Dead Hand

Chapter 15

I he unending series of delays and tribulations that had kept Demetre Orlov and his special-response team at bay was not without its benefits. Darkness had fallen by the time they were within striking distance of General Igor Likhatchev's regional command center. That his former mentor might not be there was always a possibility, one that plagued Orlov as they fought their way across a ravaged countryside. What he would do if that were the case was beyond him. The Russian colonel hated to lose. He would do anything to accomplish his assigned task, which was exactly why he was the darling of the current Russian government.

Reason, however, was quick to silence these nagging doubts almost as soon as they bubbled up. Orlov knew General Likhatchev better than he dared let on. Over the years, he had served this gifted Russian general in many theaters and capacities. When Likhatchev had been named to command the Moscow military district, he had himself selected Demetre Orlov to serve on his personal staff. It had been this assignment that had brought the Russian colonel to the attention of politicians vying for important posts within the post Soviet government. During periods of internal crises, when the President of Russia or his representatives paid a visit to Likhatchev to sound him out in an effort to gauge the mood of the Army. Orlov was always seated at the right hand of the great general, taking notes and listening with rapt attention. That Orlov survived the purge that saw his superior exiled far from the center of Russian political power was as much a surprise to him as it was to the man who thought he had been nurturing a loyal supporter for the future.

Likhatchev would be there. Orlov kept telling himself whenever doubts began to cloud his exhausted mind. It was eminently logical. The complex had been constructed to ride out everything but a direct hit by a nuclear device. Besides serving as an emergency seat of government for the vast province, the regional headquarters also provided backup command-and-control networks for the Strategic Rocket Force throughout the area. If the National Command Authority were eliminated during a nuclear surprise attack, the regional headquarters could initiate a retaliatory strike, thanks to the Perimeter system. Given the dual importance of the site, a hefty security force, well provisioned with emergency stocks of food, fuel, and other essentials, was also located there. Yes, Orlov repeated time and lime again as he struggled through the tangled maze that had once been a vast, peaceful pine forest, Likhatchev would be there, waiting for his chance to bring down the inept system that had plagued Russia since the fall of the Soviet Empire.

As reassuring as his confidence was on this point, the problem of hacking their way through the shield of security that the regional command-and-control center provided Likhatchev presented Orlov with many difficulties. Just how much of the garrison would be situated away from the center, committed to providing emergency services and enforcing martial law in the wake of the asteroid strike, were questions for which he had no answer. He could find himself facing the entire Force. That Igor Likhatchev would be ruthless enough to hold back this Force at such a time would not be at all out of character. The general, after all, was playing for very high stakes and could be expected to follow the Russian military tradition of expending lives freely in order to achieve a designated goal. None of this deterred the commander of Moscow's elite special-response team. Demetre Orlov had faced terrible odds before without flinching. He had been handed missions that others had deemed impossible and executed them with ease. So it was never a question of "if" in his mind but rather, of "how."

Long before they had boarded their transports at the military airfield outside of Moscow, Orlov had developed several approaches to the tactical problems he would face when they reached their objective. In order to decide which approach he would implement, a detailed reconnaissance was required. This he would do personally, since he had taken the precaution of not briefing his officers on any of the options he was entertaining. All they knew was that at some point close to their target, the entire special-response team would occupy a concealed assembly area. From there, he, accompanied by a small number of handpicked commandos, would sally forth to recon the final approach routes into the complex. In his absence, Major Gregory would be left in command. Only when the Russian colonel was satisfied that he had a suitable solution would he return to the assembly area, brief his subordinates on the plan, and then lead them back to execute their assigned task.

Orlov was accompanied by only three men. One of them, Ivan Moshinsky, was a sergeant who often made his personal views on the world they lived in known to his colonel. These views were always unsolicited and very often they made his superior uncomfortable. Orlov allowed this particular man a great deal of liberty, however, for Moshinsky was as close to being a personal bodyguard as a man could be without having been so designated. As big as Orlov, the outspoken NCO was agile and quick. In addition to being a crack shot, he was utterly fearless and had no qualms about slitting a man's throat or eliminating prisoners whom the government in Moscow had no interest in putting on trial. These traits had earned him the nickname of "Great White," since neither creature had anything resembling a conscience when it came to killing.

