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.