Dead Hand

Chapter 14

Seated in a freshly fallen tree. Colonel Robert Hightower looked up from the slick he had been whiltling away at and gazed at the low, dark clouds covering the region like a death shroud. Snow was beginning to drill down, heavy Hakes that were dirty gray. This was a welcome relief after being pelted by an ice storm, not to mention the freezing rains that had preceded that. It seemed as if the heavens were anxious to rid themselves of all the moisture and dirt that had been thrown their way by the unwelcome intruder from the far reaches of the solar system. How simple. Hightower thought, it was for nature to shed its burden and move on.

The weather forecasts they had been given before departing Scotland were about as useless. Hightower concluded as he scanned the sky. Lowering his head, he surveyed the activities of his diminished command group. Of the eighteen men and women who had exiled their transport with him, his executive officer was confirmed dead, three enlisted soldiers had suffered injuries of varying degree upon landing, and one female signal officer was unaccounted for. Fortunately, enough of the communications equipment was recovered in good enough order to establish links with NATO headquarters in Brussels, as well as with most of the Tempest teams.

That they had not been able to contact all of the Tempest teams concerned Hightower. Looking over to where his ops officer was working up their current status on the ground, the Special Forces colonel felt the urge to get up and wander over to see for himself how things were shaping up. To do so, however, would serve no good purpose. If anything, interrupting the ambitious young major would only keep him from completing his task. The colonel knew that as soon as Fretello was ready, he would come scampering over to him and render his report. Until then, Hightower could do little but wait and, quite literally, whittle away his time.

This, he told himself, as he turned his attention back to the stick he was attacking with his Swiss Army knife, was the worst part of being a senior officer. Back in Scotland, when they'd been putting the finishing touches on the plan, coordinating with the Air Force for lift, giving briefings, and conducting precombat inspections, he'd never seemed to have enough hours in the day. Both he and every member of his staff had been going a mile a minute every waking hour. Even when he'd forced himself to lie down in an effort to catch a few hours' sleep, his mind had been so alive with details and the gnawing fear that he was leaving something undone that rest was all but impossible. Back there, it had been the soldiers, the men who would have to execute the plan they were working on, who'd had little to do.

At the moment, the opposite was true. Now he was reduced to hacking away at a piece of Russian pine while the highly trained men he was responsible for were struggling through the maze of shattered forests and across debris-choked streams in an effort to reach their assigned objectives. They were the ones fighting against time. They were the ones who had little opportunity to tend to personal needs or to stop and think about their comrades whom the Fates had not been kind to during the jump. It was moments like this, Hightower thought as he pushed his knife down with all his might, that he longed to be a young officer again, out there in the boonies, fighting the forces of evil and nature for God, country, and the girl next door.

Pausing for a moment, Hightower looked up at the sky again. He chuckled. God, country, and the girl next door. That's what the U. S. Army used to fight for, he thought. That was what he'd joined the Army to do. To him, the principles embodied in his faith and in the Constitution, which he was pledged to defend, had meaning. They were tangible. The idea of going to war to defend corporate America, or to deflect the media's attention from a White House scandal, were as foreign as the very land in which he now sat. He knew that the world changes. He had seen it himself. But the idea that the very meaning of human existence, even if it was a soldier's existence, could change so radically so fast was all but incomprehensible. Only slowly had Hightower come to the conclusion that something was not right, something was out of place, that his own core beliefs were out of sync with the society he was charged to defend. What he could do to adjust things, either of his view of the world or of the world itself, was beyond him. At the moment, though, he had more immediate concerns.

"Colonel Hightower?" A familiar-sounding voice called out, cutting into his dark thoughts. "I have the current status."

Lowering his gaze, the Special Forces colonel looked at Andrew Fretello and blinked as he turned his attention away from his lofty philosophical reflections and refocused his full attention on the mission at hand. "Go ahead. Major."

"Well, sir, there are still a fair number of teams unaccounted for. To the good, we were able to contact Captain Brant. His losses during the jump were minimal."