The second man Orlov took forward with him was a private by the name of Peter Spangen. Young and eager to please, Spangen idolized Moshinsky and revered Orlov as a son would a stern, yet fair father. Spangen had come to the Russian colonel's attention in Chechnya, where his impressive marksmanship had earned him a reputation second to none. Like other snipers in the unit, he normally carried a Russian-made Dragunov SVD sniper rifle that fired a special 7.62mm cartridge. Unlike the others, this young commando had access to foreign-built weapons. His personal favorite was the Barrett 12.7mm rifle, an American-built weapon that fired a Browning heavy machine-gun round. With that weapon, Spangen had no need to get up close and personal, since anything that could be seen within a mile of his location could be hit with ease. He was equally adept when it came to employing the massive 15mm AMR rifle, built by Steyr and capable of penetrating 40mm of armor at a range of 800 meters. On this evening, the young sniper was armed with his Barrett.

The last man in this select entourage was Orlov's senior combat engineer. Slight in stature, Vladimir Kulinsky was responsible for supervising the clearing of a path through obstacles, directing forced entries into bunkers and other hard targets, and marking the route that the entire team would follow once his commander had decided upon an avenue of approach. While his role was not nearly as glamorous as Spangen's or his methods as brutally direct as Moshinsky's, his contributions were more valuable to the special-response team than those of the other two men. Kulinsky's most important skill was his ability to breach any barrier the team encountered. His proficiency in doing this had earned him the honorific of "Orlov's Door Knocker."

More than once, Demetre Orlov had claimed that together with Moshinsky, Spangen, and Kulinsky, he could storm the gates of Hell. On this evening, as the Russian colonel lay on the cold ground just outside the regional command-and-control center that they had been struggling to reach, he imagined that the day had finally come when he would have to make good on that boast.

The last flickering of fires that had consumed the aboveground barracks, administrative buildings, maintenance facilities, and storage sheds showed Orlov more than enough to convince him that this effort was going to be both difficult and bloody. In addition to the reinforced-concrete guard posts that studded the perimeter of the installation, a number of armored fighting vehicles roamed about, making their assigned rounds as they searched relentlessly for intruders such as Orlov and his team. Every now and then a dismounted patrol led by a dog and his handler came into view. After watching all of this through the night-vision sight attached to his sniper rifle, Spangen grunted. "You would think they were expecting us."

"Since when has that stopped us?" Moshinsky replied as he continued to survey the scene before him as a hunter would while picking his killing field.

Orlov made no effort to silence this idle chatter. Both men were sufficiently experienced in this sort of operation to know when they could relax their vigilance and when they had to be as silent as the dead. Having seen all they could from that particular vantage point, the Russian colonel returned his handheld night-vision goggles to their carrying case and turned to Kulinsky. The engineer was busily making notes on a sketch map of the installation, using the dim light thrown off by the distant flames. Only when Orlov saw that the man was finished did he speak. "I have seen enough."

The combat engineer nodded in agreement. "Yes, Colonel. By far, this will be the best approach. As long as the patrols maintain the rhythm we have observed, we should be able to slip through this blind spot and make it over to the emergency exit for the bunker. Provided there have been no modifications made to the steel doors, changes that were unrecorded on the plans provided to us by the Ministry of Defense, I will need only a small charge to sever the hinges." Knowing his colonel's concerns, Kulinsky explained the meaning of this. "We will be able to remain right there, on either side of the entrance, when I blow the door."

Though he was pleased with this spot of news, Orlov didn't show it. Instead, he began to back away from the perimeter posts. Always attuned to the actions of their leader and not having to be told what to do, the other members of the team also turned away. Crawling along the ground, Moshinsky fell in behind Orlov. He was followed by Kulinsky. Spangen, his deadly sniper rifle cradled in his arms, brought up the rear. Only when they were well clear of the installation they had been reconning did the men stand up and return to the assembly area. Even then, they maintained the sort of vigilance expected of professionals of their caliber while in hostile territory.

