Dead Hand

Chapter 7

One of the popular modern myths concerning the military is that the warrior, marching off to battle, is somber and dispirited by the stress of leaving home and sallying forth into the great and dangerous unknown. Though few would ever admit it to anyone who hasn't "been there. Many veterans find themselves looking forward with great anticipation to their deployment into an active theater of operations.

Going to war has always been, and still remains, an adventure of unparalleled complexity and excitement. It is the ultimate ride of terror, one in which there is no safety net. no fail-safe brake system. For the individual, it is also a test of skills, courage, and stamina. No modern sporting event can come close to equaling the challenge or danger that a man going into combat must face. Though sportswriters and promoters may wax philosophical about "do-or-die" contests between teams and speak of "smash-mouth football." "sudden death" overtimes, or a team's "devastating" offense, every one of the players involved in such contests knows that at the end of a prescribed time, the "combatants" of both teams will be able to shake hands, retire to a warm locker room, and enjoy a hot shower before heading off to their respective homes.

The same cannot be said of the combat soldier. Battle is not limited to four quarters. There are no time-outs. Rel's do not stand ready to halt the action when there is an infraction of the rules of war. Nor is a soldier given a guarantee that when he completes his current mission, there will not be another, perhaps a more dangerous one, waiting for him. In war, only death is a greater unknown. And sometimes the two, death and combat, become one and the same for those who are unwary, or just plain unlucky.

When the orders calling selected special-operations units belonging to several NATO nations went out, the men tagged to participate in what was being dubbed "Operation Tempest" embraced it with enthusiasm. This does not mean that those with families were not troubled by having to leave their loved ones under the circumstances, or that they were insensitive to the suffering and devastation that the asteroid would soon inflict on so many. To be faced with the alternative, however, would have been unbearable to these highly trained professionals. While Andrew Fretello penned the order that would translate his concept into a coherent plan of action, Patrick Hogg rushed back to his home station, and Stanislaus Dombrowski put the finishing touches on his infernal machines. Those who were not part of Tempest stood off to the side and out of the way, idle and waiting for orders. For the majority of NATO units, the only guidance they received started with soft phrases such as "Be prepared to—" or "On order, execute the following tasks," which, loosely translated, mean, "Don't call us, we'll call you."

This placed the poor souls in those organizations in the same predicament as the civilians whom they were charged with defending. Psychologists who study people involved in crisis situations generally agree that those who are unable to do anything to help themselves, or who are not involved in some sort of physical activity aimed at fending off a pending disaster or recovering from it, are prone to suffer distress, depression, or anxiety. Busy work, even if it is not directly related to the disaster at hand, is a means of coping with these degenerative conditions. This explains why so many people labor long hours, under horrific conditions, to build sandbag levies to fend off the rising waters of a flood, or immediately rush off to help a neighbor whose home has been devastated by a tornado, even when they themselves have suffered from it. By engaging in an activity that is familiar or seems to be beneficial, the mind is kept from contemplating the unthinkable and gives the participant a sense of control in an uncontrollable situation.

This does not mean that the soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen, and legionnaires marshaling at an obscure RAF base in northern Scotland did not harbor their own concerns over the story that the media was describing as "the cosmic event of the new millennium." These unwelcome interludes were accentuated by the barren landscape surrounding the base and the gloomy weather that matched the bleak predictions spewed out by twenty-four-hour news programs lacking factual information with which to (ill their airtime. Like an annoying guest, televisions and radios were peppered about everywhere on the base. Seeing as how the collision of an asteroid of respectable size with Earth would be the single most historic event that the majority of the men and women at the RAF base would live through, no one wants to comment about it very much.

For the planners and those charged with maintaining operational security for Tempest, the diversion that the asteroid provided to the troops under their control was a blessing. Due to the intrusive nature of Tempest and the targets that would be attacked, the exact nature of their mission was a taboo subject for the rumormongers. So whatever free time was not being taken up by sleep or personal needs was dedicated to ongoing speculation about the asteroid. Like the talking heads on the tele, the gathering soldiers, sailors, marine and airmen wondered aloud how they thought it would affect them, their immediate families, and their respective nations. The arrival of each new contingent brought a set of fresh ideas and thoughts to this disjointed forum.

