Dead Hand

Chapter 24

Failure must be engineered with as much care and forethought as success. Unfortunately, circumstance and hesitation did not permit Demetre Orlov enough time to prepare for either. His indecision was confusing to the officers leading the two sections with him and did little to arrest the forward momentum of the commandos under the:* command. As had happened with their NATO counterparts the sound of gunfire and the prospect of combat combined to create a volatile mixture that overwhelmed common sense and logic. What little semblance of a formation that they had managed to maintain in their advance through the broken terrain disappeared as they neared the missile silo. With it went all positive command and control.

Caught up in the moment. Orlov's men did what came natural to them. Unlike many of their fellow soldiers, these commandos were tough, self-reliant, and aggressive professionals. Given the sort of missions they were routinely assigned, they needed to be. Yet these traits did have their drawbacks. Instead of pausing as their commander had done just moments before to sort things out. Orlov's crack troops saw no need to. Ivan Moshinsky and the men with him knew what was required of them. It was unnecessary to assess the situation or weigh their options. For them, the situation they faced was quite simple. Somewhere off to their left, their comrades in the first section were engaged in a desperate struggle. Those men were buying them lime and the freedom to outflank the NATO forces with their lives. The soldiers of the second and third sections did not have to be told by an officer that only the destruction of the NATO forces at the missile silo would bring an end to this mission and relief to their friends in the first section. With this in mind, they went forward, with or without their officers.

In silence. Orlov watched as the first of the soldiers who had made the rapid flanking march with him crested the ridgeline. Rather than pausing as an officer would have done, the soldier at the forefront of the advance continued over to the other side and toward the missile silo beyond. Without hesitation, his comrades followed suit, even in the face of gunfire that was now directed at them from the far side of the ridge.

Not having shared his conclusion with any of his officers that failure was their best option was proving to be a mistake, but one that was unavoidable. To have done so would have been a gamble, something that was anathema to a man raised in a system where betrayal and deception were seen as useful tools by both politicians and senior military men. Yet his failure to have made his intent known, or at least to have taken steps to ensure that they did not reach their objective in time, placed the Russian colonel in a difficult position. As had happened when the legionnaires had inadvertently followed Stanislaus Dombrowski and taken up the charge, the excitement of the moment had proven to be equally irresistible to the Russian commandos. With or without his blessing, Orlov's men had committed him to a direct assault on the NATO troops, who were doing their best to finish the destruction of Perimeter.

Slowly, Demetre Orlov picked his way forward at a measured pace, listening to the growing volume of gunfire from the ridge before him. Though he could see but a small slice of the battlefield, the sharp sounds that assaulted his ears told him that the engagement was growing and becoming quite heated. The spasmodic nature of those exchanges also indicated that the contest was still rather disjointed. Instead of a continuous exchange of fire, the give-and-take between his men and the NATO troops fluctuated wildly. This muddled trading of salvos was due to the manner in which his men were joining in. Inevitably, as they made they way up and over the crest as quickly as they could, they found themselves fired at. Those who managed to survive the first fusillade instinctively returned a burst of fire before seeking cover. Once having found a suitable spot offering protection, the newly arrived Russians would settle down and begin delivering a more controlled and sustainable rate of fire at carefully selected targets, while more of their comrades came forth and joined the growing fight.

Above the sharp reports of small-arms fire and the occasional explosion of a grenade, Orlov could make out the shrilled orders of section leaders and their NCO's. Drawing closer, he could see that those orders were having little effect on the men. Such a disjointed attack, the Russian colonel concluded as he finally neared the crest, could not possibly succeed against a well-organized defense manned by crack enemy troops. Though it pained him to think that he would lose a good number of his men, their sacrifice would be of some benefit. After all, how could anyone in Moscow question the loyalty of a man or a unit that has suffered staggering losses in battle.

Now, Orlov told himself as he glanced down at his watch, all he needed was for the NATO troops to do their part. That they were taking so long to set up their demolitions and execute their target was puzzling to the Russian colonel. If it had been his operation, he found himself thinking, it would have been over by now. For the first time in his military career, Colonel Demetre Orlov was angered by the apparent ineptitude of his enemy. Since it was not within his power to speed his foe along, he was left with the delicate task of slowing his own people down without making it look like that was what he was doing.

