Dead Hand

Chapter 12

The conditions that complicated life for Demetre Orlov were no kinder to the Tempest teams. Like the Russian transports, the inbound NATO aircraft were able to weave their way around the worst of the turbulence and localized storms spawned by the numerous impacts and airbursts. Unlike their Russian counterparts, the NATO teams did not have a great deal of flexibility when they reached the designated drop zones. They had to be dropped, and dropped within a reasonable striking distance from their targets.

All across western Siberia, in planes buffeted and tossed about by violent updrafts and raging storms, teams and group leaders huddled together at the front of their respective aircraft, listening to what was going on inside the cockpit. The normally cool and easygoing Special Ops types made no effort to disguise their concerns as they discussed their options, studied maps, or listened to the chatter on the secure radio net that kept them posted on the prevailing conditions across the region. Now and then, one of their number would glance up through the open door and over the shoulders of the pilots in the hope that the conditions they were flying through had somehow miraculously improved since the last time they had looked. In a few cases, the pilots, guided by reports being fed to them from weather recon aircraft combing the region and satellite data, were able to find a break. Sometimes they simply stumbled upon them. Without wailing for or seeking permission, the first pilots who had entered Russian airspace and met the hideous flying conditions had deviated from their meticulously plotted flight plans. Following aircraft benefited from this bold move, as well as from the decision at NATO headquarters to abandon radio silence and open a channel over which current weather data could be fed to the transports. "We had the courage of our convictions to send them into that hell," the senior NATO air commander announced. "Now let's have the balls to give them a fighting chance to do what we sent them in there for."

Just how much of a chance the Tempest teams would have to carry out their assigned tasks was in question. As gallant as the struggle by the pilots to get them to the drop zones was, it would be for naught if prevailing conditions on the ground exceeded minimum safely requirements. Determining if the risk was worth taking no longer lay with presidents or prime ministers, generals, or ministers of defense. That call rested with the captains and young majors who crowded together to discuss the options as their aircraft were pitched and heaved about skies that were as bleak as their outlook.

Using more effort than the simple act of lifting his head should have required, Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski peered through the dimly lit interior of the C-160 to where his commanding officer sat with the other team leaders. The Polish legionnaire was unable to tell if his inability to focus on his captain's face was caused by the queasiness that flying always brought or if the pitching and yawing of the aircraft kept him from seeing clearly. Yet even under these conditions, Dombrowski could tell that his commander was very, very concerned.

"Things are not going according to plan," the Pole stated in a low, somber tone to no one in particular.

"This is the Legion," the ever-cheerful Franz Ingelmann observed. "That is to be expected. Just imagine what it would be like if things always went smoothly for us. We'd have no tradition."

Slowly, painfully, Dombrowski turned his head to face his comrade. "This is different. Normally, they wait until after we are on the ground before things go to shit."

"Well," the unflappable Austrian countered, "this is a special occasion. We're getting an early start. Besides, this might be a good thing."

Struggling to hold his head steady, Dombrowski glared at Ingelmann. "And how could that be?"

"Well, don't you see, my dense Slavic associate?" Ingelmann said with more cheer than the occasion called for. "If we get all this unpleasantness out of the way now, the rest of the mission can proceed without a hitch."

"You're full of shit," Dombrowski growled.

"Oh no, I am not," the Austrian replied, enjoying the exchange as a means of taking his mind off the pervasive gloom. "I'll have you know that I left all of that back in Scotland, where I am sure the English will put it to good use."

Before he could think of a suitable response, Dombrowski felt a bubble deep in his stomach erupt, sending a nauseous stream of acid and gas up his throat. Pitching forward, the Pole brought his hand up to his mouth as he spread his knees apart and dropped his head between them. For several seconds, he remained in that position, held in place by the tightly cinched lap belt that encompassed his waist and the equipment that was strapped to him. All the while, he wondered if it would be better to simply let go and hurl or hold it all back.

The Polish legionnaire was still pondering this question when he felt a hand on his shoulder. At first he thought it was Ingelmann. With a shrug, he attempted to brush the bothersome Austrian away. But the comforting hand didn't budge. "Can you hold on for a few more moments?" a voice close to his ear shouted over the roar of the engines.

Looking up, Dombrowski saw that the hand and voice belonged to his commander, Captain Jules Pascal. Shaking his head in an effort to clear his thoughts, he managed to sit upright and face Pascal. "I am sorry. I didn't know it was you."

Though he had no idea of what Dombrowski was talking about, Pascal shrugged. "That's okay. No problem."

Unable to force even a weak smile, Dombrowski simply nodded. "So. is this thing still on? Are we still going to go?"

Pascal hesitated. This alarmed Dombrowski, for his captain never hesitated. With growing concern, he watched as his commander slowly turned away, looking through the open cockpit door without answering. When he finally did face his troubled subordinate again, the captain's face was as blank as a sheet of clean paper.

Sensing that he was not doing a good job of hiding his concerns from Dombrowski, Pascal drew in a deep breath. "We will know soon, mon ami. Soon."

