Dead Hand

Chapter 21

With the grace of feline predators stalking prey. Andrew Fretello, Patrick Hogg, and Hector Allons moved forward in search of a concealed spot from which to observe the object of their efforts. When the three NATO officers found a place that afforded them an unobstructed view of the Russian missile silo, they did their best to become part of their surroundings. Only alter the trio was safely tucked away did they commence a visual reconnaissance of their target.

The situation that Fretello beheld was pretty much what he had expected. He knew that the odds of finding the silo undefended were low. Still, the Special Forces major had clung to that hope right up to the last minute that they, and not the Russians, would reach the isolated spot first. While anxious for an opportunity to demonstrate his abilities as a leader during a mission such as this, he would have been just as happy had this foray been a simple matter of walking up to the silo, placing their demolitions on top of it. setting off the charge, and marching away.

That he would need to do more than oversee the placement of explosives was painfully clear. The scene he beheld was not encouraging. From their perch, the three men were able to identify a number of defensive positions ringing the silo. The cover and concealment employed by the Russians made counting them difficult. Still. Fretello concluded that there were, at most, eighteen defenders, armed with an assortment of small arms. It made little difference that all of the positions appeared to have been hastily thrown up and were rather shallow. Nor did the lack of heavy crew-served weapons at the site provide any optimism. Patrick Hogg was quick to point out that those weapons could have been placed just about anywhere in the surrounding countryside, set away, yet able to cover the silo. "We could be looking at bait. Or maybe those are the goalies down there, charged with keeping us from booting in the winning score if their teammates fail to keep us away."

While he never cared much for the use of sports analogies to describe tactical situations, Fretello understood what his second command was saying. Just the thought that they might be looking at only a small portion of the defending force caused him to look closer for any sign of other enemy positions. With that thought in mind and exercising just as much care now as they had while approaching the site, the three withdrew to where their men waited for their return.

Having been sufficiently spooked by what Patrick Hogg had said, the American major dispatched three two-man recon teams to hunt out any foes that may have been overlooked during his personal reconnaissance. One team was led by Hector Allons. Together with the Polish NCO who would be overseeing the placement of the demolitions, he made his way to a location not far from where he had stopped earlier with the American and British commanders. Since his men would have the honor of placing the demolition charges, the Spaniard felt it was important to become familiar with the target area. A second team, made up of two men Hogg had picked from his own contingent, circumnavigated the entire site, just inside of what had once been a thriving pine forest that had concealed the missile silo. The third team, commanded by an American Special Forces captain, also circled about the site, but much farther out than the circuit taken by the SAS. The task of the Americans, like that of their British colleagues, was to confirm or deny the existence of an outer defensive perimeter. Though this took time, no one complained, especially since the three teams were also tasked with the additional responsibility for seeking defensive positions that they themselves could occupy once the site was secured.

When the three teams had returned and finished rendering their reports, Andrew Fretello settled down to the task of deciding how they would execute their mission. Drafting a. plan for this sort of thing would be easy for an officer of his training and abilities. As a commander of a Special Forces A team years before, he had faced tactical problems far more complex than this one. During his tour as a staff officer back at Bragg, he had drafted plans that dwarfed his current efforts in every way.

All of those previous efforts, however, had been theoretical exercises or training events. Tempest had been the first major operation he had planned and seen implemented against a real foe. And the assault on the silo that lay but a few hundred meters from where he sat would be the first combat mission that he himself would lead. There would be no after-action review, in which all of the key leaders from both sides would gather and discuss what each of them should and should not have done. The soldiers of the opposing forces would not be able to gather themselves up, dust off their uniforms, and return to their billets, where they would clean up their equipment before calling it a day. Only one side would walk away from the action that Fretello was now planning. Few, if any of those on the losing side would live to see another day. This last fact, together with the understanding that he had but one chance to get it right, created a degree of pressure on the young American major unlike anything he had ever experienced before. With his map laid out and all the information that his scouts had provided scribbled down in his notebook, the staff major began the tedious task of determining how best to proceed.

