Dead Hand

Chapter 13

The driver of the lead truck, sealed next to Demetre Orlov. remained silent as he did his best to ignore his commander. Only the sound of the windshield wipers laboring to push aside the heavy, wet ash that came down like snow disturbed the tense silence. With nothing better to do, he stared out into the gloom, watching his fellow commandos as they struggled to clear the road up ahead. Ii had been like this in the truck cab during the three hours it ha^ taken them to move four kilometers. Ordinarily, such a fact would have evoked a comment by the otherwise easygoing commando. But he knew belter than to make mention of their miserable lack of progress. Only the foul, oppressive conditions outside the cab came close to matching his colonel's dark mood.

With little more to do than watch the travails of his men. Orlov was left to brood, fume, and despair. Twisting about in his seat, he looked at his watch. He didn't need an odometer to tell him that they had made little headway since leaving the air base. As he thought about this, a chill ran down his back. While it was true that the temperature was finally beginning to plummet, the Russian colonel knew that the cold was not the source of this sudden sensation. Rather, it was the realization that he was running out of time. Time and the devastation that blocked their way had become tar greater foes than were the units loyal to General l ikhatchev. units that the colonel's special-response team would have to face when it reached its objective.

Unable to remained cooped up in the close confines of the truck's cab doing nothing. Orlov grabbed the door handle next to him and gave it a jerk. With more effort than required, he pushed the door open. The driver, though startled by this sudden move, did little more than look over as his commander climbed out. For him. sharing the cab of the truck had been like sitting next to a ticking lime bomb that he had no way of defusing. With the impatient colonel gone, the bored Russian commando would be free to relax.

Once on the ground, Orlov hesitated. He wasn't sure of what, exactly, he could do to make things move faster. Mulling this over, he watched his men as they laboriously bulled their way forward. He could clearly see that they were moving as fast as they could. Any efforts on his part to encourage them to redouble their efforts would, he concluded, be pointless. If anything, admonishing professional soldiers such as his to work harder when they were already doing their best could prove to be counterproductive. Nor did they need his supervision. The junior officer in charge of the section and his NCO's were doing well enough. Even in his agitated state, Orlov could see that they were providing all the direction their men required. The only contribution that he could make, he finally determined, was to provide an example to his men. By joining them, he would demonstrate both his willingness to share their labors as well as his resolution to overcome the unexpected and unimaginable devastation that threatened to hold them back.

Before setting out to lend a hand, Orlov drew a deep breath. Quickly, he regretted doing so. The fetid air that coursed through his lungs threw him into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. This became so loud and violent that the men closest to him stopped working and turned to see what was wrong with their commander. Realizing that his error was having an effect opposite of what he had set out to achieve, Orlov struggled with all his might to suppress his convulsions. Reaching out, he grasped the fender of the truck, pulled himself upright, and endeavored to bring his hacking under control. Only when they saw their colonel returning their stare did the work party turn away and return to its labors. Once he was sure that no one was watching, Orlov pulled his scarf up and over his mouth and nose. Though not a very efficient filter, like everything else that day, this improvisation would have to do.

Adversity and an unwavering dedication to duty are powerful motivators. In the past, they had helped Demetre Orlov achieve feats that would have humbled an ordinary man. On this day, however, his single-minded determination seemed to be of little use in the face of the utter devastation he and his small command now faced. The same shattered terrain that had kept them from landing near General Igor Likhatchev's regional command-and-control center was hindering their movement on the ground.

Neither of his previous experiences in Afghanistan and Chechnya had prepared him for this. During operations in those wars, he'd had only to contend with man-made destruction. Though considerable, such efforts had been localized. When faced with obstacles that could not be bypassed, Orlov had found that careful planning, persistence, and a bit of sweat usually sufficed to overcome even the most daunting impediment. In Chechnya, his subordinates had learned how futile it could be to report back to him that they were unable to advance because of a roadblock, a minefield, or rubble. Whenever one was foolish enough to try, Orlov would summarily reject whatever excuse was being offered him. "Any barrier laid down by mortal men," he'd snap, "can be overcome by moral men."