This gave rise to a curiosity and an interest that occasionally bordered on the morbid and macabre. Along with the more mundane subjects kicked around by the impatient commandos were topics such as casualty projections and the equivalent nuclear yield of the impact. These and other asteroid-related trivia were discussed, and even bet on. For those who enjoyed placing a wager or two, there were a variety of pools run by enterprising young men who had nothing better to do with their time and sought to keep their minds off the collision and the operation that would follow. Anything, from the exact time of the impact to the exact location, could be bet on, using dollars, pounds sterling, francs, deutsche marks, or euros.

By far, the greatest concentration of these exchanges took place in the areas set aside for the officers' and NCO's messes. Like so many other NATO installations, the end of the Cold War had seen a decline in the need for bases such as the one being used to marshal the Special Operations Units assigned to Tempest. This particular RAF base had been relegated to a caretaker status, meaning that the primary mission of the small garrison assigned there was to maintain the facilities and infrastructure so that the site could be used in an emergency. On occasion, a local territorial unit would conduct a weekend drill there, or an RAF squadron would use the airfield as a target to hone its ground-attack skills. Patrick Hogg and the 22nd SAS Regiment had even used this particular base on occasion while practicing a number of contingencies. Otherwise, the sleepy little relic of the Cold War and its tiny garrison marooned on the Scottish moors was left in peace.

The cumulative effect of this was that the entire facility, save for a few administrative offices, barracks, and personnel-support buildings, was rundown and rather seedy. Everything was in need of a thorough refurbishing and a coat of paint. This was particularly true of the recreation facilities, areas that had been rather low on the list of things to keep up to snuff. Since the base was going to be used only to marshal the Tempest units before catapulting them into Russia, no one saw the sense in wasting valuable time in establishing separate clubs or messes for each of the various grades. Few of the base's new residents saw any problem with this. Special Operations Units, by their very nature, are close-knit organizations in which differences in rank are viewed as nothing more than a functional concern rather than as a class distinction. All that mattered to most of the troopers who gathered in the ad hoc lounge/snack bar was that they could get a beer, something to eat other than mess-hall food, and find a place where they could go other than to their overcrowded barracks rooms or bustling work spaces.

Of course, soldiers would not be soldiers unless they were complaining about something. The haste with which the lounge, dubbed the "Red Devil's Pub" by the first British unit that arrived there and opened it, provided the patrons with plenty to complain about. In no time, the Americans were unanimously viewed as the biggest whiners. Their genetic inability to tolerate warm beer, and a habit of making their displeasure about having it served to them that way, was always met with a snide comment from one of their European counterparts, who saw the chilling of the brew as something akin to sacrilege and perversity.

But the warriors from across the Atlantic were not the only ones vocal in their disparagement of the Red Devil's Pub. French commandos and legionnaires ran a close second. Over his years of service in the Legion, Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski had led a simple life. He had his duty, the Legion, his comrades, and not much else. As a result, the few pleasures he bothered to indulge in had become important to him. Chief among these was a taste Dombrowski had acquired for the national beverage of France. Like many of his compatriots, the drinking of wine was an occasion to be savored. So when the big Pole and his companion saw that they were about to be served wine from bottles with screw caps, they recoiled in horror.

"What is this?" Dombrowski bellowed, causing a number of other patrons to interrupt their conversations as they turned to see what the problem was. "I asked for wine, not fruit juice."

The RAF airman who had been dragooned into tending bar was taken aback by this unexpected rebuke. With confusion on his face, he looked down at the bottle he had offered to the burly legionnaire. After satisfying himself that he was holding the correct product, he looked back at Dombrowski. "But this is wine!" he exclaimed, thinking that perhaps the Frenchman couldn't read the English label on the bottle. "It's called a merlot."

Bug-eyed, Dombrowski leaned over the counter. "A what?" he asked in amazement.

