That is how it came to be that Major Thomas Shields and his cadre at Hereford found themselves as part of the United Kingdom's contingent for Tempest, while many of the men they had trained and passed off to the various squadrons of the SAS stood by, idle.
Standing in the center of the three teams he was responsible for, Shields had to look into the eyes of the men who had been deemed expendable. Like Demetre Orlov, Shields knew everything there was to know about the soldiers gathered about him. Though he spent most of his time at Hereford fighting the good fight from a desk, he was not so far removed from the line that he could not read the men's expressions, their moods, or their feelings.
Having finished his briefing, Shields stood back from the table upon which a map of their area of operations lay and looked around. "As the American major stated in his briefing," he stated crisply, "once one of our three teams has placed its device on the silo's hatch, all it needs to do is to withdraw to a safe distance, transmit the standing-by code, and blow the missile to bits when the order to execute is given."
Despite his best efforts to put a positive spin on their mission, the grim expressions staring back at him told him that his men knew that things were not going to be as easy as that. Clearing his throat, Shields lowered his eyes back down to the map and continued: "It will be necessary to inspect the site after the dust and debris have settled, just to be sure that target effect has been achieved."
Hogg chose this moment to interrupt. "Sir, there's one thing I am not absolutely clear on. Does this confirmation mean that we must physically crawl up to the smoking hole in the ground and peek in? Or will we be able to use our best judgment in determining if the ICBM has been rendered nonoperational?"
Looking over at the second most senior officer of his group and the leader of one of the teams, Shields nodded. "Yes, 1 see your point, Captain Hogg. Like you, I would expect that if the shaped charge does its job, there'll be a secondary detonation that will leave no doubt in anyone's mind that the missile has been, shall we say, deactivated."
"Blown to bloody hell is a better way to put it, sir," Hogg replied.
"Yes, of course," Shields acknowledged, doing his best to hide his displeasure over hearing one of his officers use language that he considered unnecessarily colorful. "1 will leave it to the discretion of the team commander who is actually executing the target to make that determination. After all, we have all seen enough explosions in our collective lifetimes to be able to judge that sort of thing."
"Yes," Hogg mused as he stared down at the map. "I daresay we have."
Sensing that this was an appropriate time, Sergeant Kenneth McPherson asked a question that had been bothering him ever since they had left the mass briefing for all those with active roles in Tempest. "Sir, if you could, I would appreciate it if you would explain why it is that we are reporting to an American FOCCT team once we have completed dispatching the Russian missile?"
Seeing an opportunity to add a bit of humor to the otherwise grim session, Shields smiled. "That is a very good question, Sergeant McPherson. And as soon as someone explains it to me, I'll be more than happy to pass the reason on to you."
As expected, this generated a spate of chuckles. After allowing the moment to linger as long as he dare, Shields tried his best to provide his subordinate with a reasonable response. "As things were explained to me earlier today, it has to do with which teams are dropped in which areas. Where there is a predominance of one nationality in an area of operation, a Forward Operational Commandand-Control team, made up of personnel from that nation, has been created and charged with the responsibility for all teams within that area. We happen to be fortunate enough to have drawn a target that is in an area of operation populated mostly by Americans."
From across the table, McPherson smirked. "Three cheers for us, eh?"
A chorus of subdued guffaws and snickers rippled through the gathering. Enjoying the moment, Shields related how the commander of the French teams in their area reacted. "Yes, well, the commander of the CRAP team that will be knocking off the missile a few kilometers from ours was somewhat less friendly. Drawing himself erect, the French captain looked the American major who planned this operation, and who is also the deputy of the FOCCT in our area, right in his eyes. 'While I have no say. Major,' the Frenchman said, 'to whomever I report, I must insist that we bring our own rations. Facing the best the Russians have available to throw at them is something that my men will do without hesitation. The idea of having to subsist on your MRE's, however, is completely out of the question.' "
Whether it was the story itself or the manner in which their commander told it, every man present, including Hogg, broke out in uproarious laughter. "Did the French captain happen to say, sir," a corporal asked, "which wine they would be serving?"
Shields didn't miss a beat as he responded to this inquiry with a straight face. "Well, seeing as how we are going into Russia, I would assume that a nice red wine would be apropos."
Again a wave of laughter rippled through the group. Only when it was subsiding did Patrick Hogg attempt to get back to the briefing by pointing to a cluster of buildings marked on the map. "This complex, sir?" he asked in a rather offhanded manner. "Do we know for sure what it is? The German who gave the intel portion of the briefing glossed over it rather quickly."
Refocused on the operation, Shields looked at the map, then over at Hogg. "It is assumed that this is where the headquarters and support facilities for the Strategic Rocket Force that all these missiles belong to is located."
This sobered up the balance of the assembled SAS men. Hogg considered the major's response for a moment before he continued. "Do we have any reliable idea on how many personnel are there, specifically security and ready-reaction forces?"
While he continued to stare down at the map to the spot that Hogg was asking about, Shields folded his arms. "No, I am afraid I an not privy to that information. As best I can tell, no one is certain of the strength of the security force there. While I expect that some of it will be drawn away to assist in disaster relief, you can be sure they'll leave someone back to mind the store."
Glancing up, the SAS major looked about. He saw the concern on each man's face. "Captain Hogg's point is an important one, one that we must bear in mind at all times. This operation is going to be no walk in the park. We are going into a foreign nation, defended by a force that has but one mission, and that is to defend the very targets we are being sent to destroy. Regardless of what is going on between Moscow and General Likhatchev, those Russian soldiers will defend those rockets with their lives. That's why the Americans insisted on sending three teams against each silo."
"Playing the odds," Sergeant McPherson murmured.
"That's right, Sergeant," Shields responded. "We're playing the odds. So stay alert, and stay focused. We've got but one chance to get this right."
"And if we don't?" Hogg asked.
Shields didn't answer that. He couldn't. Neither the briefings he had received nor his imagination could provide him with a suitable reply.