The sound of gunfire near at hand was also angering Stanislaus Dombrowski as he endeavored to reattach loose wires. His anger, however, was not directed at his foe, but at himself. As hard as he tried to maintain his focus on the task at hand, his mind was cluttered with self-recriminations. How in the name of God, he repeated again and again in Polish, could he have messed things up as badly as he had?

The explosive package before him was a simple device. Its main components consisted of high explosives packed around an inverted cone shaped like the front of a trumpet. This cone was more than a simple spacer. It was a device designed to hold the explosive back during primary detonation and precisely direct the full force of that explosion as it developed into a jet stream the width of a pencil. Made from a copper alloy that vaporized during the detonation process, the added weight of the copper molecules contributed to the terminal effectiveness of the charge. In this case, as the jet stream formed by the explosion displaced the molecules of the thin nose cone and payload area of the rocket below, some of the superheated cone's molecules would manage to make it all the way down to the missile's fuel tanks. Exerting well over 100,000 pounds of force per square inch, heated metal debris carried along in the jet stream from Dombrowski's charge would cause what is known as a "sympathetic detonation." Improperly ignited, the volatile rocket fuel would rupture its own containers and, confined by the tight concrete silo, create an eruption that would be truly spectacular.

All of this, however, would not occur if the shaped charge did not function properly. The sequence depended on primers located in the base of the explosives, centered on the tip of the cone. The wires running from those detonators would emerge from the explosive and, on this particular device, be routed in a bundle down the side of the package to a junction box just above one of the three legs that the shaped charge sat on. If the problem facing the Polish legionnaire had been on the outside, the fix would have been easy. Unfortunately, two wires had been pulled out of the primers. This meant that Dombrowski had to carefully burrow into the high explosive in order to uncover the ends of the primers. He then had to open the primers without disturbing their seating, reinsert the wires, then crimp the primers so as to hold the reinserted wires. Even under the best of circumstances, such a feat would be nerve-racking. Under fire, doubly so.

That the gunfire was wildly inaccurate was of little consequence. Dombrowski knew that the SAS and members of his own CRAP team would be able to keep the Russians at bay for only so long. Nor would the concealment provided by the smoke grenades popped by the American major last forever. Eventually, a Russian with a bit of initiative and tactical savvy would manage to find a spot from which he would be able to direct accurate fire at him. While he hoped to be finished before that happened, this thought only added to the distractions under which Dombrowski found himself laboring.

Not every adversity was beyond his control. As he knelt down to connect a wire to the junction box on the leg of the charge, he glanced over his shoulder. Besides Franz Ingelmann, Adjutant Allons, and Major Fretello were watching his every move. Used to being left alone at times like this by his former commander, the presence of these anxious officers, literally breathing down his neck, was a burden the Pole didn't need.

Pausing, Dombrowski looked over to where Ingelmann waited with the spool of wire. Reaching into his pocket, the Pole pulled the manual blasting machine he preferred and tossed it to the Austrian. "Here," he shouted as Ingelmann reached out and grabbed the tried-and-true device. "Take this and start running your wire. He the business end off on my leg. I'll connect it as soon as I make this last splice."

Sensing that action was at hand, Andrew Fretello turned his attention from the firefight that was still spreading across the ridge above them. "Are you done?"

Without bothering to face the American commanding officer. Dombrowski continued to run his fingers along the last wire he needed to reconnect. "Almost. Just one more minute, another splice, and all will be well."

As he watched Ingelmann fasten a loop of the wire around the Pole's leg, Fretello looked about nervously. "Is there anything else you need from us?"

Under ordinary circumstances, the question would have solicited a cynical chuckle and a snide remark. But given the straits they were in, Dombrowski responded with a quick, curt, "No."

Knowing his man and his moods, Adjutant Allons took the American officer by the arm. "Come, sir. Let us go with Corporal Ingelmann. We can cover the sergeant from the edge of the clearing just as well as we can here."

Though he was reluctant to leave, Fretello appreciated the fact that he was being told, in a rather circumspect way, that his presence here was no longer appreciated. Since he himself was a loner when it came to his work, he understood how the Pole felt. After popping his last smoke grenade and tossing it upwind of where they stood, Fretello turned and began to make his way back to a point from which they could watch the silo as well as the action along the crest of the ridge.