With his plan of execution firmly set in his mind, Demetre Orlov now had to gather his senior personnel, issue his orders, and get on with their mission. As the small, four-man reconnaissance party entered the loose perimeter of the assembly area, where his handpicked commandos were waiting, the darkness hid the anxious stares of his men as he passed by them on his way to the center. Even when he reached the point where his signal detachment was set up, he was totally unaware that anything was amiss. Expecting to find a gathering of selected members of his command there, such as his deputy and those belonging to the signal section, the sound of hushed voices from that gaggle of personnel did not surprise him as he drew near.

It wasn't until he stepped into the center of the group, arranged in a tight circle, did the talking come to an abrupt halt. "I assume things have been quiet here?" Orlov demanded in the brusque manner he usually used when he came upon troops engaging in activities that he was not exactly pleased with. Under ordinary circumstances, the momentary silence would quickly have been broken by the senior man present, stepping forth to offer the most viable excuse he could muster on the spur of the moment to explain away the lapse in discipline their commander had stumbled upon.

The Russian colonel was still waiting for this brave soul to do so when, to his utter horror, one of the silent figures turned a flashlight on and into his face. As he recoiled, shielding his eyes from the sudden and almost painful exposure of this unexpected illumination, Moshinsky surged forward and placed his massive frame squarely in front of Orlov. Flipping the safety of his AK off, he brought it up to his shoulder and aimed at the spot where he assumed the man with the flashlight stood. Spangen, who had pushed Kulinsky out of the way, fell in shoulder-to-shoulder with Moshinsky. Like his companion, the sniper brought his weapon up and prepared to protect his beloved commander with his own life, if necessary. Though not as quick on the uptake as the other two were, Kulinsky managed to fumble about until he had brought his AK up, turned around, and backed up until he felt himself bump into Orlov.

The three commandos encircling Orlov could hear the sound of the safeties on the weapons trained on them being disengaged. Unsure of what was going on, they waited for their colonel to say something, to give an order to them or to their mutinous comrades. Anything would have been welcome at that moment as each man assessed the alarming situation.

The man they were protecting was carefully weighing that situation. Since the day he had assumed command of this special response team, Demetre Orlov had anticipated that something like this was more than a possibility. He often found himself wondering less about "if" the day came and more about "what" he would do when it did. He had always imagined that when faced with a traitor within the ranks of his own unit, he would instinctively know what to do. Unfortunately, at the moment, his instincts were failing him. For several tense moments, Orlov prepared" himself for a death not unlike that which he had meted out to so many other sons of Russia who had become, through no great fault of their own, victims of their times and pawns of forces greater than themselves.

When his mutinous command, holding all of the advantages, did not immediately strike the four of them down, it dawned upon Orlov that he had a chance. His agile mind began to assess the situation. With his self-appointed guardians pressing in on him, he reasoned that the longer this impasse lasted, the better their chance of surviving it. That his command had been whipped up into rebellion by a particularly persuasive instigator, or through some sort of collective agreement among the men he had handpicked, it didn't matter at that moment. What was critical was determining just how far he could go without provoking them. To do this would require both subtlety and diplomacy.

After taking a moment to compose himself, and carefully sling his assault rifle over his shoulder, the Russian colonel wedged his hands between Moshinsky and Spangen. Making sure that whoever held the flashlight saw his every move, he separated the two men and stepped forward. Though the flashlight was blinding him, he forced himself not to blink or to show any sign of weakness. "I would very much appreciate it if you would point your light elsewhere. It makes talking to you a bit difficult."

Without the slightest hesitation, the beam of light dropped to the ground at Orlov's feet. This pleased him, for it was a clear indication that he had an opportunity to assert a degree of control over the situation. "Thank you. Now, would someone be so kind as to explain to me what, exactly, is going on here?"

Now it was the turn of those facing him to hesitate and fumble about. While he waited, watched, and listened, Orlov could detect a sudden spate of whispering and shuffling about on either side of the person holding the light. One of the voices he heard belonged to his deputy, Major Petkovic. Another, though it was quite clear, was unfamiliar to him.

Finally, after he had taken a moment to collect himself, Petkovic responded. "Colonel, this mission is at an end. We are not going to attack the regional command center or assassinate General Likhatchev."

