“What fighters? We haven’t seen one fighter since leaving Chärjew.”
“They are there, Orazov, we know it.”
“They were there at Chärjew, too — many of them. But not one lifted off to oppose us.”
“They were flown into Chärjew to scare us away, but the pilots left as soon as they got out of their planes,” Turabi said. “Those planes were worthless anyway — a bunch of old Sukhoi-17 bombers, over thirty years old and not very well maintained. They were never a threat to us.”
“They were a very great threat when we first planned the assault on Chärjew.”
“Our intelligence said the Turkmen had asked the Russians to bring up their Sukhoi-24s and MiG-27s—the ones based at Mary,” Turabi argued. “They brought up the relics instead. That means the first-line fighters and bombers are probably still in Mary. And we still don’t know exactly what the Americans are doing in Turkmenistan.”
“Ah, yes, your ghostly Americans,” Orazov said derisively. “You say you saw only two men, but they destroyed two armored vehicles, killed a half dozen men — but did nothing to you but question you.”
“Shut up, damn you,” Turabi snapped. “The Americans were there to retrieve their crashed aircraft or cruise missile or spy plane — whatever it was that got shot down.”
“So you say,” Orazov said dryly. “Or did you really lead your men into a minefield, as the helicopter-patrol officers surmised…?”
“Go to hell, Orazov.”
“In any case we haven’t seen any evidence of American soldiers in Turkmenistan — if they ever existed in the first place,” Orazov said to Zarazi. “They probably came in just to retrieve their cruise missile. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“Nothing to be concerned about? We are facing five to ten thousand Turkmen and Russian soldiers to the west, and we might have these American supersoldiers to the east — or at the very least over our heads with their spy planes and satellites.” Turabi turned to Zarazi. “I’ll take my scout company into Mary and find out exactly what’s happening, Wakil. But if you are considering a pullback to a more defensible position, sir, I recommend we proceed immediately. We need to shift the vanguard to defensive positions and move the main force forty kilometers north along the highway to get across the Kara Kum Canal. That’s a hard day’s march.”
“What is it with you, Colonel?” Orazov asked. “Why are you so bent on retreating all of a sudden?”
“Because any fool can see we are overextended in this position, with a large entrenched force up ahead of us,” Turabi retorted. “We barely have enough supplies to last us three days while we’re on the march. If we go into battle, we’ll use up all our supplies in less than a day.”
“Are you calling the general a fool, Turabi?”
“I am no expert in maneuver warfare,” Turabi went on, ignoring Orazov’s remark, “but I do know that hundreds of successful campaigns have been lost when an army marches beyond its secure supply lines. We are well beyond that point now, Wakil. It now takes more than a day to bring in enough fuel for our helicopters, armor, and vehicles. One interruption in our supply lines and we’ll have no choice but to retreat — and that’s when the chaos and confusion start.”
For the first time since the battle of Chauder, Zarazi looked confused and… yes, a little frightened. The change was amazing, Turabi thought. He didn’t know for sure, but perhaps this was the beginning of the long march home.
“General, we must attack, and do it now,” Orazov insisted. “Let’s not wait any longer. We should move with all possible speed to within artillery range of Mary Airport and begin the assault.”
“That would be suicide!” Turabi retorted. “Wakil, we have incomplete intelligence, our air defenses are not in place, and, as I’ve told you repeatedly, our supply lines are stretched to the limit—”
“Address him as ‘General’ or ‘sir,’ Colonel,” Orazov said angrily.
“Shut up, you bastard!” Turabi exploded. “You don’t know what you’re—”
At that moment a siren began to wail throughout the headquarters company — the air-raid siren. Turabi’s blood turned cold. It was too late. He thought for certain they had one more day. They were at the extreme edge of effective combat range of the Mi-24 attack helicopters based at Mary. Turabi believed that the Russians would wait until they attempted their assault on their objective, the oil-control facility at Bayramaly. That would give the big Hind-D attack helicopters several more weapons to carry into the attack, several more minutes over the target area. But surprise was everything in battle — and the Russians had just achieved it.
“Gunships! Helicopter gunships to the south!” one of the command-post lieutenants shouted. “Sir, spotters have detected two formations of three, about fifteen kilometers out.”
“Not even a full squadron. It might be a feint,” Turabi said. He motioned for the radio handset and shouted, “This is Colonel Turabi. Clear this net! I said clear this net immediately!” He waited a few moments for the excited chatter to die down. Then: “Echo Company, Echo Company, alert your scouts and make sure they’re ready to deal with the main body. If it’s coming, they’ll be rushing in from the north.
“Break. All antiaircraft crews, all antiaircraft crews, listen up. Do not panic when you see the damned Hinds. If you keep your cool, you’ll have a good chance. Dismount your man-portable missile crews, disperse and hide in every crack and crevice you can find, and go to remotes on your gun units. The Hinds like big targets out in the open — don’t give them one. Relax and get hits. Vanguard units, don’t break out of formation until you see the enemy break first, and don’t start radioing artillery-grid coordinates until you see their attack formation take shape. I want our artillery to drop ordnance on where they are, not where they were.” He threw the headset into Orazov’s face. “You wanted a fight, Orazov, you got one now.” Turabi ran off to the command truck, not waiting to see if Zarazi or Orazov followed.
They did not.
Turabi sat in the commander’s seat, in front of a large Plexiglas board with a grid showing the location of all their units. Behind the transparent board were communications technicians receiving reports from scouts and brigade commanders; another technician quickly drew and erased the symbols on the board, writing backward so Turabi on the other side could see them properly, as the battle progressed. On either side of the commander’s seats were the deputy’s seat and seats for communications officers and other advisers and specialists. Turabi could speak with anyone in his team, from a rifle-platoon leader to a battalion commander, by flicking a switch.
It was happening exactly as he’d envisioned it: a classic Soviet-style envelopment attack. Two flights of helicopter gunships were sweeping in from the south; a small formation of light tanks, just a dozen spotted so far, were heading up the highway toward them. But these were just the diversions — the main-objective force had still not been spotted. “Echo Three, this is Green One,” Turabi radioed to one of the scout platoons that was the farthest north and west, “what do you see? They should be right in front of you.”
“Negative contact, Green One,” the leader of the three-tank scout platoon reported.
Either the platoon was not where it was plotted on the board, Turabi thought, or the Turkmen forces were coming in from even farther north than he’d anticipated. “Echo, this is Green One, move one of your platoons straight north, straight north, right to that H-1 access road. They have to be coming in from farther north — your scouts are too close in and too far west.”