From behind Orlov, a voice mockingly called out: "Yes, be quick. We must not keep the President's butcher boy from making his appointed rounds."
Stunned, the Russian colonel let go of his end of the shattered tree and spun about. His eyes quickly scanned the dozen or so men who had been laboring to clear the road. The dust, ash, and grime that filled the air had mixed so well with the sweat that dripped from their brows that it was all but impossible to distinguish one man from another. They had no problem, however, in recognizing the blind fury that manifested itself in their commander's expression. "Which of you bastards said that?" Orlov demanded.
One by one, the soldiers stopped what they were doing, straightened up, and returned Orlov's hard, uncompromising stare. No words were uttered. No steps were taken, backward or to the fore.
Surrounded by a cold, hard silence disturbed only by the idling of a truck's engine and the low crackle of burning wood, the two sides warily contemplated one another, waiting for someone to say something.
Stepping out from behind the mute commandos, a figure came forth and made its way toward Orlov, stepping over the debris that littered the roadway. Like the others, this man's uniform had become so permeated with filth and grime, and his face so blackened, that it took Orlov several seconds to recognize that it was his deputy commander. All that he could see with any degree of clarity were the man's eyes, eyes that watched his in the same way one approaches a strange, growling dog.
When there was but a meter between himself and his commander, Major Gregory Petkovic stopped, but said nothing.
"I want you to find the shit who yelled out," Orlov charged.
With a forced calm, Petkovic shrugged and threw out his hands. "And do what, Colonel? Shoot him? Assign him additional duty? Place him on report?"
Unsure of whether his number-two was asking a serious question or mocking him, Orlov said nothing as he clenched his fists and looked past the major before him over to where the men were watching and waiting.
"This is ludicrous, sir," Petkovic stated slowly in a hushed voice. "We are sapping our strength and wasting time to no good end."
Tearing his eyes away from the soldiers, the Russian colonel studied his deputy. Though he knew the answer, he wanted to hear what Petkovic had to say. "And what is your solution, Major?"
"Abandon the trucks," Petkovic stated without hesitation, "and head off cross-country. Though we may be able to make only one or two kilometers an hour, the soldiers will be doing something they understand. They will be advancing toward General Likhatchev's regional command center as a fighting unit, not clearing the road like common laborers, or sitting idle and huddled in trucks like cattle."
Though agitated, Orlov had not missed the fact that his second in command had referred to their objective as General Likhatchev's regional command center. In the past, he and everyone in his special response team had taken great pains to use terms such as "objective" or "target" when speaking of their intended mark. To hear one of his officers personify their intended victim like this, especially when dealing with a man universally revered by Russia's armed forces, was a bit disconcerting.
Petkovic misinterpreted Orlov's pause, believing it to mean that his commander was seriously considering his proposal. "Colonel," he continued, "you must see that a continuation of our efforts to clear this road is pointless, that we will never make it at this rate. You must give the order to abandon the trucks."
Snapping out of his momentary lapse, Orlov's eyes narrowed. "Major, do not assume to tell me what I must and must not do. You are not in command here. You will not be held responsible by those in Moscow if we fail."
Though angered by this sudden attack, Petkovic maintained his composure. "Colonel, if we fail, there will be no one left in Moscow."
Again the Russian colonel took a moment to consider his subordinate's words. This lime, however, his thoughts stayed on task. With every eye riveted upon him, Demetre Orlov weighed the effect that a failure on his part to carry out his orders would have in Moscow. Would failure in this enterprise be catastrophic? Would General Igor Likhatchev, a man he knew and trusted, really follow through on his threats?
Anxious to get on with things one way or the other, Petkovic disrupted his commander's thoughts again. "Sir, what are your orders for the men?"
Orlov drew in a deep breath. "Tell them to gather their equipment off of the trucks and form up in march column. We move out, on foot, in ten minutes."
Petkovic made no effort to hide the glee he felt in having won over his commander to his point of view as he drew himself up and saluted. This angered Orlov. The idea of allowing a subordinate to think that he'd had a say in what the unit did and how it did it was, to him, a dangerous thing. Orlov reminded himself to redouble his vigilance as they drew closer to their objective.
Out of breath and frustrated, Franz Ingelmann took several moments before rendering his report. Squatting next to the panting legionnaire, Stanislaus Dombrowski waited patiently while the Austrian corporal collected himself. "I found no trace of Juan," Ingelmann finally blurted. "Of course," he continued after another moment's pause, "things are so bad out there, I could have passed within a meter of him and not seen him."
"I daresay," Dombrowski staled dryly, "that poor Juan is either hopelessly lost or, like Anton and Kim, hors de combat."
As he reached around for his canteen, Ingelmann looked over to where their captain lay propped against a tree stump. "How's he doing?"
Dombrowski didn't bother looking back at his injured team commander. Instead, his gaze dropped down to the blackened patch of earth at his feel. "Rather well." he mumbled as he repeatedly jabbed at the dirt with a slick, "for a man with two broken legs, perhaps a broken back, and God knows how many internal injuries."
"Isn't that going to make moving him a bit risky?" Ingelmann asked cautiously.
Ceasing his assault on the ground between them, Dombrowski looked up and gave his companion a cold, hard stare. "We are not taking him with us."
Ingelmann blinked. He wanted to say something. He fell the urge to voice his disapproval of this decision. But he knew that such a gesture would be for naught. As a member of les Commandos dc Recherche el d'Action dans le Profondeur. the young Austrian knew that the price of being a part of that unit was high. The risks they look during training exercises or in the course of combat operations often bordered on gambling. Yet the sacrifices that individual legionnaires were called upon to pay, no matter how steep, were seldom taken into account when determining if a mission should or should not be undertaken. Only the feasibility of achieving the desired goal of the exercise and the cost of not doing so mattered. Perhaps this is why there is often a wide psychological gulf between staff planners, who deal in the abstract, and ground combat troops, charged with carrying out their plans in a very real and often harsh world.
After taking another sip from his canteen, Ingelmann forced himself to look over to where his captain was slumped. "Is there anything we can do for him?"
The Polish legionnaire didn't answer. Instead, he jabbed the stick he held into the ground, again and again. The question of what they could do for their injured commanding officer had been plaguing Dombrowski ever since he had discovered him twisted about in his parachute and bent backward over a fallen tree. That Captain Pascal was conscious and yet had made no effort to free himself from his harness had told Dombrowski just how severe the man's injuries were. "I've already given him all the morphine in his first-aid packet. Mine as well," the Pole finally stated. After glancing back over his shoulder to where Pascal lay, he looked into Ingelmann's eyes. "I am not sure, but I do not think it would be safe to give him any more."