Sword Point (42 page)

They were at the halfway point. Kurpov stood upright in his hatch and looked to his right. The other
BRDM
was having difficulty keeping up with him. Turning to the front, he could see no sign of activity on the slope that they were fast approaching. There were only six hundred meters to go.

Three minutes. Time seemed to stand still. It was taking so long to get there. These things always seemed to take forever.

The image of the
BRDM
, growing by the second, seemed to fill Hewett’s sight. He no longer concerned himself with the one to the left. It was falling behind and not his concern. At that moment, his entire life, his whole being, centered around the image of the enemy vehicle bearing down on him. Time swept by. Any second now. Hewett began to control his breathing, taking in a full breath, letting it out, taking another. He watched the

BRDM
, he timed his breath, he waited until he felt he could wait no more.

At that instant he drew in one final breath, held it, then squeezed the trigger.

Although he was looking right at it when it fired, Kurpov did not immediately recognize the antitank guided missile for what it was. For the briefest of moments, he stared at the bright-orange orb closing on him.

“Missile, missile, missile! Driver, hard right!” The order surprised the driver, but he responded with a violent jerk to the left. The maneuver threw Kurpov off balance and sent him sprawling onto the floor of the
BRDM
.

Hewett held his breath and kept the sight glued to the
BRDM
. Five seconds, that was all it would take the missile to fly five hundred meters. Three seconds were gone, two to go. Hewett had almost anticipated the sharp turn. With ease he followed the
BRDM
as it now exposed its flank to him. Hewett gripped the launcher tightly, his eye pressed to the sight, and held his breath until the bright glow of the high-explosive warhead on the side of the
BRDM
lit up his sight.

Kurpov was lying on the floor, looking up and struggling to grab on to something when the missile slammed into the side of the
BRDM
. The dark interior was suddenly lit up by a blinding flash of light. The shaped-charge warhead had detonated on the side of the
BRDM
and formed a jet stream of molten metal that bored its way through the vehicle’s thin armor. As the jet stream pushed through, it added the BRDM’s armor that lay in its path, now liquefied and white hot, to the stream.

In horror Kurpov saw the stream cut through the gunner. The man’s shrieks were cut short by the explosion of onboard ammunition. Blinded by the light, unable to move or avoid the jet stream, Kurpov felt himself being ripped by fragments and peppered by molten clumps of metal tossed aside as the jet stream dissipated. He screamed as his brain was overwhelmed with pain. He was unconscious when the final cataclysmic explosion tore the
BRDM
apart.

Hewett didn’t need to watch the death of the
BRDM
. The initial impact told him he had scored a square hit. The
BRDM
wasn’t going anywhere anymore.

Instead of watching, he turned to the task of taking his sight from the expended Dragon tube and fitting it to the new round held by the assistant gunner. They had just about completed their drill when the sky was lit up by the explosion of the second
BRDM
. Thompson had also scored.

Hewett finished what he was doing and looked back at the
BRDM
he had hit.

It was now totally involved in flames. Fuel dripped from a ruptured tank, forming a flaming little pond that spread as he watched. For a moment, he considered the crew. That thought, however, was interrupted by the sharp report of a 30mm. gun. In the distance, at a point from which the two BRDMs had come, an automatic cannon was firing. Hewett, seeing that the firing was wild, put his sight up to his eye and began to search for the new enemy.

The battle had just been joined. It would be a long and bloody night as two antagonists, each many miles from home, tore at each other in a battle that would, at best, someday be referred to as a sideshow.

The unleashed power of the atom has changed everything save our modes of thinking, and we thus drift toward unparalleled catastrophes.

-
ALBERT
EINSTEIN

Kerman, Iran 0730 Hours, 15 July (0400 Hours, 15 July,
GMT
) The airfield was visible from a distance as the patrol crossed the open fields. The sight gave the footsore paratroopers heart. After four days of ceaseless patrolling during the day that found nothing and ambushes at night that yielded nothing, the men were tired. The airfield promised them a meal of hot tea and kasha. While they were on patrol campfires had not been allowed, preventing the men from preparing tea to accompany their dry rations of canned meat and black bread. Though they knew they would have only two days, three at the most, before they went out again, any break was welcome.

