Dead Hand

Chapter 23

Even before the echoes of the final rounds fired in the one-sided engagement had drilled away. Sergeant-Chef Dombrowski and Corporal I'ranz Ingelmann were on their feet and boiling forward toward the concrete silo cover. Hector Allons, who had also been quick to scramble to his feet, became alarmed when he saw his demo party going forth. "Stanislaus! Hold up. You need to wait until we have swept the area and secured the objective."

The Spaniard's efforts to rein in his headstrong subordinate were in vain. There was only one thing on the big Pole's mind at the moment. Petty concerns such as enemy resistance were of little concern to him. Though infinitely more attuned to the dangers they were exposing themselves lo. Ingelmann did not even break stride when he heard Allons's order. In part, he appreciated the simple fact that the sooner they set up their charge and ran out the wire, the sooner they would be done with this miserable mission. But the main reason the Austrian legionnaire so willingly trotted along in the wake of the big Polish NCO without looking back was the trust he placed in his companion. Nothing anyone said or did could shake a conviction he secretly held that as long as he stayed at Dombrowski's side, everything would work out.

Seeing that his efforts to slop or delay his sergeant had been for naught. Allons lifted his hand over his head, threw it forward, and yelled. "Legionnaires, forward!" louder than he had intended while breaking into a run himself.

Still pumped up with adrenaline from their just-concluded engagement, and taking his shouted order to advance as a call for an enthusiastic charge, the remaining legionnaires found themselves caught in an unintended frenzy. With whoops and yells more reminiscent of a barbaric horde, Allons' command took up their leader's pace and rushed forward into what they thought was an attack.

Over where the SAS commandos stood their ground to cover the legionnaires, there was a mixed response to the sudden and enthusiastic advance. Easing back from his weapon so as to get a better view, a soldier next to Patrick Hogg shook his head, muttering in utter disbelief, "They're bloody daft." The reaction of the man to Hogg's right was just the opposite. Caught up in the moment, he found the urge to join in on the shouting irresistible. "Give 'em hell, Frenchies!"

Concerned that his own men would be swept up in this momentary bout of insanity, Hogg nervously eyed his line. "Steady, lads. Steady. Keep your eyes open and watch your sectors." These words were spoken in a low voice meant to be soothing, yet firm. They had their desired effect. Up and down the line, his men turned their attention away from their NATO partners and back to the kill zone in search of survivors.

Even if Andrew Fretello had heard Hogg's words, they would have done little to calm his growing alarm that was now bordering on panic. As far as he was concerned, not only were the legionnaires totally out of control, they were coming close to endangering the mission. Amazed and angered by the accidental charge, he was consumed by an overpowering urge to chase down the legionnaires in an effort to restore some semblance of reason. Were it not for the steadfast manner with which the SAS held its place, he would have done so. Since the legionnaires were foreign and might not understand his orders, Fretello was quick to dismiss any thought of pursuing those wild men. Besides, he reasoned as he settled in to watch the advance, action now might just contribute to the already confused state of affairs.

The NATO troops and their commanding officers were not the only ones startled by the precipitous and somewhat uncoordinated movement of the legionnaires. Lying on the ground, a Russian who had sought survival by playing dead was completely unnerved by the stampede coming at him. Without thinking, he jumped to his feet, turned away from the howling legionnaires, and tried to flee. Even had he had the forethought to drop the assault rifle he continued to clutch, his sudden and unexpected action brought on a quick and violent response from both the SAS, charged with watching over the Legion's advance, and the legionnaires themselves. The fire directed at the Russian came from multiple sources in close proximity so that individual reports were all but impossible to distinguish. After a quick, vicious chattering of small-arms fire, the ill-fated Russian defender flopped back onto the ground for the last time.

Rather than throw a scare into the legionnaires and cause them to slow their pace and cease their war cries, the renewal of combat served only to raise their enthusiasm to an even higher state. When the drama being played out before him was too compelling for Patrick Hogg to ignore, he found himself mouthing the words of an old poem he had once been forced to memorize in school: " 'Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,' " he whispered, " 'all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred.'"

Looking away from his still-smoking barrel, Corporal James Cochran glanced back at his commanding officer. "I hope we do better than those chaps did, sir."

Caught by one of his men during an unguarded moment, Hogg smiled at his marksman. "Yes," he said sheepishly, "we can hope we do, can't we?"

Long before he felt that it would be safe to make a sharp turn to the right and begin a direct approach to the missile silo, the adrenaline that had spurred Demetre Orlov into action was pretty much used up. Now, as he struggled along he found that he was in no better shape than the fatigued men around him, whom he was suppose to be leading.

