Slowly, the numbness was replaced by a rage that began to build, a rage that overcame all restraint and logic. He rose mechanically and walked over to the truck, drawing his pistol as he went, his face frozen in a mask of hatred. Tears blurred his vision as he walked 404 up to the sergeant, who paid no heed until he heard the click of the pistol's hammer being cocked.
Turning, the sergeant looked into the muzzle of a .45 caliber pistol being pointed into his face by a dirty major with tears in his eyes.
"Jesus! Are you fucking crazy?"
In a low, emotionless voice, Dixon said, "These are my men. The next body thrown into the truck will be followed by yours."
All eyes turned to watch. The sergeant, visibly shaken, tried to reason with Dixon. "Sir, these guys, they're dead. I mean, they're dead, they can't feel nothing."
Dixon neither moved nor changed his tone. "These are my men, Sergeant. You will treat them with respect, or yours will be the next body on the truck."
The sergeant looked into Dixon's eyes. There was hate in those eyes.
Hate that knew no bounds. "Yes, sir, we will be more careful, my men and I. Now please, sir, put down the gun?"
With the gun still pointed at the sergeant's head, Dixon slowly eased the hammer forward. Then he put the gun back into its holster and walked a few meters away, stopped, turned and stood there. For a moment, no one moved.
Then, seeing that the major was not going anywhere, the sergeant ordered his men to continue loading. This time, they were careful to lay each body out on the bed of the truck. The major stayed throughout the afternoon watching until they were done. It was not until the last truck left that
Dixon turned and walked away.
The two men and their assistants entered the room from doors at opposite sides. Each of them took his place at the table facing his counterpart. The Soviet ambassador opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder and arranged his notes. The American ambassador was handed a folder by one of his assistants.
The Russian began by reading a prepared statement. It declared that the Soviet Union protested the use of aggression by the United States to interfere with an internal matter that concerned the Soviet Union and the legitimate government of the People's Republic of Iran. For twenty-five minutes the Soviet ambassador enumerated, in chronological order starting with 6 June, what he described as the acts of aggression on the part of the United States, as well as several alleged war crimes committed by U.S. forces in Iran and in international waters, all in violation of international accords and treaties. The Russian ended with a demand that all U.S. forces withdraw immediately and that the United States pay, through the United Nations, all war damages caused by "this imperialist war of aggression."
As the Soviet ambassador spoke, the American ambassador had fought back his anger. Throughout the entire harangue, he had sat there stony-faced, listening and waiting. Now, opening his folder, he read from a single sheet of paper: " "The United States and her allies demand the immediate and unconditional withdrawal of all Soviet forces in Iran within thirty days. Upon completion of those withdrawals, a provisional government will be reestablished in Tehran under the supervision of the United Nations. Within six months a convention, again under UN supervision, composed of members elected by the Iranian people, will meet and draft a constitution for the establishment of a permanent Iranian government."
With that, the American closed the folder and looked at the Russian.
The Russian, pounding his fist on the table, began to spout righteous indignation, accusing the American ambassador of unreasonable demands and not negotiating in good faith. He was about to read off another prepared speech when the American ambassador startled everyone in the room by rising, picking up his folder and turning to walk away.
Flabbergasted, the Soviet ambassador asked why he was leaving. The American told him it was obvious that the Soviet Union was not interested in serious negotiations; the United States, therefore, intended "to seek resolution of the conflict through other means."
Convinced that the American was bluffing, the Russian let him walk out.
He did not intend to show weakness by crawling to the Americans in order to negotiate. His orders had been to negotiate from a position of strength and to maintain the upper hand at all times. The Americans would be back. It was, after all, their way.
The Soviet ambassador's resolve gave out that evening when the staff at the consulate informed him that the American had left his hotel en route to the airport. In a hastily arranged meeting at the airport, the Soviet ambassador and the American ambassador worked out an agenda, drafted a cease-fire proposal and began serious negotiations.
Epilogue
Nothing but a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.
The BRDM armored car moved slowly as it entered the demilitarized zone.
Major Vorishnov hated to enter the DMZ at any time, but especially at night.
Lanes had been cleared through the mine fields, but that did not mean they stayed cleared. The Iranians had the habit of slipping into the DMZ at night and moving mines about. A week did not go by without a soldier dying in a supposedly cleared lane.
Entering the DMZ was strictly forbidden, especially with armored vehicles, but both sides did go in-to test each other's reactions and to find blind spots. Vorishnov would have preferred not to go in that night. One of his patrols, however, had gotten a BMP stuck while it was in the DMZ. Knowing the sensitivity of such violations, Vorishnov had decided to go in and personally supervise the recovery. He wanted to be out of there before dawn. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay.
The young lieutenant, new to the unit, had been reluctant to wake the major.
When reports about an unidentified vehicle arrived at the TOC, the lieutenant had decided not to bother the major until the vehicle was positively identified. Besides, the sergeant on duty told him that it was no big deal, that the Russians did that sort of thing "all the time." But when three additional vehicles were reported to have entered the DMZ, the lieutenant became nervous and sent a runner to wake Major Dixon and tell him of the violation.
Dixon stormed into the TOC, so enraged over not having been awakened immediately at the first report that he was unable to speak coherently.
He chewed the lieutenant out, calling him everything he could think of. Then he turned on the sergeant on duty and chewed him out for being stupid enough to allow the lieutenant to do dumb things. When Dixon left for the DMZ at the head of a two-Bradley reaction section, he was still in a rage.
It took the entire trip and the cold night air to subdue his anger.
Recovery of an armored vehicle is never easy. What looks so simple and commonsense in a book or during a demonstration is a major undertaking when attempted in the field, in darkness, by men tired, hungry and scared.
Vorishnov, impatient to be out of the DMZ, stood behind the warrant officer, asking questions and rendering advice. The warrant officer, as tactfully as possible, informed the major that he had the situation in hand. Taking the hint, Vorishnov went back to his vehicle to wait.
Leaning against the side of the armored car, he began to doze.
Night was giving way to predawn twilight when the commander of the BRDM shook Vorishnov and told him there was some kind of vehicle moving in the American half of the DMZ. Vorishnov climbed up onto the BRDM and peered in the direction the BRDM commander indicated toward a slight rise south of the wire fence that marked the boundary between U.S. and Soviet-occupied Iran.