"Or what. Lieutenant?" Orlov asked when the junior officer hesitated.
Stopping, the exasperated young man threw out his hands in a gesture of utter hopelessness. "Look around you. Colonel. This facility is in ruins! I doubt that I will be able to sustain my own people, let alone support a relief operation. That only one of your aircraft was damaged when landing is nothing short of a miracle."
Though he was still shaken from the near-fatal accident that occurred when the nose landing gear of his transport was snapped while crossing a fissure that had opened on the runway, Orlov did not allow it to show. Instead, he looked about at the devastation. "These are extreme times, Lieutenant," he snapped. "Both the Motherland and the Russian people we serve are depending on us to do our duty."
Out of habit, and unable to find a suitable response, the lieutenant simply mumbled, "Yes, of course, sir. It's just that—"
Reaching out, Orlov placed his hand on the officer's shoulder. Misreading the gesture, the Air Force lieutenant shut his eyes as he braced himself for a slap across the face. Only when he heard the colonel's soothing words, and felt the hand on his shoulder, did the lieutenant open his eyes and permit himself to relax.
"We must rise to meet the challenges we face, Lieutenant." Orlov pointed over at a group of soldiers laboring to fill in one of the many cracks in the runway. "Our soldiers are watching us. They will continue to carry out their duties only if we conduct ourselves as befitting an officer."
"Yes, of course," the nervous young officer stuttered.
Satisfied that he had sufficiently bucked up the rattled officer, Orlov clamped down harder than he needed to on the lieutenant's shoulder and gave it a good shake. "Now, take me to your commander."
The major to whom Orlov was presented was in worse shape than the air base he commanded. Standing before a map that had been hastily tacked to one wall of the room that now served as the base's operations center, the major didn't acknowledge his subordinate or Orlov for several minutes. Rather, with arms tightly folded against his chest, he stared at the map, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels as if transfixed by something neither Orlov nor the lieutenant standing next to him could see. Sensing Orlov's growing impatience, the lieutenant cleared his throat. "Major Kazanski, Colonel Orlov wishes to see you."
While a handful of clerks and other staff personnel shuffled about the room aimlessly, the Air Force major continued to rock back and forth without pause, facing the map as if he were studying it. "Sir," the lieutenant stated a bit louder, "Colonel Orlov is operating under the direct orders of the Minister of Defense. He and his team require ground transport in order to continue their journey."
Pivoting about, the wide-eyed major glared at his subordinate, ignoring Orlov as if he weren't there. "Trucks? He wants trucks? Where in the fuck do you propose I find him trucks? 1 can't shit them, now can 1, Lieutenant? Can you?"
While Orlov remained silent, trying to decide whether it was the major's wild expression or his response that appalled him the most, the lieutenant stammered, "There are six available in running order, sir. The colonel requires only four of them."
"Only four!" the major exclaimed as he began to flap his arms about. "Only four. Well, that's bloody generous of him, now isn't it? He's leaving us two whole trucks. Two trucks with which to run this dunghill. Two trucks to haul the relief aid I have been told to expect in the next few hours."
Seeing that the methods he had used to win over the lieutenant would not work here, Orlov reverted to those techniques he was far more comfortable with. With slow, deliberate strides, he closed the distance between himself and the frenzied Air Force major. When he was face-to-face with the man, he leaned forward until the brim of his helmet touched the bridge of the major's forehead. "I will have those four trucks, Major. And if they are not suitable to my purpose," he added in a deep, menacing voice as he reached up and grabbed the major's lapel with his left hand, "I will take the others as well. Is that clear?"
Blinking furiously, the major shook his head. "You cannot," he insisted. "Not without proper authority."
Having exhausted his patience, Orlov reached for the pistol on his right hip. With one smooth motion, he drew the weapon from the holster, shoved it under the major's chin as he slammed him against the wall and jerked the trigger back.
To a man, the staff in the small operations center jumped. Letting the limp body of the Air Force major fall away, Orlov spun about, brandishing his pistol. "I expect cooperation," he screamed." "Full and unflinching cooperation. Is that clear?"
His eyes darting between the blood-splattered map and the pistol Demetre Orlov held in his steady hand, the Air Force lieutenant found it almost impossible to muster up a response. "Ah… yes… of course… sir. As you… as you order, sir."
Chapter 12
The conditions that complicated life for Demetre Orlov were no kinder to the Tempest teams. Like the Russian transports, the inbound NATO aircraft were able to weave their way around the worst of the turbulence and localized storms spawned by the numerous impacts and airbursts. Unlike their Russian counterparts, the NATO teams did not have a great deal of flexibility when they reached the designated drop zones. They had to be dropped, and dropped within a reasonable striking distance from their targets.
All across western Siberia, in planes buffeted and tossed about by violent updrafts and raging storms, teams and group leaders huddled together at the front of their respective aircraft, listening to what was going on inside the cockpit. The normally cool and easygoing Special Ops types made no effort to disguise their concerns as they discussed their options, studied maps, or listened to the chatter on the secure radio net that kept them posted on the prevailing conditions across the region. Now and then, one of their number would glance up through the open door and over the shoulders of the pilots in the hope that the conditions they were flying through had somehow miraculously improved since the last time they had looked. In a few cases, the pilots, guided by reports being fed to them from weather recon aircraft combing the region and satellite data, were able to find a break. Sometimes they simply stumbled upon them. Without wailing for or seeking permission, the first pilots who had entered Russian airspace and met the hideous flying conditions had deviated from their meticulously plotted flight plans. Following aircraft benefited from this bold move, as well as from the decision at NATO headquarters to abandon radio silence and open a channel over which current weather data could be fed to the transports. "We had the courage of our convictions to send them into that hell," the senior NATO air commander announced. "Now let's have the balls to give them a fighting chance to do what we sent them in there for."
Just how much of a chance the Tempest teams would have to carry out their assigned tasks was in question. As gallant as the struggle by the pilots to get them to the drop zones was, it would be for naught if prevailing conditions on the ground exceeded minimum safely requirements. Determining if the risk was worth taking no longer lay with presidents or prime ministers, generals, or ministers of defense. That call rested with the captains and young majors who crowded together to discuss the options as their aircraft were pitched and heaved about skies that were as bleak as their outlook.