Convinced now that the big legionnaire was having a problem with the English language, the RAF airman raised the bottle to show Dombrowski the label. Pointing out the word "merlot," the airman did as most folks do in an effort to make themselves understood by a foreigner, he spoke louder and slower. "I said, it is called a merlot. It's a red wine. See?"

Franz Ingelmann, unable to hide his smirk, turned away from the scene and shook his head. "And these," the Austrian legionnaire whispered to Dombrowski in French, "are the people who once ruled the world?"

Unsure of what infuriated him more, the offer of such a cheap excuse of a wine, or the manner in which the RAF airman was treating him, Dombrowski stood rooted to his spot, fuming as he glanced back and forth between the airman and his Austrian companion, who was by now laughing out loud. "Shut up, you moron," the big Pole snapped as he looked down at Ingelmann, who doubled over in the agony of sheer delight. "If you had any pride as a legionnaire, you'd be just as indignant as me at this travesty."

Using one hand to cover his face, the Austrian grabbed Dombrowski's arm with the other and gave it a friendly squeeze. "My friend, you are doing a magnificent job of defending the honor of France without my help."

Forgetting the cause of his anger, the Polish legionnaire now turned his entire attention on his comrade, who was enjoying the incident a bit too much. "What the hell do you know about honor, you beer-drinking peasant?"

Rather than infuriate the easygoing Ingelmann, Dombrowski's attitude only spurred the Austrian on. Between his efforts to stop laughing and catch his breath, he managed to spur his Polish companion on. "Perhaps," Ingelmann continued in French, "we can convince the captain to haul this fellow out behind the hangar and have him guillotined for crimes against grape pickers."

Unable to understand what was being said between the two legionnaires, the RAF airman had continued to hold the bottle of wine up before Dombrowski's face. Not sure of what to do, the airman cleared his throat. "Ah, excuse me, but do you want this one, or would you rather have a bottle of the white stuff they have here?"

Though he was tempted to tell the RAF airman what he could do with the bottle of wine he was holding, Dombrowski held his tongue in check and turned away from a delirious Ingelmann, who had by now collapsed on the floor with uncontrollable laughter. Storming through the crowded room and out the door, the big Pole all but bowled over an American major who was headed into the lounge.

From his seat, Patrick Hogg had watched the confrontation between the big legionnaire and the bewildered airman. Under ordinary circumstances, he enjoyed such antics. Unlike their counterparts in line units, the men who belonged to the Special Operations Forces tended to be less constrained, more apt to let their emotions show, whether it was inventing their anger or enjoying a good laugh. He himself enjoyed participating in activities that would be grounds for disciplinary action in any other unit.

Such was his mood this day, however, that even the unrehearsed Punch-and-Judy show that had just transpired over the bottle of wine was wasted on him. Looking back down at his half-empty beer, Hogg slowly rotated the bottle. Enjoying a beer or two at the unit's mess was nothing unusual for the SAS captain. Like dress parades or the trooping of the colors, it was part of an officer's life in the British Army. Doing so alone, in the middle of the afternoon for no good reason, however, was not.

Hogg tried to collect himself as he toyed with the bottle he held. He had a good reason, a bloody good one. It hadn't been until he was on the military transport, headed north from London, that the full impact of what had happened between himself and Jenny hit him. No matter how this operation came out, no matter what he did from that moment on, his personal life would never be the same. While the conflict between his chosen profession and his wife was an unending source of conflict within him, he had always managed to keep the faint hope alive that maybe, somehow, things would work themselves out. Like a mariner clings to the mast during a storm, Hogg had held onto the dream that one day, all would be made right.

That this dream was now dead was crystal-clear. Again and again, he went over her final remarks to him and the way she had delivered them. Every so often, as he stared at the bottle he was mechanically turning, the words "She's gone" drifted through his mind. When they did, Hogg would grip the bottle firmly in his hand, lift it to his lips and lake a long sip. For the briefest of moments, the warm beer making its way down would vanquish all thoughts of Jenny. But only for the briefest of moments.

