Dead Hand

Chapter 11

The Uisk assigned Colonel Demetre Orlov and his men was both simple and straightforward. It was not unlike a dozen or so other missions they had been assigned before. Even with the knowledge that they would be arriving over their target in the wake of a natural disaster unlike anything known to man. the Russian colonel did not let this minor point dominate either his planning or his preparations. There were other, more practical matters that he needed to concern himself with, such as the prevailing weather and the lie of the land, elements over which even the most gifted commander had no influence. Since the Russian colonel could not pick the timing of his assignment, he was obliged to accept the conditions on the ground as they existed when he arrived in the area of operations.

Relying on the best information his nation's foremost experts could supply, he came to the conclusion that the disruption created by the asteroid would do little more than add another element of difficulty to the operation, which would have to be mastered, just as would the armed resistance they would face. Of course, neither he nor the trained experts who had advised him had imagined the true magnitude of the devastation that Orlov's special-response team would face as it sought to bring additional death and destruction to selected inhabitants of the region.

The fallacies of using the Tunguska event as a model from which to estimate damage projections quickly became obvious to all. Unlike the asteroid that struck Siberia in 1908. Nereus 1991 HWC hit the earth like a shotgun blast, scattering multiple fragments through the region in a random manner. Unlike the pellets spewed forth by a shotgun, each of Nereus 1991 HWC's fragments were different. No two pieces weighed the same, were shaped alike, or hit the atmosphere at the same angle. Some of the larger fragments, like the chunk that took out the World News Network team, made physical contact with the earth's surface. These strikes shattered the earth's crust, sending shock waves through the tectonic plates across the region and beyond. While the ground itself was being shaken to the core, millions of cubic tons of dirt and debris, something to the tune of one hundred times the weight of each asteroid fragment that struck, gouged out impact craters, hurling the spoils into the upper atmosphere. Huge amounts of this material was captured by the jet stream, which whisked it away to the east, from where it would either return to earth in Asia or continue on across the Pacific and blanket North America. Some of the superheated debris that was too heavy to be held aloft by the winds fell back to earth, igniting monumental fires.

Not every particle of the asteroid was able to complete its supersonic journey through the dense air of the lower atmosphere. When the extreme heat created by friction became more than a fragment could absorb, it would literally explode, unleashing a burst of energy comparable to the detonation of a nuclear device in midair. Known as airbursts, these events lit up the sky with a fireball that was, for the briefest of moments, more brilliant than the sun itself. Though measured in milliseconds, each touched off a conflagration that devastated the surrounding countryside. Depending on the altitude at which the explosion took place, everything within the tight circle that comprised the zone of total devastation, known as ground zero, was simply incinerated. A bit farther out, all combustible material, including the clothing of those souls unfortunate enough to be caught in the open, burst into flames. The retinas of human and animal alike, those impulsively drawn to view the spectacle, fried as skin and hair were scorched, burned, and destroyed. The lucky died quickly. Those who survived were left to endure indescribable pain and agony, with little or no hope of salvation or relief.

As catastrophic as this was, the shock waves that followed both the airbursts and surface impacts proved to be even more devastating. Traveling at hundreds of miles an hour, trees, structures, and even rock formations, were bowled over, uprooted, or simply crushed. In some cases, fires started by the tremendous release of thermal energy were extinguished by this overwhelming blast of air.

That condition, however, was only momentary. With the passing of the shock wave, new fires created by the rupturing of fuel tanks, oil and gas lines, and structures erupted in its wake.

As if all of this were not enough, the sudden release of thermal energy turned the deep snow and thick ice that blanketed the region into billions of cubic gallons of water that needed someplace to go. Within mere minutes, every river in the region was choked with broken trees, tons of soil scoured away by the fury of the onslaught, the remains of buildings, homes, and other assorted structures. Unable to handle this sudden influx of melted snow and ice, the rampaging torrents cut new channels and avenues of escape, changing the landscape forever.

The earth and the creatures who lived upon it were not the only victims of this calamity. The heavens themselves were transformed. Not all of the ice and snow was sent rampaging. Some of it had been vaporized and drawn up into the sky, where it mixed with the dirt, soot, and debris kicked up by blast, impact, and shock wave. Violent drafts of wind and sweeping gusts swirled about as dense black clouds of dirt and ash blanketed Siberia. These dense clouds, pierced by lightning bolts, touched off violent storms that pelted the region with black rain and ash. In some places, breathing without self-contained respirators was all but impossible. The filters on protective masks clogged within minutes of exposure to the worst of these conditions. When one damage-assessment team emerged from its fallout shelter to commence the grim task of measuring the devastation, it was all but wiped out within minutes. The sole survivor of the team, an officer who had never before lifted his voice in prayer, crawled back into the bunker, where he managed to scrawl in a notebook, "God, why have you forsaken us?" as he lay dying alone on the floor.

