until that moment he had never believed anyone would do so on a twentieth-century battlefield. The strange, piercing music that cut through the other sounds seemed, to Neboatov, to be a death knell. The end was near.
In less than two minutes the battle had degenerated into hand-to-hand combat. Enemy tanks had bypassed him, destroying what was left of his BMPs.
Whatever chance he had had of stopping the enemy was gone. As he watched, no longer able to influence the battle, Neboatov's emotions swung from despair to rage. With nothing else to do, he picked up his rifle, kicked the two soldiers lying at his feet on the floor of the trench and ordered them to follow. It would be a small and short counterattack. But at least they would try. That was all they could do. Try.
From the brigade commander's vehicle, Major Jones watched the 7th Royal Tank Regiment and the battalion of Scottish infantry roll through the Soviet positions and continue north. Though he still wished he were with the lead elements of the regiment, at least he had the rare satisfaction of seeing that all his efforts had finally borne fruit.
Normally the staff officers, working well to the rear, in small groups under less than optimum conditions, never saw the end product of their work. They merely went from one task to the next, sometimes not fully understanding the full purpose of their labors.
Jones, using his role as a liaison officer to his advantage, made sure that he spent as much time with the 33rd Armored Regiment as was prudent. Today was one of those days when he had to be there. Nothing, nothing the corps staff or the Soviets could do, would have kept him away. History was being made that day, history that he was now part of. As he watched the battle and listened to its noise and to the reports coming in from the unit commanders, he thought of his father.
For the first time in his life he felt that he was finally his father's equal, that he had earned his way in the Army, the regiment and his family.
Lieutenant General Weir paced his office like a caged lion. Despite his best efforts, he could not contain his nervousness. Everything was going so well, it was unreal. The Soviet offensive, so long anticipated, had come and failed. The speed at which events were unfolding was far greater than anyone had expected or could have hoped for. The 25th Armored Division had absorbed the brunt of the Soviets' main effort, consisting of four Soviet divisions, while the 55th Mech Infantry Division had parried a supporting attack by one Soviet motorized rifle division. Though brutalized by two days of battle, the 25th Armored had held and given better than it had received. As a result of those efforts, the 16th Armored Division, reinforced by the 33rd Armored Brigade, and held back from the initial battles, had commenced the Allied counteroffensive. The 55th Infantry Division, suffering little during the defensive battles, had joined that offensive at dawn.
Initial reports from both units were encouraging. The Soviet security zone and main defensive belts had been breached. All depended now on the outcome of a series of tank battles, then under way, between the attacking Allied forces and the Soviet reserves. If the outcome was favorable, the Soviets would have nothing left in Kerman Province capable of stopping the Allies.
Weir's main problems were the timing of follow-on operations and logistics.
The 17th Airborne Division had been alerted to be prepared to make a combat jump with two brigades, one at Kerman and one at Rafsanjan, while holding its third in reserve. The drops would be made on order, timed to cut off the withdrawal of Soviet forces. If the paratroopers were dropped too late, they would bag nothing. By the same token, they must not be dropped too soon, lest the advancing ground forces be unable to reach them before the Soviets wore them down. The recent destruction of the Soviets' 285th Guards Airborne Regiment had served to remind everyone of that danger.
Resupplying the drive north was another problem. In the rush to prepare for the great expenditure of ammunition anticipated in the initial defensive battles, fuel had not been the highest priority. Now, with a breakthrough possible, every effort was being made to bring that valuable commodity into Iran and forward to the units. The last thing Weir intended to do was miss the chance of a lifetime because his tanks ran out of gas.
Weir stopped his pacing for a moment and looked at the small situation map in his office. He pondered the change of fortunes for the Allied forces.
Well, old boy, he told himself, the Navy can put their boats away. A week ago I wouldn't have given Bob Horn a nickel for our chances. Now there'll be no evacuation by this Army. We are here to stay. All I need is a little time to grind those other people up a bit and get us some chips for our negotiators when they go to the table.
The officer from STAVKA finished briefing the Politburo on the current situation and left the room.
The eleven grim-faced men sat and considered what they had heard and what it meant. The 17th Combined Arms Army had failed to achieve a breakthrough and was, in fact, now being attacked. On the authority of the Front Commander, the 17th CAA had assumed a defensive posture. Most of the STAVKA briefing officer's answers to questions put to him by Politburo members had been prefaced by the caveat 'It is hoped.. '
The General Secretary looked at each member before he spoke. 'It is time to open negotiations with the Americans. We have gained much and must ensure that it is not lost.'
The Minister of Defense sat up, slapped his hand on the table and bellowed, 'No! We must not give in. The army is still within striking distance. We must not stop now.'
'We have tried twice, and failed twice,' the General Secretary said.
'This failure was far more costly. Why do you think we could succeed where we have already failed twice?'
Turning to look at the other members as he spoke, the Minister of Defense replied, 'Comrades, we have not employed all weapons at our disposal. We must try again, this time with chemical weapons and, if necessary, tactical nuclear weapons. Quick surprise strikes will paralyze the Americans and allow us to drive to the strait, achieving our final goal.'
All watched the General Secretary, waiting for his response, which was: 'We have discussed this before. We decided on our goals and methods before we began this enterprise. I will not change them now. The political repercussions from employing either chemical or nuclear weapons would be far too great. Years of diplomatic efforts and achievements would be sacrificed for the gain of a few kilometers of dirt. The use of such weapons is not justified by the stated purpose of our intervention in Iran. No, we will not change the rules now. Besides, I do not trust the United States. You know their history, Comrades, as well as I do. Like a wounded animal, they will rise out of the ashes and seek revenge in a blind rage that will plunge us all into darkness. No, I will not lead our people into a holocaust as our fathers did. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will immediately open negotiations as previously discussed.'
The members of the Politburo sat there for several minutes. The Minister of Defense, seeking support or at least continuation of the discussion, looked toward each member in turn. As he did so, each man, in his turn, either turned away or cast his gaze down-except the last one, the Foreign Minister. In his eyes the Minister of Defense saw condemnation and unbridled hatred. Throughout the previous winter, when the plans for the invasion of Iran had been discussed, only the Foreign Minister had stood firmly against the idea.
He had taken much abuse and placed himself in a very precarious position by resisting the will of the other members. The General Secretary, to sway the Politburo to stop the war, had just used the same words that the Foreign Minister had been condemned for using when he tried to prevent the war. Now, in his moment of triumph, the Foreign Minister, staring at the man who had been the architect of the disaster that they faced, took no pride in being vindicated. That little victory had been purchased at the expense of tens of thousands of dead and wounded.
Finally realizing he was defeated, the Minister of Defense went silent.
There was no support for a continuation of the war. It had been decided.
The battle would now be waged over a felt-covered table in a quiet room in Geneva.
The figure walking between the rows of body bags was hardly recognizable as an officer, much less a major. He had no helmet or hat. His hair, stuck together by dirt and oil, was matted and ratty.
The face was haggard, with sunken eyes framed by dark circles. Three days of stubble surrounded the expressionless mouth. The uniform matched the man. The tank crewman's coveralls were ripped, dirty and stained with oil, sweat and blood. The only equipment he wore was a pistol in a shoulder holster and a protective mask