Having again worked through lunch and unable to wait for whatever food substitute the Brit mess teams had chosen to serve that night, Andrew Fretello opted to try his luck at the Red Devil's Pub. That he might have made a bad choice occurred to him as he was all but knocked down by an angry legionnaire barreling out of the place just as he was preparing to enter it.

Once inside, Fretello sized up the situation to determine if he wanted to stay or trust his luck and stomach to the mess hall. A quick scan of the crowd yielded nothing more noticeable than a single French legionnaire, over at the bar, struggling to his feet. This did not surprise the American major at all. Such antics, including toppling over dead drunk in the middle of the afternoon, were to be expected from enlisted men, particularly those belonging to foreign units.

After deciding to stay, Fretello made his way over to where sandwiches were served. There he picked up something that looked both familiar and safe. After paying for it and a warm coke, he turned and headed off into the crowd in search of a place to sit. When it became obvious that there were no open tables anywhere in the room, he began to seek out a table where there was someone who, like himself, was not interested in swapping stories or jabbering about the asteroid. Finally setting his sights on a seat across from a lone SAS captain, Fretello made his way forward.

"Excuse me, but do you mind if I join you?"

Looking up from his beer bottle, Patrick Hogg stared at the American for a moment before nodding. "Be my guest."

Using his foot to pull a chair out, the American set his plate and drink down and took a seat. Hogg paid him little attention as he went back to vacantly staring at the bottle that was now better than three-quarters empty. For his part, Fretello threw himself into consuming his first substantial meal of the day.

Eventually, Patrick Hogg managed to look up from the bottle that had been the object of his attention for the better part of an hour and across the table at the American major who was wolfing down a sandwich as if there were a time clock on him. "In a bit of a hurry, I see. I envy you."

Fretello, who had been lost in his own thoughts, was startled by this sudden comment from his table mate. Even before he finished swallowing the food in his mouth, the American shook his head. "Gotta get back to work. The Air Force doesn't think it's going to be able to pony up the number of aircraft we requested. If that happens, we're going to have to reshuffle the loads."

"Whose Air Force?" Hogg asked, more out of a desire to keep the conversation going than in finding out the answer to his question.

Before taking another bite, Fretello looked at Hogg and hesitated. "Don't know. NATO, in Brussels, is handling all the air taskings. We just submitted our requirements to them."

While his harried companion tore off a good size of sandwich and proceeded to grind away at it, Hogg's somewhat impaired mind considered this piece of information. From what he had seen so far, the airlift on hand was already more than sufficient to handle the number of Special Ops teams that he had seen wandering around the base, provided the aircraft were loaded to capacity. His curiosity peaked, and anxious to address something other than his own personal issues, Hogg decided to pursue the matter. "So, we're going to be scattering a lot of little teams all over Hell's Half Acre in a short period of time, going after hardened sites that all have the exact same characteristics. Russian missile silos, I would imagine. Wouldn't you?"

Though he had done his best to discourage a continuance of the unwelcome chatter by concentrating on eating and getting out as soon as he could, the SAS captain's last comment dismayed Fretello. With his sandwich suspended midway between his plate and his gaping mouth, the American gazed bug-eyed across the table Hogg.

Realizing what the problem was, Hogg chuckled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to shake your tree, Major. But it's bloody well obvious what we're all here for, though I daresay there's a great deal of speculation as to why we're going at a time like this."

Slowly, Fretello lowered his sandwich back onto the plate, glancing this way and that, as if looking to see if anyone around them was paying attention to what the SAS captain was saying. Because of the nature of the targets, and the inevitable political ramifications that the operation would set in motion, a decision had been made to maintain the tightest possible lid on Tempest. In selling the idea of withholding information until the last possible moment, Fretello himself had pointed out that the actions of the teams were to be rather straightforward and simple. "They'll be dropped at a location within easy striking distance of their respective targets," he had briefed before leaving for Scotland. "The aircraft themselves, each making individual penetrations of Russian airspace and following different egress routes, need only know the drop-zone locations for the teams they are transporting. For the most part, all we need to do is to provide the teams themselves with the location of their designated targets. Since they are all highly trained specialists and the silos are stationary and quite obvious, there's little need for detailed instructions on what to do when they get there. As to what they do when they're done… well, again," Fretello stated with more confidence than many in his audience felt, "we will be able to rely on their intelligence and expertise to see them through." Though it was pointed out that in this line of thinking there were gaping holes that would allow the passage of a fleet carrier, the situation was such that words like "hoped" and "anticipated" were weak substitutes for definitive guidance.