Upon reaching the crest where his men were hotly engaged with the enemy on the reverse slope, Demetre Orlov found himself having second thoughts about his decision to let the NATO troops blow up the missile. This sudden need to reconsider had nothing to do with the logic of his previous choice, which he knew had been impeccable. But logic in battle is often a rare commodity. More often than not, decisions are based on a simple, primitive response to the sight of the dead and wounded lying scattered about on the ground. For those who have been afforded the opportunity to experience combat, there is nothing quite like the smell of warm, freshly spilled blood, mixed in with the pungent odors of burnt cordite and fear. A whiff of combat has the ability to clear the head and bring into sharp focus only those things that are truly important and relevant. Concerns over Machiavellian stratagems and political intrigue disappear as primeval instincts are triggered by the sickening-sweet scent of death. Even a professional such as Demetre Orlov was not immune to it.

Once more the Russian colonel was hesitant. Those were his men, he reminded himself as he surveyed the situation around him, alternately looking at a corpse, then over to a man actively trading shots with an unseen foe in the distance. They trusted him. As all soldiers did, they depended on their commanding officer to make the right decisions to keep them alive, or when that was not possible, to use their lives well. That he had wasted so much valuable time pondering how best to orchestrate his own personal survival at a time when he should have been bending every effort to exert some semblance of leadership and control over his troops suddenly became a source of embarrassment to the Russian colonel. Even his youngest junior officer, a lieutenant who had recently joined the unit, was doing his part despite a wound that soaked the sleeve of his uniform with blood. "How," Orlov asked aloud to no one in particular, "could I have been so stupid?"

Mired in this trauma of self-condemnation, Orlov wasn't paying attention to the small group that followed him like a shadow. Having been affected by the same sights, smells, and sounds that triggered Orlov's reevaluation of his decisions, Ivan Moshinsky and Peter Spangen left their commander's side and made their way to a place from which they could see what was going on. The remorseless Russian commando, who had dispatched his own deputy commander just hours before without a second thought, was able to catch sight of a party of three men making its way out of a cloud of smoke screening the concrete cover of the missile silo. Excitedly, he thrust his arm out and pointed at them, "Spangen!" he yelled. "Can you drop those bastards?"

Before the sniper was able to direct his full attention and the muzzle of his weapon to where his companion was pointing, a burst of fire from an enemy position below drove the pair to cover. "Damn!" Moshinsky screamed as the rounds unleashed against them smoked the other side of the log he was lying behind, showering the two men with splinters and dirt. As he struggled to compose himself after so narrowly escaping death, Moshinsky's eyes fell upon Kulinsky, the team's combat engineer. In an instant, the Russian put two and two together. "Those men," he called over to where Spangen was lying in wait for the enemy fire directed at them to cease, "they were running from the silo, weren't they?"

Busy doing his best to preserve life and limb, the sniper didn't give the sergeant's question much thought. "How the hell should 1 know? I didn't even see the men you were pointing at."

Convinced that he was right, Moshinsky continued. "They must have set the charge. They must be getting ready to blow the place up." Then, turning his attention back to Kulinsky he ordered him to his feet. "Kulinsky, you're with me." Turning once more to Spangen, he reached over and grabbed the Russian sniper by the arm. "Stay here. Cover us. We're going down there to disconnect the explosives."

Not sure of what Moshinsky was up to, Spangen answered with a nod, satisfied to remain where he was.

With that, Moshinsky rose to his feet, waved Kulinsky on, and headed down into the maelstrom below.

Belatedly, Demetre Orlov noticed that he was alone. Shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, he caught sight of Spangen propped up behind a stump busily firing away at something on the far side of the ridge. Rising up, the Russian colonel made his way over to the sniper. "Where's Sergeant Moshinsky?"

The young sniper didn't answer at first. He had a target in his sight and was in the process of letting a bit of breath slip out before pausing, holding what air was left in his lungs while squeezing off a shot. A perfectionist to the core, Spangen didn't let anything interfere with a perfect kill, not even his commanding officer. Only when he was sure that he had hit his mark did he drop down behind cover and answer Orlov. "Sergeant Moshinsky took Kulinsky down there," he stated, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction of the silo. "He said something about disarming the explosives."

