At least the Air Force would be able to come back and level the place if his efforts didn't do the job.
Satisfied that he had done his best, Hensly paused for a moment before leaving. He took out his pocketknife and pried the metal data plate off one of the containers. No doubt the CIA would be interested.
Seeing this, Ilvanich did likewise when Hensly was not looking. The KGB major would be proud of him.
When the two green star clusters streaked skyward, the platoons on the north and the south increased their rates of fire, then began to back off.
The platoon with Cerro withdrew outside the compound and took up positions two hundred meters from the outer perimeter. There they stayed in place, waiting for the demolitions to go off. Cerro, Hensly and Ilvanich watched and waited. Two machine guns and the mortars continued to sweep the compound in order to keep the Iranians pinned and away from the demolitions.
As they lay there and waited, Hensly asked, "By the way, has anyone considered which way the wind is blowing?"
Ilvanich asked why.
Hensly turned to the two lieutenants. "I hope you gentlemen realize that when that demolition goes off and starts cracking the protective shields of the plutonium containers, we could have a radioactive accident that will make Three Mile Island seem like Disneyland." llvanich turned to Cerro. "What is a three-mile island?"
Glumly, Cerro replied, "America's Chernobyl."
Any further discussion was cut off by the first blasts of the demolitions.
Hensly was on his feet first. "Let's get the fuck out of Dodge!"
As they ran, Ilvanich called to Cerro, "Where is Dodge?"
The winds that day had been from the west. While the raiders were quite relieved, the Marines and the Soviet 89th Motorized Rifle Division in eastern Iran would experience a period of alarm and near-panic as radiac meters and Geiger counters registered the passing of the radiation cloud and the fallout.
The two lieutenants had agreed not to tell each other of their plans for extraction. With the mission over and the common goal met, there would always be the temptation to turn on the temporary ally. Once all were assembled at the well, Cerro and llvanich reorganized their companies. As Ilvanich had been wounded and the American pickup zone was several kilometers away, Cerro let the Russians have the well. When the Americans prepared to depart at twilight on the twentieth, neither lieutenant knew how to bid the other farewell. As they stood facing each other, many thoughts raced through their minds. They were so much alike, had so much in common. Men who should have been friends under any other circumstances were returning to serve in the defense of people who would never know the horrors of battle or the trial of leadership in combat as they knew it. In the end, they simply said goodbye and saluted each other, before Cerro turned and walked away.
Chapter 18
A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic.
The crowd at the Club was unusually heavy despite the fact that payday was still a week away. The lure of live showgirls and a discount on all drinks until nine o'clock that evening did wonders to bring the GIs out on a night cooled by a late-afternoon shower and a lingering drizzle. The Germans who owned the shops along the cobblestone street were long gone, tucked into their homes or visiting their own local Gasthaus. Only the American soldiers and "the ladies" populated the street in front of the Club, a local establishment that, if called a dive, would be giving it more class than it deserved.
To its patrons, however, it was where it was happening, at least for the moment. Inside, the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume, mixed with cigarette smoke and an occasional whiff of a controlled substance, permeated every nook and cranny. Dim lights hid the faces of most of the patrons from anyone more than a few feet away. The blare of music and the continuous chatter of numerous conversations were as numbing to the body as the beer the Club's patrons drank and spilled. Except for small knots of friends here and there, most of the people there that night were strangers, people with nothing in common except the desire to escape the boredom of the barracks, training that of late seemed endless, and homesickness that no amount of beer could wash away.
A block down the street from the entrance to the Club, a nondescript Volkswagen van sat parked. Four men dressed as painters, with their black hair covered by hoods or hats, sat in the van. They said nothing. They only watched the Club in the van's rearview mirrors and occasionally looked at their wristwatches. The man in the driver's seat leaned back and tried to relax, but the drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel told that he could not. They were tired, having spent the entire day working in the basement under the Club. To the casual observer, their presence should have been suspicious. But the Germans who lived on the street and the police who patrolled it were used to strange comings and goings because of the Club and the foreigners it attracted. It was obvious that the four men, probably Turkish workers earning money for families they had left behind, had nothing better to do.
As nine-thirty approached, the man seated next to the driver raised his arm for the last time and looked at his watch. When the sweep hand reached that time, he said in Farsi, "Now."
The stillness of the night was shattered by a series of explosions that ripped through the Club. Balls of fire, followed by great sheets of flame, erupted from every window and door of the building. Fragments of glass and splinters from window and door frames flew in all directions, showering the street. Two American soldiers and a young "lady" who had been talking in front of the Club were cut to ribbons.
In a second, all was silence again.
Only the hiss of the flames billowing out from every opening interrupted the stunned quiet that momentarily returned to the street.
The man next to the van driver turned away from the scene and muttered, "Allah be praised." Then the van drove away.
Like shadows, the ten figures moved slowly and silently among the rocks. The path they weaved doubled the distance they traveled but avoided positions defended by the enemy or areas under observation.
They were not interested in killing the enemy and didn't bother to find out what was in each position. The leader of the small platoon had but one goal in mind, to get past the enemy without detection and back to friendly lines. Since 28 June, that goal had become an obsession with Sergeant First Class Duncan.
The closer to no-man's-land they advanced, the more difficult it became to avoid the enemy. In the rear areas units are more spread out and less vigilant but this did not mean that Duncan and the survivors of the battle at Rafsanjan had it easy. Soviet patrols, on foot, mounted and heliborne, were constantly searching for guerrillas throughout their rear areas. By day they would sweep through suspected hideouts and at night set up ambushes along trails. The Iranians, both civilians and guerrillas, were also a constant threat. The civilians hid the guerrillas, fed them and supplied information. A sighting by civilians was almost as dangerous as one by the Soviets. Duncan had found this out the hard way after going through a small village one night. The next day their hideout was hit by group of Iranian guerrillas.