Orlov sensed that his deputy was both nervous and uncomfortable making this announcement. Given that, he decided to ratchet up the pressure on Petkovic by assuming a more authoritative tone. "On what grounds do you presume to make such a decision?"

"Colonel," Petkovic offered in a voice that betrayed a hint of pleading, "General Likhatchev is not our enemy. He is a hero. He is a true patriot."

"At this moment," Orlov countered, "he is in rebellion against the people and state of Russia. He has threatened the very nation that both he and we have pledged ourselves to defend. Eliminating this danger to Mother Russia is not a choice for us. It is our duty."

For the first time, the person possessing the voice that the Russian colonel had not recognized before spoke. Though the tone was both firm and passionate, there was no mistaking that it was a female's. "Comrade Colonel," she stated crisply, "our first duty is to the people. It is for them, and not for the benefit of gangsters and profiteers in Moscow, that we shed our blood. The real traitors are those who sit in the Kremlin."

Despite his best efforts, a hint of a smile crept across Orlov's face. It had been wise of Likhatchev to send out a dedicated and determined woman to rally the special-response team over to his side. A woman presents less of a physical threat, especially to men who are commandos. Not only can a strong woman wield words like a sword, she can do so in a manner that is often more persuasive and always easier for the male ear to take in. Russian history and legends are replete with heroines who rallied their men to overcome daunting adversities and achieve great and noble deeds. "I will not bother asking how it is that you came to find us, whoever you are," Orlov stated as he began his efforts to undo what she had done.

"Zudiev," she said. "Captain Anna Zudiev. I am a member of General Likhatchev's staff."

"Yes, well, Captain Zudiev," the Russian colonel went on, changing his tack to suit the new circumstances. "I suppose you think you are right in what you say, and that rebellion is justified. But I am afraid that no matter how well-intentioned your actions may seem, or how noble your cause is, treason is still treason." While he spoke to the female captain, he made sure that his voice had been loud enough so that the maximum number of his men would hear what he was saying.

Likhatchev's appointed messenger was no fool. She understood the dynamics of the situation and what the Russian colonel was up to. Her superior had warned her that the leader of these commandos was as skilled in the art of persuasion and deception as he was in meting out death, destruction, and mayhem. Rather than risk losing her tenuous grip on the situation by engaging the Russian colonel in a debate, Captain Zudiev decided to play her hand. "Who is right and who is wrong in this matter will be an issue for historians as yet unborn to decide. My mission is to simply bring you and your men a message from General Likhatchev." As Orlov had done before, the woman spoke in a voice that carried beyond the gathering with which she stood. "You can go on and try to carry out your orders without questions, without thinking about the consequences those orders will have on our nation and its people. Or," she added after pausing to catch her breath and let her preceding words sink in, "you can come over to General Likhatchev."

For a long moment, no one spoke a word or moved a muscle as the two parties in this lopsided standoff waited for the other to say something more. In the midst of this awkward silence, Orlov felt Moshinsky ease up against him. He could feel the commando's warm breath as he whispered in his ear. "I can drop her before anyone knows what's going on."

Instinctively, Orlov knew that this would be both foolish and fatal. Raising his right hand, he signaled his self-appointed guardian to back off.

"A wise decision," the female staff officer stated in a tone that was both confident and commanding. "I hope your next one will be just as shrewd."

Again there was a hesitation as Orlov assessed his position. Finally, unable to stand the strain, Major Petkovic spoke. "Colonel, one way or the other, we are all going to die. It is simply a matter of how and when. For myself, I have decided that I if I must do so, I will make my death matter for something that 1 can be proud of."

"Is not dying for Russia something to be proud of?" Orlov asked, incensed.

Now that he had committed himself, Petkovic's tone reflected his convictions. "Those who sent us out here are not Russia."

"And you think Likhatchev is?" Orlov countered as he struggled to keep this debate going and his chance to turn the situation around alive.

The major did not hesitate to respond. "Ours is a nation that has a habit of placing its people in circumstances in which they have only bad choices from which to pick. Right now, right here," Petkovic stated with the conviction of a zealot, "the choice lies between a government that is incapable of meeting even its most basic obligations to the Russian people, or to a leader who is willing and able to lead us back to greatness."