Sensing the discomfort that the American was laboring under, Hogg managed a smile. "Don't worry, old boy. All this is pretty much common knowledge. After all, one doesn't gather a collection like this," he went on, waving his right hand in the direction of the crowded tables, "without a healthy amount of speculation as to 'why.'"

Recovered somewhat, Fretello folded his hands on the table in front of him, pushing the half-eaten sandwich away as he did so. Like so many other plans officers, he often forgot that the units listed in his operations orders were comprised of living, breathing human beings filled with all the natural curiosities that any normal person possesses. If anything, members of Special Operations commands are, on the average, a bit more intelligent, have greater curiosity, and are decidedly bolder than their fellow citizens. So the idea that there were all sorts of discussions as to "why" and "where" should not have come as a surprise to Fretello.

Still, the Special Forces officer felt that he could not ignore the breach of security he had just been party to. "That may be so, Capitain," he stated crisply, accentuating the word "capitain." "But it does not mean that we officers need to add our voices to that sort of thing. If anything, I would expect an officer would do his best to discourage violations of operational security."

Already in a dark mood, the smile on Hogg's face faded. "There's one thing that I am in no need of, Major," he replied in a low, menacing tone, "and that is a lecture on what my duties as an officer are." He was about to add "especially by an American," but decided that would be a bit too much. "As an SAS officer," Hogg went on as the American stared at him in stony silence, "my men expect me to make informed decisions and show them the same sort of trust they show when they salute smartly and follow my orders. While things may be different in your Army, in this regiment, simply telling the men that they have no need to know doesn't cut it." He was about to leave it at that, but Patrick Hogg was not one to drive the knife in without giving it that last painful twist. Leaning forward, he looked into Fretello's eyes. "Perhaps, Major," he whispered with a sinister smile, "if you spent a bit more time with your feet in the mud where the real soldiers are and less time parked behind a keyboard pounding out directives and plans that brief well, you'd understand that sort of thing."

Flushed with anger, Fretello jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over as he did so and into one being occupied by a German belonging to Grenzschutzgruppe 9. This commotion brought an abrupt halt to a dozen conversations that had been going on in the crowded lounge. It also placed Andrew Fretello in an awkward position. Though he wanted to respond to the SAS captain in the mo.-: decisive manner that reason would permit, to do so in public would have serious consequences, consequences that the American staff officer was not prepared to pay. Opting to choose discretion over personal satisfaction, Fretello turned and stormed off through the crowd, which parted before him like the Red Sea for Moses.

He had almost made it to the door when, from behind, he heard the Irish drawl of the SAS captain call out: "Major, you've forgotten your dinner. Would you care for a doggie bag?" As bad as this was, the chorus of laughter that followed pierced him like an arrow. With nothing by way of a reasonable response open to him, Fretello clenched his fists and kicked open the door, almost hitting the same big legionnaire he had run into when he had entered.

Quickly stepping aside and out of the way of the infuriated American officer, Stanislaus Dombrowski watched him go before turning and entering the pub. As he did so, he noted that everyone in the place was looking at him. Stopping, the big Pole asked, quite innocently, "Did I miss something?"

This brought about another wave of laughter before everyone got back to whatever they had been doing. At his table, a self-satisfied Patrick Hogg hoisted his beer and took the last of his brew down in a single gulp. Finished, he slammed the empty bottle on the table and smacked his lips. "I think I'll have another," he shouted to no one in particular as all thoughts of his Jenny had faded, for the moment.