Of course, the premise of Orlov's philosophy on overcoming obstructions on the battlefield was based entirely upon the supposition that mere humans had been responsible for them. But the hand that had wiped away vast sections of the road he was trying to follow now, and had deposited shattered trees, boulders, and thick mud on the sections that remained, was more akin to being divine. Against such odds, even the efforts of a warrior as dogged as Demetre Orlov were for naught. It would take some time for this fact to become apparent to him, since the greatest obstacle facing his small band of commandos was their own commander's stubborn pride.

Over the years, Orlov had labored hard to become the perfect soldier. To him, this meant being impersonal, stern, and uncompromising when dealing with both his men and his mission. He believed that by adhering to these principles, he would be free to assess every situation with the cold, hard logic that a commander needed in order to make informed and proper decisions in combat. But like most professional soldiers, he was unable to shed character traits and flaws common to all humans. While it can be argued that a person's pride in his abilities can be a source of strength, at times it can also cloud his judgment. Nowhere was there a better example of this than along the road leading to the headquarters of General Igor Likhatchev.

At that particular moment, Orlov's pride was preventing him from seeing how futile and wasteful the labors of his men were.

Further, an inherent inability to admit failure made it all but impossible for him to appreciate the absurdity of their efforts to bull through to their objective via a road that no longer existed.

Those of his unit tasked to clear a path for the trucks had no such problem. Within the first hour, they had come to the realization that the transportation they had procured was a liability. As they inched their way forward, Orlov's men came to appreciate the fact that they would have to abandon both trucks and strike out cross-country. While even the most ardent of them dreaded the idea of making the long, grueling march across the devastated landscape, the idea of clearing every meter of a road by hand was far more repugnant. So absurd had that effort become that those unfortunate enough to have been selected to clear the debris no longer bothered to mount up when they finished a stretch of road. Instead, they simply trudged on forward to the next stretch of impassable roadway and began to clear it.

As hard as it was on his men, this slowly and seemingly pointless expenditure of effort wore on Orlov's nerves at the same time it was sapping the morale and physical strength of his men. Unable to remain idle and simply stand off to one side and watch, Orlov stepped forward to join them in their efforts. Seeing a single man trying to heft a felled tree, he grabbed hold of the other end. "Get your back into it, man," he yelled to the soldier on the other end. "You hefted loads far heavier than this in training."

From behind Orlov, a voice mockingly called out: "Yes, be quick. We must not keep the President's butcher boy from making his appointed rounds."

Stunned, the Russian colonel let go of his end of the shattered tree and spun about. His eyes quickly scanned the dozen or so men who had been laboring to clear the road. The dust, ash, and grime that filled the air had mixed so well with the sweat that dripped from their brows that it was all but impossible to distinguish one man from another. They had no problem, however, in recognizing the blind fury that manifested itself in their commander's expression. "Which of you bastards said that?" Orlov demanded.

One by one, the soldiers stopped what they were doing, straightened up, and returned Orlov's hard, uncompromising stare. No words were uttered. No steps were taken, backward or to the fore.

Surrounded by a cold, hard silence disturbed only by the idling of a truck's engine and the low crackle of burning wood, the two sides warily contemplated one another, waiting for someone to say something.

Stepping out from behind the mute commandos, a figure came forth and made its way toward Orlov, stepping over the debris that littered the roadway. Like the others, this man's uniform had become so permeated with filth and grime, and his face so blackened, that it took Orlov several seconds to recognize that it was his deputy commander. All that he could see with any degree of clarity were the man's eyes, eyes that watched his in the same way one approaches a strange, growling dog.

When there was but a meter between himself and his commander, Major Gregory Petkovic stopped, but said nothing.

"I want you to find the shit who yelled out," Orlov charged.

With a forced calm, Petkovic shrugged and threw out his hands. "And do what, Colonel? Shoot him? Assign him additional duty? Place him on report?"

Unsure of whether his number-two was asking a serious question or mocking him, Orlov said nothing as he clenched his fists and looked past the major before him over to where the men were watching and waiting.

