Efforts to extract the Soviet Union gracefully from this bottomless pit were being frustrated by increasingly brutal and direct American actions against Soviet forces in Africa. Public opinion, and conclusions drawn from the obvious, drove the Americans deeper into the conflict. Neboatov listened with sinking heart to two senior officers on General Boldin's staff discuss the raid on Al Fasher and the naval bombardment of Soviet positions around Bardia. Casualties to Soviet personnel were high and could not be ignored. On one hand, the Soviet Union could not withdraw its forces from Africa under pressure from the United States: diplomatically, it would spell the end of any Soviet influence in the African continent and jeopardize relations with other allies and client states. Events in the field, however, were outrunning efforts to mediate the crisis. So long as Soviet forces surrounded an Egyptian force in Libya and a Libyan force threatened Egyptian national, and internal, security, Egypt and the United States would not negotiate.
Though there had not yet been a direct military response to American actions by Soviet forces, it was only a matter of time before something had to be done. Nothing had been, or could be, done about the Al Fasher raid. It was over. Actions needed to be taken, however, to protect Soviet forces from air and naval attacks. Use of the Black Sea's Mediterranean Squadron to drive off the ships of the U.S. 6th Fleet was being planned. Neboatov saw little hope for moderation. He listened to the staff officers discuss the timing of those operations and the various options — options that would further complicate efforts to moderate the crisis.
As he prepared to leave, Neboatov knew the worst was yet to come. Once American and Soviet forces began to hack away at each other in a deliberate and methodical manner, the voices of reason would be drowned out by the din of battle. Watching the air force personnel secure the casket inside the transport, he was reminded of an ancient Spartan saying. It was said that when a Spartan mother gave her son his shield, she implored him to return with it or upon it. General Uvarov was coming home on his shield. Would the Politburo tell the Red Army units in Africa the same thing — return home with it or upon it? If so, Uvarov's body would be only the first of many.
No sooner had Scott Dixon walked into the operations room than Sergeant Major London grabbed him and asked if he had been to see the chief of staff yet. With only four hours' sleep and a shower since leaving the command post, Dixon was slow in reacting. Drawing a cup of coffee from a well-used pot in the corner of the room, Dixon looked over to the situation map. He decided it might be a good idea to familiarize himself with the current situation before he saw the chief.
Walking over to the map, he stopped several feet from it. For several minutes he studied the map and sipped his coffee. Even as he stood there, NCOs from the operations and intelligence sections went up to the map and moved red and blue symbols representing units or changed some data written next to a unit symbol. The blue symbols, representing the Egyptian units, were farther to the east than they had been when he had walked out at 0730 that morning. Some red symbols, representing the Libyans, were closed up right next to the blue ones. The delaying action by the Republican Brigade continued. How neat the clean, two-dimensional map sheet and the well-defined symbols made war look, Dixon thought. One could almost believe by looking at the map and listening to briefings given by the staff that people actually were able to control and understand what was happening out there.
Dixon stepped closer to the map to study the terrain where the front line now stood. The fight continued to move east along the coastal road. Little effort had been made by the Libyans to sweep inland to outflank the Egyptians. Speed, and maintaining the solid line of communications back to Libya, seemed to be important to the Libyans. Along the line on the map where blue symbols met red symbols, there was a sliver of space separating the two. That sliver of space, representing the front line trace of friendly and enemy units, looked so inconsequential on the map. Dixon knew, however, that men were fighting and dying in the tiny sliver. In that minute space the neat, straight edges of the opposing map symbols blurred and merged as men and equipment crawled and stumbled about in the desert. The war that the blue and red symbols, neatly taped to the map, represented bore no resemblance to the war being fought by the soldiers who made up those units.
Stepping back, Dixon looked at the location of Libyan units posted on the map. Several units were spread out along the coastal road. Next to each unit symbol was a date and time written in the margin of the symbol, indicating the last time information on that unit had been updated. Seeing that the time on several Libyan units was more than twelve hours old, Dixon called an intel analyst over and asked what those Libyan units were up to. The analyst looked at the unit symbols in question, then at a clipboard where a sheet was maintained for each enemy unit. As she found each, she gave Dixon the reason it had not moved or was moving slowly. In most cases there appeared to be logistical problems. The Libyans, she said, were having difficulty getting fuel forward. In two cases the unit had been caught by naval gunfire. Chewed up and scattered, they had been forced to stop and reorganize.
In a few cases there was no reason. The unit had simply stopped moving forward, and the cause was as yet undetermined. Not surprisingly, Soviet forces had not moved. They continued to besiege the Egyptian 1st Army in Bardia and hold Solium and Halfaya Pass.
Satisfied that he had a handle on the situation, both friendly and enemy, Dixon told Sergeant Major London he was off to see the chief. Fortified with information and a cup of coffee, he was ready to deal with anything the chief could give him — or so he thought as he walked down the busy corridor to General Darruznak's office.
The door to General Darruznak's office was open. Seated at his desk, Darruznak was casually reviewing reports and intelligence summaries when Dixon knocked. Looking up over the rim of his reading glasses, Darruznak paused before motioning to Dixon to enter and take a seat. Standing up as Dixon sat, he walked over to a side table where a small coffee pot sat. There was silence as he poured coffee into two cups. He offered one to Dixon, who naturally took it, and carried his own back to his desk. Dixon could tell that Darruznak was stalling, working himself up to something. He thought he knew, but decided to wait until the general, in his own time, told him why he was there.
"Scott, I'd like to start by congratulating you and your people on a job well done. The raid on Al Fasher not only went without a hitch— its success far exceeded our expectations."
Dixon thought it strange that he should be getting any kind of recognition for the raid. Of all the people involved, he was the least active. As the concept man, he didn't have to fly deep into hostile territory. He didn't have to jump out of a C-130 into a strange drop zone. He didn't have to go eye to eye with Soviet air defense missiles and small-arms fire. It was the trigger pullers that had made it work.
Dixon let those thoughts pass as Darruznak continued. The chief was slow in doing so. He looked at his coffee as he began speaking. "Part of the reason I called you in here was to extend General Horn's and my condolences on the loss of your wife." Darruznak paused. He looked up at Dixon. "I know that there is nothing we can say or do that can possibly compensate for such a loss. In normal times I would insist that you tend to the needs of your surviving family."
Dixon didn't hear what the general said. His words faded as Dixon found himself searching for his feelings — his feelings for Fay. Until that moment he had denied himself any time to consider what Fay's death meant to him. How should he feel? Should he allow himself to be overcome with regret and grief? After all, he had just lost the woman to whom he had pledged eternal fidelity. Should he feel guilt for having so casually violated that trust when he slept with Jan? Or would despair over the thought of losing the mother of his children be in order? Perhaps righteous indignation was more appropriate for a woman who had so callously abandoned her children in a time of crisis, when they needed her the most? And why should he bother pitying a woman who had denied him comfort and understanding when he so badly needed it after returning from Iran?