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.