Wide-eyed, Orlov looked at the sniper for a moment, then over the top of the log. Ignoring the zing of return fire that flew to the left and right of his head, he searched for any sight of his wayward NCO. "Which way did they go?"

Exercising more care than his commander had, Spangen raised his head above cover and joined in the search for his comrades before answering. "I don't know, sir. Sergeant Moshinsky just grabbed Kulinsky, told me to stay here and cover them, and zip, they were gone. That was the last I saw of them." Catching sight of the billows of smoke in the center of the clearing, he pointed to it. "I believe they are headed there."

Understanding what they were after, Orlov said nothing as he leaped to his feet, jumped over the log he had been using for cover, and began to make his way toward the silo.

As in the previous engagement, Patrick Hogg held back from the firing line, concentrating instead on monitoring the actions of his men and the tactical situation before him. Unlike the initial action, which had been as swift as it was one-sided, the current affair was a brutal slugfest, one in which his men were suffering almost as much damage as they were giving out. It didn't take long for the Irish captain to conclude that the forces they were facing were not of the same sorry caliber as those from whom they had taken the silo. Based on the manner in which these men maneuvered and the accuracy of their fire, Hogg guessed that they were elite soldiers, paras perhaps. Maybe even commandos.

Ducking as a well-aimed burst of fire began to chew up the stump he was lying next to, Hogg allowed himself to slip down the slope and away from the spot that had been compromised. Rolling along the ground, he moved about until he found a protected place em Hani to hide, close to one of his corporals. Like Hogg, the man was down behind cover, safe from a spray of automatic gunfire that flew harmlessly overhead. The corporal was in the process of fishing a fresh magazine out of an ammo pouch when he took note of his commander's presence. "Can't say I admire your choice of ground, sir."

When he was fairly sure it was safe to do so, Hogg peered over the log he had come to rest behind. "Rest assured, Corporal Allen," the SAS captain said as he continued to scan the terrain to his front, "that if I had my druthers, it would be us up there and them down here instead of the other way around."

The corporal was about to make an additional comment when he noticed a flurry of activity out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he was just in time to see a Russian, holding a knife coated in blond in one hand and an assault rifle in the other, jump up from a position not more than ten meters away. Even as he fumbled about in

The man's shrill tone was enough to cue Hogg to the danger he had yet to see. In a single swift motion, the SAS officer swung about, bringing his weapon to bear as he did so.

In the U. S. Air Force, fighter pilots call the response an "OODA loop," which is pronounced ou-da. These four letters stand for "orient-observe-decide-act." In aerial combat, the time to repeat that pithy little saying is measured in seconds, because once the pilot acts, his action triggers a whole new set of circumstances that requires him to repeat the process while his foe is doing the exact same thing. This holds true during close combat on the ground. Hogg had to quickly divert his attention in an entirely new direction, take in the situation before him, decide what to do, then do it before the Russian that Corporal Allen had caught sight of did likewise.

Fortunately for Hogg, the foe that came into view was paying scant attention to what was going on to his left or right. Like a shark surging blindly forward for the kill, the Russian with the bloody knife broke into a dead run as soon as he passed the shattered treeline and made for the center of the clearing. The SAS captain didn't need to think about what to do. His decision was as instinctive as it was obvious.

Fate, however, saved that Russian. Just as Hogg was bringing his weapon to bear on him, another figure emerged from behind cover in his wake. This one, unlike his companion, was more acutely aware of his surroundings. So much so that he locked eyes with Hogg, who had just turned his head away from the first man.

A new set of circumstances. Another cycle of the OODA loop. Since the second foe was staring right at him, and Hogg's peripheral vision caught the flash of a gun being brought to bear on him, the lead Russian was quickly forgotten.

The contest between Hogg and his new mark was uneven and over quickly. With his weapon already shouldered, the Irish captain only needed to slue the muzzle of his MP 5 a few inches to the left, aim center of mass, and cut loose. The range between the two adversaries was so short that every round sent his way ripped into Vladimir Kulinsky's chest. Wavering, the Russian combat engineer took one step back before he toppled over dead.

Having been surprised by the appearance of the second Russian, Hogg could not discount the possibility that more would follow. Though he would have liked to have turned his attention back to the one who got away, he maintained his position, waiting to see if more Russians sallied forth from the spot where the other two had. Only after he was sure that the pair had been an isolated threat and his concern about the one who had made off became too overwhelming to ignore, did Hogg turn to deal with him.