"This is ludicrous, sir," Petkovic stated slowly in a hushed voice. "We are sapping our strength and wasting time to no good end."

Tearing his eyes away from the soldiers, the Russian colonel studied his deputy. Though he knew the answer, he wanted to hear what Petkovic had to say. "And what is your solution, Major?"

"Abandon the trucks," Petkovic stated without hesitation, "and head off cross-country. Though we may be able to make only one or two kilometers an hour, the soldiers will be doing something they understand. They will be advancing toward General Likhatchev's regional command center as a fighting unit, not clearing the road like common laborers, or sitting idle and huddled in trucks like cattle."

Though agitated, Orlov had not missed the fact that his second in command had referred to their objective as General Likhatchev's regional command center. In the past, he and everyone in his special response team had taken great pains to use terms such as "objective" or "target" when speaking of their intended mark. To hear one of his officers personify their intended victim like this, especially when dealing with a man universally revered by Russia's armed forces, was a bit disconcerting.

Petkovic misinterpreted Orlov's pause, believing it to mean that his commander was seriously considering his proposal. "Colonel," he continued, "you must see that a continuation of our efforts to clear this road is pointless, that we will never make it at this rate. You must give the order to abandon the trucks."

Snapping out of his momentary lapse, Orlov's eyes narrowed. "Major, do not assume to tell me what I must and must not do. You are not in command here. You will not be held responsible by those in Moscow if we fail."

Though angered by this sudden attack, Petkovic maintained his composure. "Colonel, if we fail, there will be no one left in Moscow."

Again the Russian colonel took a moment to consider his subordinate's words. This lime, however, his thoughts stayed on task. With every eye riveted upon him, Demetre Orlov weighed the effect that a failure on his part to carry out his orders would have in Moscow. Would failure in this enterprise be catastrophic? Would General Igor Likhatchev, a man he knew and trusted, really follow through on his threats?

Anxious to get on with things one way or the other, Petkovic disrupted his commander's thoughts again. "Sir, what are your orders for the men?"

Orlov drew in a deep breath. "Tell them to gather their equipment off of the trucks and form up in march column. We move out, on foot, in ten minutes."

Petkovic made no effort to hide the glee he felt in having won over his commander to his point of view as he drew himself up and saluted. This angered Orlov. The idea of allowing a subordinate to think that he'd had a say in what the unit did and how it did it was, to him, a dangerous thing. Orlov reminded himself to redouble his vigilance as they drew closer to their objective.

Out of breath and frustrated, Franz Ingelmann took several moments before rendering his report. Squatting next to the panting legionnaire, Stanislaus Dombrowski waited patiently while the Austrian corporal collected himself. "I found no trace of Juan," Ingelmann finally blurted. "Of course," he continued after another moment's pause, "things are so bad out there, I could have passed within a meter of him and not seen him."

"I daresay," Dombrowski staled dryly, "that poor Juan is either hopelessly lost or, like Anton and Kim, hors de combat."

As he reached around for his canteen, Ingelmann looked over to where their captain lay propped against a tree stump. "How's he doing?"

Dombrowski didn't bother looking back at his injured team commander. Instead, his gaze dropped down to the blackened patch of earth at his feel. "Rather well." he mumbled as he repeatedly jabbed at the dirt with a slick, "for a man with two broken legs, perhaps a broken back, and God knows how many internal injuries."

"Isn't that going to make moving him a bit risky?" Ingelmann asked cautiously.

Ceasing his assault on the ground between them, Dombrowski looked up and gave his companion a cold, hard stare. "We are not taking him with us."

Ingelmann blinked. He wanted to say something. He fell the urge to voice his disapproval of this decision. But he knew that such a gesture would be for naught. As a member of les Commandos dc Recherche el d'Action dans le Profondeur. the young Austrian knew that the price of being a part of that unit was high. The risks they look during training exercises or in the course of combat operations often bordered on gambling. Yet the sacrifices that individual legionnaires were called upon to pay, no matter how steep, were seldom taken into account when determining if a mission should or should not be undertaken. Only the feasibility of achieving the desired goal of the exercise and the cost of not doing so mattered. Perhaps this is why there is often a wide psychological gulf between staff planners, who deal in the abstract, and ground combat troops, charged with carrying out their plans in a very real and often harsh world.