Before entering the airfield’s perimeter, the patrol was stopped by their commanding officer and ordered to straighten out their uniforms and equipment. They would still be dirty, but at least they would give the impression that they were a disciplined military unit. The paratroopers, despite being tired and anxious to get back into the safety of the perimeter, did not complain. No one, not even new men assigned to the unit, complained or hesitated when Lieutenant Ilvanich gave an order.

As if on parade, Ilvanich, followed by Junior Lieutenant Malovidov, walked down the line of paratroopers, stopping in front of each.

Ilvanich addressed each paratrooper by his full name and chatted or joked with him while he inspected or made an adjustment.

Malovidov watched intently everything livanich did. New to the unit, he had been sent on the patrol to learn from llvanich. Intimidated at first due to his teacher’s reputation and manner, Malovidov was confused by the time they finished. Most of what the lieutenant did and the way in which he conducted himself had never been taught in the military academy or the officers’ training courses Malovidov had attended. Ilvanich often did not follow doctrine or proper procedures.

Despite his cold and aloof manner, the men under his command worshiped him, following his every order and direction without hesitation, question or complaint. When combat appeared imminent, the lieutenant became a cold, unfeeling machine, seeing all and spewing out orders rapidly, efficiently. The men responded to him as if they had anticipated his orders. When Malovidov asked livanich why he had done something, the lieutenant often snapped, “Because that is the way to do it.” The junior lieutenant, having much to learn, was not sure he could from such an enigma.

Nor could Malovidov penetrate Ilvanich’s personal world. Efforts at striking up conversation about home and family were met with silence or curt remarks such as

“That is not important right now” or “You should be concerning yourself with military matters, not idle gossip.” As far as Malovidov could determine, Ilvanich had no real friends. What free time he had he spent alone, often out of sight of the rest of the unit. This worried

Malovidov. He wondered whether he himself would be come as sullen and unfriendly once he had been in combat as much as Ilvanich had been. He hoped he would not, but he did not discount the possibility. The young lieutenant had heard that combat did strange things to a man’s mind.

As the patrol entered the perimeter, Ilvanich was shocked to see the
KGB
major for whom he had worked in Tabriz. The major was waiting for him.

After the two officers saluted, the
KGB
major offered a friendly smile, while the lieutenant carefully guarded his surprise and suspicions.

“Lieutenant Ilvanich, congratulations on your well deserved promotion.”

Ilvanich, straight-faced, thanked the major. Then, anxious to find out the purpose of the visit, he asked, “What brings you, Comrade Major, to the garden spot of Iran?”

The major laughed and threw his arm around llvanich. “We have a mission for you. Turn your patrol over to the junior lieutenant and walk with me.”

A sinking feeling began to grow in llvanich’s stomach while they walked.

The image of the dead prisoners stacked against the wall in Tabriz came to mind. Hesitantly he asked, “What, Comrade Major, is the nature of the mission?”

The major, serious now, spoke slowly, guardedly. “It is a matter of great importance to the State. Much depends on its success.”

Everything, Ilvanich thought, is a matter of great importance to the
KGB
.

I wonder how many children we must kill this time.

Headquarters, 10th Corps, Bandar Abbas, Iran 0900 Hours, 15 July (0530

Hours, 15 July,
GMT
)

The briefing, the atmosphere and the collection of rank overwhelmed Second Lieutenant Cerro. As he sat there, he wished he could slither under the table he was seated at and low-crawl out the door. That option, however, was definitely out. There were too few people in the room. His absence would be noticed. Besides, the corps commander kept watching him, almost as if he knew of Cerro’s plans to escape. At the table, along with the corps commander, there were several full colonels, a Special

Forces major, a naval officer whose rank Cerro didn’t know, and two other airborne-company commanders from Cerro’s battalion. Cerro had never seen this side of the Army before. Earlier, as he walked through the corps headquarters with the other company commanders and waited for the meeting to start, he had watched majors and lieutenant colonels scurrying about like office boys, scribbling on paper, posting maps, answering phones. Cerro wondered whether there were any second lieutenants in the corps headquarters and, if there were, what their jobs were.

