Sword Point (10 page)

It was the act of getting the men and the equipment together again that concerned

Lewis. To off load the ships in Iran, the Army needed at least one secure and functional seaport. Likewise, to get the troops in, a secure and functional airfield was needed in close proximity to the seaport. More than that, the air over these facilities had to be relatively free of enemy air activity. It would do no good to have all the equipment arrive in port and have the people who were to man it spattered on a runway in Iran by a hotshot Russian jet-fighter jock as the transport plane came in for a landing. A lot of coordination between the Army, the Navy and the Air Force needed to happen. to make this operation work.

There was serious work to do, however, right there at Fort Campbell.

What happened in Iran was still in the future. Lewis’ main concern at that moment was to prepare the battalion for battle as best he could.

Success or failure of the deployment phase of the operation was in the hands of other people, people he would never know. As his jeep, also borrowed from the

Kentucky National Guard, bounced along the tank trail back to battalion headquarters, Lewis flipped through the unit training schedules for the next day to ensure that everything had been coordinated and set. There was precious little time for screwups.

Tabriz, Iran 0555 Hours, 5 June (0225 Hours, 5 June,
GMT
) In any profession there are requirements and duties that are necessary and important but unpleasant. Often, as an unwritten rule, these jobs are given to the most junior man. This practice is passed off as being part of the new man’s development, while in fact it is nothing more than passing off a dirty chore to someone else. An equally common practice is to continue passing off unpleasant duties until there is no one else to push the duty off onto. The

Army is probably the greatest practitioner of this method of dealing with its dirty little jobs. Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvanich knew this from his training as a cadet and a junior officer. It was part of the system. This rationalization, however, did not make his current task any easier.

Since being relieved by the 28th
CAA
, the 285th Guards Airborne Regiment had been recovering and reorganizing. Ilvanich’s company was typical of the condition of the regiment as a whole. The company had dropped into Tabriz with seven officers and seventy-eight enlisted men.

After six days of sustained combat, there were only two officers and thirty-three enlisted men who were not dead or wounded when the ground forces finally arrived.

The 285th Regiment’s parent division was equally depleted, requiring reorganization and amalgamation of units. During this effort, the 285th was assigned garrison and patrol duties in and around Tabriz while the 28th
CAA
continued to advance south and west.

One of these duties was the apprehension and punishment of Iranians who violated the curfew. The punishment was death. Ilvanich did not realize what he and his men would be required to do when he reported to the garrison headquarters on the afternoon of the fourth. He was taken to a
KGB
major who would brief him and supervise him and his platoon during the performance of their duties. The
KGB
major was relatively young, Ilvanich guessed not more than thirty-two. He stood a bit over six foot and had a medium build. His looks and dress were average. But the fact that he was
KGB
made him different, a difference that one did not dare forget.

At first Ilvanich thought that his men were to be prison guards.

Slowly, as the
KGB
major talked, it dawned upon him that he was going to lead a firing squad and summarily execute anyone who had been apprehended for violating the curfew. Anyone, that is, who was not shot by the patrols.

When this revelation finally hit him, Ilvanich flushed. For a moment he felt lightheaded, as if he were going to faint. Then he noticed the
KGB
major staring at him. The major asked whether there was something wrong. livanich, mustering all the strength he could, collected himself and replied that he was simply tired, not fully recovered from his first battle. The
KGB
major appeared to accept that, heaping praise on the bravery and sacrifice of the airborne soldiers before carrying on with his briefing. When he got to the portion of the briefing where he described the duties of the officer in charge of the firing squad, he spoke slowly and looked into Ilvanich’s eyes. The
KGB

major was searching for weakness or hesitation. Ilvanich returned the stare, turning his thoughts away from the task he was being given.

That night, for the first time in his career, Ilvanich struggled with his duties and his conscience. In the dark room where he was billeted, sleep did not come. He tossed and turned in his sweat-soaked bunk, trying to clear his mind and to reason out his current problem. His whole life revolved around duty to the State and the Army. The two were inseparable.

There was, in his mind, no other purpose to his life but to serve the State. He had performed, without question, his duties when he and his men were dropped into Iran. Despite the horrors, he was able to deal with what he was doing because the Iranians were the enemy, enemies of the State, armed and ready to do harm to the State. His role as an executioner, however, was different. He was being directed to shoot civilians whose sole crime was being in the street at night. Granted, some, if not most, were probably terrorists or guerrillas. But this killing was going to be different. On the front it had been so quick, so necessary. Now the process was going to be slow and the reason not so clear.

In the cool of the early morning Ilvanich paraded his firing squad.

Still unsure of himself and how he would react, he did his best to hide any show of emotion and chose his words carefully as he issued his instructions. His men quickly detected his stress and tension. But they, like their platoon leader, understood what was at stake and followed suit, doing exactly as they were told without any sign of feeling or hesitation.

The
KGB
major watched from a corner of the small prison courtyard as the first group of Iranians were brought out and stood against the clean whitewashed wall. His eyes were riveted on Ilvanich standing on the flank of the firing squad. Ilvanich could feel the major’s eyes on him. He also felt himself getting dizzy again as he surveyed the prisoners. Of the ten people, four were women, two were boys who could not have been more than twelve years old, and one was an old man who walked with the aid of a wooden stick. How, Ilvanich thought, could any sane person consider this motley group a threat to the State? It was ludicrous. Carefully, he turned his head to where the
KGB
major stood leaning against the prison building, staring at him. With a simple nod, the major indicated it was time to proceed. Turning his head back to where he could face his men without seeing the people they were about to execute, Ilvanich began to give the orders.

“Ready.”

His men raised their rifles to their shoulders.

“Aim.”

They tucked their cheeks against the stocks of their rifles.

