That condition, however, was only momentary. With the passing of the shock wave, new fires created by the rupturing of fuel tanks, oil and gas lines, and structures erupted in its wake.
As if all of this were not enough, the sudden release of thermal energy turned the deep snow and thick ice that blanketed the region into billions of cubic gallons of water that needed someplace to go. Within mere minutes, every river in the region was choked with broken trees, tons of soil scoured away by the fury of the onslaught, the remains of buildings, homes, and other assorted structures. Unable to handle this sudden influx of melted snow and ice, the rampaging torrents cut new channels and avenues of escape, changing the landscape forever.
The earth and the creatures who lived upon it were not the only victims of this calamity. The heavens themselves were transformed. Not all of the ice and snow was sent rampaging. Some of it had been vaporized and drawn up into the sky, where it mixed with the dirt, soot, and debris kicked up by blast, impact, and shock wave. Violent drafts of wind and sweeping gusts swirled about as dense black clouds of dirt and ash blanketed Siberia. These dense clouds, pierced by lightning bolts, touched off violent storms that pelted the region with black rain and ash. In some places, breathing without self-contained respirators was all but impossible. The filters on protective masks clogged within minutes of exposure to the worst of these conditions. When one damage-assessment team emerged from its fallout shelter to commence the grim task of measuring the devastation, it was all but wiped out within minutes. The sole survivor of the team, an officer who had never before lifted his voice in prayer, crawled back into the bunker, where he managed to scrawl in a notebook, "God, why have you forsaken us?" as he lay dying alone on the floor.
It was into this hell on earth that Demetre Orlov's special-response team flew. Even before they reached their designated drop zone, it became clear to the Russian colonel that his initial plan to make a drop, under the cover of darkness, right into the compound where General Likhatchev had his command bunker would be all but impossible. Buffeted by turbulence that knew no rhyme or reason, it took every bit of skill possessed by the transport pilots to simply keep their aircraft aloft. A jump into the conditions below would have been suicidal.
One of the favorite truisms of the military is that a plan never survives initial contact with the enemy. Making adjustments to match changes in circumstances is often a military necessity. Good commanders take the unexpected in their stride. Gifted ones use them to their advantage. Sometimes, however, changes in the conditions encountered are so radical that even a military genius is at his wits' end to find a solution.
Like the ancient mariner condemned to wander the seven seas with an albatross about his neck, the command pilot of Orlov's transport roamed the devastated region in search of someplace where he could deposit his cargo of Russian commandos. With the primary drop zone ruled out, the secondary selection just as unacceptable, and the clearing that had been the third choice now turned into a debris-clogged lake, the pilot had no choice but to report to Orlov that he had exhausted his options.
During a hasty conference in the cramped confines of the lead transport's cockpit, Orlov scanned the maps with the aircraft's navigator. "We have no way of knowing," the frustrated Air Force officer explained to Orlov, "what the conditions are on the ground. We've already seen how useless these maps are."
Frustrated, the Russian commander grunted. "There must be someplace where you can deposit us?"
The navigator shook his head. "Putting you down? Yes, we can do that, Colonel. But putting you close to your target… well, that is another matter."
"You must put my men near their target as a unit," Orlov explained. "We have no means of ground transportation."
Looking up from his map, the navigator studied Orlov's face for a moment. "May I ask, Colonel, if I was able to get you to where there was ground transportation, would you have the authority to procure it?"
Understanding what the Air Force officer was saying, Orlov nodded. "What I lack in authority, I can more than make up for with audacity."
"Good!" the navigator exclaimed as he flipped the map over to reveal a wider area of Siberia. "There is an airfield located here," he said, pointing at a spot on the map, "reporting that it is open for the reception of relief aid."
"Exactly how far is that from our initial drop zone?" Orlov asked, studying the map for a moment before reaching over the shoulder of the navigator and turning it over in an effort to gauge the distance his team would need to cover.
The navigator allowed the colonel to finish his cursory inspection of the map before lying it down on his small desktop in order to make precise measurements. Finished, he turned to face Orlov. "I make the straight-line distance to be thirty kilometers."
"What about actual distance via road?"
The navigator shook his head. "Like everything else about this trip, Colonel, we have no way of knowing for sure. I would suspect that the conditions of the roads and bridges, if either are still there, are not much better than the foul weather we have been battling or the drop zones we have had to bypass."
Again, Orlov grunted. "1 see no other choice. Do you?"
Locking eyes with the commander, the navigator considered his answer. While neither he nor the pilot had any idea of what Orlov's mission was, the Air Force officer had little doubt that aborting it and turning back was not an option open to the colonel. If that were true, then the navigator appreciated the fact that none of them had a choice. "Then it is decided?" he asked.
Orlov nodded. Not wanting to bother the pilot, who needed to concentrate on controlling his aircraft as it plowed through the turbulent skies, the Russian commander issued his instructions to the navigator: "Inform the pilot of our decision. And tell him not to announce our intent to land at that airfield until the very last second."
"What if they insist that we state our purpose in landing there, or demand to know what cargo we are carrying?" the navigator inquired.
The question was a good one, Orlov thought, demonstrating that the Air Force officers he was dealing with were aware that the mission of the commandos they were transporting required a great deal of discretion. "Make up a story," the commander finally answered. "I am told that pilots are very good at that."
For the first time in hours, the navigator smiled. "Yes. that is true. I have heard that we are almost as good. Colonel, as your commandos."
"I hope for your sake." Orlov responded, "that today you are better."
Were it not for his watch telling him that it was late afternoon. Demeire Orlov would have sworn it was midnight. The airfield where the two transports carrying his assault team had landed was shrouded in a surreal darkness created by forest fires that raged all about the area and debris that had been catapulted into the heavens by the violent impacts of Nereus 1991 IIWC.
Like the countryside around it. the airfield was a shambles. There wasn't a single structure that had not been stripped of its roof or sported an intact window. Many of the base's administrative and support facilities were burning. Where members of the garrison were seen to be active. Orlov noticed that they were more intent on salvaging essential items and stores from the devastation than on battling the numerous fires. "We have no water pressure." a young Air Force officer explained to the colonel as the pair headed for the temporary command post. "The underground mains are ruptured in half a dozen places." he stated in a tone that betrayed his frustration. "The best we can do is to save what we will need to survive until real aid can reach us, or…"