In the course of this speech, it became obvious to Orlov what had happened in his absence. Petkovic was the one who had fermented the revolt against him. The question that the Russian colonel now had to find an answer to was just how committed the remainder of the special-response team was to this course of action and what he could do to rally those who were not. "You understand what will happen to you if General Likhatchev fails in his bid to oust the government in Moscow?"

Before Petkovic or any of the other commandos could reply, the female staff captain stepped forward. With one hand, she raised the flashlight so that it was once more shining squarely in Orlov's face and blinding him. But he was not so dazzled by this move that he could not see the pistol she held against her hip, at the ready, in her other hand. "I have not come out here to chair a debate," she snapped. "My orders are to bring you back alive. However, if that proves to be impossible, then I have the freedom to take whatever action is necessary to end the threat that you represent."

Behind him, Orlov could feel the barrel of Moshinsky's weapon rubbing up against him as the commando slowly leveled it in an effort to bring it to bear. While the man did his best to conceal what he was about to do, Orlov forced himself to remain as calm as this tense state of affairs permitted.

Unfortunately, there were simply too many eyes watching every move. From somewhere off to his right, Orlov heard a mutineer jerk back the bolt of his assault rifle in order to chamber a round. This sound galvanized those who had been lulled by the exchange between their colonel and the female captain to bring their weapons up again and train them upon Orlov and his small party. For her part, Captain Zudiev took two steps forward, raising her pistol and cocking it as she did so. She pressed the muzzle against Orlov's forehead. "No more discussion," she hissed. "Submit or die."

With his options narrowed to those two extreme alternatives by a person holding a gun to his head and seeming more than ready to use it, the choice was easy. As long as he remained alive, there was a chance.

Reaching around, the Russian colonel placed his hand on Moshinsky's arm and forced it and the assault rifle down. "This is not the time for martyrdom," he whispered to his dedicated companion.

It wasn't until he was seated on the soft, leather sofa in a small room not far from General Likhatchev's office that Demetre Orlov realized just how exhausted he was. How long had it been, he wondered, since he had last slept. Thirty-six hours? Forty-eight?

He was still pondering this when Likhatchev entered the room carrying a fresh bottle of vodka in one hand and two glasses in the other. Even before Orlov managed to shake off his inattentiveness and roust himself from the sofa in an effort to come to attention, the General was motioning to him to stay seated. "You have traveled a long way to reach us here," Likhatchev stated in his characteristically cheerful voice. "Rest a bit."

Lifting his hand to accept the glass the General offered him took more effort than the Russian colonel dared admit. As Likhatchev filled Orlov's glass, he told the Russian colonel how happy he was to see him there. Orlov waited until after he took a long, hard swig of alcohol before he responded. "Had your staff officer not reached my team before I did, I am sure you would be singing a far different tune."

Rather than anger Likhatchev, Orlov's statement provoked laughter. As the General stood in the middle of the room, looking down into his glass while swirling the clear liquid about in it, his mood changed. "Would you really have gone through with it?"

Orlov looked up at him. "I expect you know me better than to ask such a question."

Shifting his gaze from his drink to the man on his sofa, Likhatchev nodded. "Yes, I suppose I do. That is why I need you with me again, Demetre."

With nothing more to lose, Orlov felt no compunction about holding back any of his thoughts or mincing his words. "To do what? Go back to Moscow and execute the very men who sent me out here to kill you?"

"No, no, my friend," the General replied as he stepped over to a chair and sat down. "As of late, we have been killing far too many of our own. The old ways of bringing about change in Russia must come to an end. We must stop branding those who oppose us as Reds or Whites, revolutionaries or counterrevolutionaries, traitors or patriots, so that we can justify killing them. We must find a way to pull our people together, under the flag of a truly just and benevolent government that holds the welfare of the nation and its people sacred. Bringing peace, prosperity, and justice is what I need you to help me do."

Now it was Orlov's turn to laugh before taking another sip of vodka.

"What do you find so funny about that?"

Leaning forward, Orlov slammed his empty glass on the table next to the sofa. "I find it funny, my good General, that you are prepared to vaporize the very people to whom you wish to bring peace and justice."

Easing back in his seat, a confident smile lit Likhatchev's face. "Do you really think I would turn such weapons upon our own people?"