There were a number of options open to Fretello, each of which entailed its own risks. The presence of the Russians at the silo meant that there would be an assault. How best to go about taking down those defenders was the first problem he addressed. He neither had the numbers with which to overwhelm his foe, nor did he have any interest in throwing away the men he had by simply rushing the site. The advantages Fretello assumed he did have, and which the Russians could not easily match, lay in his superiority in weaponry and the skill with which the NATO troops could employ them. Beside the fact that every man with him was a crack shot, each of the teams had a designated sniper armed with a powerful, large-caliber rifle. Though it would take some time, Fretello was fairly sure that he could deploy the bulk of his command in a manner that would allow them to bring their superior firepower to bear upon every square meter of the site. If he couldn't physically throw the Russians out, he would cut them down one by one.

Having opted to eliminate the opposition by fire, the timing of the attack had to be settled upon. Had his command been an established one, or one that had trained together for an operation such as this, Fretello would have preferred a night attack. But he had serious reservations about initiating an action in total darkness with a group of people who had been thrown together in a haphazard manner. Coordination of their efforts during the engagement would be, at best, problematical. If he found that the situation was getting out of control once the assault had been started, Fretello appreciated the fact that he lacked the experience, the procedures, and the means of communication with which to exercise proper command and control under those conditions. Though it meant losing one of the edges that special-ops units often relied on, the risks of striking while it was still light were far less than waiting for darkness and placing his faith in the hope that nothing would go wrong. If there was one thing that Andrew Fretello did know for sure, it was that things always went wrong in battle.

Patrick Hogg watched the American major fret and ponder over what to do next. The SAS officer knew that the Special Forces officer was struggling with decisions that he himself had faced before. For a moment, Hogg considered venturing over to the American and offering his services and advice. That was, he imagined, what the American colonel had in mind when he assigned the SAS contingent to this group.

The idea of interrupting like that, however, went against Hogg's nature. Like most officers who chose Special Ops over a more conventional military career, the Irishman enjoyed the independence and freedom from over supervision that the SAS offered. He derived a certain amount of pride in the fact that when handed an assignment, he was only told what he was expected to do, not how to do it. Since the mind-set of America's Special Forces wasn't much different than that held by an SAS officer, Hogg figured that his efforts to assist would be construed as arrogant and insulting. So he let the matter drop. Besides, if there was something about the final plan that the American came up with that he didn't much like, he would have the opportunity to voice his concern when it was briefed to him and the other officers waiting patiently to get on with the task at hand.

When he was finished laying out his concept for the operation they were about to undertake, Andrew Fretello looked up from the map he had been using to brief the three officers gathered around him. After studying the rudimentary graphics Fretello had used to outline his plan, each of those officers leaned back and looked over at him.

Hector Allons was the first to speak. "I do not expect it to take more than ten minutes for my people to place the charge, lay the wife, and be ready to execute the demolitions once you give us the word to go."

Fretello gave the legionnaire a nod. "Good. I hope you can cut down on that some, but I am not by any means rushing you."

"My only concern," the Spaniard continued, "is with the other teams. Once we have neutralized the opposition, I see no need for the English to remain in their positions. I am confident that any Russian who has survived to that point and is foolish enough to attempt to interfere with my demolitions party will be quickly taken out by one of my own men."

"I have no doubts about the ability of your men," Fretello was quick to reply. "It's just that I don't want anything left to chance. Since there will be nothing for Captain Hogg's command to do while your men are out there preparing the site for destruction, I would just as soon leave them in place and cover you." Turning to Hogg, Fretello asked if he had a problem with that.

The SAS captain shook his head. "I see none. Since my lads have to be someplace, staying where they are and covering the legionnaires makes perfect sense to me."

Seeing that he was fighting a loosing battle, Allons shrugged. "Then I guess it is decided." Turning to the Irish captain, the Spanish legionnaire offered him some advice. "Please tell your lads that when they see my men are done and taking to their heels, it would not be advisable to wait around too long before doing so themselves. Otherwise, if the oversized charge my sergeant has prepared does not get them, the secondary explosion that will follow when the rocket blows up will."

After giving Fretello a wink, Hogg looked back at Allons. "No need to worry about my lads. Though there's a good case to support the notion that those who choose to join the SAS are a bit daft, no one has ever accused us of being stupid."