It always annoyed Hightower when a staff officer giving a briefing equated the loss of life as minimal. Though he knew that such a description was a valid means of conveying an overall picture, minimal casualties were to him akin to saying that someone was only mostly dead. "Exactly how many men, Major, does Captain Brant have with him?"

Pausing, Fretello glanced down at his notes. "Four, sir, not counting Captain Brant."

"So he only lost one man. Any word on his status?"

Fretello shook his head. "Captain Brant did not specify."

Hightower looked down at the stick he held and carved off another chuck. "I guess it doesn't make a difference for now. Continue."

"With Captain Brant and his people, that gives us two teams converging on Alpha Zero Four. We have also managed to contact one of the Foreign Legion teams assigned to hit Foxtrot Zero Two. Their signal was rather weak and the transmission garbled. From what we could make out, they are in fairly bad shape, but retain the ability to hit their assigned target."

Lifting his head, Hightower looked into Fretello's eyes. "Good, that leaves only two holes uncovered."

Though he seemed pleased with this bit of news, the Special Forces colonel did not smile. "We don't know that for sure." Fretello quickly countered. "There's always the off chance that members of the teams assigned to those targets survived the jump but lost their signal equipment. After all, we won't have our backup Comsat until Captain Bell finds us."

Hightower stopped his whittling and gave Fretello a long, hard stare. "You seem to be assuming, Major, that she's still alive and able to walk."

Fretello shrugged. "There's always the hope that she is, sir."

"Hope, Major, is not a good foundation upon which to base a plan of action. You, of all people, should know that."

Unable to frame a suitable response, the young major resorted to the default reply. "Yes, sir."

"So," the colonel stated, as a way of signaling that he was changing subjects. "What are our options as you see them?"

Relaxing his stance, Fretello placed his notepad behind him and grasped it with both hands. "As I see it, we have two options. The first is to divert several of the teams from targets that have more than one team currently converging on them over to hit those that are, to the best of our knowledge, uncovered."

"Not so good," Hightower reasoned out loud. "If your original premise is still operative, Russian security forces at the targets will have to be hit from multiple directions."

"Yes, sir. That is correct," Fretello acknowledged before he went on. "That leaves us with the second-best option. Once those targets that have multiple teams approaching them have been reached and charges have been set, all uncommitted teams will be redirected to those targets currently uncovered."

"How practical is that?" Hightower asked as he took up his whittling again in an effort to work off some of his nervous energy.

"Well, sir," Fretello explained as he reached into a pants pocket and pulled a map out. Squatting, he opened the map and pointed out the position of the uncovered targets. "Both of them are to our south, ten and twelve klicks away respectively. The teams that will in all likelihood be in the best condition to free up one or more of their subordinate teams are all to the north." _

Hightower looked at the locations the staff officer was pointing out. As he did so, something clicked. "It would seem," he stated more to himself than to Fretello, "that the farther south you go, the worse things are."

Having already considered that, Fretello nodded. "Yes, sir. The good news there is that the regional command-and-control complex is pretty much in the heart of an area of near total devastation. Which should mean that their ability to react to our attacks is limited, if they retain the ability to do so at all."

Hightower nodded in agreement as he studied the map. "In the negative," he finally stated, "both of the uncovered sites are on either side of that complex. Which means they are closer to them than we are and will be able to reinforce them faster than we can get to them."

"Well, yes, provided," Fretello countered, "they know we're coming."

Turning away from the map, Hightower whacked away a few chips of wood from the stick he had been whittling as he considered the problem. Without bothering to look up at the staff officer, he began to articulate the decision he had already settled upon. "We'll stay with the plan as it exists, for now. AH teams will continue to make their way to their assigned targets and prepare them for execution on order. However, you will put out a warning order that they will hold onto any unused demo packs. On order, they will bring those charges to this location as quickly as possible, together with all personnel that can be spared. Once we have consolidated them, we will resurrect two new teams and set off to hit those targets that have not yet been attacked. Is that clear, Major?"