Ilvanich steadied himself and closed his eyes.

“Fire. ”

The noise that reverberated off the courtyard walls was deafening. It caused Ilvanich to jump. Opening his eyes, he looked down the line of men as they fired. Some fired a single burst, with their eyes closed, then stopped. Others fired continuously, dipping their rifles to shoot into 67 the bodies after they had fallen. Some fired until their entire magazines were empty.

Ilvanich did not issue an order to cease fire. He merely waited until the shooting stopped, then ordered his men to attention. While still looking along the line of his men, he reached down, unsnapped his holster and drew his pistol, holding it at shoulder level and pointed in the air. At last he turned toward the wall where the prisoners had been. The white wall was now splattered with blood and pockmarked with bullet holes. Streams of blood ran down the wall onto the ground to where the prisoners lay in a tangled heap. For a moment Ilvanich remembered the trench. His stomach muscles tightened as he felt a tinge of bile rise in his throat. He fought for and gained composure before he proceeded.

Mechanically, he marched to the wall, staring not at the bodies but at one of the bloodstains on the wall until he reached the wall. When he got there, he stopped and looked down. The first person was a young woman, not more than twenty. For a second he wondered what had caused her to become an enemy of the State.

Ilvanich turned and looked in the direction of the
KGB
major. The major was still in the same position, leaning casually against the building. With the same nonchalant nod, he signaled Ilvanich to continue. Without further thought, the junior lieutenant lowered his pistol and fired one round into the head of each of the bodies before him. When he was finished, he turned and marched back to his post on the flank of his firing squad while other

Iranians came out, dragged away the bodies of the first prisoners and prepared to take their place against the wall. Ilvanich did not watch.

He merely replaced the magazine in his pistol with a fresh one, returned the pistol to his holster and stood by until the next group was ready.

As he waited, he saw the
KGB
major give him a faint smile and a nod of approval. Ilvanich and his men had performed their duty to the State well.

Socialism in Iran was a little more secure.

Fort Hood, Texas 2205 Hours, 4 June (0405 Hours, 5 June,
GMT
) The officers’ club hadn’t done as well as this in years. It seemed that everyone was stopping by after a tough day in the pits to undergo liquid “stress reduction.” In the beginning, First Lieutenant Amanda Matthews couldn’t understand why officers would want to spend all day beating themselves to death at the office and then, for relaxation, go over to the club and spend more time with the same people from the office. For the first few days she left post as soon as she could, showered, changed out of uniform and tried hard to blend into the rest of society for a few hours.

She wanted to leave the office and the grim business she dealt in on post.

The more she tried, however, the less she succeeded. As she wandered the shopping mall, Soviet orders of battle raced through her mind. She found that it was difficult to talk to her civilian friends. She felt out of place as they talked about their jobs, stereos and cars, things that now meant little to Matthews. Issues such as Soviet offensive chemical and tactical nuclear capabilities in Iran had become her all-consuming concern.

Not finding escape in the outside world, she sought at the officers’

club the company of others who, like her, pondered the imponderable and needed escape.

From across the crowded lounge, another military intelligence lieutenant from the division staff beckoned her to join him. Matthews, feeling no pain after her second scotch, figured there was nothing to lose. After all, misery enjoys company.

First Lieutenant Tom Kovack was one of the more junior officers in the division G-2 shop. Although he was one of the most arrogant and conceited people she knew, he had been a very good source of back-door information for Matthews in the last ten days. She suspected his motives, for good reasons, but felt she could handle him. After all, she had three inches over him. Without rising as she came to the table, Kovack asked, “Do you always drink alone, Amanda?” Some men took seriously the fact that they were no longer commissioned “an officer and a gentleman.”

“Only when there is no one worth drinking with.”

“That’s cold, Amanda. Besides, I’m supposed to be the conceited one.”

Taking advantage of the opening, she gibed, “And so you are, I’ll drink to that,” and drained her glass.

She had hit him off guard and on the mark. His smirk disappeared and his ears turned red as he bit back a nasty remark. He changed subjects quickly. “You know the

G-2 is beginning to lose his patience with your estimates of Iranian resistance. Do you really believe they’re going to try to fight the Russians and us? I mean, it doesn’t make sense.”

Matthews looked at Kovack for a moment. She found it hard to believe that the two of them, with the same training and background, could look at the same information and come up with two entirely different conclusions.

“Kovack, I don’t believe that even you can be so stupid. Haven’t you been watching the news? Ten days after the Soviets invade their country, and with them less than a hundred and fifty miles from Tehran, the Iranians are still demonstrating against the U.S. There are just as many anti-American banners in their demonstrations as there are anti-Soviet. These people don’t see any difference between us and them. They don’t see any difference now and they won’t see one when the first Americans land there.”

With composure and confidence born from assurance of his convictions, Kovack countered her, point by point, clearly demonstrating, in his mind, the foolishness of her position. “Surely,” he concluded, “once we’re on the ground and they see we’re there to fight the Russians and help them preserve their country, they’ll flock to our side.”

Matthews merely shook her head. “Kovack, you’re an idiot as well as an asshole. We are dealing with fanatics. Fanatics that are part of a proud race of people. Anyone that is not a Persian or a Shiite is their enemy. No one, regardless of motivation, is going to change their minds.

They’ll go down to a man before they embrace us as friends.”

Leaning forward and placing his hand on her thigh, Kovack whispered,

“Talking about going down and embracing friends, let’s leave. The night’s still young.”

Matthews stood up without breaking eye contact. “Like the Iranians, I’m careful whom I pick for friends.” With that she turned and walked away, followed by Kovack’s taunt “I have not yet begun to fight.”

Five Kilometers West of Kaju, Iran 0645 Hours, 5 June (0315 Hours, 5