respectable and proper distance that didn't last long.
Matthews drew closer to Capell, looked into his eyes, then rested her head on his shoulder. As they danced, she felt Capell become aroused, and her own excitement increased. She turned her face toward his and smiled. In response, he leaned over and kissed her.
For a brief moment they stood still, lost in the passion of the moment.
Then slowly their lips parted, and they began to sway to the rhythm of the music again. With his arms around her, she put her head back on his shoulder and followed his lead, letting herself relax and enjoy the moment.
She had no doubt where the night would lead them and eagerly looked forward to it.
Major Percy Jones watched the couples dance while he sat in his own little corner and quietly got drunk. After two years with the 25th Armored Division, the British officer still had difficulty accepting the large number of women the American Army had in its ranks. It just didn't seem proper. The two young lieutenants, however, seemed perfectly at ease dancing with each other. The blond female intelligence officer, a striking beauty by any measure, was quite competent and professional.
Jones had worked with her on several occasions and, despite 141 his prejudices, had come to depend on the intelligence products she developed. Still, it didn't seem quite proper.
As they disappeared into the middle of the group that was dancing, his thoughts returned to his own plight. Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to terminate his assignment to the corps staff and return to the 7th Royal Tank Regiment. This failure had hit home when he and several other officers from the corps staff flew to Britain for a liaison visit with the British 33rd Armored Brigade, to which his regiment belonged. The regimental mess had been alive with young officers eager to have a go at the Iranians. The older officers, while doubting the wisdom of the commitment the British government had made, were, in their own way, just as eager to get on with it. Though everyone was friendly, Jones, for the first time in his life, did not feel at home in the mess where his father's picture hung in a place reserved for the regiment's most honored members.
After one visit to the mess, he avoided it for the rest of the trip, spending his time alone in his room instead. And now the American unit he had worked with for so long was also going and he was staying behind with the corps staff. Eventually he would make it over to Iran, but not for some time. This last indignity was almost too much to bear.
As the anger within him began to build, he stood up. This action served only to show how drunk he was as he staggered forward uncontrollably and bumped into a table, sending half-filled glasses and cups flying. A couple passing him stopped, the young captain asking whether he needed any help.
Jones waved him on, with muddled thanks. He looked around the room, trying to regain his balance and composure. Well, as usual, Sarah was right, he told himself. It was a bloody stupid idea to come here tonight. Best crawl back to my little hole before I make a complete ass of myself. With that thought, Jones began to carefully pick his way between the tables in search of his wife.
Despite his best efforts, Dixon could not make the room stop spinning.
He lay in the dark for another minute, sweating, trying desperately to keep what little he had left in his stomach, but decided that he wouldn't succeed. Without a moment to lose, he threw the sheets off and dashed for the bathroom, arriving at the toilet seconds before the first wave of nausea crested.
He knelt there before the great porcelain bowl for what seemed like an eternity. What a hell of a way to spend my last night at home-that thought and a stream of obscenities passed through Dixon's muddled mind. When he was sure he was finished, he stood up and went to the sink, looking into the mirror as he brushed his teeth and took some aspirin. The face that he saw looked like death warmed over. Well, at least the outside matches the inside, he thought. When he was through, he turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom.
Only the sound of the air-conditioner broke the stillness. He crossed the room, carefully avoiding the clothes and shoes that had been discarded carelessly about the room in a rush of passion. When he reached the bed, he paused for a moment and looked down at his wife. In the faint light he could see her naked body curled up before him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but didn't for fear of waking her.
She looked too peaceful and lovely to disturb. Instead, he pulled the sheet up and covered her before turning away.
Stumbling toward the closet, Dixon groped about until he found some running shorts. He pulled them on and left the bedroom, closing the door carefully so as not to awaken Fay, then plodded down the hall toward the kids' room.
Exercising even greater care than before, Dixon picked his way through a maze of toys strewn about the floor until he reached the bunk bed where his two sons slept. As he had with Fay, he covered them and looked at each of the boys for a moment. In turn, he reached out and stroked his fingers through their hair. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought how much he would miss them, wondering when he would see them again.
The physicist leaned against the building and looked out across the desert.
Even in the shade he was sweating as he smoked his second cigarette in a row. This was the first break that he had allowed himself since late the night before. He needed it. No doubt it would be the last for a while. The Air Force colonel was pushing him to complete the first device as soon as possible. The physicist and his team were working almost around the clock, under primitive conditions and with few capable helpers, in an effort to meet the joint demands of the holy men and the military to deliver functional nuclear devices. Surprisingly, for the first time the physicist finally was able to announce with certainty that he would be able to do so.
After having run several tests, he and his small team had a functional triggering system. Early that morning they had completed a test with a full-scale model containing everything but the plutonium. It had worked. All that remained was to assemble the entire device and put it into a deliverable package. That task would be completed within two weeks, three at the outside. After that, it was in the hands of the colonel and Allah.
The motivation of the colonel bothered him. At one moment, the colonel appeared to be against the project, doing everything in his power to delay it. The next moment, he would turn around and breathe fire in an effort to speed it up. Whom, the physicist wondered, was he working for? Was he still loyal to the Shah and part of the resistance? Was he Tudeh, attempting to delay development until the Russians finally caught them? Or was he simply like the rest of them, torn between their loyalties and common sense, and praying that Allah, in his infinite wisdom, would show them the way?
The physicist considered that for a moment as he watched members of the Revolutionary Guard patrol the area. His thoughts then turned to the more practical problems at hand. How would the colonel deliver the device?
Because of the bulkiness and the odd shape, a missile or a rocket was out. Hiding it in a truck and driving it to the target was too risky. Only a plane could penetrate enemy lines and get the device to its intended target quickly and in good shape. But the device was not a bomb that could be dropped. There were no provisions for that. No doubt it would be a one-way trip for a group of young religious zealots anxious to achieve martyrdom in a most spectacular manner. A two-megaton explosion would serve their needs well.
The physicist threw down his cigarette, crushed it and rubbed his eyes.
There was still much work for him to do before the young lions could do Allah's work. The greater questions of right and wrong would be left to those better able to deal with such things. He was a scientist by training.
Science was what he could understand, and he endeavored to confine himself to its narrow spectrum.
The elation of their victories at Tabriz, Mianeh, Tehran, Qom and now Yazd was beginning to wear thin. Thirty days of campaigning had taken its toll on the men, the equipment and the leaders of the 28th Combined Arms Army and, in particular, the 68th Tank Regiment. Life in the field is difficult, at best. The men lived on a steady diet of combat rations that provided little more than calories Dust and dirt penetrated everything, drying out nasal passages and throats, causing everyone to hack. Extremes in temperature and the failure of some of the soldiers to put warm clothing on before late in the evening resulted in congestion and colds that often led to bronchial infections. The water used by the men to quench their thirst was never plentiful enough and carried the seeds of diarrhea and typhoid. Lack of sleep coupled with brief periods of intense combat and stress followed long stretches of boredom and road marches that dulled their senses. Only now was it becoming apparent to the men of the 28th CAA that each new victory brought them only another opportunity to exist in conditions that barely sustained life and to fight another battle that exposed them to fear, sickness, mutilation and death.
The equipment fared badly as well. The same heat, dust and stress that wore on the men attacked their