After taking another sip from his canteen, Ingelmann forced himself to look over to where his captain was slumped. "Is there anything we can do for him?"

The Polish legionnaire didn't answer. Instead, he jabbed the stick he held into the ground, again and again. The question of what they could do for their injured commanding officer had been plaguing Dombrowski ever since he had discovered him twisted about in his parachute and bent backward over a fallen tree. That Captain Pascal was conscious and yet had made no effort to free himself from his harness had told Dombrowski just how severe the man's injuries were. "I've already given him all the morphine in his first-aid packet. Mine as well," the Pole finally stated. After glancing back over his shoulder to where Pascal lay, he looked into Ingelmann's eyes. "I am not sure, but I do not think it would be safe to give him any more."

The Austrian suspected that the look his NCO had just given him, followed by his statement, was meant to convey the thought that now entered his mind. Hesitating, he waited for Dombrowski to say more. But the big Pole just stared into his eyes. Finally convinced that he had read his companion's meaning correctly, Ingelmann replaced his canteen in its pouch, reached around to his own first-aid pouch, and withdrew the small cerates of morphine. Without a word, he offered them to Dombrowski.

After throwing the stick he had been poking the dirt with, using all his might, the Polish legionnaire reached out and took the morphine, then stood up. "Gather the one good charge we were able to recover and prepare to move out," he ordered. "I must go over to the captain and…"

And what? Dombrowski wondered. Offer up the morphine he held and say good-bye? He turned and began to make his way to Pascal's side. Was there another way? Was there a chance to accomplish their mission and come back to recover their stricken commander?

The Polish legionnaire was still pondering these thoughts and others, when he reached Pascal. Dropping to his knees, he did his best to avoid eye-to-eye contact.

"I take it," the team commander said, "that Corporal Ingelmann's search was unsuccessful."

"Oui, mon capitain," Dombrowski uttered with little enthusiasm. "If Juan did survive the drop, I fear he is hopelessly lost." Pausing, he looked around. "The asteroid has done a marvelous job of rearranging the terrain."

Gazing past his NCO, Pascal saw Ingelmann readjusting his equipment as he prepared to add the one good shaped charge to his load. "You have done all you can here," the French officer announced, knowing that his subordinate was having difficulty stating what was obvious to both of them. "Take the radio," Pascal said as he waved his hand feebly at the set sitting next to him. "The two of you must press on as quickly as possible. If the rest of the countryside is as torn up as it is here, it will take you twice as long to reach the target as I had estimated."

"Oui," the Polish NCO replied weakly as he continued to look around in an effort to avoid facing his commander.

Reaching out, Pascal grasped Dombrowski's arm and gave it a shake. "Stanislaus, you must not concern yourself with my welfare. Your only concern now is the mission. I will manage."

Realizing that there was no easy way to do what he needed to do, the Polish legionnaire looked down at Pascal for the first time. As he struggled to hold back his tears, he stuck out the hand holding the morphine and offered the opiate to his commanding officer and friend.

Slowly a smile crept across the French officer's face. Removing his hand from Dombrowski's arm, he placed it in Dombrowski's hand, which was holding the cerates. "The mission, mon ami," Pascal said as he clasped hands with the Pole. "The mission."

Sensing that he was on the verge of losing it, Dombrowski pulled his hand away, leaving the morphine in the possession of his commander. Standing up, he stepped back, came to attention, and saluted.

With a smile and a nod. Pascal returned Dombrowski s salute. "Now, get going."

Captain Patrick Hogg used a simple formula when it came to spacing halts. When lie got tired, they stopped. Those following him were expected to keep up. Those unable to do so and falling behind were not given any additional time to catch up. They used the break to do that. No one was given any slack for whatever reason. To drive this point home during training, when Hogg saw the last of his stragglers were just about to catch up. he would pick up his personal gear and give the order to move out. This policy was as effective as it was cruel. No one dared fall out of a march led by the Irishman.