This hesitation cost him a clear shot. By the time he caught sight of the charging Russian commando, the man was already disappearing into the smoke that drifted lazily around the silo. Not knowing for sure if there were any friendlies still working on the demolitions package on the far side of the smoke, Patrick Hogg could not simply spray fire at it in the hope of hitting his foe. Seeing no alternative, he took off after the Russian.

All three men, Fretello, Allons, and Ingelmann, saw the Russian emerge from the far edge of the treeline. No one spoke as they watched him take off at a dead run toward the silo, where Dombrowski was finishing his work. Only Ingelmann responded without thinking. Dropping the blasting machine he had been clutching, the corporal of legionnaires rose to his feet and began to make his way back to the silo. As he picked up speed, he yanked the sling that lay across his chest, bringing his 5.56mm FA MAS assault rifle down to his side, where he grabbed it with his right hand. He gave no thought to the risks to which he was exposing himself. Stanislaus Dombrowski was more of a brother to him than those he was raised with. Running for all he was worth, the Austrian legionnaire started to yell out a warning.

The man didn't have a chance to utter more than his companion's name before a large-caliber slug ripped into his side. In horror, Adjutant Allons watched as Ingelmann was literally lifted off the ground and thrown sideways by the force of the impact. With the might of an explosion, the single fatal round erupted on the far side of the Austrian's skinny frame, unleashing a thick red mist. It hung in the air long after the lifeless body had fallen back to the ground.

Before he realized what was happening, Andrew Fretello felt the blasting machine being thrust into his hands. Recoiling, he rolled onto his side and looked up at the Spanish legionnaire who was in the process of scrambling to his feet. "You know what to do, Major," the adjutant yelled as he took off, just as Ingelmann had taken off in a vain effort to stop the Russian who was after his sergeant. Unlike Hogg, who could not fire because of the angle, Allons cut loose with a wild volley aimed at where he thought the Russian had disappeared into the smoke. All the while, Allons yelled at Dombrowski in French, gallantly trying to warn his NCO of the unseen danger about to befall him.

From the treeline, Fretello desperately tried to take everything in. Besides the adjutant, the American major caught sight of someone breaking away from the SAS position in pursuit of the Russian who was now hidden in the smoke. Seeing that the British commando had a far better chance of success, Fretello started to call to Allons in an effort to bring him back.

Even if he had heard the American, it would have been foolish for Allons to turn around in the open and attempt to return. His only recourse was to go on. If nothing else, he figured, he would be able to cover Dombrowski.

Demetre Orlov was too late to do anything to save Kulinsky. As he continued bounding forward, clearing fallen trees and an occasional corpse, he watched as his favorite combat engineer was ripped apart by a concentrated stream of automatic fire.

Orlov didn't have time to scream in anguish. Nor did the sight evoke sorrow. This was neither the time nor the place for such things. Rather, the Russian colonel brought his weapon up, flipped the safety off, and pulled it tight against his side as he continued on. Instinctively, he cocked his head slightly to the right, in the direction from which the enemy fire had come. Fully aware of the possibility that his foe would still be there, waiting to shoot anyone who might have been following Kulinsky, Orlov intended to open fire just before he burst forth from cover, keeping his finger down on the trigger as he went and sweeping the area to his right with a steady burst. Even if he didn't hit his foe, the Russian colonel hoped the sudden return fire would cause him to duck and seek cover, a move that would buy him a second, maybe two seconds, in which he could take better aim.

He was nearly ready to start shooting, when the movement of a figure caught his attention and brought him to a halt. Turning to face this new threat, he saw that someone was running away from him, out toward the middle of the clearing, where smoke hid the missile silo from sight. By the pattern of the camouflage, Orlov could tell that the figure was British. Beyond him was a second soldier, this one in a Russian uniform. That man, Orlov realized, could only be Moshinsky. If the Brit was the one who had killed Kulinsky, it didn't matter at the moment. By the look of things, he was after Moshinsky, who was doing his best to reach the silo.