"Fine!" Orlov exclaimed, throwing his hands out. "So you don't vaporize Moscow. So instead, you lay waste to Washington, or perhaps to London, which leaves them no choice but to wipe out your beloved people. Either way, you have not accomplished a damned thing."

Likhatchev smiled again as he shook his head. "Demetre, Demetre, Demetre," he repeated in a disappointed tone. "Have I not taught you anything?" Looking back over at the exhausted and bedraggled commando, Likhatchev explained. "It is a bluff, my friend. I would no more launch those missiles than…"

Likhatchev hesitated for a moment. Before continuing, he took a sip. As he did so, he eyed Orlov. After wiping a drop of vodka from the corner of his mouth, he reached over for the bottle, picked it up and began to pour the colonel of commandos a fresh drink. "I was about to say," he stated sadly, "that I would no more launch those missiles than you would shoot me."

Taking up his glass, Orlov took a sip. "I see you have not forgotten," he said in a firm tone.

"No, I have not forgotten, Demetre. You are perhaps the best soldier I have ever known. That's including myself," he said, tapping his chest.

For several minutes, neither man spoke. Each sat across from the other, nursing his drink while sizing up the other. Orlov finally broke the deadlock. "If you have your missiles, which you say you don't intend to use, of what use am I to you? Why didn't you simply instruct that female captain of yours to gun me down? You know that leaving me alive is a gamble."

"In order to win big," Likhatchev stated as his previous relaxed and easygoing mood returned, "one has to gamble big. Besides, I would have hoped that you would have figured that out on your own." Pausing, the General shrugged. "Of course, given your trials and tribulations over the past twenty-four hours, I can excuse a momentary lapse of insight. You see," he continued as he leaned forward toward Orlov, "once the government in Moscow realizes that a sizable portion of its own military has come over to me, they will have an excuse to step aside."

"Step aside?" Orlov echoed. "You expect the President to simply step aside and name you as his successor?"

Likhatchev smiled. "That is the way things are done these days. Gorbachev came to power with a mandate to save the Soviet Union. When he saw that he could not do so, he wisely decided to relinquish his hold on power to Yeltsin, the man of the hour. After it became clear that Yeltsin did not have the ability to turn things around, an arrangement was made that allowed him to retire from public life while giving Putin and the hardliners their chance. After he failed, Putin took the wise precaution of leaving office before he was thrown out. Now, with our country on the brink of total collapse, our current President is more than ready to yield. As with those before him, once he understands that he will be allowed to retire to a nice, comfortable dacha, where he will be free to enjoy the wealth that he managed to skim off the top of foreign loans and aid that passed through his hands, he will gladly go in peace."

Aware that the vodka was beginning to take hold, Orlov spoke slowly in order to keep from slurring his words. "Let's just say that you're right. Let's just suppose, for a moment, that the current President uses this crisis as an opportunity to step down. What makes you think that you can succeed where the others have failed?"

Having expected this sort of question, the General leaned forward. "Because, my dear Colonel, I have something that the others did not have. 1 have a crisis, a crisis unlike anything that this nation has experienced since the Great Patriotic War." Easing back in his seat, Likhatchev waved his glass around. "Our people are a tough people, a people who understand the need to make sacrifices when the times require it. Even the dullest peasants will understand the need to give their all to rebuild Mother Russia, just as they did when Stalin launched his five-year plans."

With the liquor and his exhaustion eroding his ability to think, it took Orlov some time to sort out what he was hearing, to gather his thoughts, and to respond. "This is still a coup. And I am still loyal to those whom you seek to replace."

"It doesn't have to be that way, my friend," Likhatchev countered.

"Out there," the Russian colonel explained as he waved his glass about in a vague gesture to indicate the shattered forest where he had been confronted, "I simply abandoned a hopeless position. I do not recall joining your revolution, General."

Standing up, Likhatchev took a final drink before putting the glass down and starting for the door. Before he left, he turned and looked back at Orlov. "Sometimes the truth is not important," he stated. "For my purposes, simple appearances will do."

With that, he walked out of the room and left his former subordinate alone to sort out where he stood. For the moment, time was on the General's side.

But only for a moment.