In another part of the turbulent and violent sky, Patrick Hogg listened as Major Shields laid it out for them as clearly as he could: "We have three choices," he stated, as if they were discussing a training exercise at Hereford. "One, we can take our spot and go out into conditions that are well below minimum standards and hope for the best. Two, we can fly on a bit and see if things improve. Or, three—"

A sudden updraft threw the aircraft and everyone onboard upward, preventing Shields from finishing his statement. For several moments, while the pilot struggled to regain control, the SAS officers frantically groped about in a desperate effort to find the nearest strap or handle with which to steady themselves. Only when the aircraft was more or less level again did the SAS major attempt to continue. "Where was I?" he asked rhetorically while he permitted his officers to collect their thoughts and refocus on the matter at hand.

"I believe," Hogg stated dryly, "you were about to present us with a third option, the one in which we tuck our tails between our legs and go scampering back home without accomplishing our mission."

Shields sighed. "Yes, well, something like that." After a lengthy pause, during which no one spoke, it was Patrick Hogg who took up the question that was gnawing at everyone. "Well, Major, which is it to be?"

Looking at each of his team commanders, Shields brought his hands together and shook them. Hogg wasn't sure if he was doing this to steel his nerves or if the man was saying a prayer in an effort to solicit divine guidance. "It's like this," the SAS major finally began. "If we take our spots as planned, there will be casualties. The winds aloft exceed anything any of us have ever faced. They have been that way since we entered the area of operation, and based on reports coming in from other sources, it's not much better anywhere else."

"So then it's rather pointless to go on in the hope of finding a better spot," Captain Abraham, team leader for the Bravo team, said.

"Yes," Shields answered. "That's pretty much the way things are. But not quite." Again he shook his clasped hands before speaking. "Conditions on the ground are, from what I've been told, horrific. It's more than blown-down trees and swollen rivers and mudflats. There are forest fires raging all over the region. The terrain has been rearranged. We have been warned that even the air itself may be toxic."

"Sort of like the cloud of pumice and ash thrown off by a volcano," Abraham added.

Shields nodded. "Yes, exactly. So, even if we do survive the jump, there is no way of knowing for sure if we'll be able to get on with things once we're on the ground."

"What are the chances that our targets are already gone?" Abraham asked.

Shields let his clasped hands drop into his lap as he shook his head. "Those Russian silos were built to withstand everything except a precise hit by a nuclear device. According to the preliminary damage assessment coming out of NATO headquarters, none of our teams have been that lucky."

Again, a silence settled over the small cluster of officers as they absorbed this piece of information and pondered their options. As was his habit, Patrick Hogg spoke up first. "Is this a council of war, Major? Or simply an info brief?"

"A little of both, I suppose," Shields replied weakly. Then, before anyone else could say another word, he sat upright, pulled his hands apart and slapped his knees. "No, that's not quite correct."

Following suit, the other two officers also straightened up as they looked at their commander and waited for him to speak. "We have no choice in the matter, I am afraid. To force you two to share in this decision, one that might very well prove to be fatal, would be wrong. We are going. We have no choice."

Hogg nodded. "I didn't expect that we ever did."

"Perhaps," Shields countered. "But we do have some flexibility about our spots. So rather than all of us blindly going out as if nothing had happened, I propose we drop one team as close to the target as possible, at its designated spot, while the other two remain aloft. If the first team is able to survive the jump, assemble itself and its equipment, and report back its ability to continue with the mission, the other two teams will continue to their designated spots."

"And if they don't?" Hogg asked without any sign of emotion.

"Then the remaining two teams will try to find another place where conditions appear to be better. When we find a place like that, if one exists, the second team will go. Perhaps," Shields added, "this was why the Americans insisted on dispatching three teams to each target."

"Like their baseball, I suppose," Abraham snickered. "Three strikes and you're out."

Though meant to add a bit of humor to the grim discussion, the analogy that the SAS captain used missed its mark.

"Patrick," Shields announced, leaning forward after taking up his map, "as the leader of the second team, once you're pretty sure that I didn't make it, I recommend you instruct the pilot to look for a spot over here, in this region."

Looking up from the map into Shields's eyes, Hogg shook his head. "I won't be able to do that, sir."

Caught off guard, the SAS major looked at his subordinate and blinked. "And why in the bloody hell is that, Captain?"

"Because I'm taking the first team, not you."

For a moment, the two men stared at each other while Abraham, quite content to sit this one out, looked on. "I'm not going to let you shirk your duties as the senior officer that easily," Hogg said. "I have no desire to stand by waiting to hear from you on the ground as to whether or not we should jump. His Majesty hasn't invested all that money, time, and effort required to train you so that you can play wild dummy. That's what God created the Irish for, don't you know."

"What will they say," Shields asked halfheartedly, "when I come back and tell them I sent my subordinates out to their death before I went?"

Hogg smiled. "They will say you used your judgment, made a jolly good choice, posthumously nominate me for a medal, and promote you."