What had started out as something of a well-ordered dash, with officers to the front and soldiers maintaining prescribed distances between each other, had degenerated into a test of endurance run by a loose gaggle of winded soldiers. To a man, they were sweating profusely, gasping for breath, and grunting as they clambered over fallen trees and broken ground. Every now and then, one of them would trip and fall, or was suddenly jerked backward as a stray strap snagged a branch and arrested his forward movement. Each man responded to these unexpected occurrences in accordance with his particular nature. Some cursed and berated themselves, or the offending tree limb that had caused the mishap. Others said nothing as they nervously looked about to see if anyone had taken note of their clumsiness.

These calamities were no respecters of rank or position. The commander of commandos found his own forward progress arrested more than once by a misstep or a tangle of branches. Time and again, he bumped into the man in front of him who, for some inexplicable reason, stopped suddenly. Each of these incidents resulted in an exchange that started with the soldier uttering an oath, then mumbling a quick apology after realizing who had rammed him from behind. Only the fact that he himself caused the same sort of run-ins with the man behind him by stopping before an obstruction kept Orlov from losing his temper completely. If anything, he had to be a bit more forgiving, for in his haste to regain the lead, he had found it necessary to step on the back of a man who had fallen and had not had the presence of mind to get up quickly enough.

It was during this mad dash to reach their objective before it was blown up that it dawned upon Orlov that perhaps he had not given the situation sufficient thought. What would the result be, he asked himself as he waited for the man to his immediate front to climb over a fallen tree, if he failed to save the last of the Perimeter missiles? While it was true that a key piece of his nation's nuclear deterrent would be lost, it was equally clear that the most potent weapon in Likhatchev's arsenal would be taken away from him. Without a primed and functional Dead Hand, the rebellious general would be unable to threaten the government in Moscow. They could, if they chose to, dispatch another force to deal with him at their leisure. Or, if they were of a mind to, the duly elected central government could simply let Likhatchev and his loyal band of followers wither on the vine in an area devastated by the asteroid. Though this solution to the problem would not be as quick and direct as an assassination would be, Orlov began to appreciate that in the end, the result would be the same.

Pausing, the Russian colonel looked around pensively. The men with him ignored the strange behavior of their colonel as they continued to scramble past him. None bothered to ask why he was hesitating. Left alone like this, Orlov came to the realization that he could survive this entire affair by simply doing nothing. So NATO blew up the missiles. He could easily explain that to Likhatchev. After all, hadn't it been the General himself who had taken his sweet-natured time about calling him to the ops center and giving him the mission? His commandos, Orlov would explain, just could not cover the ground fast enough. Back in Moscow, after Likhatchev had been muzzled, Orlov could explain to his masters there that he had taken up the mission to save the Perimeter sites, not for the traitor, but in the name of the Russian people. Surely they would understand that, he found himself reasoning as he took up a more leisurely pace. After all, his past performance on their behalf and his unwavering loyalty to the government in all previous matters would be more than enough to convince those idiots in Moscow that he was telling the truth.

Only when the commander of the third section stopped beside him to ask if there was something wrong did Orlov refocus his thoughts on what his men were doing. Facing the puzzled officer, the colonel of commandos smiled. "No. Everything is going as it should."

Though the young lieutenant's gut instinct told him that everything was not going as it should, he didn't have the nerve to challenge his superior, especially in light of the fate that had befallen Major Petkovic.

With nothing to do until the demolitions team had finished setting its charges and was ready to execute, the American major in command of the small, polyglot force of NATO commandos had made his way down into the clearing in which the missile silo sat. He didn't climb up onto the silo cover where Sergeant-Chef Dombrowski was madly fiddling about, reconnecting wires that he had not been able to secure before moving out from their pre-assault assembly point. Standing on either side of Fretello were Hector Allons and Patrick Hogg. None of them said a word. They had no need to. Each understood that the Polish legionnaire, upon whom success or failure now rested, was best helped by being left alone to do his job.

Together, the three officers were anxiously watching Dombrowski's progress when the sound of firing from just over the ridge broke out. They had no sooner heard the chatter of small arms than the small radio Fretello was carrying blared out a contact report from Captain Haynes, commander of the American Special Forces contingent deployed as an outer security screen.

Even as he reached down to snatch the small headpiece and boom mike that he had taken off, Fretello could hear the report that Haynes was firing off to him. "Mike Seven Four. Mike Seven Four. We are under attack. One five to two zero enemy troops armed with small arms coming up from the south are taking the length of my line under fire. Over."

Fretello acknowledged the initial contact report and fired back a few quick questions. "I roger you last, Kilo Seven Four. Can you see any additional enemy forces maneuvering around your position?"

"Negative."

"Is the enemy to your front pressing you?"

"Negative."

"Can you hold them?"

