A small smile crept across Pascal's face. "As I told the rest of the team, we will be informed of that at the appropriate time, Sergeant."
Not willing to be so easily turned away, Dombrowski took a sip of coffee before he launched into his discussion of the subject. "The sergeant major instructs us to prepare our arctic gear. The adjutant comes by, while I am in the midst of my efforts here, and asks me how my Russian is. On my last trip over to the riggers, when I went to deliver a completed device, a load master on one of the transports we will be using asked me why we were taking these to an RAF base in Scotland. And the special instructions detailing how these particular shaped charges are to be assembled, which no one had time to translate from English to French, referred to a diagram of a standard silo cover, which I was not given."
"And your conclusion?" Pascal asked, waving his free hand about.
Again, Dombrowski took a sip of his coffee, watching his captain's expression as he did so, trying to decide if he should continue or not. Finished for the moment with his coffee, the Polish NCO began to lay out his case. "This asteroid is going to hit eastern Russia in a region where many of their older missile silos are, the ones that the current regime never seems to get around to disabling. That region is also where that ambitious ex-general who is anxious to revive the former glory of the Soviet Empire is exiled. My guess is that the general plans on using the missiles he has in his own backyard to blackmail someone. If that is so, I suspect that we are going to be sent in with the mission of punching holes in those silos with these little beauties and disarming him before he has a chance to make mischief."
Looking down into his half-empty cup, Pascal did not immediately respond. Instead, he swirled his drink and watched it as if he were deep in thought. Finally, he looked up at the clock on the wall across from him, then pointed at the oversized shaped charge on the workbench. "I expect that the riggers are waiting for this one. How soon before you are finished with it?"
Realizing that his commander wasn't going to comment on his assumption one way or the other, Dombrowski turned and looked at the device. "It is ready now, mon capitain."
"Good! I will go over to their area right now and send a couple of men to pick it up. That will leave you free to get started on the last of them."
Though he was tired and wanted so badly to ask that he be allowed to take a break, Dombrowski knew better. Pascal was a good commander, a man who knew when he needed to push his men and how far he could go. The Polish NCO suspected that they had little time, so he made no protests, no further comments. With nothing more than a simple "Oui," Dombrowski turned his full attention back to his assigned duties. In time, he and his companions would be told all they needed to know. Until then, he could only do as he was told and trust that his superiors, and the Americans who seemed to be behind this operation, knew what they were doing.
Chapter 6
The sight of General Eric Shepard, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, walking side by side with the Chief of Staff of the Army in and of itself was unusual enough to raise eyebrows. To be together in the Army's wing of the Pentagon was downright strange. Though he was proud of his parent service and what it had achieved during his years as a junior-grade officer, Shepard felt he needed to distant himself from the Army in order to escape the impression that he favored one branch of the armed forces over the others. While this was laudable to some. Chuck Smith often found himself reminding his superior and longtime friend of what color his uniform was, especially when the two were on opposite sides of an issue.
That the two officers were at odds was clear to Smith's staff as the pair moved through the outer suite of offices and straight into Smith's at the double-quick. Smith's only comment to his staff was a short, gruff "No calls" to no one in particular as he went blitzing by.
Once the door was closed, the Chairman of the joint Chiefs turned and faced Smith, "lust what in hell are you doing. Chuck?"
Having expected something like this. Smith was not bothered in the least. Moving to a sofa, he undid the last two buttons on his blouse and sat down before answering. When he did, his voice was calm and relaxed. "General. I'm just doing my job. Nothing more."
Rather than satisfying him. the tone of Smith's voice as well as his patently evasive manner only stoked Shepard's rage. "Dammit, Chuck. Your conduct during the meeting with the President went beyond the pale. You all but accused the Air Force of being incompetent and impotent."
Still unruffled. Smith shrugged. "But it's true, Eric. You heard Wagner's own assessment. Even if the Air Force had sufficient ordnance available to handle the task, they have neither the aircraft nor the conventional cruise missiles to take out the Russian missile silos in a single, swift strike." Pausing, Smith's expression hardened. "The Commander in Chief himself set the criteria for this operation at the very beginning of the NSC meeting this morning. One," Smith stated crisply as he held his right hand up and lifted a single finger, "given the nature of the Perimeter system, the targets must be neutralized with a single, swift strike. Two," he continued, raising another finger, "the strike force has to be under positive control at all times, with the decision to execute or abort delayed until the last possible moment. And three," he emphasized with the addition of a third finger, "the end result, the total neutralization of the Perimeter system, must be guaranteed."
Dropping his hand, Smith locked eyes with Shepard. For several long seconds, the two most senior officers in the United States Army glared at each other. Finally, Smith broke the silence. "The option the Air Force offered couldn't meet a single element set forth as being crucial to success."
Though Smith's oratory took some of the venom out of Shepard's, the Chairman was still far from pleased by what had happened at the White House. "There's more to this than simple, blind professionalism. I know you too well."
Smith did not respond right away. Rather, he looked over to the Army flag and the seal of the United States Army that adorned the wall behind his desk. "I have spent my entire adult life in the Army, just as you have," he stated, glancing over at Shepard for a moment. "We joined this man's Army while it was in the throes of pulling itself together after Vietnam. In later years, we thought we had seen rock-bottom. We thought things couldn't get any worse."
Smith paused when his eyes fell upon one of the many plaques that adorned the walls in his office. This particular plaque had been his first, received when he was a platoon leader. It was an award for being part of the best tank crew in the battalion during annual tank gunnery. "The day I reported in to my first unit, three of the five tanks in my platoon were deadlined. Our motor pool was mostly on dirt, which became a sea of mud the second it rained, which in Germany during the winter is often." A fond smile crossed Smith's face as he looked over at Shepard. "You know, the first time I saw my own tank, it was sitting in the middle of that muddy mess, its engine on the ground behind it. I had never seen a tank with its engine pulled before. All sorts of cables and hoses were running from the haul of the tank to the engine." As he spoke of that long ago day, the old general made motions with his hands. "In the haul, looking as miserable and nasty as the weather, stood a bedraggled mechanic hooking up more hoses. I looked over into the haul and watched. Finally, I managed to muster up the gumption to ask, 'What's wrong?' Well, without looking up, the mechanic flapped his arms about and mumbled, 'Fuck! I don't know.'"