"Like their baseball, I suppose," Abraham snickered. "Three strikes and you're out."
Though meant to add a bit of humor to the grim discussion, the analogy that the SAS captain used missed its mark.
"Patrick," Shields announced, leaning forward after taking up his map, "as the leader of the second team, once you're pretty sure that I didn't make it, I recommend you instruct the pilot to look for a spot over here, in this region."
Looking up from the map into Shields's eyes, Hogg shook his head. "I won't be able to do that, sir."
Caught off guard, the SAS major looked at his subordinate and blinked. "And why in the bloody hell is that, Captain?"
"Because I'm taking the first team, not you."
For a moment, the two men stared at each other while Abraham, quite content to sit this one out, looked on. "I'm not going to let you shirk your duties as the senior officer that easily," Hogg said. "I have no desire to stand by waiting to hear from you on the ground as to whether or not we should jump. His Majesty hasn't invested all that money, time, and effort required to train you so that you can play wild dummy. That's what God created the Irish for, don't you know."
"What will they say," Shields asked halfheartedly, "when I come back and tell them I sent my subordinates out to their death before I went?"
Hogg smiled. "They will say you used your judgment, made a jolly good choice, posthumously nominate me for a medal, and promote you."
Unable to resist, the three SAS officers chuckled. Yet they understood that Patrick Hogg's assessment and recommendation were both serious and logical. Though he knew he would never be able to live with himself if, as Hogg jokingly suggested, they died and he lived, Shields saw no other option. "Right," he announced, being as upbeat as he could manage under the circumstances. "Now let's get to it. I'll check with the pilots to see how much time we have and to fill them in on the plan. In the meantime, Patrick, have your team prepare to exit. I don't imagine we have much time."
Rather than face his commander, Hogg glanced down the narrow confines of the transport to where his men sat nestled in the nylon seats. "No, I don't imagine we do."
To a casual observer riding in the rear of the transport carrying the Forward Operations Command-and-Control Team, known as "Team Tiger," the two officers sitting opposite each other just to the rear of the cockpit, their heads bowed, hands clasped and elbows resting on their knees, looked as if they were praying. The only thing that betrayed that notion were the headphones each man wore, tethered by long cords trailing off into the cockpit.
Neither Robert Hightower nor Andrew Fretello said much of anything to each other, or to anyone else. Each concentrated on the command-and-control net he was monitoring. Only when something of particular interest came across the airwaves did either man bother to exchange glances. When they did, only Hightower allowed himself to register his feelings through the expressions he wore. Fretello, unsure of how to take the grim news they were receiving concerning the weather and the status of the drop zones, held to a poker face that served him well during times like this.
Earlier in the evening, when the initial weather-reconnaissance aircraft had begun to penetrate Russian airspace, the initial reports were seen as being good. Radar warning receivers attached to those aircraft failed to pick up any signals. "The electronic-warfare people were right," Fretello had boasted upon hearing that tidbit. "The Russian air-defense network in the region is blind." Intelligence provided by electronic-warfare aircraft following the weather-recon flights were equally encouraging. Those command-and-control networks that did manage to return to the air painted a picture of confusion and panic in the wake of the asteroid's impact. Again, the Special Forces major made no effort to hide his joy upon hearing this. Slowly, however, his attitude began to change as conditions over each of the drop zones became known and it was evident that the operation was in jeopardy.
One by one, the transports reported back to NATO headquarters in Brussels, the decisions being made by the commanders of the assault teams they were carrying. As a staff officer who knew what was expected of him, Fretello kept track of this information for his commander. On a map covered with an overlay displaying the operational graphics, laid out on the floor between himself and Hightower, Fretello marked off a drop zone every time a team leader announced over the Net as to whether he was going to stick with the primary or go for a secondary DZ. In those cases where a team leader came to the conclusion that neither primary nor secondary were acceptable, but that he was going to try to find another DZ near the target into which he could jump with his team, the architect of Tempest placed a question mark over the team's target.
Unlike his superior, Andrew Fretello paid little attention to each of the team leaders' tone of voice as he made his decision known. Having dedicated his entire adult life to the profession of arms, and having been personally involved in some very difficult operations himself, Hightower knew that you could tell a great deal about what was going on inside a man's mind by the words he selected and how he presented himself when using them. When they flew forth in an easy manner, Hightower didn't worry. But when there was a hesitation and the words being used were soft, he became concerned.
After listening to the report sent in by the commander of the French Foreign Legion's CRAP teams, Hightower lifted one of the earphones away and looked up at Fretello. Without being told, the major understood that his colonel had something to say to him. Following suit, Fretello freed up one of his ears so he could hear better.
"You realize that no one is going to back down, don't you, Major?" Hightower stated dryly in a tone that was almost accusatory.
In all the time he had dedicated to laying out this operation, Andrew Fretello had never allowed himself to take into account many of the human factors that a commanding officer must deal with. Clear and concise instructions, and not the leadership traits and skills necessary to apply those instructions, were the concerns of the staff planner. So the human face that Tempest was just starting to wear was one that Andrew Fretello was least prepared to understand.
Realizing that his well-schooled subordinate had no fitting response, Hightower continued. "We're going to lose a lot of good people during the drop alone. Your number-one job, mister," Hightower stated sharply, jabbing a finger at the silent major, "as soon as we're on the ground and have functional comms, is to find out which ones made it, what sort of shape they're in, and where we have holes that need to be filled."
Fretello didn't need to ask the colonel what he meant by "holes." That, he assumed, meant targets that would not be hit because the teams assigned to them had lost all their equipment, or the teams themselves had not survived the jump. Using phrases such as "didn't make it" allowed professional soldiers such as Fretello to deal with the horrors that those men would face in their final minutes of life, trying to carry out the grim tasks their nations had assigned to them.
Others, like Hightower, could not and would not permit themselves to be so easily dissuaded from the truth of what was actually happening. Hightower was, after all, the commanding officer. He was the man responsible for the survival or death of every soldier under his command. Though those soldiers might meet their end as a result of unforeseen conditions or unexpected enemy activity, Hightower understood that he was the man who set his seal upon the final plan, who had stood up before those very men and given the order to go forth and execute it. Staff officers deal with paper, concepts, and words. Commanders do their work with flesh and blood.