It was into this hell on earth that Demetre Orlov's special-response team flew. Even before they reached their designated drop zone, it became clear to the Russian colonel that his initial plan to make a drop, under the cover of darkness, right into the compound where General Likhatchev had his command bunker would be all but impossible. Buffeted by turbulence that knew no rhyme or reason, it took every bit of skill possessed by the transport pilots to simply keep their aircraft aloft. A jump into the conditions below would have been suicidal.

One of the favorite truisms of the military is that a plan never survives initial contact with the enemy. Making adjustments to match changes in circumstances is often a military necessity. Good commanders take the unexpected in their stride. Gifted ones use them to their advantage. Sometimes, however, changes in the conditions encountered are so radical that even a military genius is at his wits' end to find a solution.

Like the ancient mariner condemned to wander the seven seas with an albatross about his neck, the command pilot of Orlov's transport roamed the devastated region in search of someplace where he could deposit his cargo of Russian commandos. With the primary drop zone ruled out, the secondary selection just as unacceptable, and the clearing that had been the third choice now turned into a debris-clogged lake, the pilot had no choice but to report to Orlov that he had exhausted his options.

During a hasty conference in the cramped confines of the lead transport's cockpit, Orlov scanned the maps with the aircraft's navigator. "We have no way of knowing," the frustrated Air Force officer explained to Orlov, "what the conditions are on the ground. We've already seen how useless these maps are."

Frustrated, the Russian commander grunted. "There must be someplace where you can deposit us?"

The navigator shook his head. "Putting you down? Yes, we can do that, Colonel. But putting you close to your target… well, that is another matter."

"You must put my men near their target as a unit," Orlov explained. "We have no means of ground transportation."

Looking up from his map, the navigator studied Orlov's face for a moment. "May I ask, Colonel, if I was able to get you to where there was ground transportation, would you have the authority to procure it?"

Understanding what the Air Force officer was saying, Orlov nodded. "What I lack in authority, I can more than make up for with audacity."

"Good!" the navigator exclaimed as he flipped the map over to reveal a wider area of Siberia. "There is an airfield located here," he said, pointing at a spot on the map, "reporting that it is open for the reception of relief aid."

"Exactly how far is that from our initial drop zone?" Orlov asked, studying the map for a moment before reaching over the shoulder of the navigator and turning it over in an effort to gauge the distance his team would need to cover.

The navigator allowed the colonel to finish his cursory inspection of the map before lying it down on his small desktop in order to make precise measurements. Finished, he turned to face Orlov. "I make the straight-line distance to be thirty kilometers."

"What about actual distance via road?"

The navigator shook his head. "Like everything else about this trip, Colonel, we have no way of knowing for sure. I would suspect that the conditions of the roads and bridges, if either are still there, are not much better than the foul weather we have been battling or the drop zones we have had to bypass."

Again, Orlov grunted. "1 see no other choice. Do you?"

Locking eyes with the commander, the navigator considered his answer. While neither he nor the pilot had any idea of what Orlov's mission was, the Air Force officer had little doubt that aborting it and turning back was not an option open to the colonel. If that were true, then the navigator appreciated the fact that none of them had a choice. "Then it is decided?" he asked.

Orlov nodded. Not wanting to bother the pilot, who needed to concentrate on controlling his aircraft as it plowed through the turbulent skies, the Russian commander issued his instructions to the navigator: "Inform the pilot of our decision. And tell him not to announce our intent to land at that airfield until the very last second."

"What if they insist that we state our purpose in landing there, or demand to know what cargo we are carrying?" the navigator inquired.

The question was a good one, Orlov thought, demonstrating that the Air Force officers he was dealing with were aware that the mission of the commandos they were transporting required a great deal of discretion. "Make up a story," the commander finally answered. "I am told that pilots are very good at that."

For the first time in hours, the navigator smiled. "Yes. that is true. I have heard that we are almost as good. Colonel, as your commandos."

"I hope for your sake." Orlov responded, "that today you are better."

Were it not for his watch telling him that it was late afternoon. Demeire Orlov would have sworn it was midnight. The airfield where the two transports carrying his assault team had landed was shrouded in a surreal darkness created by forest fires that raged all about the area and debris that had been catapulted into the heavens by the violent impacts of Nereus 1991 IIWC.