Had he been afforded an opportunity to think things over, Colonel Demetre Orlov would have appreciated that the solution to many of his problems was right there, in the hands of the British commando he was watching chase his NCO. All Orlov had to do was to keep watching. But the Russian colonel was a soldier, trained to seek out and destroy his nation's enemies. While he was well aware that there were Russians who posed a far greater threat to his homeland than this lone Englishman did, at the moment, such distinctions were impossible to make. Demetre was in the midst of a vicious and bloody fight where action, not debate, is the order of the day.

With the ease of a professional, Orlov brought his AK-74M up, took aim, and cut loose with a burst of fire.

Ordinarily, when he finished setting a charge, Stanislaus Dombrowski would step back and carefully examine the entire device, from top to bottom, just to be sure. But the situation was such that this nicety had to be abandoned. The Pole didn't even bother reaching over to pick up the tools that lay scattered about his feet. Instead, he brought his assault rifle down to his side, turned, and prepared to make his way. The only thing he took time to do before heading off toward the edge of the field where the others were waiting w,. to look around in order to assess the tactical situation.

It was only then that he saw his adjutant running at full speed directly toward him, yelling as he came. It took a moment for Dombrowski to appreciate the danger he was in, a moment that allowed Sergeant Ivan Moshinsky an opportunity to reorient himself as he stormed out of the smoke and turned toward the bewildered legionnaire. Before Dombrowski could do anything to defend himself, the Russian was on top of him. The impact of body against body threw the Pole back and onto the ground, barely missing one of the legs of the shaped charge.

Despite the shock of impact, the two men tore at each other with a viciousness that is often written about but seldom experienced in war. Pinned beneath the big Russian, Dombrowski freed one of his hands, brought it around and covered the face of his assailant. With all his might, he pushed, forcing Moshinsky's head up at an awkward angle. With equal determination, the Russian resisted the Pole's effort to push him away or to snap his neck. Redoubling his effort to hold the legionnaire close to him with his left hand, Moshinsky brought his right hand down and slipped it between them. Then, with a simple twist of his wrist, the Russian tilted the point of the knife he held in that hand downward until he felt the handle against his own midsection. Ready, Moshinsky gave the knife one mighty shove.

The swift, sudden penetration of the Russian's knife was a shock. Dombrowski's body stiffened for a moment, then went limp. Though he could still see and hear, the Pole suddenly realized that he was unable to move. How terrible, he found himself thinking as his field of vision slowly closed in to have a Russian as his last worldly image. How terrible.

In horror, Andrew Fretello watched the drama unfold before him. No sooner had the Russian emerged from the smoke and tackled the Pole than the Spanish legionnaire was dropped by a sniper, just as his corporal had been. As clear as all of this was to the American major, a voice from somewhere in the back of his head was screaming that none of this was happening. It couldn't be! Things had to work out to his advantage. They always did. His plans always succeeded. Always. But the reality of the situation before him could not be ignored, just as the Russian who had made it to the missile silo could not be made to disappear simply by wishing him away.

Setting the blasting machine down, Fretello scrambled to bring his rifle up. The M-16 he carried was his weapon of choice. He had fired it time and time again, never failing to qualify "Expert." But now, when he needed to finally put that skill to work for him in combat, he found that he was all thumbs. The faster he tried to bring his rifle to bear on his enemy, the more he seemed to fumble. It was absolutely unnerving.

Yet, bring it to bear he did. With the weapon finally tucked up firmly on his shoulder, the American major prepared to fire. Easing his cheek against the plastic stock, Fretello looked through the tiny peephole of the rear sight and brought the muzzle of his weapon about until the post on the front sight was superimposed over the figure of the Russian before him. Composed and ready, Fretello held his breath and squeezed once, twice, three times. Each time, he fought the recoil. Each time, he brought the muzzle of his weapon back down and went through the process of aligning its sights before squeezing off the next round. And each. Time, the round he fired found its mark.

The pain of moving was unlike anything Patrick Hogg had ever experienced. That his wounds were mortal was without doubt. Struggling to prop himself up on his knees, he imagined that he had felt every round as it had hit him. Throughout the whole terrible ordeal, he had never lost consciousness. Instead, he had maintained an acute awareness of what was going on. He not only saw the boots of the Russian who had shot him from behind, he had actually felt the ground shake as his assailant ran past him and on toward the silo. Try as hard as he could, the Irishman was unable to muster the strength to coordinate his arms in time to reach out and grab those bloody damned boots as they passed within inches of his face.

