The 17th Airborne Division had been alerted to be prepared to make a combat jump with two brigades, one at Kerman and one at Rafsanjan, while holding its third in reserve. The drops would be made on order, timed to cut off the withdrawal of Soviet forces. If the paratroopers were dropped too late, they would bag nothing. By the same token, they must not be dropped too soon, lest the advancing ground forces be unable to reach them before the Soviets wore them down. The recent destruction of the Soviets' 285th Guards Airborne Regiment had served to remind everyone of that danger.
Resupplying the drive north was another problem. In the rush to prepare for the great expenditure of ammunition anticipated in the initial defensive battles, fuel had not been the highest priority. Now, with a breakthrough possible, every effort was being made to bring that valuable commodity into Iran and forward to the units. The last thing Weir intended to do was miss the chance of a lifetime because his tanks ran out of gas.
Weir stopped his pacing for a moment and looked at the small situation map in his office. He pondered the change of fortunes for the Allied forces.
Well, old boy, he told himself, the Navy can put their boats away. A week ago I wouldn't have given Bob Horn a nickel for our chances. Now there'll be no evacuation by this Army. We are here to stay. All I need is a little time to grind those other people up a bit and get us some chips for our negotiators when they go to the table.
The officer from STAVKA finished briefing the Politburo on the current situation and left the room.
The eleven grim-faced men sat and considered what they had heard and what it meant. The 17th Combined Arms Army had failed to achieve a breakthrough and was, in fact, now being attacked. On the authority of the Front Commander, the 17th CAA had assumed a defensive posture. Most of the STAVKA briefing officer's answers to questions put to him by Politburo members had been prefaced by the caveat "It is hoped.. "
The General Secretary looked at each member before he spoke. "It is time to open negotiations with the Americans. We have gained much and must ensure that it is not lost."
The Minister of Defense sat up, slapped his hand on the table and bellowed, "No! We must not give in. The army is still within striking distance. We must not stop now."
"We have tried twice, and failed twice," the General Secretary said.
"This failure was far more costly. Why do you think we could succeed where we have already failed twice?"
Turning to look at the other members as he spoke, the Minister of Defense replied, "Comrades, we have not employed all weapons at our disposal. We must try again, this time with chemical weapons and, if necessary, tactical nuclear weapons. Quick surprise strikes will paralyze the Americans and allow us to drive to the strait, achieving our final goal."
All watched the General Secretary, waiting for his response, which was: "We have discussed this before. We decided on our goals and methods before we began this enterprise. I will not change them now. The political repercussions from employing either chemical or nuclear weapons would be far too great. Years of diplomatic efforts and achievements would be sacrificed for the gain of a few kilometers of dirt. The use of such weapons is not justified by the stated purpose of our intervention in Iran. No, we will not change the rules now. Besides, I do not trust the United States. You know their history, Comrades, as well as I do. Like a wounded animal, they will rise out of the ashes and seek revenge in a blind rage that will plunge us all into darkness. No, I will not lead our people into a holocaust as our fathers did. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will immediately open negotiations as previously discussed."
The members of the Politburo sat there for several minutes. The Minister of Defense, seeking support or at least continuation of the discussion, looked toward each member in turn. As he did so, each man, in his turn, either turned away or cast his gaze down-except the last one, the Foreign Minister. In his eyes the Minister of Defense saw condemnation and unbridled hatred. Throughout the previous winter, when the plans for the invasion of Iran had been discussed, only the Foreign Minister had stood firmly against the idea.
He had taken much abuse and placed himself in a very precarious position by resisting the will of the other members. The General Secretary, to sway the Politburo to stop the war, had just used the same words that the Foreign Minister had been condemned for using when he tried to prevent the war. Now, in his moment of triumph, the Foreign Minister, staring at the man who had been the architect of the disaster that they faced, took no pride in being vindicated. That little victory had been purchased at the expense of tens of thousands of dead and wounded.
Finally realizing he was defeated, the Minister of Defense went silent.
There was no support for a continuation of the war. It had been decided.
The battle would now be waged over a felt-covered table in a quiet room in Geneva.
The figure walking between the rows of body bags was hardly recognizable as an officer, much less a major. He had no helmet or hat. His hair, stuck together by dirt and oil, was matted and ratty.
The face was haggard, with sunken eyes framed by dark circles. Three days of stubble surrounded the expressionless mouth. The uniform matched the man. The tank crewman's coveralls were ripped, dirty and stained with oil, sweat and blood. The only equipment he wore was a pistol in a shoulder holster and a protective mask strapped to his hip.
His boots showed spots where the black had been worn off. Major Dixon walked along the line of body bags slowly, looking. He stopped at each and bent down to peer at the name tag tied to the end of the bag. Not finding the one he wanted, he would go to the next, then the next, then the next, then the next.
The men of the graves-registrations detail paid him no heed. They had much to do and not much time. Bodies, already left in the sun for several days, were putrefying in the heat. As two men on the detail brought a body to the rear of their truck, they would stop while the sergeant in charge checked the name tag, looked on his list and made a check mark. The two men then went to the rear of the truck, where one counted as they swung the body bag back and forth until three was called off. In unison, the two men would swing the body onto the bed of the truck, where it made a loud thump as it hit.
When Dixon found the one he was looking for, he stopped. The tag had "NESBITT, JACK R. 176-35-8766" written on it. For a moment he looked at the bag, not knowing what to do now that he had found the body he was looking for. Leaning over, he began to pull down the zipper.
As soon as he did, Dixon was sorry. The stench that rose from the bag made him gag. He stopped, covered his mouth with one hand, then continued until the zipper was halfway down. He stopped again, then looked at the body.
What he saw bore no resemblance to the man he had shared so many times with, good and bad. Dixon knew all there was worth knowing about the man in the bag. He knew his wife, his children, his dreams, his fears, his joys, his plans. Nesbitt had become a part of Dixon. He was more than a good sergeant, he was a friend. Now he was gone.
Slowly, carefully, Dixon closed the bag, then sat next to his friend.
Unable to restrain himself, he began to cry. He buried his head in his dirty hands and cried without shame or restraint. So many men about him needed to be cried for, to be remembered. Good men, every one. So many.
The thumping drew his attention to the detail. Dixon raised his head and looked to see what was causing the thumping. He wiped his eyes of tears and watched for a moment. Suddenly, what the men of the graves-registrations detail were doing hit Dixon. He felt himself go cold and numb inside.