Dead Hand

Chapter 20

Man to man, there was little to differentiate between the two forces of highly trained commandos that were now converging on one point. In numbers and armament, they were about equal. In fact, due to their rather open policy concerning the procurement of weapons, individuals within both commands carried the exact same models. The terrain each unit faced conferred no great advantage to one side or the other. The shotgun pattern with which the asteroid had pelted the region left pockets of devastation that were no less daunting to the Russians. The snow, the ice. and the unending maze of pulverized trees reduced cross-country movement of both units to a virtual crawl.

There was one area in which the Russian commandos did have a decided advantage over their foes. Unlike the NATO troops, who had no option but to catch what sleep they could by curling up in the lee of fallen trees under open skies, the Russians had spent the previous evening at a fixed installation. There they were free to take over the bunks left unoccupied by troops that had been dispatched throughout the region to assist in disaster relief as well as to secure key sites and installations. Some of the bunks belonged to those members of the garrison who had repelled the American Special Forces teams. That they would not be coming back did not bother the Russian commandos who took their place for an evening. Even if they had known the fate of the former occupant with any degree of certainty, it would not have mattered. There wasn't a single man who belonged to Demetre Orlov's special unit that gave such things a second thought. After what they had been through, shelter and a hot meal were all that mattered.

While enjoyable and quite therapeutic, the advantage conferred by this respite from the harsh Siberian conditions was transitory. When the time came, the outcome of any confrontation between the two commands would be determined by other, more traditional factors. Orlov understood this. He also understood that combat is not an exercise in mathematics. The numerically superior force does not always triumph, nor can advanced technology guarantee success. Though they do tend to tip the scales in favor of the side who possesses them, many times it is the will and the confidence of a single man that determines the outcome of a battle. More often than not, this person is the commander.

History abounds with examples of armies that threw away a sure victory because its commander, for one reason or another, failed at a critical moment. Even in the age of digital warfare and precision guided munitions, the leader must be willing to look his foe in the eye while he drives his sword home in order to prevail. Such a failure of will had never been a problem for Demetre Orlov. He knew of the rumors concerning him spread by those who suspected that he derived a certain pleasure from making the kill. Since his effectiveness depended to a large degree on fear, he did nothing to discourage these stories since they served to enhance his reputation as an uncompromising foe.

As he picked his way forward toward the missile silo he had been assigned to defend, he found himself reflecting on this. While a reputation such as his was impressive to those who knew of it, the NATO troops he would soon be facing didn't have a clue about such matters. There would be no opportunity beforehand to do any psychological posturing. Nor did he suspect that he would be afforded much of an opportunity to size up his opponent. Based upon the situation he had been briefed on before leaving Likhatchev's regional command-and-control center, the best Orlov could hope for was to arrive at the site just ahead of the NATO troops. If that were the case, he would have little opportunity to do much other than take up hasty defensive positions, establish a few outposts, and wait for his foe to make his move.

Of all the uncertainties with which he had to contend, the thought of assuming a defensive posture bothered Orlov the most. His unit was an elite strike force, unsuited for static defense. Everything about it, from its weaponry to its unique organization, was tailored with an eye toward a stealthy approach and the delivery of a swift, decisive blow. They were so wed to this mode of operation that not a single member of his special-response team had a shovel, an item of equipment that had become all but standard issue for ground combat troops since the First World War. It proved to be somewhat of an embarrassment when he had to dispatch his deputy to scare up this simple, yet essential, piece of military hardware.

Thoughts of his deputy triggered another concern that had been nagging the Russian colonel. It was one thing to be ever mindful that one or more members of his handpicked team could, at a critical moment, turn on him. It was quite another to have experienced that and then find yourself marching back into action with the traitorous bastard still with you. As if in response to this apprehension, Orlov turned around and searched the column of soldiers struggling through the snow behind him until his eyes fell upon the major who had led his command in open revolt.

As if on cue, Petkovic looked up and locked eyes with his commanding officer. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Each was too far away to read the other's expression, so they could not be sure of what the other was thinking. But each could guess, and neither was far from the mark.

Ivan Moshinsky, who was in his usual spot immediately behind Orlov, took note of his colonel's expression. After glancing over his shoulder and seeing that Major Petkovic was grimly eyeing his superior, Orlov's self-appointed guardian knew what was transpiring. The veteran of many campaigns kept his thoughts to himself, even after the two officers turned their attention away from each other and back to their tortuous trek.