He had also been a hapless spectator to the death of the two legionnaires as they rose up from safety and did their best to go to the assistance of their comrade. Hogg watched now with a Strange detachment as the American major, having fired his weapon and discarded it, was madly connecting the wires running from the charge on the silo to a blasting machine he held. Unsure of whether his commanding officer was going to wait or set the charge off from where he was, the SAS captain gathered up all his strength, clenched his teeth, and slowly pushed himself up and onto his knees.

The effort and the pain it sent shooting through his body was staggering. Dizzy, Hogg found that he needed to take a moment to choke back the nausea he felt welling up. Unable to swallow the blood that filled his mouth, he simply let his lower jaw drop so it could spill out. When he had managed to collect himself, lie opened his eyes and watched the final act unfold before him.

The smoke that had concealed the silo for so long was finally dissipating. This allowed Orlov to see the three-legged shaped charge far sooner than his NCO had. He paid no attention to the two bodies lying on the ground between himself and the explosive package. With the same determination that Patrick Hogg had mustered in his struggle to get up, the Russian colonel continued on.

Any doubts he had once entertained about letting the NATO troops destroy the missile were gone. Any concern about surviving this combat were forgotten. He had but one more mission to accomplish, one more task to carry out. Stepping over the corpse of a big French legionnaire, Colonel Demetre Orlov prepared to save the missile, not for Likhatchev, and not for the men in Moscow who had sent him to this godforsaken region. Orlov was going to do his duty because he could not do otherwise, not after so many of his men had so freely given their lives doing likewise.

When he realized that there could be no other way, Andrew Fretello dropped his rifle, took up the blasting machine and began to connect the wires. Even as he did so, his nimble mind raced in an effort to find a more suitable solution, another way to succeed without taking the radical step he was preparing to make. There was no such thing as a no-win scenario. He didn't believe in that. He couldn't believe in that. The motto was victory or death, not victory and death.

Still, the reality was there. So too was a new threat he saw as he looked up before attaching the last wire. Where the second Russian on the silo cover had come from was beyond him. But there he was, reaching over to grasp the other end of the very same wire he held in his hand. To stop what he was doing and reach for his weapon would be futile. By the time he took up his rifle, the Russian would have made it to the demo pack. It was now a race, one that Fretello would be unable to celebrate even if he won.

The impact of a boot kicking him in the side was enough to rouse Stanislaus Dombrowski to a hazy state of consciousness. Opening his eyes, he saw what he thought was the leg of the Russian who had stabbed him. Without giving the matter any thought, he reached up, grabbed as much of that leg as he could and gave it a jerk.

Caught off guard, Demetre Orlov pulled back, away from the explosive charge and looked over his shoulder to see who had seized him. Amazed that it was the legionnaire, it took the Russian colonel a moment to figure out what to do about this sudden inconvenience.

This hesitation was all the big Pole needed. While holding on to the Russian with one hand, he searched for a weapon with the other. When his fingers came across a pair of needle-nosed pliers, he wrapped them around that ordinary tool, brought his arm up in a wide, sweeping arc, and jammed the point of the pliers into the Russian's thigh.

The sudden resistance by the legionnaire generated within Andrew Fretello a moment of hope. Perhaps there was another way? Perhaps he could manage to save some of his men and still accomplish his mission? Rising up on his knees, the American major watched and began to reconsider his options.

Patrick Hogg was also watching. He saw the desperate struggle at the silo. He saw the American major, blasting machine in hand, hesitate. He knew what was happening. Though the pain of drawing in a deep breath was unlike anything he had ever experienced, it was the last weapon he had available to him. After spitting out blood that continued to gather in his mouth, Captain Patrick Hogg leaned back before bellowing, as loud as he could manage, his last order. "Blow the goddamn thing! now!"

Startled, Andrew Fretello looked over to where Hogg sat, wavering as he fought the urge to faint. Again, in a voice that somehow rose above the din of battle, the SAS officer shouted, "Blow the damned thing!"

It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't a recommendation. It was an order, something that Fretello understood. Something that he was in the habit of giving and taking.

Without bothering to look back at the silo where a dying Polish NCO struggled to hold back a wounded Russian colonel, Andrew Fretello brought Operation Tempest to a close.