The lour men following Hogg at the moment kept an eye on him as he picked his way through the shattered pine forest. Their luck since exiting the C-150 had been rather mixed. While they all had experienced vicious crosswinds and turbulence that surpassed anything they had ever laced before, only one of them had met with a serious problem. That problem had been about as bad as it got. The man's chute had failed to deploy properly. When Sergeant Kenneth McPhcrson found the unfortunate soul, his partially deployed chute was twisted in a bundle next to him. "As best I could tell." McPherson stated when he informed Hogg of his discovery. "Andrews waited too long to open his chute. Either that or he wasn't stable when he did so. Either way. he didn't have a prayer."

To the good, the drop zone that Major Thomas Shields had selected for them was relatively close to their assigned objective. Unfortunately. even this spot of luck had a down side. The blast caused by a chunk of the asteroid had flattened the trees from left to right along their desired line of march. This meant that the pattern of trees blown down created an unending series of obstructions across their path. Every other step they took required each man in Hogg's small team to climb over or straddle a shattered tree. While the initial wave of thermal energy and the force of the blast that followed had stripped away the pine needles, each freshly felled tree sprouted a dense array of bare, spindly branches that presented a unique challenge to the heavily laden soldiers. To compound this problem, some of these barren branches had been snapped by the blast wave or during the fall. This left a series of sharp, stubby protrusions jutting out at all angles, ranging in length from a foot to a few inches. Quickly, the British commandos found that it was the shorter ones that gave them the biggest problem. The most ingenious combat engineer, with unlimited time and resources at his disposal, could not have come up with a better obstacle course.

Despite this, Patrick Hogg drove on toward his objective. His ears were shut to the yelps of pain coming from the commandos who followed as they straddled fallen tree after fallen tree and were, in the process, impaled by snapped branches and splinters. Even when their swearing reached a crescendo, Hogg kept plowing on, increasing his pace rather than slowing it as he tried to put a bit of distance between himself and those behind him. When he finally raised his hand and shouted over his shoulder that they would halt for ten minutes, the members of his team heaved a collective groan.

While the commandos looked around this way and that in order to find a clear patch of ground upon which to settle, Hogg made no effort to check their condition. Rather, he maintained his distance and eased himself down into a squatting position before leaning back until the pack he carried came to rest upon the ground. Once in this reclined state, he stretched out, closed his eyes, and allowed his head to fall back until it came to rest against the top of the pack. Set, Hogg cradled his Heckler & Koch MP 5 submachine gun snuggly in his arms, cleared his mind of all the thoughts that had been swimming about in it, and did his best to concentrate, instead, on his breathing.

This was not at all as pleasant or as easy as it should have been. Dust, ash, and vapors still permeated the air at ground level. The camouflaged cravat that he wore pulled up over his mouth and nose did little to filter out this odious mixture. Still, it was not quite bad enough to resort to his respirator. That would have been a greater hindrance to his breathing than the fetid air was.

As hard as he tried, Patrick Hogg could not simply disengage his brain as one would the clutch in an auto and let it coast along. There was far too much to think about, too much to consider. Even the simple act of breathing brought new issues to mind. The air he took in betrayed a chill he had not noticed before. The unnaturally high temperatures caused by the asteroid's impact and held in place by the freak atmospheric conditions seemed to be giving way to a more normal temperature. That, he thought, would be a problem, particularly with the amount of moisture that seemed to be coating everything. Ice, added to their trials and tribulations with the blown-down trees, would further hinder their already pathetically slow pace.

He was just about to dismiss this newly generated concern and get back to relaxing when he heard the squish of mud underboot nearby. He didn't need to open his eyes. He knew who it was. "How are the men holding up, Sergeant McPherson?"

"The lads are a bit concerned," the Scottish NCO replied as he settled down next to his commander.

Hogg didn't move a muscle. "I know. We're going to miss our time-mark by a mile. But then I imagine everyone else is going to as well, so that shouldn't be an issue."