Good march discipline requires that units halt at regular intervals to allow soldiers to rest. A general rule of thumb many infantry officers follows is a ten-minute break every hour. As highly trained and well-conditioned soldiers, Orlov's special-response team could march on at a rate that would savage just about any other unit. But even the best unit in the world needs to pause every now and then to allow stragglers to catch up, overburdened soldiers to adjust their loads, and individuals to tend to personal needs, whatever they may be.

When he came upon an area that looked as if it would provide a good place to halt, Demetre Orlov stepped out of line, gave a sharp whistle to gain the attention of those who were ahead of him, and waved his hand over his head. "Ten minutes," he called out. He had no need to give any further orders. The lieutenant responsible for the vanguard automatically directed his men to fan out and establish a security screen, just as the senior officer charged with bringing up the rear ensured that some of his men were facing about in order to keep an eye open for anyone who might be following.

Standing off to one side, Orlov watched as his men settled down to take advantage of this respite. Once he was sure that all the appropriate security measures had been taken to protect his command from surprise, he sat down on the ground to rest his weary legs.

This did not mean that he could simply collapse and drift off to sleep as some of his men did at times like this. Even during a rest period, there was too much to do, too many things for a commander to think about. Pulling his map out of his pocket with one hand and his canteen with the other, Orlov laid the map on his lap opened to the section that showed their route of march. He studied it while he slowly unscrewed the cap to his canteen and took a drink of water.

Despite an agonizingly slow pace, they had passed the halfway point. Though they had one more major ridge to climb and a stream that might prove difficult to cross, he was satisfied that they could be at the missile site well before dark. This would give him an opportunity to study the ground by light of day before deploying his troops. With luck, he would even find enough time to send out an ambush patrol or two to cover the most likely avenues of approach leading to the silo. That his foe might do the same occurred to him for a moment, but he quickly discounted the thought. They were there for one purpose and one purpose only: to destroy the silo. If he had that mission rather than the one he was saddled with, he reasoned, he wouldn't dilly-dally with setting up an ambush. He'd swarm over the objective as soon as he reached it, set his demolitions, and then pull back as quickly as he could. While he did expect his opposite number to post security all around the site while the demolitions party set its charges, the guards would only be concerned with providing early warning and buying time for the demo party to complete its task, nothing more.

Having finished with his map, Orlov looked around. His men had already settled in as best they could to take advantage of the halt. Any thoughts he entertained about calling his officers together for a quick meeting was dismissed when he saw Major Petkovic wandering off away from the column in search of a place to relieve himself in private. It would be like that bastard, Orlov thought with a smirk, to be shy pulling his tiny pecker out in front of real men, where they could see just how poorly equipped he was.

Having dropped the idea of an officers' call, Orlov eased his head back until it came to rest on a tree stump. "Sergeant Moshinsky," he called out as he closed his eyes, "if I fall asleep, wake me in five minutes."

From behind him, Peter Spangen, the sniper, answered, "Yes, of course, Colonel. We will do so." Assuming that Spangen was sitting beside Moshinsky and simply answering in his stead, Orlov let his mind drift away.

When he was far enough from the column that he was sure he could be alone, Gregory Petkovic looked to his left, then to his right, to make certain that no one was watching. Satisfied that he had some privacy, he unbuckled the snap of his load-bearing equipment, pulled his winter camouflage smock up, and undid his trousers. After pulling the bulky winter coveralls down as far as he could, the Russian major dropped his drawers before slowly lowering himself to a squatting position. When he was sure that all of his clothing was clear of the line of fire, he relaxed as best he could, his bare bottom exposed to the frigid cold, and proceeded to relieve himself.

Like many of those belonging to the special-response team. Petkovic had gorged himself on the freshly cooked rations freely offered them at the command center they had been dispatched to destroy. It had been too long since their last full meal prior to reaching that site, and their efforts to get there had been demanding. Failure to take advantage of the hospitality that had been liberally heaped upon them, as some of the commandos had done out of some foolish notion of pride was in Petkovic's eyes a waste of a marvelous opportunity. That he was having to pay for that moment of indulgence at a time like this didn't bother him. It had been well worth it. Given a chance, he would have stayed behind, where he would have had the use of a decent, well-heated facility instead of being forced to let go while balancing himself on his haunches like a dog being curbed.