For the first time that day, the leaders of Fretello's small command were able to share a bit of laughter. "Anyone else have a question or comment?" the American major asked as he prepared to leave. By the time he was on his feet, the others were also up and prepared to go their separate ways. "If that's the case," Fretello concluded, looking over at the leader of the American contingent, "since you have the farthest to go, Captain Haynes, you will move out first. Do so as soon as you're ready. The others will key their departure accordingly, with Captain Hogg and his men going next."

"That leaves the Legion bringing up the rear, as always," Allons added.

Again Hogg turned to Fretello and gave the American a sly wink. "Well, I've always said it's a good idea to save the best for last."

With every detail he could think of addressed and his plan about to be set in motion, Andrew Fretello fell something akin to optimism for the first time that day. Using the reaction of the other officers to his concept and their mood as a gauge, the young major was confident that all would turn out well. Now all that remained for him to do was to oversee the deployment of the various elements, give the word to initiate the attack, and let his men do what they were trained to do.

The scene that greeted Adjutant Hector Allons when he returned to where his legionnaires had halted was not what he had hoped to find. Behind the thin skirmish line of men facing out of their small laager and in a spot hidden from view sat Stanislaus Dombrowski, madly fidgeting with the shaped charge.

Stopping short, Allons' shoulders slumped. "Please tell me that you are finishing up and simply putting the damned thing back together."

The Polish legionnaire didn't answer. Franz Ingelmann, who was off to one side making a circuit check on a spool of wire, stopped what he was doing. After looking over at his companion, he answered his team commander's question with nothing more than a pained, sorrowful expression. Allons glanced at his watch before looking back over his shoulder, noting that the Americans were already on the move. Realizing that time was fast running out, he made his way over to Dombrowski and squatted next to him as he prepared to find out just how bad things were.

Knowing what was coming, the Pole stopped what he was doing, leaned back, lifted his frozen fingers to his lips and blew in an effort to warm them. When some feeling had been restored, he rubbed his hands together. "Damned cold," he mumbled as he continued to stare at the tangle of wires he had been working on, half ignoring his commander, half preparing him for the bad news.

Though Allons was a patient man, time was not on his side. "Can you get this thing to work?"

Shrugging, Dombrowski considered the question as he continued to eye the demolition charge. Finally, not seeing a solution to the problem, he looked over at Allons. "If the question is can we make an explosion, the answer is yes. But if you want to know whether or not the shaped charge will function as we want it to, well…"

Unable to bear Dombrowski's disappointed expression, Allons looked over at the charge. "One would think that something as simple and robust as that would have withstood the knocking about it look during the landing better than it did."

The memory of their last jump and the image of Captain Jules Pascal's shattered body caused Dombrowski to shudder. "As tough as we would like to think we are," he said mournfully, turning to look back at his damaged device, "there are things that even the best of us are unable to endure."

Though the true meaning of his NCO's comment escaped him, Allons nodded in agreement. "Oui, that is very true." Then, using the best authoritarian voice that he could manage under the circumstances, he attempted to reassert himself. "You must find a way, my friend, to make this thing work. The American charge is in worse shape than ours. The liner and high explosives have become separated. When they unwrapped it from its packing, everything just broke up and fell away. Though they tried, their captain said they would not be able to repack the chucks of explosives like they were." With a sigh, Allons shook his head. "I only wish I hadn't switched this charge with the one you had brought along back at the other silo."

Dombrowski grunted. "You did the right thing then. This," he said as he waved his hat at the tangled wires, "is not your fault."

"It was the riggers, you know," Ingelmann stated. "They never use enough padding."

If the Austrian's comment had been an effort to absolve Dombrowski of responsibility for the problem and ease the frustration that was building, it failed miserably. Angered by his inability to correct the problem, the Pole threw down the needle-nosed piles he had been holding. "What the hell difference does it make whose fault it is that this piece of shit won't work!"

Both Ingelmann and Allons recoiled as much from this sudden outburst as from an effort to avoid the piles as they ricocheted off the metal framework of the demo charge. After waiting a moment for his NCO to collect himself, Allons reached over and placed his hand on Dombrowski's shoulder. "Do the best you can. We still have a bit of time."

Added to his already considerable frustration, the big Pole now felt an acute sense of embarrassment over having lost his temper. Without bothering to look up at Allons, he nodded as he turned to search for the needle-nosed pliers he had thrown.