Swiveling about in his chair, Dixon looked at a small enclosed area on a raised platform behind him. Nicknamed "the bridge," it was where the generals and primary staff officers watched and conferred. At that moment General Horn, General Darruznak, and Colonel Benton were sitting on the bridge, drinking coffee and discussing some matter or another. Odds were, Dixon thought, it had nothing to do with either the deployment of the 16th Armored Division or the raid on Al Fasher. There were operations under way, being executed by the commanders on the ground. Though the monitoring of their progress was important, the 2nd Corps could no longer reach out and effectively influence what was happening out there. Instead, the proper focus of the commander and the staff of the 2nd Corps was what would happen in the next forty-eight to ninety-six hours.
Like a chess player, the corps commander had to look where his pieces and those of the enemy sat on the board. With the assistance of his staff, he had to plan not only his next move but a whole series of moves in advance. These moves became a campaign, a series of battles and operations designed to achieve a defined goal or objective. At 1425 hours eastern standard time, the President of the United States invoked the War Powers Act. Subsequent orders from the Joint Chiefs of Staff authorized General Horn to use the 2nd Corps, in cooperation with Egyptian forces, to defend the Nile delta. Campaign planning could begin in earnest while those forces were deployed forward.
Swinging back toward the map board, Dixon watched as a sergeant moved the symbol for the Apache strike groups further south. That move was based on a time hack, not a report. Dixon was wondering to himself how accurate their tracking of the raid was when Sergeant Major London caught his attention. Standing in the doorway leading into the war room, London motioned to Dixon to come over to the door. Nodding to London, Dixon stood up, turned to a captain seated next to him, and told the captain to hold the fort until he got back.
Making his way to the door through the crowded room, Dixon walked up to London. "Vee gates, Sergeant Major?"
London leaned toward Dixon and whispered. "There's a Ms. Jan Fields here to see you."
Dixon made a funny face. He thought for a moment. "Does she want me or the public affairs pukes?"
"She insists on seeing you."
Dixon thought for a moment. He turned to look at the bridge for a moment. The generals and Benton hadn't moved. They were still deep in heavy discussion. He turned back to London. "Okay, Sergeant Major. Captain Kronauer has the helm. I'll be back in a few minutes. If someone starts looking for me, cover me."
Outside the guard room at the entrance to the command post, Dixon saw Jan leaning against the frame of the guard shack doorway. Looking out into the night, she didn't notice him. Even from a distance he could see she was exhausted and troubled. Her clothes were dirty and stained. Dixon walked up to within a few feet of her and waited till she saw him. When she did, he could see her eyes were red and puffy. Their soft warmth was missing. He had considered jumping all over her about Fay's staying, but decided against it. In an instant he knew not only that this wasn't the time or the place but that something was wrong.
"Are you all right, Jan?" There was true concern in his voice. That made it harder for Jan.
Reaching out with both of her hands, she grasped his right hand and pulled it to her chest. "Scott, it's Fay."
He waited, but Jan did not finish. He looked into her eyes. There were tears beginning to well up in their corners. She couldn't finish. She didn't have to. Her eyes told him everything. For a moment Dixon felt nothing — neither remorse nor regret. Perhaps the numbness he felt was the result of too many hours without sleep. There should have been something. But what? A twinge… an empty feeling… something.
They stood there, both at a loss as to what to say or do. Jan's warm, soft hands on his were the only sensation he was aware of, the only conscious feeling he allowed. He was spent, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He had no more tears to give, no more feelings. Finally, reluctantly, Dixon pulled his hand free. As he did, he averted his eyes from Jan's. "I have to go." He pivoted and began to walk away.
Jan took a step toward him. "Scott, I love you."
Jan's soft plea struck at Dixon's very soul. He stopped, but he didn't turn back. Instead, he looked at the sand between his feet and took a deep breath. He fought back an urge to cry, a desire to turn around and go back to Jan. Once he had regained his composure, he continued without a word back into the command post.
Activity at the refuel point came in spurts that night. The pathfinders, alone in their vigil for so long, had watched the blivets and paratroops come. Then another hour of waiting. Next, the Blackhawks with the equipment and men to man the refuel point came thundering in. For better than an hour there was frenzied activity as everyone on the ground pitched in and laid out the refuel site. The scattered blivets, already marked by the pathfinders and Cerro's men, were hauled in and set in place under the direction of the sergeant in charge of the refuel team. As soon as a blivet was set, crews began to lay yards of connecting lines from blivet to blivet and to the pumps. Once these were set, the sergeant in charge had his fuel handlers crank up the system and test it by refueling the Blackhawks already on site.
When he was satisfied that all was ready, the Blackhawks moved off, away from the refuel point and the incoming Apaches. Lights were set out to guide the Apaches. Then there was another lull as everyone waited. Each man settled into place, resting and listening for the approaching Apaches. The only break came when the final intelligence weather report from the Special Forces team at Al Fasher came in. Cerro and Jackson put the information together for the commander of the attack force.
At 0015 hours Jackson turned the beacon on. Shortly thereafter, at 0028, the sound of helicopter rotor blades beating the cold night air could be heard over the blowing wind and sand. There was again a flurry of activity as the fuel handlers scrambled into place. Some of Cerro's men turned on the lights, then scurried out of the way. Soldiers stood by the generators for the fuel pumps, prepared to crank them up. Within minutes, the black outline of the approaching Apaches could be seen against the dark sky. A man at the farthest fuel point flicked on a pair of flashlights with red filters. Though the pilot could clearly see the man through his thermal viewer, the lights served to guide the Apache to its proper refuel point. A soldier at the next refuel point did likewise as soon as the first Apache had passed his location. At each of the five points the same procedures were followed, with the lights on only when necessary to reduce confusion.
On the ground, as the pilot of the aircraft shut down the right engine, the fuel handlers moved forward to the aircraft's right side. While one soldier held the nozzle, another opened the fuel serving port, then opened the refueling panel and switched the fuel indicator and refuel valve switches to the "on" position. In the meantime, the soldier with the nozzle hooked it onto the refuel port, locked it down, and waited. When all indicator lights on the panel were lit, the soldier at the panel gave the word to crank up the generator and begin passing fuel. Under fifteen-pounds-per-square-inch pressure, fifty-six gallons of fuel a minute were shot into the internal fuel tanks of the Apaches. The external fuel cells, emptied during the flight south, would not be refueled. It had been decided that it was better to go into combat with them empty. They would be topped off only after the attack, on the return trip.