When it had come time to make his decision as to whether he would remain or continue on with the special-response team, Petkovic found that he really didn't have a choice. General Likhatchev had gone out of his way to make sure he understood that he did not have an option. As awkward as it would be, given his role in the mutiny against his colonel, Petkovic understood his duty. Despite his decision to turn against his own government, he was a professional soldier, an officer, and above all, a Russian. So he had saluted the General, as all good soldiers are trained to do, and fallen in behind Colonel Demetre Orlov as if nothing untoward had happened.

At the moment, that issue was the farthest thing from Petkovic's mind. Reaching out, he grabbed the stub of a charged branch with one hand while searching about the pockets of his rolled-up trousers for the tissue stuffed in them for just such an emergency. That he had overlooked placing it where it would be easy to reach annoyed the Russian major. Such laxness, he chided himself, was inexcusable and shameful, especially for an officer.

Gregory Petkovic was in the midst of chastising himself for this when his peripheral vision caught sight of a swift motion descending from above, like a bird swooping down upon him. Before he could do anything but tense up, he felt a hand grab the front edge of his hood and jerk his head back. Caught totally by surprise, he was too busy wildly flapping his arms about in an effort to regain his balance to do anything about the razor-sharp blade that began to bite into the soft, exposed flesh of his neck. He was going to die, Petkovic found himself thinking. Killed taking a shit.

There was no time to carry that thought any farther. With an ease that seemed unreal, the knife at his neck opened a gash that ran from just under the left ear, beneath his jaw, and across to the right ear. Without a pause, the knife was drawn away, the hand holding the front of his hood disappeared, and the stricken deputy commander was left to flop over forward, face.-first, into a pile of snow already stained bright red by his spouting blood.

With the same ease with which he was able to give way to a few moment's sleep, Demetre Orlov was able to snap back, fully awake, as soon as he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. "It is time, Colonel," a voice called out softly. Thrusting his arms out before him, the Russian colonel stretched before rolling over onto his side to push himself up and off the ground.

Once on his feet, he looked around in the same manner that a mother hen does when counting her chicks. All about him, his men were shaking themselves out and loosening up stiff muscles as they prepared to renew their march. "I don't see Major Petkovic," Orlov announced to no one in particular as he continued to search for any sign of his deputy. When he received no response, he turned to those around him. "Has anyone seen the major?" he asked more pointedly.

There was a moment's hesitation as those belonging to his immediate party looked at each other before turning their attention to Ivan Moshinsky. When he had first cast about to inspect his command, Orlov hadn't taken note of the fact that his self-appointed guardian was off to one side, kneeling on the ground. Now that his attention was drawn to him, Orlov looked closer in an effort to determine what was going on.

Sensing that all eyes were upon him, the Russian NCO looked up from the snow he had been using to clean his bloody hands and into the eyes of his colonel. Without any notable change in his expression, the Russian commando paused. "It is my duty to report, sir," he stated slowly in a deep voice that conveyed not the-slightest hint of feeling or passion, "that Major Petkovic is indisposed."

As hardened as he was to such things, a chill ran down Orlov's spine as he gazed into Moshinsky's eyes. It was not so much what his loyal subordinate had done that bothered him. Rather, as he stood there rooted in place, Demetre Orlov could not help but think that he was looking at a mirror image of himself. The fact that he found this cold and impersonal reflection unflattering only added to his discomfort.

Without a word, Moshinsky fished his knife out of the red tainted snow he had been using to clean it, gave it a quick swipe on his pants leg, and rose up. All the while, he continued to stare into his commander's eyes. It was, Orlov thought, almost as if the man was daring him to say something by way of condemnation. Yet, that solider knew that his commander would not do so. Besides his past service and unquestioning loyalty, Moshinsky appreciated the undeniable fact that he would be far more valuable in the sort of fight that his colonel had told them to expect than would a major whose loyalty was questionable.

Unable to find an appropriate response, Orlov turned away. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, and he cleared his throat before he was able to call out to his remaining officers. "Prepare your men to move out."

In silence, the Russian commandos took up their trek. In the strange way that such things are relayed throughout the ranks of a unit, almost without a word being said, the fate of their deputy commanding officer became known. One by one, as the soldiers filed by the place where Moshinsky had cleaned up, each man stared down at the bloodstained snow. The message this sight conveyed was clear and unmistakable, just as Moshinsky had intended it to be.