"It's not that, sir, that's troubling me."

Hogg knew McPherson well enough to appreciate by his tone of voice that he was genuinely worried. Opening his eyes, Hogg twisted his head around until he could see McPherson. The pained expression the man wore told him that this was not about the operation. Though he was unsure that he wanted to hear any more, he had little choice at the moment. "Go on."

"You've been preoccupied and a bit off your game since you got back from London. At first we all thought it was because of the manner in which this mission has been thrown together. But then we heard about you and—"

Angered that Thomas Shields had spoken to his men about his personal life behind his back, Hogg propped himself up. "What passes between myself and my wife," he stated as his eyes narrowed and his voice became tense, "is my affair, and my affair alone. Is that understood?"

Now that he was committed, McPherson was determined not to waver. "That's true, sir. Very true. That is, unless it affects your performance in the field."

Though he had done everything he could to separate his difficulties with his wife from his assigned duties, Hogg was able to appreciate that he was not himself. Perhaps, he reasoned, he had tried so hard to behave as if nothing had happened that he was overcompensating. Still, the implication that he was endangering his command annoyed him. "I don't see it that way, Sergeant," he snapped.

"Well, sir," McPherson continued without any hint of trepidation, "with all due respect, that's not how the lads or I see it." With a look in his eyes that seemed to be growing more determined as he spoke, the Scottish NCO went on. "I don't know how else to put this, so I won't bother trying to mince words with you. We've known each other since you joined the regiment. I was with you in some pretty tight spots and have seen you in circumstances that would have humbled a lesser man. You've never let personal concerns, either your own or those of the men under your command, interfere with the mission, whether it be in training or in combat. In that, you've always been utterly ruthless and uncompromising. And yet here we are, in the middle of this hell on earth, following a man who's got a bug up his ass that's bigger than the bloody asteroid that started all this. The men are worried. I'm worried. You're pushing harder than you need to, you've isolated yourself from everyone around you, and you're so caught in your own little world that I'm afraid you may lose sight of what's going on around you."

Pausing, McPherson took a deep breath. Before Hogg could counter, the Scottish NCO plunged on. "Just one second, you always tell the new candidates, is all that separates the quick and the dead. Just one second, one missed opportunity, one misstep. That's all it takes, you tell them. And you know what? You're right. How many times have we waited for those we were tracking to make a mistake? How many times have we come swooping in when our foes were napping and brought their miserable little lives to a quick end? Enough, sir, for you to appreciate that the same can happen to us."

Unable to look his senior NCO in the eye any longer, Patrick Hogg turned his head away. For several long seconds, neither man said a word. Inflamed by his own rhetoric, McPherson continued to stare at his commander. What could he say? The man was right. While the manner in which his senior NCO had presented his concerns bordered on insubordination, McPherson had been right to do so.

No, Hogg reminded himself. It had been the man's duty to do so. Just as it was his own duty, here and now, to pull himself together and put his personal problems behind him. Without bothering to look back at his sergeant, Hogg nodded as he pulled the cravat down from his nose. "You are correct, Sergeant McPherson. I've been off my game by a wide margin." Taking in a deep breath, he looked up at the dark, troubled sky that continued to roil and race by. "The temperature is starting to drop. I expect that once it gets dark, serious freezing will set in."

Turning back to McPherson, Hogg looked into the sergeant's eyes. "Do me a favor and pass the word on to the lads to get themselves ready for that while 1 collect myself here and… well, collect myself."

Sensing that he had achieved what he'd set out to do, McPherson stood up and nodded. "That I'll do, sir. And when you're ready, we'll be waiting."

"Thank you, Sergeant McPherson."

When the Scottish NCO was gone, Hogg again laid his head against his pack and looked up into the turbulent heavens above. Letting go was more than a simple matter of saying good-bye and walking out of a hotel room. He'd need to make a lot of adjustments, both in his life and in the way he thought. But those would have to wait. Every thought save those that concerned this mission would have to be placed on hold. He knew that. He understood that. What he didn't know was if he had the strength to manage it.