When all active measures had been expended, the computers on the escorts began to fire chaff. Millions of tiny strips of aluminum were blown out of launchers, creating instant clouds to confuse the cruise missiles' targeting radar. Those ships that had chaff escaped as the missiles broke radar lock and flew about, searching for a new target, until they ran out of fuel. Those ships that didn't and were marked, died.
As in a nightmare, Capell heard the ripping of metal and the detonation of the cruise missile's warhead. Unused fuel from the missile was ignited by the explosion and propelled forward by the momentum of the missile. The burning fuel was sprayed across the ward, covering everything in a sheet of fire. The bandages wrapped about Capell's body to protect his burns now provided fuel to the fire that engulfed him and his ward mates. Only the crushing rush of seawater and the mercy of drowning saved Capell from burning to death.
The mounted patrol, making its morning sweep of the division's main supply route, came across an overturned hummer and the dismembered remains of three people. In a single glance they could tell it had been done by Iranians.
Russians weren't in the habit of mutilating the dead.
As the platoon leader watched his patrol check the vehicle and the bodies for booby traps, his platoon sergeant came up to him. "No signs leading away from the ambush site. All we found were a few shell casings. What do you suppose they were doing out here alone last night?"
The platoon leader leaned against his vehicle and pulled out his canteen.
"Doesn't really matter what they were doing, does it? They're dead now."
The lieutenant took a drink from his canteen. "Hell of a way to start the day."
The platoon sergeant watched as two men checked a body. "You don't suppose that the Iranians.. well, do you think they.. ?"
Finishing a second drink, the lieutenant looked at the body. "You mean raped her? I really don't want to know, Sergeant. And you have no need to know. If some shit in grave registrations wants to find out, that's his business. We just find 'em, mark 'em and report 'em."
A soldier picked up something from the body and brought it over to his platoon leader. A pair of dog tags. The lieutenant poured water from his canteen over one of the tags and wiped away the blood. "Well, Sergeant Mullen, at least we'll be able to notify the next of kin of one Matthews, Amanda, that their daughter died in the service of her country."
Chapter 19
God is always with the strongest battalion.
For weeks forces had been moving forward on both sides of no-man's-land, assembling within striking distance of each other.
Savage little skirmishes between Soviet recon units and American armored cavalry units, sent forth to screen friendly preparations and uncover those of the enemy, punctured the lull. Units jockeying for positions from which to defend or attack clashed in the night, holding when possible, drawing back when faced by superior force. Therefore, the simultaneous eruption of over eight hundred howitzers, guns and mortars that heralded the commencement of the "final" offensive came as no surprise.
The Soviet 17th Combined Arms Army, the main instrument to be used in destroying U.S. forces in Iran and seizing the Strait of Hormuz, was well rested and prepared. For this purpose it had absorbed the remnants of the 28th Combined Arms Army, so that it now had four motorized rifle divisions, two tank divisions and several independent regiments, one of which was the 285th Guards Airborne Regiment. Front artillery and air units made the 17th CAA a formidable force with over 1600 tanks, 2500 armored personnel carriers and other armored vehicles, 900 pieces of artillery and heavy mortars, and close to 100,000 men.
To oppose the 17th CAA, Allied ground forces in the central area, the area of operations, consisted of the bulk of the 10th Corps and the 13th Corps.
The 10th would be responsible for taking on the main Soviet force. For this it had three divisions-two armored divisions and one mechanized infantry-an armored cavalry regiment and a British armored brigade.
Units from the 13th Airborne Corps were available if needed. The 17th Airborne Division was being held ready for use in either the air assault mode or a combat drop deep in the Soviet rear once the counteroffensive began. A French airborne armored-car regiment had been transferred from the eastern sector, where the 6th Marine Division was operating, to reinforce the 17th Airborne in preparation for those operations. The 12th Division, though a shadow of its former self, had the role of securing the rear of the central area. The primary force to be used for this mission was a brigade comprised of four reconstructed and reorganized infantry battalions that had survived the fighting in late June. It was called the Phoenix Brigade, and each and every man in it was ready and anxious to avenge the earlier defeats.
Though the Allied ground forces in the central area were outnumbered and, initially, on the defense, the goals of the ground-force commander, Lieutenant General Weir, were far more ambitious than merely stopping the Soviets from reaching their goal. Weir intended to allow the Soviets to attack first and smash themselves upon the 10th Corps.
When they were broken, he planned to seize the initiative and attack north, destroying them through the use of slashing ground attacks in conjunction with bold airborne and air assault operations against critical Soviet command, control and support facilities. Over his desk hung a hand-painted sign reminding his commanders and staff to THINK NORTH. Not to be outdone, his operations officer had a sign that told his, people, TEHRAN OR BUST. With more flair than his superiors, the corps G-3 plans officer created his own sign that advertised SKI TABRIZ.
The lofty plans of the corps commander and his staff depended, however, upon the performance of men living at the far end of the spectrum.
Cavalrymen watching from their Bradleys, armored crewmen manning M-is and infantrymen huddled in their rifle pits girded themselves for the coming of the Soviets. Few knew of the plans the corps commander and his staff had.
Most did not fully understand the part they were supposed to play in the final defeat of the Soviet forces in Iran. What they did know was that their survival depended on how well they and the other men in the crew or squad performed their duties.
The crew of the M-lAl tank watched the T-80 tanks roll forward. Their tank commander, Staff Sergeant Steven Pulaski, stood high in the turret as he tracked the Soviet tanks with his binoculars. He listened to the platoon sergeant report his sightings to the platoon leader. Since he had nothing to add, Pulaski did not report. He watched, fascinated, as the Soviets moved forward, oblivious to the danger they were in. From where the platoon sat, Pulaski's first round would be an oblique, downward shot. Given that angle and the distance from the M-lAl to the kill zone, the 120mm. armor-piercing fin-stabilized Sabot round would have no problem penetrating the T-80s. Pulaski whispered to his gunner, as if the Soviets could hear them, "Hey, Teddy, can ya see 'em?"
"Sure can. Do you suppose they can see us, Steve?"
"If they could see us, do ya think they'd be pissing away all that artillery on those dummy positions on the hill behind us? No, and they won't till we shoot. Then all hell'll break loose." Pulaski told his driver, "Billy, you better be awake down there. When I tell you to kick it in the ass, I don't want any of your dumb-ass excuses."