Like the countryside around it. the airfield was a shambles. There wasn't a single structure that had not been stripped of its roof or sported an intact window. Many of the base's administrative and support facilities were burning. Where members of the garrison were seen to be active. Orlov noticed that they were more intent on salvaging essential items and stores from the devastation than on battling the numerous fires. "We have no water pressure." a young Air Force officer explained to the colonel as the pair headed for the temporary command post. "The underground mains are ruptured in half a dozen places." he stated in a tone that betrayed his frustration. "The best we can do is to save what we will need to survive until real aid can reach us, or…"

"Or what. Lieutenant?" Orlov asked when the junior officer hesitated.

Stopping, the exasperated young man threw out his hands in a gesture of utter hopelessness. "Look around you. Colonel. This facility is in ruins! I doubt that I will be able to sustain my own people, let alone support a relief operation. That only one of your aircraft was damaged when landing is nothing short of a miracle."

Though he was still shaken from the near-fatal accident that occurred when the nose landing gear of his transport was snapped while crossing a fissure that had opened on the runway, Orlov did not allow it to show. Instead, he looked about at the devastation. "These are extreme times, Lieutenant," he snapped. "Both the Motherland and the Russian people we serve are depending on us to do our duty."

Out of habit, and unable to find a suitable response, the lieutenant simply mumbled, "Yes, of course, sir. It's just that—"

Reaching out, Orlov placed his hand on the officer's shoulder. Misreading the gesture, the Air Force lieutenant shut his eyes as he braced himself for a slap across the face. Only when he heard the colonel's soothing words, and felt the hand on his shoulder, did the lieutenant open his eyes and permit himself to relax.

"We must rise to meet the challenges we face, Lieutenant." Orlov pointed over at a group of soldiers laboring to fill in one of the many cracks in the runway. "Our soldiers are watching us. They will continue to carry out their duties only if we conduct ourselves as befitting an officer."

"Yes, of course," the nervous young officer stuttered.

Satisfied that he had sufficiently bucked up the rattled officer, Orlov clamped down harder than he needed to on the lieutenant's shoulder and gave it a good shake. "Now, take me to your commander."

The major to whom Orlov was presented was in worse shape than the air base he commanded. Standing before a map that had been hastily tacked to one wall of the room that now served as the base's operations center, the major didn't acknowledge his subordinate or Orlov for several minutes. Rather, with arms tightly folded against his chest, he stared at the map, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels as if transfixed by something neither Orlov nor the lieutenant standing next to him could see. Sensing Orlov's growing impatience, the lieutenant cleared his throat. "Major Kazanski, Colonel Orlov wishes to see you."

While a handful of clerks and other staff personnel shuffled about the room aimlessly, the Air Force major continued to rock back and forth without pause, facing the map as if he were studying it. "Sir," the lieutenant stated a bit louder, "Colonel Orlov is operating under the direct orders of the Minister of Defense. He and his team require ground transport in order to continue their journey."

Pivoting about, the wide-eyed major glared at his subordinate, ignoring Orlov as if he weren't there. "Trucks? He wants trucks? Where in the fuck do you propose I find him trucks? 1 can't shit them, now can 1, Lieutenant? Can you?"

While Orlov remained silent, trying to decide whether it was the major's wild expression or his response that appalled him the most, the lieutenant stammered, "There are six available in running order, sir. The colonel requires only four of them."

"Only four!" the major exclaimed as he began to flap his arms about. "Only four. Well, that's bloody generous of him, now isn't it? He's leaving us two whole trucks. Two trucks with which to run this dunghill. Two trucks to haul the relief aid I have been told to expect in the next few hours."

Seeing that the methods he had used to win over the lieutenant would not work here, Orlov reverted to those techniques he was far more comfortable with. With slow, deliberate strides, he closed the distance between himself and the frenzied Air Force major. When he was face-to-face with the man, he leaned forward until the brim of his helmet touched the bridge of the major's forehead. "I will have those four trucks, Major. And if they are not suitable to my purpose," he added in a deep, menacing voice as he reached up and grabbed the major's lapel with his left hand, "I will take the others as well. Is that clear?"

Blinking furiously, the major shook his head. "You cannot," he insisted. "Not without proper authority."

Having exhausted his patience, Orlov reached for the pistol on his right hip. With one smooth motion, he drew the weapon from the holster, shoved it under the major's chin as he slammed him against the wall and jerked the trigger back.

To a man, the staff in the small operations center jumped. Letting the limp body of the Air Force major fall away, Orlov spun about, brandishing his pistol. "I expect cooperation," he screamed." "Full and unflinching cooperation. Is that clear?"

His eyes darting between the blood-splattered map and the pistol Demetre Orlov held in his steady hand, the Air Force lieutenant found it almost impossible to muster up a response. "Ah… yes… of course… sir. As you… as you order, sir."