As he acknowledged his commander's guidance, the young staff officer's mind was already racing with the possibilities of becoming an active part of the operation that this course of action presented. If Colonel Hightower look note of the glint in Fretello's eye and the smile that the major struggled to suppress, he didn't let on. Instead, he stood up, tossed the butchered stick he had been working on as far as he could and took a deep breath. "Get to work on disseminating those orders to all teams ASAP. And have the comms people gel Brussels for me. I'll fill them in and brief them on how we're going to deal with the situation."

Mechanically, Stanislaus Dombrowski and Franz Ingelmann trudged along. Doubled over by the crippling weight of their packs and the oppressive sorrow each man carried in his heart over the terrible losses they had already endured, neither spoke. Even when the big Pole took time to pause and check their location against his map to confirm their bearings, Ingelmann maintained his silence. Both appreciated the fact that the other was in no mood for the lighthearted banter that often accompanied such a long and arduous trek. There simply were no words in any of the languages either men knew that could erase the anguish they shared.

lust how complete his isolation was to the physical world he was moving through, not really seeing it or allowing himself to feel, didn't hit Dombrowski until it dawned on him that the reason the light was fading was because it was late afternoon. Coming to an abrupt halt, the Polish legionnaire lilted his head back and looked up into the sky. To his utter amazement, it was also snowing. Without thinking, he stretched out his hand and turned his open palm up to catch a few snowflakes in an effort to confirm his astonishing discovery. From behind him, Ingelmann spoke for the first time since they began their grim, silent march. "Is there a problem?"

Dombrowski didn't answer right away. Instead, he lowered his eyes and surveyed the mangled pine forest they had been moving through. As far as the eye could see, which was not very far at this moment, everything was covered with a thin layer of dirty, gray snow. "How long has this been coming down?" he finally asked.

Under ordinary circumstances, the Austrian corporal would have seized upon this statement to poke fun at his oblivious comrade. But these were not ordinary circumstances. The normally jovial and vocal Austrian gave a quick, crisp response. "An hour. Maybe more."

Still in a bit of a daze, Dombrowski continued to scan the scene before him. It was like he had just awakened from a long, fitful sleep. Only, instead of the nightmare ending when he opened his eyes, it was still there before him. A chill from this terrible realization ran down his spine. "We must be getting close," he said, more to himself than to his companion.

Sensing that this would be an excellent time to take a break, Ingelmann gripped a shattered tree that was leaning over at a sharp angle and used it to steady himself as he eased to the ground. Though sitting in the freshly fallen snow sent shivers throughout his body, the relief he felt as the weight on his shoulders lessened caused him to sigh. With his stubby FA MAS assault rifle resting on his chest, Ingelmann closed his eyes, while Dombrowski tried to sort out himself and his circumstances.

Appreciating the fact that this was going to take him a while, he settled down with his back resting against a tree stump. Slowly, almost laboriously, he pulled out the items that he would need. From the oversized cargo pocket on the side of his pants leg he retrieved his neatly folded map, which he spread out onto his lap. Next, he fished the GPS he had taken from his captain out of a pouch on his web belt. Pausing for a moment as he regarded the navigational device, the image of Captain Pascal, forlorn but still sporting a wisp of a smile, flashed before Dombrowski's eyes.

Letting his hands fall to his lap, the big Pole looked around at the snow-covered devastation. Pascal would be dead by now, he told himself. If the overdose of morphine hadn't taken him. then the plunging temperatures surely would have. At least, Dombrowski hoped that was the case. The idea that things might be otherwise sent a shiver down his spine.

With a shake of his head and a blinking of eyes, the legionnaire turned his attention back to his immediate problem. Tapping the location button on the GPS, he watched and waited for the grid location readout. Memorizing the numbers in the display, he set the GPS aside and took up the map. After finding the spot on the map that corresponded to the given grid coordinates, he made a mark on the map case with a grease pencil before lifting the map so he could study it.

Stunned, Dombrowski looked up from the map and stared straight ahead. Though he couldn't see it, there was a ridge a kilometer or so ahead. Just on the other side of the ridge, in a valley between the first ridge and another beyond, was their target. Even more incredible was the sudden realization that the very spot they were sitting in was marked on his map as a possible minefield, which intelligence believed was part of the defensive belt surrounding the missile silo.