Unable to resist, the three SAS officers chuckled. Yet they understood that Patrick Hogg's assessment and recommendation were both serious and logical. Though he knew he would never be able to live with himself if, as Hogg jokingly suggested, they died and he lived, Shields saw no other option. "Right," he announced, being as upbeat as he could manage under the circumstances. "Now let's get to it. I'll check with the pilots to see how much time we have and to fill them in on the plan. In the meantime, Patrick, have your team prepare to exit. I don't imagine we have much time."

Rather than face his commander, Hogg glanced down the narrow confines of the transport to where his men sat nestled in the nylon seats. "No, I don't imagine we do."

To a casual observer riding in the rear of the transport carrying the Forward Operations Command-and-Control Team, known as "Team Tiger," the two officers sitting opposite each other just to the rear of the cockpit, their heads bowed, hands clasped and elbows resting on their knees, looked as if they were praying. The only thing that betrayed that notion were the headphones each man wore, tethered by long cords trailing off into the cockpit.

Neither Robert Hightower nor Andrew Fretello said much of anything to each other, or to anyone else. Each concentrated on the command-and-control net he was monitoring. Only when something of particular interest came across the airwaves did either man bother to exchange glances. When they did, only Hightower allowed himself to register his feelings through the expressions he wore. Fretello, unsure of how to take the grim news they were receiving concerning the weather and the status of the drop zones, held to a poker face that served him well during times like this.

Earlier in the evening, when the initial weather-reconnaissance aircraft had begun to penetrate Russian airspace, the initial reports were seen as being good. Radar warning receivers attached to those aircraft failed to pick up any signals. "The electronic-warfare people were right," Fretello had boasted upon hearing that tidbit. "The Russian air-defense network in the region is blind." Intelligence provided by electronic-warfare aircraft following the weather-recon flights were equally encouraging. Those command-and-control networks that did manage to return to the air painted a picture of confusion and panic in the wake of the asteroid's impact. Again, the Special Forces major made no effort to hide his joy upon hearing this. Slowly, however, his attitude began to change as conditions over each of the drop zones became known and it was evident that the operation was in jeopardy.

One by one, the transports reported back to NATO headquarters in Brussels, the decisions being made by the commanders of the assault teams they were carrying. As a staff officer who knew what was expected of him, Fretello kept track of this information for his commander. On a map covered with an overlay displaying the operational graphics, laid out on the floor between himself and Hightower, Fretello marked off a drop zone every time a team leader announced over the Net as to whether he was going to stick with the primary or go for a secondary DZ. In those cases where a team leader came to the conclusion that neither primary nor secondary were acceptable, but that he was going to try to find another DZ near the target into which he could jump with his team, the architect of Tempest placed a question mark over the team's target.

Unlike his superior, Andrew Fretello paid little attention to each of the team leaders' tone of voice as he made his decision known. Having dedicated his entire adult life to the profession of arms, and having been personally involved in some very difficult operations himself, Hightower knew that you could tell a great deal about what was going on inside a man's mind by the words he selected and how he presented himself when using them. When they flew forth in an easy manner, Hightower didn't worry. But when there was a hesitation and the words being used were soft, he became concerned.

After listening to the report sent in by the commander of the French Foreign Legion's CRAP teams, Hightower lifted one of the earphones away and looked up at Fretello. Without being told, the major understood that his colonel had something to say to him. Following suit, Fretello freed up one of his ears so he could hear better.

"You realize that no one is going to back down, don't you, Major?" Hightower stated dryly in a tone that was almost accusatory.

In all the time he had dedicated to laying out this operation, Andrew Fretello had never allowed himself to take into account many of the human factors that a commanding officer must deal with. Clear and concise instructions, and not the leadership traits and skills necessary to apply those instructions, were the concerns of the staff planner. So the human face that Tempest was just starting to wear was one that Andrew Fretello was least prepared to understand.

Realizing that his well-schooled subordinate had no fitting response, Hightower continued. "We're going to lose a lot of good people during the drop alone. Your number-one job, mister," Hightower stated sharply, jabbing a finger at the silent major, "as soon as we're on the ground and have functional comms, is to find out which ones made it, what sort of shape they're in, and where we have holes that need to be filled."

Fretello didn't need to ask the colonel what he meant by "holes." That, he assumed, meant targets that would not be hit because the teams assigned to them had lost all their equipment, or the teams themselves had not survived the jump. Using phrases such as "didn't make it" allowed professional soldiers such as Fretello to deal with the horrors that those men would face in their final minutes of life, trying to carry out the grim tasks their nations had assigned to them.

Others, like Hightower, could not and would not permit themselves to be so easily dissuaded from the truth of what was actually happening. Hightower was, after all, the commanding officer. He was the man responsible for the survival or death of every soldier under his command. Though those soldiers might meet their end as a result of unforeseen conditions or unexpected enemy activity, Hightower understood that he was the man who set his seal upon the final plan, who had stood up before those very men and given the order to go forth and execute it. Staff officers deal with paper, concepts, and words. Commanders do their work with flesh and blood.