The answer to this last question did not come back as quickly as the others. Hector Allons looked up and over at Hogg just as the Irishman was looking over at him. Both offers knew what was going on. Both had been in circumstances not at all unlike this one. They could sympathize with the Special Forces captain who, in the midst of a violent and deadly firefight, was being asked by a commanding officer, well out of the line of fire, to literally stick his head up, look around and make an assessment of his situation based on fragmented observations and gut instinct. All the while, as the three officers waited in silence, the sound of gunfire continued to reverberate in their ears.

Haynes's response finally broke both the silence and the tension. "Mike Seven Four, this is Kilo Seven Four. I can keep the force in front of me pinned. Over."

Though far from being relieved, the American major was satisfied with the response. "Roger that, Kilo." Then, after giving the problem a moment's thought, he rekeyed the radio. "I am going to be sending Tango Seven Four and his people up to support you. Over."

Judging by Haynes's tone of voice, the news that the SAS team would be coming to their assistance was welcome. "Affirmative, Mike. Advise them to approach from the northwest and around my right. The Russians line ends just shy of that point." Throughout this exchange between Fretello and the Special Force captain, Patrick Hogg said nothing. Instead, he opted to wait before expressing his reservations until his commanding officer was finished.

Satisfied that Haynes had all the guidance he needed, Fretello turned to the next order of business, delivering his instructions to Hogg with the rapidity of a machine gun. "I want you to gather up your men and get over there on Haynes' right. Take the Russians in the flank if you can and roll them up."

After waiting for a moment to make sure that his commanding officer was finished, Hogg looked into Fretello's eyes. "I don't think we should do that, Major."

Anticipating a response different from the one he just heard, it took Fretello a moment to comprehend Hogg's words, stated in a voice low, yet firm. Blinking, the American major cocked his head, maintaining eye-to-eye contact with his subordinate as he did so. "Excuse me?"

Having himself used the posturing and mannerisms the Fretello was now displaying, Hogg understood what was coming. Yet he also knew that the order he had been given was a mistake, one that he was determined not to be part of. "I said," Hogg repeated after drawing in a deep breath, "I think that sending my men gallivanting off over the ridge, away from here, would be a mistake."

Fretello was about to repeat his order in terms that were as clear and uncompromising as possible, when Hector Allons spoke. "The captain is correct, Major. The Russians in contact are probably nothing more than a holding force." Pausing, the Spanish legionnaire looked about at the broken ridgeline that surrounded the missile site as the two Anglo officers continued glaring at each other. "This is our objective, sir. This is what we were sent to seize and destroy, sir. This is also where the Russian force attacking Captain Haynes must come if it hopes to accomplish its mission. So this is where the bulk of our force should be concentrated, sir."

Having dealt with officers like Fretello many times before, the sharp and cutting emphasis Allons placed on the word "sir" each time he spoke it was no accident. It had the desired effect, for the American major now turned to face the senior legionnaire.

Seizing the opportunity he had been given, Hogg spoke before Fretello had a chance to respond to the Spaniard. "The adjutant is right, you know. This is the schwerpunkt, the point of concentration that every asset at our disposal must be concentrated if we are to succeed."

Like a spectator at a tennis match, Fretello's head snapped back toward Hogg as the officer continued to make his case. "The Russian knows that as well. That's why he threw out a portion of his force to engage the screen. They must draw us away from here to succeed." Now, doing as Allons had done, but in an exaggerated manner for the benefit of his commanding officer, Hogg slowly surveyed the terrain dominating the missile silo. "Their main force will do just what you want my men to do. While Haynes and the Russians he's facing keep each other pinned, they will be circling around with a good-sized force to fall on us here." Finished his inspection of the ridgeline, Hogg looked back at Fretello. "I therefore respectfully request that you reconsider your order and instead, deploy my team and the adjutant's command to counter that move."

Andrew Fretello took a moment to study the SAS officer before answering. The Irishman's expression was as firm and uncompromising as his tone. He could have glared at Hogg in an effort to cower him and force him to reconsider his last statement by sheer force of will. Back at Bragg, the young staff officer had won a number of disagreements in that manner. But this wasn't Bragg. The sound of small-arms fire just over the ridge continued without letup, reminding Fretello of this fact. It also served to spur him on to make a decision. He was astute enough to appreciate that any further delay in doing so would deny him the opportunity to issue orders and still leave time for his subordinates to carry them out.

"All right," he finally conceded while continuing to stare into Hogg's eyes. "We make our stand here."

Relieved that they had been spared from participating in what could have been a grand tactical error, Hector Allons, like Patrick Hogg, listened as the American major outlined his plan for defending the site. That they had taken it away from an enemy force that had been in the same position as they now found themselves was foremost in the legionnaire's mind. Nervously, he looked over his shoulder at Dombrowski, still working on the charge. Allons knew that now all depended on that one man. Only his ever-resourceful sergeant had the power to spare them the fate that they themselves had heaped upon the former occupants of this site but a few moments before. Though not a religious man, the Spaniard appreciated that it was at times like this that prayer had been invented.