When he had managed to collect his thoughts and calm down some, Dombrowski looked over to where his companion was resting. "Franz," he called out. "Without moving, look around you."

In an instant, the Austrian's eyes were wide open and his FA MAS firmly in hand. Methodically, he surveyed all around him, first inspecting everything that lay close at hand, then slowly looking farther afield. "What is it I am looking for?" he whispered as loudly as he dared while he continued to scan all around him.

"Mines," Dombrowski stated with greater calm than he felt at the moment.

"Dear God," Ingelmann intoned as he shifted his focus and began to inspect every patch of ground he could see.

"I am sorry. I wasn't paying attention," the Pole replied sheepishly.

"Do not feel badly, mon ami. Neither was I."

"Do you suppose that the overpressure that blew down all these trees was enough to set the mines off?" Ingelmann asked without interrupting his search.

"I would expect that is the case," Dombrowski responded without much conviction. "Either that or the information regarding their existence is wrong."

Looking over to his NCO, Ingelmann managed to crack a smile for the first time since exiting their transport hours before. "What? American intelligence wrong? How could that be?"

When he was satisfied that he was not in immediate danger, Dombrowski slowly began to get up. "We cannot be sure of anything, other than the fact that we need to go on." Though the freshly fallen snow made doing so futile, once he was on his feet, the Pole searched the ground about him.

"How far?" Ingelmann asked, without taking his eyes off the ground around him.

"Two kilometers, that way," the Pole stated, pointing in the direction of the unseen ridge. "And if you ask me, I would rather get out of this spot while there is still some light."

"I did not ask, but I do agree. Lead on, mon sergeant."

Even though the mines meant to protect the Russian missile silo had been neutralized by the same overpressure that had flattened the surrounding forests, the experience had shaken the two legionnaires. In the final leg of their journey, they exercised a great deal more caution. Because of this heightened awareness, Dombrowski perceived the presence of others in the vicinity of the silo long before they reached it. This caused the pair to redouble their vigilance as they moved forward.

When they had reached a point as close as they could go and still be able to talk in whispers without the fear of being heard, the Polish legionnaire stopped and squatted. With a slight wave of his hand, he motioned Ingelmann to come forward and join him. When his Austrian companion was down next to him, leaning forward so that Dombrowski could whisper in his ear, the big Pole told him to hold in place. "Remain here with the charge," he stated breathlessly. "I will go on and see what we are facing."

"And then what?"

Dombrowski's thoughts hadn't progressed much beyond getting as close as he could and sizing up the situation. Without a functional radio, they had been unable to contact any of the other two Legion CRAP teams assigned to this target. For all he knew, the other teams were totally hors de combat. If that were true, it would be up to the two of them to take out the missile that was now but a couple of hundred meters away.

Lifting his night-vision goggles up onto his forehead, Dombrowski wiped the sweat off his face. He spoke as he reasoned his way through this dilemma. "If it comes to that, then we will have to do the best we can to carry out the mission."

The best response the Austrian could muster was a simple, "I see."

"After I have had an opportunity to check things out," Dombrowski continued, "I will come back here to tell you what I have found. If those are Russians down there, then 1 will circle around to the other side of the site. Once there, I will open fire. With luck, they will all follow me away from the silo and up over that far ridge. When you hear the gunfire start going down the other side, make your way to the silo cover, place the charge, set the timer for five minutes, and then get the hell out of there."

"What if the order to execute has not been given?"

Frustrated by the situation, Dombrowski snapped, "Damn it! What if the order has been given? What if this is the last missile left?"

In silence, the big Pole waited for an answer. When Ingelmann found he was unable to reply, Dombrowski continued. "We have no choice but to carry on as best we can." Then, after letting his anger subside a bit, he added, "Besides, those are Russians. No one will shed a tear if we should squash a few by mistake."

