Using more effort than the simple act of lifting his head should have required, Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski peered through the dimly lit interior of the C-160 to where his commanding officer sat with the other team leaders. The Polish legionnaire was unable to tell if his inability to focus on his captain's face was caused by the queasiness that flying always brought or if the pitching and yawing of the aircraft kept him from seeing clearly. Yet even under these conditions, Dombrowski could tell that his commander was very, very concerned.
"Things are not going according to plan," the Pole stated in a low, somber tone to no one in particular.
"This is the Legion," the ever-cheerful Franz Ingelmann observed. "That is to be expected. Just imagine what it would be like if things always went smoothly for us. We'd have no tradition."
Slowly, painfully, Dombrowski turned his head to face his comrade. "This is different. Normally, they wait until after we are on the ground before things go to shit."
"Well," the unflappable Austrian countered, "this is a special occasion. We're getting an early start. Besides, this might be a good thing."
Struggling to hold his head steady, Dombrowski glared at Ingelmann. "And how could that be?"
"Well, don't you see, my dense Slavic associate?" Ingelmann said with more cheer than the occasion called for. "If we get all this unpleasantness out of the way now, the rest of the mission can proceed without a hitch."
"You're full of shit," Dombrowski growled.
"Oh no, I am not," the Austrian replied, enjoying the exchange as a means of taking his mind off the pervasive gloom. "I'll have you know that I left all of that back in Scotland, where I am sure the English will put it to good use."
Before he could think of a suitable response, Dombrowski felt a bubble deep in his stomach erupt, sending a nauseous stream of acid and gas up his throat. Pitching forward, the Pole brought his hand up to his mouth as he spread his knees apart and dropped his head between them. For several seconds, he remained in that position, held in place by the tightly cinched lap belt that encompassed his waist and the equipment that was strapped to him. All the while, he wondered if it would be better to simply let go and hurl or hold it all back.
The Polish legionnaire was still pondering this question when he felt a hand on his shoulder. At first he thought it was Ingelmann. With a shrug, he attempted to brush the bothersome Austrian away. But the comforting hand didn't budge. "Can you hold on for a few more moments?" a voice close to his ear shouted over the roar of the engines.
Looking up, Dombrowski saw that the hand and voice belonged to his commander, Captain Jules Pascal. Shaking his head in an effort to clear his thoughts, he managed to sit upright and face Pascal. "I am sorry. I didn't know it was you."
Though he had no idea of what Dombrowski was talking about, Pascal shrugged. "That's okay. No problem."
Unable to force even a weak smile, Dombrowski simply nodded. "So. is this thing still on? Are we still going to go?"
Pascal hesitated. This alarmed Dombrowski, for his captain never hesitated. With growing concern, he watched as his commander slowly turned away, looking through the open cockpit door without answering. When he finally did face his troubled subordinate again, the captain's face was as blank as a sheet of clean paper.
Sensing that he was not doing a good job of hiding his concerns from Dombrowski, Pascal drew in a deep breath. "We will know soon, mon ami. Soon."
In another part of the turbulent and violent sky, Patrick Hogg listened as Major Shields laid it out for them as clearly as he could: "We have three choices," he stated, as if they were discussing a training exercise at Hereford. "One, we can take our spot and go out into conditions that are well below minimum standards and hope for the best. Two, we can fly on a bit and see if things improve. Or, three—"
A sudden updraft threw the aircraft and everyone onboard upward, preventing Shields from finishing his statement. For several moments, while the pilot struggled to regain control, the SAS officers frantically groped about in a desperate effort to find the nearest strap or handle with which to steady themselves. Only when the aircraft was more or less level again did the SAS major attempt to continue. "Where was I?" he asked rhetorically while he permitted his officers to collect their thoughts and refocus on the matter at hand.
"I believe," Hogg stated dryly, "you were about to present us with a third option, the one in which we tuck our tails between our legs and go scampering back home without accomplishing our mission."
Shields sighed. "Yes, well, something like that." After a lengthy pause, during which no one spoke, it was Patrick Hogg who took up the question that was gnawing at everyone. "Well, Major, which is it to be?"
Looking at each of his team commanders, Shields brought his hands together and shook them. Hogg wasn't sure if he was doing this to steel his nerves or if the man was saying a prayer in an effort to solicit divine guidance. "It's like this," the SAS major finally began. "If we take our spots as planned, there will be casualties. The winds aloft exceed anything any of us have ever faced. They have been that way since we entered the area of operation, and based on reports coming in from other sources, it's not much better anywhere else."
"So then it's rather pointless to go on in the hope of finding a better spot," Captain Abraham, team leader for the Bravo team, said.
"Yes," Shields answered. "That's pretty much the way things are. But not quite." Again he shook his clasped hands before speaking. "Conditions on the ground are, from what I've been told, horrific. It's more than blown-down trees and swollen rivers and mudflats. There are forest fires raging all over the region. The terrain has been rearranged. We have been warned that even the air itself may be toxic."
"Sort of like the cloud of pumice and ash thrown off by a volcano," Abraham added.
Shields nodded. "Yes, exactly. So, even if we do survive the jump, there is no way of knowing for sure if we'll be able to get on with things once we're on the ground."
"What are the chances that our targets are already gone?" Abraham asked.
Shields let his clasped hands drop into his lap as he shook his head. "Those Russian silos were built to withstand everything except a precise hit by a nuclear device. According to the preliminary damage assessment coming out of NATO headquarters, none of our teams have been that lucky."
Again, a silence settled over the small cluster of officers as they absorbed this piece of information and pondered their options. As was his habit, Patrick Hogg spoke up first. "Is this a council of war, Major? Or simply an info brief?"
"A little of both, I suppose," Shields replied weakly. Then, before anyone else could say another word, he sat upright, pulled his hands apart and slapped his knees. "No, that's not quite correct."
Following suit, the other two officers also straightened up as they looked at their commander and waited for him to speak. "We have no choice in the matter, I am afraid. To force you two to share in this decision, one that might very well prove to be fatal, would be wrong. We are going. We have no choice."
Hogg nodded. "I didn't expect that we ever did."
"Perhaps," Shields countered. "But we do have some flexibility about our spots. So rather than all of us blindly going out as if nothing had happened, I propose we drop one team as close to the target as possible, at its designated spot, while the other two remain aloft. If the first team is able to survive the jump, assemble itself and its equipment, and report back its ability to continue with the mission, the other two teams will continue to their designated spots."
"And if they don't?" Hogg asked without any sign of emotion.
"Then the remaining two teams will try to find another place where conditions appear to be better. When we find a place like that, if one exists, the second team will go. Perhaps," Shields added, "this was why the Americans insisted on dispatching three teams to each target."