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"Mike Four-four, this is Oscar Six-eight. I have negative contact with my one six. I am assuming command. Over." The tank-company commander was dead.

Lewis watched the situation board as he listened to the reports and the orders.

The S-3 responded without hesitation, "Oscar Sixeight, this is Mike Four-four. I roger your last transmission. What is your current situation? Over."

"Mike Four-four, this is Oscar Six-eight. Five tanks and two Bradleys left that I know of. Enemy tanks are now passing to-"

There was a break in the transmission, then a moment of silence while everyone waited for the XO of the tank company to continue. But he did not.

The S-3 tried to reestablish contact. "Oscar Six-eight, this is Mike Four-four. Say again all after enemy tanks passing. Over." There was no response. Odds were that the XO's tank had also been hit. God, Lewis thought, I don't even know that kid's name.

Reports were no longer clear, concise or, for the most part, even rendered.

The battalion-command net was now cluttered by a series of short, incomplete radio calls between the battalion commander, the S-3 and the surviving company commanders. When both the battalion commander and the S-3 failed to reestablish contact with the tank-company commander, they tried to contact the mech-team commander on the western flank.

That effort also failed. Assuming that both the company in the center and the one in the west were overrun, Alpha Company, the mech company in the rear, was ordered to swing to the left and cover that area. No doubt the enemy was attempting to blow through the battalion there.

That maneuver, completed in less than ten minutes, ran head on into the bypass effort of the follow-on Soviet battalion. The focus of the battle now shifted slightly to the west as Bradleys went to ground and disgorged their infantry, preparing to fight T-80s. Bravo Company, on the eastern side of the sector, was running out of targets. The battalion commander, seeing the same thing that Lewis did, ordered it to shift farther to the west, move behind Alpha Company and swing around to the north, heading off another Soviet bypass attempt. As with Alpha Company, Bravo ran into the Soviets in the dark as the battle continued to slide to the west.

Lewis watched and listened, wondering how much longer this could go on.

Smithson, ever attentive to the reports, kept wiping off the grease-pencil numbers on the battalion status board and entering a new, lower number.

Turning to the S-2, Lewis asked how much more the battalion could expect to encounter. The S-2 did not answer, merely shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Lewis understood. No one, neither the people on the ground nor the people in the TOC, could follow what was happening anymore. Whatever ability the battalion commander had to influence the battle had been lost when the last company was committed.

It was now up to the tank and Bradley commanders.

As they listened to the calls and the fragmented reports, Smithson stepped back and looked at the status board for a moment, then turned to Lewis.

"Let's hope this was worth it."

Lewis did not answer. He watched the figures change, each loss hitting him like a blow. No, it can't be, he thought. It isn't worth it.

Fifteen Kilometers Northwest of Qotbabad 0435 Hours, 3 August (0105 Hours, 3 August, GMT)

The pilot of the AC-130 began to bring his huge aircraft to bear on their target. Called Spectar, the AC-130 carried three 20mm. mmiguns and a 75mm. automatic cannon. It was the modern version of Vietnam's

"Puff the Magic Dragon," grown bigger, more sophisticated and far deadlier. Slowly the pilot angled the plane over until they were flying along a shallow bank to the left. His eyes were on the projected sight to his left as he superimposed it over the target area. When he had done so, he held the aircraft steady for a second, making sure that all was aligned and correct before he announced his intent to fire.

From his position on the outer perimeter, Ilvanich listened to the drone of the propeller-driven aircraft above, wondering what it was doing and why it lingered so long over them. It sounded like a transport preparing to drop paratroopers. That, however, made no sense here. What was left of his regiment was already surrounded and under continuous fire from artillery, mortars and a steady stream of air strikes. Though no enemy ground attack had been launched in hours, there was no doubt that that would eventually happen, just as soon as the Americans had finished pounding the regiment into pulp. Having had its supply line cut, Ilvanich's regiment could no longer influence the battle, and the Americans knew it. They were therefore in no rush to waste any more manpower in eliminating the decimated Soviet regiment.

Firepower and air strikes would do the trick.

The air strikes were the regiment's greatest problem. The men had no cover, other than hastily dug foxholes. At first, they had been able to keep the enemy planes at a respectable distance with man-portable, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. These, however, were rapidly used up, and the Americans were quick to sense this. By late afternoon American ground-attack aircraft called Thunderbolts lazily flew over their positions, attacking anything that moved or appeared to be worthy of attack. Ilvanich sat helpless as he watched the evil-looking aircraft swoop down and fire 30mm. explosive rounds at individual foxholes. It was this sight more than anything else that convinced him that this time all was lost.

A sudden sharp ripping sound jerked Ilvanich's attention back to the strange aircraft flying overhead. From one point in the sky three solid streams of tracers stabbed through the darkness. Like great evil fingers the tracers searched out positions on the far side of the regiment's perimeter. For a moment he thought the Americans were using some type of laser or energy beam. The endless chain of explosions, however, told him that the aircraft was firing conventional miniguns.

Ilvanich stood up and watched, transfixed. Wherever the tracers touched the ground there was a maelstrom of explosions. It was as if God were reaching down with a giant hoe and methodically digging them out. Of all the instruments of death he had seen, this one was the most sinister and horrible.

Lieutenant Malovidov came running up from behind.

"What is that thing?"

Without taking his eyes from the horror unfolding before him, Ilvanich replied in a hushed, resigned manner, "That, Comrade Lieutenant, is the angel of death heralding the beginning of the end."

Malovidov, angry at the response and anxious for a reasonable answer, came around to Ilvanich's front and shouted at the senior lieutenant, "Damn you! What do we do? I'm tired of your shit. Tell me, what do we do?"

Ilvanich looked at the junior lieutenant and thought, What does he expect? We have come to the end of the 391 line. We die, you stupid bastard, that's what we do.

That thought did not bother Ilvanich. He had been ready to die for a long time. In fact, after Tabriz and the firing squad, he had actively sought an honorable death in battle. Only death could cleanse his troubled soul and wipe away the images of blood spattered on the courtyard wall, images that were burned into his mind, images that visited him nightly. Death, however, eluded him. While he stood there, the circling aircraft stopped firing.

Darkness and almost total silence returned to the battlefield as the American plane lumbered away to the south. Again death has cheated me, Ilvanich thought. There is little for me to do but continue.

Turning to Malovidov, he focused on the problem at hand. "No doubt, my friend, in a few moments the Americans are going to commence a heavy artillery bombardment, after which they will begin their long-awaited ground attacks."

"Can we hold them?"

"I have no intention of finding out, Lieutenant Malovidov. By the time they go over the top, I intend to be several kilometers away from here with as many men as we can get out."