Not having the innate hatred of that branch of the Slavic people as Dombrowski did, Ingelmann felt uneasy about what his sergeant was proposing. The idea that two lowly legionnaires could trigger a chain of events that would result in a worldwide holocaust flashed through his brain. Still, like Dombrowski, he could see no other option, except one. "I think it would be better," he finally ventured, "if I played rabbit-and-hounds with the Russians while you placed the explosives. You are, after all, the expert in that area and I, as you well know, am far more nimble than you."

The darkness kept Dombrowski from seeing Ingelmann's expression, leaving him to wonder if his comrade was hoping he would turn down his offer. It was only when the Austrian reached out and grasped his arm that the Polish legionnaire realized that Ingelmann was deadly serious. "It must be this way," Ingelmann stated firmly. "You know that, don't you?"

Dombrowski didn't reply. Instead, he repeated his instructions. "Stay here until I get back, is that clear?"

"Oui, mon sergeant. Very clear."

The snow on the ground and the debris strewn about made moving forward in silence a painfully slow process. The falling snow didn't help matters either. Still, Dombrowski was able to maneuver himself into a position close enough to the silo cover that he could see most of the shadowy figures. Taking up the best-covered and concealed position he could find under the circumstances, he brought his weapon up and slowly switched the safety to the fire position before settling in to watch and listen.

It didn't take long to figure out that there was a man squatting not twenty meters from him, holding a stubby weapon at the ready and looking in his general direction. Behind that one there were two more figures, standing upright on an elevated mound that Dombrowski assumed was the concrete silo cover. The two were fumbling about with something, but he could not be certain of what they were doing.

Seeing that there was no way of getting closer, the Polish legionnaire was faced with a difficult decision. If he called out the challenge in French and the people he. was watching turned out to be Russian, he'd be screwed. His plan of going back to Ingelmann and coordinating their agreed-upon plan would be impossible to implement. Yet if he called out a greeting in Russian and the shadowy figures before him were fellow legionnaires they might shoot before he had an opportunity to properly identify himself. He had too much respect for the marksmanship of his comrades to take a chance like that.

With no other choice, Dombrowski lowered himself behind the thickest tree trunk he could find and removed his gloves. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he let go with a whistle that faintly resembled that of an African bird that almost any legionnaire would be familiar with.

On the other side of the log, in the direction of the silo, Dombrowski heard a sudden shuffling about in the snow, followed by hushed voices, then silence. Finally, a faint whistle, mimicking the one he had just issued, floated through the still night air.

After heaving a great sigh of relief, Dombrowski peered over the tree trunk and gave the challenge as loud as he dared. "Rapiere."

From the other side of the tree trunk came the welcome response. "Pelican."

Though all doubt as to who they were had been erased, the Polish legionnaire still exercised caution as he made his way forward. From somewhere ahead of him in the darkness, a familiar voice boomed out. "Stanislaus! Get your miserable ass over here. We are having problems with this infernal contraption of yours." The voice belonged to Adjutant Hector Allons, leader of Team Bastille.

Before complying with this gruff order, Dombrowski paused and faced about in the direction he had come from. "Franz! Kommen sie, mach sneel," he shouted in German.

There was obvious relief in the Austrian's voice when his response of "awol!" cut through the pitch-black night.

Continuing his advance toward the silo, Dombrowski felt the weight of the world being lifted from him. As he passed the sentry he had first seen, he gave the man a friendly pal on the shoulder. "It is good to see you, my friend."

The legionnaire, a New Zealander named John Dwyer, responded without turning his attention from the sector he was covering. "Believe me, right now we're pissin' all over ourselves with joy at seeing anyone."

"I know, mon ami," Dombrowski stated dryly as he continued to make his way to where the Spanish team chief waited. After reaching the silo and managing to clamber up the slick, steep sides of the concrete cover, the Polish legionnaire tried to determine who was there with Allons. From the man's stature and posture, he guessed it was a fellow Slav by the name of L'udovit Val. Addressing Allons, the Polish legionnaire saluted and rendered his report. "Sergeant-Chef Dombrowski and Corporal Ingelmann reporting, sir."

