measures. These probes had gone on before, but now there was a way to halt them.
In eight minutes Omar Razlavi had reached the position shown on the lieutenant's map. The noncom opened the access to an electrical panel, flipped a switch, and the circuit closed.
Omar Razlavi's frail body was hurled into the air by the force of the explosion. The garish splotch of light ripped the night air and the Iranian platoon leader instinctively reeled away from his glass. The white light of the explosion strobed in the scope, temporarily ruining his night vision.
He knew that, at long last, Omar sat at the right hand of Allah. From the Al Biqa-the Bekaa Valley-which runs a hundred miles along the Syrian-Lebanese border-south to Mt. Hebron in the Golan, and on to Jordan, Araby massed its legions. Some thirty divisions of infantry, mechanized, and armored formations-plus supporting air, artillery, and special forces-were poised to strike. Including logistics troops, nearly two million men were engaged in the enterprise which began with crushing, single-minded violence.
Ninety minutes before dawn the Arab army began to move. It rolled forward behind a shattering barrage of artillery, rockets, and low-flying helicopter gunships. And though the Israelis were not caught by surprise this October, the strength and volume of the offensive destroyed any lingering sense of smugness in Tel Aviv. The hard-eyed men in Damascus, Baghdad, and Tehran had worked more than three years for this moment, and they had chosen their time carefully.
With more contempt than concern, the Muslim leaders had assessed the American government's reaction would be determined by a desire for neutrality. To back either side would invite severe criticism from the other-and harsher considerations from the Arab world. Thus, the most attractive course would be the middle road. Imams and generals alike agreed that the president's cherished role as mediator would work to their benefit. And they would be proven right.
Washington issued declarations of concern, repeating the oft-quoted offer to serve as 'the lightning rod of reconciliation,' in Walter Arnold's own words. But nobody on either side expressed an interest in arbitration. This was a fight to the finish, pure and simple.
'Well, boys, we're in it now.' Colonel Solomon Yatanahu addressed his grim-faced F-15 pilots in the auditorium. 'We'll give you all the support we possibly can. Our maintenance and ordnance crews have shaved every possible second off your turnaround times. We should be able to generate maximum sortie rates as long as fuel, spare parts, and weapons hold out.' Yatanahu did not need to mention that all three items soon could be in short supply. If this war went beyond the second week without resupply, Israel would be in very poor shape.
Upon concluding the briefing, the base commander returned to his office. Inwardly he was furious at the government's obstinacy.
Yatanahu had railed his frustration time and again, most often to his wife. 'The idiots! All they care about is where they stand in the opinion polls. They've spread us throughout most of Jordan, where we haven't a hope of holding that much territory, and once war comes we'll be forced to withdraw to shorter lines.' He had known he would be proven correct; now one look at the map showed the situation. A two-pronged Arab assault down the road from Damascus to Jerusalem and from the Iraqi border toward the holy city could cut off thousands of Israeli troops.
Yatanahu sat down at his desk and called for his aide, Lieutenant Yoni Ben-Nun. 'Yoni, we're going to have our hands full. Set up a cot for me in the rear office. Then collect the signals from Air Force HQ. We're likely to be concentrating on the Bekaa at first, but if the Saudis and Egyptians jump in, we'll be spread awfully thin. I want constant updates on all enemy forces-especially the northern F-20 squadrons.'
John Bennett wandered alone outside the Tiger Force advanced headquarters. He enjoyed the solitude of the desert night, picking out constellations in the crystal-clear air. For most of his flying career he had seen the stars as they really were, viewed from above 30,000 feet. Beyond the natural haze and man-made pollution which covered so much of the earth, they represented a reassuring constant in his life.
Walking a hundred yards from the half-buried command center, Bennett sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees. He mused to himself that never would he have believed he would come to this place in this capacity.
Bennett recognized the onset of a melancholy mood which he seldom allowed. He concentrated on facts, not conjecture.
All his professional life Bennett had heard the catchphrase, 'I'd rather be lucky than good.' But he had never believed it. Instead, he was convinced that you made your own luck most of the time. What others attributed to fortune, Bennett believed was 90 percent hard work.
He leaned his head on his arms and breathed deeply. The desert air felt good in his lungs. Then he said one word to the night.
'Claudia…'
Later that evening General Mohammad Abd Maila gave a briefing to Tiger Force at Ha'il. Brad Williamson and Geoff Hampton already were there with Red and White Squadrons. The Arab commanders or executive officers of each of the other F-20 units attended, including delegates from the two Jordanian squadrons. Maintenance, communications, and ordnance supervisors also sat in.
Bennett was pleased that Maila had been chosen as liaison between the Royal Saudi Air Force and Tiger Force. The American and the Arab had developed a close professional relationship over the past few years, for temperamentally they had much in common. A former F-5 pilot, Maila had completed two advanced courses in the
