"Tell me, Edgar, what are the odds that Egypt will go into Libya with the aim of ripping that little shit's heart out?"
"Almost none. Simply put, unless we provide them with tremendous amounts of logistical support, or they are willing to mortgage their entire economy, Egypt lacks the ability to overrun Libya. Besides, there are the Soviets. The Soviets don't have to lift a finger to stop the Egyptians. If they simply sit astride the coastal road — say, there at Ayn Al Ghazalah — with the forces they currently have in country, they'll keep the Egyptians from moving any further west."
With a nod Horn signaled to the intelligence officer that he was finished.
For a moment there was silence in the room while the CAT staff considered what the intelligence officer had just said. This silence was broken by the operations officer. "General, if the Egyptians do move, what do we do with our people in country? They are right there, sitting between Cairo, where the 1st Army units will move from, and the border. Do we pull the plug and run, or stand fast?"
Leaning back into his chair, Horn stared at the ceiling and considered that question before answering. Without turning his gaze from the ceiling, he mumbled, almost to himself, "That, my boy, is a political decision — one that's going to be made by someone with more horsepower than you or I, thank God."
Sitting upright in his chair, then standing in one motion, Horn brought the meeting to an end. There was much that needed to be done. Although his staff didn't know it yet, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had given him a warning to be prepared to fly to Egypt with a small staff to assume control of a military operation if the National Security Council opted for one. Until that happened, all he and his people could do was wait and watch.
The tension that hung in the air in the 3rd Brigade's assembly areas was oppressive. While details concerning the assassination attempt were at best sketchy, the proximity of the brigade to the incident and the involvement of American forces in the attack caused a great deal of excitement. The exercise was terminated and the entire brigade was ordered to move back into assembly areas. Once there, the troops were placed on full alert. Orders went out that no Egyptian personnel, military or civilian, was to be allowed into a U.S. area unless in the company of a U.S. Army officer. Even then, the U.S. officer had to identify himself and have his identity verified by the unit intelligence officer.
As he walked back from chow to the area where his platoon was located, Staff Sergeant Maxwell was pelted with questions from his men. Were they going home? Were they going to be issued more ammunition? What had really happened? Was the U.S. at war? And if so, against whom? A veteran of the war in Iran, Maxwell knew that a lack of information bred fear; rumors and imagination ran wild. They were at the lowest end of the information chain, a tank crew was on the cutting edge. Maxwell knew that it was not that the higher-ups wanted to keep the men in the dark. The problem was that since only so much can go down, at each level the information is refined, strained, and reworked, and by the time a tank commander hears something, only that information necessary to accomplish the given operation is provided. Even in the task force in which he had fought during the Iranian war, Maxwell was seldom told anything other than to move to such-and-such a place and orient to a certain direction. There was definitely no information glut in Maxwell's platoon.
As he came to the last tank position, the man on guard challenged him. After giving the proper password to the soldier's challenge, Maxwell walked up to the young man and asked if he had seen or heard anything. Private Willie B. Graddy from Atlanta, Georgia, shook his head, said no, then asked what he should be looking out for. Maxwell sighed, then simply responded, "Anything or any person that don't speak or understand English. And if they do but speak it with an accent, let me know."
Graddy, half seriously, asked if that included Sergeant Yermo. Maxwell, fighting the urge to whop the soldier up the side of the head for being so stupid, simply replied no, that did not include Sergeant Yermo. Graddy, he knew, was confused, nervous, and concerned. None of them knew for sure what was happening or what the next day would bring. It was, Maxwell said to himself, Iran all over again.
The crunching of sand under boots caught Maxwell's attention.
He moved up next to Graddy, putting one hand on Graddy's shoulder and signaling him to be still with the other hand. The two men stood motionless, staring into the darkness, watching and listening. There was silence. Whoever had been moving was now also stationary. Taking his hand from Graddy's shoulder, Maxwell slowly reached down, unsnapped his holster, and carefully drew his pistol. With his arm bent at the elbow and the pistol pointed up, Maxwell carefully cocked the pistol's hammer with his thumb as he continued to scan the darkness. Taking his cue from his platoon sergeant, Graddy brought his M-16 up to the ready and flipped the safety to fire.
From the darkness a voice thundered, "Okay, bang! You're both dead. Now I get to send your miserable bodies back in a flag-draped box." The voice belonged to their task force commander, Lieutenant Colonel Vennelli. Releasing the hammer of his pistol back to the safe position, Maxwell put the pistol back into its holster and awaited an ass chewing — something that, according to the men of the task force, was Vennelli's favorite sport. Maxwell didn't have long to wait.
"It doesn't do us a damned bit of good having guards posted if a goddamn blind elephant with a roaring case of hemorrhoids can come crashing in here without being challenged!" Maxwell grunted. For some reason Vennelli thought he was funny. Maxwell didn't mind being corrected when he was wrong. He didn't mind being dumped on when he had screwed up. He did, however, get bent out of shape when those above him used ridicule and mockery as a means of correcting their soldiers. He felt his men were good soldiers and should be treated as such. He also believed that the men in his platoon were just that— men, men who deserved to be treated better. Unfortunately, that philosophy was no longer in style in the task force. It was almost as if every officer in the unit wanted to top the task force commander in the number and severity of ass chewings. There were a few exceptions, but very few. Vennelli's foul mouth and abusive manner, coupled with an ego that could fill a county, had made working for him during this operation a miserable experience.
For the next five minutes Maxwell and Graddy endured a tongue lashing that did nothing but give Vennelli the satisfaction that somehow he was doing his job of beating his unit into shape. When he was finished, Vennelli turned and walked into the darkness. Graddy watched him disappear, then turned to Maxwell. "What a shithead."
Barely able to contain his own anger, Maxwell looked at Graddy. "Regardless of what you think, soldier, that man is your superior ranking officer. I will not have men in my platoon calling officers shitheads. Is that clear?"
Confused, Graddy stuttered for a moment. "But, Sarge, that man—"