There was a moment of silence as Hector Allons waited for the Pole to continue. When he did not, the Spaniard asked in a voice that betrayed his concern. "The captain? The others? Are they—"

Allons didn't finish his question. There was no need to. There was a notable hesitancy before Dombrowski replied, one that none of the men present missed. "Oui," was all he was able to manage.

Again there was silence as the legionnaires who belonged to Allons' team took a moment to reflect upon their most grievous loss. When he was able to do so without fear of displaying any emotion, Dombrowski asked the Spaniard about his team. "Except for some brushes and bumps, we all made it."

Astonished, Dombrowski shook his head in disbelief. "All?"

"I guess," the Spanish adjutant replied quietly, "we were fortunate."

It took a moment for everyone standing on the cover of the Russian intercontinental ballistic missile to shake the pall that had fallen over them and snap back to the reality of the moment. It was Dombrowski, anxious to push the image of a forlorn Jules Pascal out of his mind, who spoke first. "So, Adjutant, what seems to be the problem with the charge?"

With a shake of his head, Allons refocused on the matter at hand. "Both of our devices took some knocking about during the drop. The other was a complete write-off. And this one has several wires that have pulled free. Val and I were just trying to figure out which one went where when you showed up."

Looking around, Dombrowski asked if the area was secure enough to use the small penlight he carried with him for checking connections. Allons shrugged. "If there are any Russians around, they are the most inconspicuous Slavs I have ever come across."

Taking that response to be in the affirmative, the Polish legionnaire squatted before the device the others had been working on. Cupping one hand over the business end of his penlight, he flipped the on switch. As he always did during tactical situations, he slowly opened the hand covering the light until there was just enough illumination on the area that required his attention. After studying the tangled bundle of wires, he growled. "What a mess."

"Yes, I know," Allons rejoined. "That is why I am so glad that it was you who came stumbling in here."

Though he didn't share that particular sentiment, Dombrowski said nothing as he surveyed the condition of the device that sat before him. Finally, he shut off his penlight. "The only spot of luck we've had this day is in the fact that one of our two devices survived intact. All we need to do is have Ingelmann bring it on over here and set it up next to this piece of junk."

Allons was quick to veto that idea. "1 am afraid that if at all possible, we must save yours and repair this one."

"Save it?" Dombrowski retorted. "What the hell for? Isn't our journey out of this hell on earth going to be bad enough without hauling useless items like that one along?"

Realizing that the Polish NCO had been out of contact and was unfamiliar with the overall situation, the Spanish legionnaire explained the reason why they needed to hang onto his shaped charge device. "By last count, two silos, like this one, have no teams covering them. Either those who survived the jump are out of contact like you were or they are… well, gone. Regardless of the reason, we have been ordered to finish up here as quickly as possible and report to the rally point, bringing all unused demolitions along with us. Once there are enough of us there, the area commander intends to organize us into new teams that will be dispatched to take out those targets that have not yet been executed."

Though it was a blow to realize that their work would be far from over when this silo was taken out, Dombrowski hid his disappointment. "It's going to take me some time to sort this mess out."

Pausing, Allons looked down at his watch. "You have forty-seven minutes."

"And then?" the Pole asked.

"We execute."

Though he knew time was pressing, Dombrowski took a minute to gather his thoughts. "So, you're telling me that we're going to blow this silo, and I assume the others, in less than an hour?"

"Correct," Allons replied.

"We're going to hoof it over to the last two and hit them after this?"

"Again correct."

"Don't you think that by the time we reach the other silos we're supposed to hit," Dombrowski asked, making no effort to hide his bewilderment, "the element of surprise will have pretty much evaporated and the Russians will be on to what we're doing?"

Allons nodded. "Yes, I suppose that is also correct."

Rather than continue this line of questioning, the Polish legionnaire grunted and shook his head. "Well, I-guess the Americans know what they are doing."

"One would hope so," Allons responded with little conviction in his voice.

Without further ado, Dombrowski settled down to sorting out the ball of twisted wires and leads. One step at a time, he told himself. He had serious doubts that the situation they faced could be sorted out and made right as easily or as neatly as the wires he now held in his hands.