Once the meeting began, behind closed doors with MPs posted at them, Cerro became more bewildered and, because of the subject, frightened.

As the briefers went through their presentations, a story that sounded more like a poor made-for-TV movie plot began to unfold: In a sweep of the battlefield on 13 July, the wreck of an Iranian F-4 fighter-bomber had been found just north of Saadatabad. Shot down on the ninth, the plane was carrying a crude atomic bomb.

Despite the fact that everyone except Cerro seemed to know about the

“Device,” as they called it, all present still were visibly uneasy every time it was mentioned. When the corps intelligence officer presented his suppositions on what the plane with the Device was up to, several of the colonels questioned him. A lively debate was cut short by the corps commander, who stated, “Gentlemen, I really don’t give a damn what they were going to do with it. What I want to know is what we are going to do to find out if they have more and how we are going to keep those fanatics from using them.”

The intelligence officer, using a map, explained that by reviewing Air

Force records of all air battles fought on the ninth, they had been able to locate where the F-4 had originated. When information obtained from other sources, including a Special Forces team dropped into the area, was added to this, it had been determined that a secret, well-secured base was being operated by the Iranians near Robat-a Abgram in the Dasht-a Lut. Since the

F-4 had first been detected by
AWACS
in that area, the connection was made that the Devices were being either stored or manufactured there. Other than that, intelligence had nothing to offer.

The corps operations officer followed with his report. He stated that

CENT
COM
apprised of the matter, had given the corps the mission of following up on the theory that the Device had probably come from either

Robat-e Abgram or one of two other sites. It was the task of the 10th Corps to find the real site and take it out. The operations officer presented to the corps commander all possible options available to accomplish the mission, recounted all pros and cons for each option and presented a coordinated staff recommendation. It had been decided that ground attacks, led by Special Forces A teams and supported by an airborne company hitting each site, were best. By going in on the ground, they could confirm whether or not the secret site was in fact the storage place or the plant where the

Device was manufactured. In addition, a ground attack would ensure complete destruction of all critical elements, personnel and Devices.

It suddenly dawned on Cerro why he was there. His company would be one of the airborne companies. When the Special Forces major spoke, Cerro listened intently. His suspicions were confirmed when the major casually mentioned that A Company, 2nd of the 517th Parachute Infantry, commanded by

Lieutenant Cerro, would provide fire support and security for the Special

Forces assault team in the raid against Robat-a Abgram. At that instant, all faces in the room turned to Cerro. He could feel their eyes drilling through him, wondering if he could pull it off.

For the balance of the meeting, Cerro was lost in his own thoughts. How in hell did I get into this one? he pondered. Don’t they know about the anti armor ambush I blew? Isn’t there a unit with a more senior commander?

These and similar questions swam through his mind until the meeting broke up. As the people in the room began to rise, the corps commander’s aide called to Cerro. The corps commander wanted to see Cerro in his office.

When the door was closed and they were alone, Lieutenant General Weir told

Cerro to be seated and relax. “I suppose you’re wondering why your company is going in.”

Cerro responded, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, Lieutenant, you’re doing it because your unit is ready, it’s proven in battle and, most importantly, you’ve been ordered to. What do you think about that?”

Cerro looked up at the General for a moment. He thought about giving him

“Can do, airborne, sir” yell but decided against that. The General asked what he thought. Fuck it, Cerro thought. He asked, I’ll tell him. “Sir, I think you have the wrong unit. You obviously weren’t told about the ambush